by Marie Rowan
“Not true, definitely not true. You could have eaten your dinner off the floor in Tara’s Halls.” Andrew Dorman was fit to be tied at the very suggestion.
“I don’t doubt that, sir, but I’m not talking about Tara’s Halls itself. I’m talking about the small outbuilding at the back.”
“Oh, right, inspector, It’s only an empty building. It was occasionally used for housing broken chairs in Mr Watson’s day. Now, though, Mrs Janet or Mrs Allison I should say, prefers to have any broken bits of equipment fixed right away or slung out. It’s cleared out every six weeks, just swept, and the windows given a wash.”
“And that’s where you put the banners tonight?”
“That I did for they were blocking the passage.”
“And just as well you did, sir, or there would certainly have been a large number of fatalities, burned or crushed. The brake clubs are in your debt, Mr Dorman. You might remind Mr Milligan of that.”
“I don’t know why they did it for they know the drill. They’ve been doing it for the past few years.”
“Anyway, to get back to what I was saying, it appears that the floor is covered in fag-ends, Mr Dorman, for want of a better word.” Pollock looked Dorman straight in the eye – a very cold, unfriendly, penetrating look. Jacobstein’s pencil was poised, his patrician gaze fixed on the caretaker’s face. “Now why would that be, sir? A straight, truthful answer and you’ll be on your way to Great Nelson Street. I might add that a truthful answer will be one that DS Jacobstein and I both accept.” Dorman’s colour had drained completely. The caretaker swallowed hard.
“Just some old boys, out of work lads, I let sit in there on the quiet to just pass the time of day and then go home. Their wives don’t want them under their feet when they should be cadging some work at the docks and the like.” Dornan smiled broadly, looked at Pollock’s contemptuous expression, and then swallowed hard and loud.
“Have a drink of water, Mr Dorman. You’re the first Irishman I’ve ever met who could tell a lie and make it sound like one. Last chance and then I’m off for something to eat while DS Jacobstein writes up the charges against you. When I come back, he’ll charge you in my presence downstairs in one of the cells. I shall personally inform Mr Allison that you’re incarcerated and not available to take up the watchman position. You can also take it as read that the job with Mr Watson’s new project is a non-starter.”
“Gambling. Just a small gambling school meets in there. The Allisons know nothing about it.”
“And what do you get for allowing them to use the building, Mr Dornan?” asked Pollock.
“It’s not what I get, Inspector Pollock, it’s what I don’t get – a severe beating that will leave my wife almost a widow and the weans brough up in acute poverty.”
“I understand. Names?” But Dorman shook his head. Pollock could have pushed and threatened and maybe got what he wanted, but he did not. “All right, Mr Dorman, thanks for your help. You’re free to go. We’ll get the names alright but from an entirely different source. We’ll keep you well out of it.” Dorman’s hand shot out and he shook both detectives’ hands.
“Like the suit,” he said to Jacobstein, then quickly left.
“Manley?” asked Jacobstein.
“Manley. He’ll name them. He’ll know which group frequents that street. Right, Jake, think we’ll have another word with.” But he was cut short as Austin Quigley breezed into the room looking rather pleased with himself.
“You’ve named the fire-raiser!” said Jacobstein.
“No.”
“The killer?” Jacobstein tried again.
“No.”
“You’ve brought us half-a-dozen egg rolls from Dough Frae Me,” suggested Pollock.
“No. Brought Gavin Tierney, the man who saw the man who tore another man’s jacket.”
“Wheel him in then,” ordered Pollock smiling broadly. “But, hold on, he’s in The Royal.”
“Was in. He’s got a complaint to make so he’s turned up downstairs to make it as this is his local police office and he believes in encouraging local businesses – so he says.” Pollock and Jacobstein looked sceptically at each other.
“And what’s his complaint?” asked Jacobstein frowning.
“Some not very sporting gent dipped his pocket while he was in a dazed condition. Or, as Tierney put it, was ‘aff his heid’. Either way, his 12/3d short. And that, I think,” said Quigley, “is the sound of Sergeant Manley bringing him up.” The door opened and closed again swiftly.
“Have a seat, Mr Tierney,” said Pollock after the introductions were made.
“I like standing.” Pollock remembered the backside blow.
