VENGEANCE IS MINE

by Marie Rowan

  Vengeance is Mine

  Camlachie Nights Trilogy

  Book 2

  Marie Rowan

  Dedication

  This book is dedicated to my dear friend and colleague, Joe Mearns.

  Prologue

  The hat was ripped from her head, her hair fell tumbling about her shoulders. She stared at him, huge, dark unstaring eyes boring deep into his own, before she dropped, head first, onto the cobbled stones. He heard the loud crack of her face upon them and was certain she was dead. He turned and ran like the wind into the coming twilight. Relief now flooded over him, content and exhilarated now that he had actually done it.

  Chapter 1

  DCI Ben Pollock listened intently as the feet thundered up the stairs and towards his small, badly-equipped office in the Criminal Investigation Department building in Glasgow. Who was it? Jake Jacobstein? Probably, for he never could just walk up like everybody else. Why he was coming up the stairs when he should have been buying two hot, filled rolls? Or maybe for once he had not lingered at the front desk and they were too hot to handle. Pollock automatically reached down into the second drawer of the ramshackle desk and fished out the plates. The door slammed off the wall and DS Jacobstein lurched into the room.

  “Ripped right through it!” Pollock carefully put down his cooling mug of tea and looked at Jacobstein.

  “What ripped right through where?”

  “Tara’s Halls – really a set of halls often used as function rooms for weddings, works dances and the like. In Camlachie.” No rolls, Pollock noted sourly.

  “God save us! Tara? What’s Tara got to do with Camlachie never mind us?”

  “Probably nothing,” said Jacobstein slumping into a chair by Pollock’s desk, “except that when the fire that ripped through that building was finally put out, Tara’s Halls were no more and two incinerated bodies were found amongst the debris.”

  “And that’s why it affects us? Two unfortunate victims there? Don’t quite understand why, Jake. And where are the rolls?”

  “The pair were murdered.” Pollock nodded.

  “It always happens just as I’ve sugared my mug of tea. So, tell me, Jake, how the murdered verdict has come about? Who could tell that from a bundle of cinders?”

  “The doctor says that the deaths were deliberate, not an accident. That’s the gossip I’ve just heard anyway.”

  “He examines – on site – am I right?” Jacbstein nodded and Pollock continued. “His brief examination then tells him that. Heads bashed in? A falling beam? What?“

  “Bodies in the kitchen, heads in the lavatory.”

  “A reasonable assumption then. I’m finishing this tea. That’ll give the powers that be time to send us back officially to the far East End. Have a piece of bran cake. I almost made it myself.”

  “Almost?”

  “Bought the ingredients, the rest is too elementary for me to be involved in. I like butter on it.”

  “So, I see.” Pollock had obviously been into the local grocer’s for a pat of butter and some Belfast ham.

  “Now, while I’m eating this piece of heaven on earth, tell me more about Tara’s Halls, Jake.” DS Joseph Jacobstein was a scion of the family who owned Jacobstein’s American Emporium, a large department store in the East End of Glasgow. He knew the East End intimately - well, as intimately as his years of being the firm’s message-boy on his bicycle allowed. “A massive fire in the Tara’s Halls, and no food.”

  “That’s so,” agreed Jacobstein. “It ripped right through the building.”

  “So, I take it the Halls were named after a piece of Irish history and not a Miss Tara X? Yes? Good. And now the Halls have slipped back into the mists of time like all the Celtic heroes of old, and I don’t mean those former members of the football team. Where, by the way, are or were they situated?”

  “As I said, Ben, our old stomping-ground, Camlachie,” said Jacobstein grinning.

  “I know it well. But that’s a slight exaggeration as I only really know three streets and fifteen pubs. Is it a welfare club for the working-man as well? Educational?”

  “No.”

  “Exactly what happened to the rolls, Jake?”

  “I only made it to being eighth in the queue when Austin Quigley caught sight of me and gave me the news.”

  “And so we starve?”

  “Think so.”