“Fine. Just a minute or two of your time is all this will take.” Manley kept a close eye on the volatile Tierney. “You’re dealing with the stolen property complaint, Sergeant Manley, I take it?”
“It’s already logged in, sir.” Manley watched Tierney with what closely resembled the evil eye.
“Now I’m sure you’re anxious to get back to the search for your missing money, Mr Tierney, so I’ll come straight to the point. This is my opportunity to ask you to help us with our enquiries into a very nasty incident which happened tonight.”
“I’ll say it was. My brother has a damaged shoulder and my arse is hurting like hell. I’ll have that tram company in court for this.”
“You ran into the tram, or to be more precise, the horse, Mr Tierney. The tram company will probably sue you for mental damage to their horse and driver. Neither one can be easily replaced. Could make your 12/3d look like peanuts. The sheriff might even regard your conduct as wanton vandalism,” said Pollock, warming to his subject, “and jail you as an example of behaviour that will not be tolerated on the streets of Glasgow.”
“I was running away from a fire!” shouted Tierney, who slumped into the proffered seat, then quickly rose again.
“If the tram had been travelling along East Nelson Street, right outside the burning Tara’s Halls, I’m quite sure it would be written off as a reasonable consequence of your attempts to save yourself. But your incident occurred in The Gallowgate. Mr Tierney, that leaves a lot of room for insinuations by the prosecution.” Tierney was totally flummoxed. “Still, we’ll leave that for the Procurator Fiscal to decide. I would like to have you give me one piece of information regarding what you saw during the panic after the kitchen blew up.” Tierney was now somewhat deflated.
“Alright, what is it? I’ve a pint waiting for me in The Clew Bay.” Jacobstein hoped there would be room for Tierney to stand at the bar.
“Very simple. When you were rushing along that back corridor, somebody grabbed your jacket and tore a large piece of the material.”
“Aye, that’s right. I’ll see him about it in the morning. He can afford some cabbages and potatoes for that was real wanton vandalism as you would put it, Inspector Pollock. I’ll get no money out of him, for he’s tight-fisted, but something for a few pots of soup will do fine. The wife’ll sew it up alright, but I’ll no’ let him know that. Well, maybe no’ the wife. We’re no’ quite on speaking terms or living together ones either, for that matter. Her six foot brother wants a word with me, I’m told.” Tierney had paled a lot.
“And the man who tore your jacket’s name?”
“Colm Regan – he’s got a fruit shop at Parkhead Cross. The Fruit Bowl.”
Chapter 4
Pollock grinned. Jacobstein just shook his head mournfully, Quigley rifled through his notebook in order to hide his wide smile.
“Right, Austin, did you know he was going to name Colm Regan, the man who gives away a recipe for boiled potatoes with every purchase of four stones of potatoes and who grows mushrooms in every lavatory from here to Tollcross?”
“Says the conditions are perfect – well, that was his defence – and he intended giving them away to the poor. Nobody likes mushrooms so they were quite safe where they were grown. Seems he was growing them for the toffs in Dennistoun.” Quigley ha
d a sneaking liking for the wee man principally because the wee man was his mother’s cousin.
“Colm Regan, our main suspect. Even Gavin Tierney is facing facts and out of his claim for cabbages and potatoes as compensation will, no doubt, settle for a turnip and some parsnips. Colm Regan couldn’t aim and hit a fifty bob cabbage without missing it and demolishing the counter,” said Pollock regretfully. “He’s the most short-sighted man I’ve ever met and those two corpses would be making themselves a few pounds singing in every back court in Glasgow today if he’d had a go at them. Also, as he provides all fruit and vegetables for all the catering businesses around here, he’d have made damned sure that all he had supplied was either eaten or out of that building before the whole bloody lot went up. Remember, money only changes hands after, not before, the event and as the dozey Mr Tierney remarked, Regan is a tight-fisted wee swine.”
“You’ve met him then?” remarked Jacobstein with a straight face.
“Not only met him years ago, but found myself being talked into buying something called salsify and celery which tasted vile and finished in the bin. Regan might be no oil painting, but he’s got a nice line in patter. I expect it’s the Irish in him and he’s no doubt a pal of Kevin Lally’s, the Glasgow WB Yates. Anyway, we’ll interview him because he might have overheard something. We’ll speak to Roddy about the gambling den and see if there might possibly be a link there. After that, it’s JAE’s soft furnishing department and a good night’s sleep. Austin, make your own arrangements as you seem to be related to every man and his dog around here.”
Colm Regan owned a house in Glasgow’s Blythswood Square, a prestige address in the City Centre. His wife and family occupied it but Regan himself lived a solitary life in the kitchen at the back of the fruit shop. It was rumoured that he enjoyed the company of a dark-eyed lady and all eyes were on the door of the back kitchen for proof of this lapse of an hitherto honourable man – in Regan’s eyes. The more sceptical among the local population insisted that the rumour had been spread by the diminutive Colm himself in order to have a hundred unpaid watchers guarding his shop for all hours of the night. They, thought Pollock, were almost certainly right for Mrs Regan was a most formidable woman and only a woman of an extremely foolhardy nature would have attempted to keep Regan in extra-marital comfort with his wife on the prowl. Regan’s meagre height and total lack of any prepossessing attributes were not guaranteed to tempt any lady, not even one as short-sighted as himself. But his burgeoning bankbook was an irresistible draw to some, without a doubt. Moths to a flame, thought Pollock.
Pollock and Jacobstein cut through the close numbered 42 and knocked loudly on the back door of the shop.
“He’s got a wummin in there wi’ him, mister!” Jacobstein noted the word of warning shouted from the raised window of a flat two storeys above, then knocked harder again before shouting,
“CID, Mr Regan, open up!”
“Tell him we’ll kick the door in in one minute if he doesn’t,” said Pollock to his sergeant loud enough for Regan to hear, and then laughed quietly. They heard the bolt being pulled back and the locks being turned. Regan was too mean to want to pay for a new door. Love did not conquer all.
“CID. Inspector Pollock and DS Jacobstein. May we come in?” asked Pollock, walking right on in past the furious Regan and into the back-shop cum kitchen. “I’m told there’s a woman in here, Mr Regan.”
“Aye, my wife! She’s in the front shop making up bags of fruit for an outing the Wanderers Club’s running tomorrow. She offered to do it while I was at Tara’s Halls.”
“We heard about that, Mr Regan.” They were suddenly joined in the kitchen by a well-dressed woman with startling ice-blue eyes, wearing a spotless pale-blue apron over a beautifully tailored grey dress. Must have been Regan’s silver tongue again.
“Good evening, Mrs Regan, I’m Inspector Pollock and this is Detective Sergeant Jacobstein. We’ve just come to ask for some help from your husband. We’re questioning everyone who was at the brake clubs’ function this evening in Tara’s Halls.”
“We’ve lost a lot of serving platters in that fire, china ones, Inspector Pollock, and we’ll be putting in a claim first thing tomorrow morning.” Pollock could now see what she found attractive in her husband. Soul mates.
“No doubt, Mrs Regan, but as detectives we’re more interested in the crime of murder that was discovered after the fire than insurance claims. So, a word with your husband in private, please, Mrs Regan.”
“Certainly,” replied the lady, and in full confidence of Regan’s inability to know anything other than the price of kale, retreated into the front shop, but left the door wide open. Jake Jacobstein quietly closed it.
“Have a seat, Mr Pollock, and you, too, Sergeant Jacobstein.” The man had occasional need of the local constables when he put up the price of parsnips. Same with the butcher when his lamb chops price rose at the same time. Old grudges came to the fore when the local population’s Irish stew was under threat. The two detectives sat down and Jacobstein’s notebook and pencil appeared. “Fire away!” Pollock smiled.
“We’ve been informed, sir, that in the panic when the fire was detected, you took hold of the jacket worn by the man in front of you, no doubt, bearing in mind your eyesight problem, to help you to evacuate the building safely.” Regan nodded sedately.
“That’s right, and what a piece of cheap material it was, too. Came away in my hand and yet I was only exerting minimal pressure.” Pollock remembered Regan’s brother worked in the Procurator Fiscal’s office. It seemed Colm Regan was a keen student of criminal proceedings. “Mr Jacobstein, you are quite obviously a man of excellent taste in both quality of material and in tailoring. I’ve seen people at home in Derry who would never even contemplate stepping out in such disgraceful attire as that man wore as they would be ridiculed by their neighbours.”