  “Not to worry, Jake, for there’s always the Dough Frae Me, the finest bakery in Glasgow, with the best pies in the city in Great Eastern Road. Camlachie definitely has its attractions. Cannae wait. But Tara’s Halls. Hang on.” Pollock accepted the letter now being given to him by his superintendent’s secretary. “We are now officially on the job. Was the place empty apart from the deceased when it went up in flames, do you know, Jake?” Jacobstein shook his head. “How many?”

  “Three hundred and three, it seems. And as everyone beat it towards the nearest exits including doors, windows, skylights and anything else that would break, it will take a while to check who’s safe and who’s not. All this was given to me by Austin Quigley as he himself was one of the skylight exiteers. He’s a big Celtic fan.”

  “And what is the connection between the crowd inside those halls and Celtic?” asked Pollock.

  “Some of the local Celtic brake clubs were having a vote by their members – a very heated one, it seems - as to which brake club should lead their annual parade. Names and addresses were all on the voters’ sheet.”

  “Which did not go up in flames, I presume?”

  “Right first time. Quigley’s been told to go back and track down the association secretary who should have that document. He was picking up some official papers for his sergeant and then going to Camlachie.”

  “By way of the chip shop?”

  “And the bakery. No sense in fainting on the job, Ben.”

  “Quite so, Jake. Bet he jumped the queue. Did nobody notice the two dead bodies in the scramble to get out?”

  “Seemingly not. We can sort that out when we get there.”

  “It’s odd somebody being chopped up there and nobody noticing,” said Pollock deep in thought.

  “Quigley says the kitchen was out of commission because of a chip-pan fire they supposed, and the toilet is never reliable. Both doors were locked.”

  “I take it you gave Austin the order for our rolls?”

  “On the assumption we’d be sent to Camlachie, Ben, I did. Two ham, two egg.” Pollock and Jacobstein were old comrades.

  “Then let’s go.”

  It was a lovely evening, the sun just beginning to go down as the cab headed along The Gallowgate. Its rays, though, were excluded as a huge pall of smoke hung in the air, acrid and suffocating.

  “There’s no way a function hall could produce that intense smell, Jake.”

  “The Halls are right beside a bicycle tyre warehouse.”

  “A rubber tyre warehouse. That’s all we need. Would seem like the conflagration spread.” The cab pulled up on The Gallowgate, just before East Nelson Street and the two detectives bailed out. Austin Quigley appeared from nowhere. There was no need to point out the ruined building. Smoke rose lethargically now, hissing and spitting still, as the firemen carefully subdued the occasional flame which was still shooting up from nowhere. The cobbled street ran the full length like a filthy sewer, the ruined walls of Tara’s Halls like a decrepit, jagged monument to times past.

  “Here’s Peter Brough,” said Pollock as the fire superintendent made his way across the much-soaked street towards him.

  “Got a bit of a problem for you, Ben. The state of this building’s my responsibility, the cause of the fire is ultimately the insurers’ problem, and the two corpses are yours. Burnt to a cinder, a frazzle.”


  “When can I see them, Peter?”

  “Not till it’s all out and that includes the Bicycle Tyre Co. premises. That smoke would kill you up close if you breathed it in for more than just a few minutes. Not much structural damage there, though. But the Halls look as if a cannonball or six had given them a direct hit. It’s not the first one, a fire that is, that they’ve had here but it will certainly be the last. Unsafe, but fortunately for you boys, the corpses are there in the middle. A reasonable amount of fresh air for a bit. There are two halls actually, so they were sheltered in a way by being in the middle of the complex and away from the outer stone walls.”

  “Lucky us then, Peter.”

  “I’ll give you a shout when it’s safe and then you can bring in your medical people. Where will you be? Your medic nipped in for a quick look.”

  “Camlachie police station. It’s getting to be a home from home here.” The three CID men watched as Peter Brough made his way back to the shattered remains of Tara’s Halls. “Did they manage to complete the vote, Austin?”