“Did you recognise the man, Mr Regan?” asked the much-complimented Jacobstein.
“Tierney, Gavin Tierney, for he turned round and scowled at me. No doubt he’ll be round here in the morning claiming the price of a new jacket.” The look on the fruiterer’s face said that was worth precisely one turnip and four parsnips. “He’ll get something which is more than he deserves for I wouldn’t insult any man where his choice of dress is involved. But mind you, and don’t let on to my wife, he’s got quite a few pounds stashed away. Definitely too much for keeping under the bed. He’s a complete fool but an ambitious one. Got his eye on a partnership in a wee bicycle shop at the far end of Shettleston Road. I don’t see all that well, Inspector Pollock, but there’s nothing wrong with my hearing. It’s all above board so I’m not telling tales out of school. Not my style.”
“So Gavin Tierney will be here even before your wife lodges the insurance claim, Mr Regan?”
“That’s right. The business is actually in Lottie’s name and the Blythswood Street house is in mine. Pays not to have all your eggs in one basket.
“Do you happen to know what he works at? In Beardmore’s?” Regan wore a wise owl look as he shook his bald head, spectacles wobbling ominously.
“The same as most men in the city, only Tierney works at it full-time whereas the others simply enjoy a wee punt when they’ve a sixpence or two to spare.”
“He’s a full-time gambler?” Jacobstein asked amazed.
“And a successful one. I’ve known him all his life and he’s a gambler with a difference, a major difference. He’s extremely good at it but he rules the gambling, not the other way round. He sets himself a target, for instance, a new bicycle. He’ll travel round all the gambling schools where the winnings are moderate until he makes exactly what he wants, then stops. His uncontrollable passion is playing football. If something comes up, say, a whole family trip back to Derry for a month with the expense of fares, clothes and board falling to him, he gambles and then pays for the lot. Just now it’s his partnership in the shop. I should say three shops for they’ve just expanded into Rutherglen. The High
Street and that costs money. Gavin Tierney will be welcomed with open arms, or his money will be.” Jacobstein had underlined the word ‘gambling’ several times in his notebook.
“Now that’s very interesting, Mr Regan,” said Pollock glancing at his sergeant.
“So you can see that Tierney is actually too mean to spend money on his own clothes but has absolutely no qualms about shelling out on those for his family. He’s a complete idiot.”
“Now, Mr Regan, what we’re asking all those who were in Tara’s Halls this evening is whether or not they saw anything untoward before the fire was discovered and especially if it was in that back corridor.” Colm Regan flicked quickly through his mental images of that evening. He shook his head.
“Can’t think of anything. I don’t think I did, Mr Pollock.”
“Anything at all connected with the lavatory, for instance?”
“My eyesight’s not that good, not absolutely dire, but not that great. I was in the back corridor to go to the lavatory. It’s very nice, lots of quite pricey and decorative tiles and always hot running water and soap. Towel on a roller. Changed during the evening. Pity it’s all gone now. I went to go in, collided with another man who was coming out and he knocked me against the door. That’s when I saw the notice saying it was out of order. I just turned back and then all hell broke out, folk running madly all over the place and the smell of smoke filled the air. The lavatory door suddenly blew out and I grabbed hold of whoever was in front of me. That was Gavin Tierney and you know the rest.”
“Did you recognise the person who pushed you aside?” asked Pollock almost holding his breath. Jacobstein had stopped writing.
“No chance of that for he had a large, white handkerchief held up to his face. It just registered in my mind that he probably had a cold. Think he was wearing a black suit. Dark colour, anyway. He was wearing a badge, you know, one of those suffragette badges now that I come to think of it, inspector. My daughters all have one each. Mrs Regan is very much active in the cause of women’s rights - votes and that sort of thing.” Regan’s eyes glanced anxiously at the door to the shop as he spoke. Pollock and Jacobstein glanced at each other. Was this their first real clue? A man wearing a suffragette pin badge was most unusual. Each one’s glance told the other that neither had noticed such an unusual thing that evening in all the people they had seen or talked to. Even Janet Allison, a very assertive woman it seemed, had not worn one. Pollock felt his spirits rise. He had to have yet another talk with Gavin Tierney as soon as possible.