  “No, but on the brighter side, your rolls are in Inspector McLachlan’s office, sir, or, I should say, in the oven downstairs.”

  “Join us and tell us all you know. Did you get a loaf and some butter while you were at it?” asked the inspector. Quigley knew the other two well.

  “I did, and the change is in the sherbet lemon tin.” By habit, Pollock left a stash of plates, mugs, biscuits and some money in a wicker basket below each of the desks he used around the city.” He smiled broadly.

  “Then we can walk along to the office and decide what we know and don’t know. Bodies in the kitchen, heads in the lavatory? This might just make me ease up on the butter.”

  “Steel yourself, sir,” advised Quigley, “it’ll help us find a killer.”

  “I’m persuaded. Now you fetch the food, Jake here will make the tea, and I’ll set the cleared desk. I think it might be a long night.”

  “That’ll probably depend on who’s missing from the brake clubs’ list, Ben.”

  “So the popularity stakes will define how much we’re hustled by the brake club officials. Fortunately, the owners will be after the answers. Right, here we are, home again.” Jacobstein laughed. It had been just under four months since they had had another case in that district, the first in quite a while, and he still had very bad memories of it. The outcome had cemented both his promotion to sergeant and Pollock’s to inspector, but everything else had such a lingering effect on him that he felt might never leave him.

  It was a pleasure just to be back in the hunt again. The three detectives ate, thought and weighed up their options, throwing about unsubstantiated ideas until Pollock called them to order.

  “Austin, the superintendent’s letter to me said you’re now my DC. Flett, as you know because he’s a pal of yours, left for pastures new and I’ve been without a permanent detective constable ever since. Now you’re it.” That said, he drew his usual fresh sheet of paper towards him once the desk passed his examination for crumbs and wrote. “First, I’ll write down what we know. That should take no more than two minutes. I’ll go first because I’ve finished my ham rolls and feel fully invigorated. Right, under ‘What we know.’ First of all, the Tara’s Halls burned down this evening. What we don’t know is if it was an accident or not. We also know that two decapitated bodies, or the incinerated remains of bodies, were found in the wreckage – heads and torsos lying in different rooms. Not quite two minutes. Anyone else like to add any other known fact? Since you were actually on the premises, Austin, while all this was actually happening, the floor is yours.” Pollock and Jacobstein waited hopefully.

  “There were over three hundred men in and around the main hall, nobody was allowed to leave until after the vote was taken and counted. The kitchen and lavatory were locked following an incident in the late afternoon. Don’t know what the incident was. Don’t even know if there had been an incident. Everyone used one of the others in the building.”

  “Was there food available?” asked Jacobstein.

  “Only filled rolls and beer. They had permission to sell it. There’s a smaller hall, the Lesser Hall, just off it where the food was served in relays. Tickets had been issued to each person present. All were checked in and out on the list. Nobody was missing from the hall when the vote was taken. Mind you,” said Quigley thoughtfully, then stopped.

  “Something lingering between the known and unknown, Austin?” asked Pollock.

  “I’ve just realized that there were the usual heated discussions and arguments as to who would be the first to parade and as it’s the big one, The Scottish Cup Final, on Saturday, there were periodic outbursts as the evening wore on. A number of scuffles broke out and I think I remember seeing half-a-dozen bodies flying through the outside door. I assumed they’d made their way back inside before the vote was taken but.” Quigley frowned.

  “But perhaps they didn’t. So, until we track down the entire lot, we’re no wiser. Or worse still, if we contact the exact amount of men on the list who are found to be alive and well, we’re in a still worse position.” Silence reigned in the temporary CID office for a minute or two. “Jake?” said Pollock.

  “The tyre warehouse was partially burned as the fire spread. That’s about all of the known facts, I think.”

  “Then let’s have a preliminary go at listing the most obvious and immediate questions we need to ask,” said Pollock, his pencil poised above the paper in front of him. Jacobstein and Quigley had their notebooks out and were ready to take down what the fruits of their mental labours might be. “As I said, the most obvious first. What was the cause of the fire? That’s actually one the fire service and our forensic folk will answer. Peter Brough will give us that information as soon as he has it. Our men will take a bit longer. Have you heard any suggestions from the crowd, Austin? Always does to listen to rumours if not actually acting upon them.”

  “I raised the alarm and checked the building, so, by the time I left, most of the gallant three hundred and three had squeezed themselves into the local pubs and there’s no shortage of pubs round here. That crowd watching now is mostly folk who’ve turned up just to feel the excitement. Nothing there I’m afraid, sir.”

  “It seems to have gone up at a helluva rate, boys, and I don’t like that. Whether the murderer did it, we can’t be sure, but it was certainly a suspiciously spectacular ending to what, to our man or men, was a good night’s work. The next question to be answered is, obviously, who were the victims and exactly how did they die? The medical report might be able to add a little bit more to the beheading knowledge that we have. Did that kill them or was that an afterthought, a bit of a thrill, perhaps. The identities might answer a lot of questions such as what might be a possible motive. We’d be looking for feuds, love affairs, political enmity and a thousand others.”

  “What if we can’t identify them, Ben?” asked the detective sergeant.

  “We’ll assume that won’t happen because it’s too awful to contemplate. What I’d like to know is exactly when those two rooms went out of commission and were they closed officially or did someone just see a notice saying ‘Out of Order’ and found the doors locked? All above board, it would seem, and no-one would question it. We also need to know where that list of supporters is and start checking it off. Jake, when we’re through here, get the local beat men organised and see about interviewing those men. Get the janny to open up the nearest school hall and do it there. I’ll get the superintendent to square it. At the moment, we’ll just be getting the names and addresses and anything unusual that’s been seen. We can get back to them over the next few days. We’re first of all seeing if anyone is missing, sorry, two I should say. The ones that are half-cut and loquacious can be slung out for now. And finally, who was in charge of the whole shebang? I presume he’ll have the list, Austin?”

  “John McLean is in overall charge but it’s Eamon Cameron, the secretary, who’ll have the list. If I know Eamon, he’ll be ch
ecking that list for you, sir, right now.”

  “He’ll maybe pick up a few gleanings on his rounds. We’ll have him in here when he’s spoken to some of the supporters, but first we must have that list.”

  “He’s got several copies on him for I was speaking to him before the meeting began. He was wanting a bit of unofficial crowd control on the cheap.”

  “I take it you’ve officially signed in?” Quigley nodded. “All right. Anything else of note to ask?”

  “Not at the moment,” said Jacobstein. “I’ll go and get things organized.”

  “And Austin, get those copies from Cameron and send the man in overall charge round here. If I’m not mistaken, that voice down below belongs to Dr McPherson and he’ll have the preliminary report with him, such as it is. Just get things rolling, Jake, and then hand it over to the local uniformed inspector. Get back here as soon as possible.” The two detectives left at the double and passed Dr McPherson as they went.

  Dr McPherson sauntered in with a face like fizz.

  “Hot, filled rolls!” he proclaimed, sniffing the air around him. “Hoped it might be curry.” McPherson was an old friend.

  “A beef curry with all its attendant spices is waiting for me at home. Can be eaten tomorrow if I get tied up here,” said Pollock smugly.

  “With two disjointed bodies waiting to be identified and a killer or killers to catch, Ben, you’ll be lucky.”

  “It’ll definitely keep. I’ve been here before,” said Pollock, slightly depressed. “Come over to our house once this is all over. Bring your wife.”

  “I’m afraid, Ben, you’re getting the worst of the bargain. Two incinerated bodies, both adult males and that’s about it – almost. One had a shorter right leg. Only slightly.”

  “Oh God!”

  “Except that both had received an enormous blow to the back of their heads with a small axe or something similar. Also, and this bit is just speculation, I think one was killed in the kitchen and one in the lavatory because the belongings of one, namely coppers and the like, were found within the body while the little pile belonging to the other was scattered around the lavatory.”