by Marie Rowan
“Go on, Mr Regan, this is all very interesting” he said.
“Everything else just became a jumble of bodies, colour and noise and I suddenly found myself drinking a pint in The Potter’s Wheel in The Gallowgate. Seems I bought a round for all the folk at my table.” A horrified silence followed this revelation. “Fright makes a body do some very peculiar things, Mr Pollock, “ Regan whispered, giving another look towards the connecting door.
“You’re telling me, sir.”
“Lotttie, will you make up a bag of one cabbage, three parsnips and a salsify and put it aside with Gavin Tierney’s name on it, please,” said Regan. “It’s because I inadvertently ripped his jacket in the rush to escape the fire.” Regan obviously knew his wife very well for the door was immediately opened by her although he had not as much as raised his voice. The scent of fresh fruit wafted through.
“He can claim on his insurance,” Mrs Regan retorted, wiping her hands on her floral apron.
“What insurance?” Regan shrugged his shoulders.
“Oh, alright.” It seemed that Lottie Regan was not averse to surrendering to reality on occasion and that a customer, however small, was still a customer. The door was closed once again.
“I can’t think of anything else, but if I do, gentlemen, I’ll let you know.”
“Many thanks, sir, you’ve been a great help.” And with all sorts of possibilities rushing about in their heads, Pollock and Jacobstein left The Fruit Bowl accompanied by a good few dozen inquisitive eyes.
The detectives walked along The Gallowgate heading for Camlachie police station. The pubs were closing and Pollock felt certain Roddy Manley would have a record of Gavin Tierney’s address because of his lamentable record of making claims. He felt he had now placed one foot on the pathway to finding something tangible about the corpses and one little step could take them all the way to a conviction. Who was the person who had managed to kill and decapitate two men in one room in a building that was in constant use while the crime was being committed? Who was the man in the black suit and was wearing a suffragette badge? Had he anything to do with it? Had he also just stumbled in by mistake? And what was the connection with the gambling school? Could the former prize fool, Gavin Tierney, prove to be involved in all of it or could he turn out to be a policeman’s best friend ever and identify who was wearing the badge? Did Tierney hold the key to the mystery?
“That stink gets everywhere, Ben,” said Jacobstein, waking Pollock from his long series of questions.
“Jake, you and I are going to be sitting in JAE’s staff kitchen till all hours writing up notes, reports and just stray thoughts even, so that we’ll be up and running first thing tomorrow morning. But, let’s first have a word with Roddy and the other Tierney. After that talk, we sleep. But first of all, food. Let’s grab something from this bakery. We can reheat it in the store when we’re ready.” Jake Jacobstein disappeared inside and Pollock perused his own notebook. Ten minutes later and laden with food, they walked smartly into Camlachie police station in Great Eastern Street.
The front office was still crowded but Sergeant Manley extricated himself from the clutches of a maudling lady of the night and came over as Pollock beckoned.
“Hello, Roddy. We need Gavin Tierney’s address. We intend interviewing him again and then we’ll call it a night unless his information leads us straight to the killer. Hope springs eternal. Anyway, his address and his brother’s, too, as they seem to be joined at the hip.”
“I can give you both right now. They hold the record for complaints about noisy dogs, police brutality, litter in the park, substandard parsnips from The Fruit Bowl and anything you can think of.” Manley took a sheet of paper from the tray on the front desk and wrote it down. Pollock took it as he and Jacobstein stood at the foot of the stairs. “It won’t do you a lot of good tonight for their present address is The Royal Infirmary. Bruce wasn’t discharged after the accident and Gavin collapsed in The Clew Bay a short time ago. Concussion and he’s now back in the Royal being watched overnight. I’d just go to my bed if I were you. But before you go, you have a visitor. Quigley and a lady are waiting for you upstairs in your office. Been there for twenty minutes or so. She stormed in here demanding to see the CID men who were dealing with the fire. She wouldn’t say why and Quigley got nowhere with her. She then refused to leave the building so Quigley took her upstairs and we’ve sent her up a cup of tea. She’s sitting on the chair outside the office and Quigley’s inside it with the door open.
“Sober?” asked Pollock, “and I mean the woman.”
“Very!” From that Pollock and Jacobstein reckoned that she had given the others the rough edge of her tongue. “She said she needs to speak to you about the girl who was badly injured in Honiton Street. Says she’s the girl’s friend, it seems, but beyond saying it was attempted murder, she was prepared to tell us no more.”
“Not my case as yet, so I’ll mollify her.” They walked determinedly upstairs and along the short corridor to the temporary CID office. Jacobstein smiled half-heartedly at the girl as Quigley beckoned them inside.
“Be with you in a moment,” he said and closed the door firmly behind them. He stood with his back to it but she did not attempt to barge in.
Pollock stood leaning against his desk and waited for Quigley to explain.
“This had better be good, Austin, or your head will roll. Jake and I have made what might be our first breakthrough, but circumstances prevent us from following it up right now. Having said that, and having wound up, after forty-eight hours of non-stop investigating, a case of the most exacting kind just this morning, we were suddenly thrown into this one where somebody had blown a fair part of Great Nelson Street to hell and probably beheaded two citizens of this city. We are both badly in need of food and a conference but not necessarily in that order. Above all else, we need a rest, a sleep, beautiful unconsciousness for a reasonable number of undisturbed hours. Now tell me two things and leave nothing out especially anything that shows you to be a pushover for a pretty face.” The lack of sleep was beginning to show in Pollock’s face and his normally even temper was distinctly cracking. Jacobstein felt his own concentration begin to lapse. He stood off the door in an effort to force himself to stand upright.
“It’s all about the girl who was found injured in Honiton Street, sir. At first it was believed she was dead.”
“But she wasn’t. Almost but not quite. I thought it was only a matter of time?”
“Still is, sir, well, actually, sir, it’s anybody’s guess.”
“Where is she?”
“She’s been taken to the Royal. Her folks are with her. Her name’s Joan Cranstoun and she’s from Tollcross. A very respectable family.”
“And what are her injuries? Not that it’s any concern of ours as I’m sure the local men are dealing with it.”
“They are, Inspector Pollock. No stone will be left unturned, I’m told.”
“Good.”
“Her face is in a terrible state, smashed to bits. She’s been unconscious since it happened. Her face seems to have smashed off the cobbles when she was thrown down upon them. There’s no way of telling how many injuries to her face she suffered before hitting the ground.”
“So, where do we come in?” Pollock sat on the desk, Jacobstein leaned back against the door again. Quigley came quickly to the point.
“It’s the girl outside, sir. She’s her best friend. Says it was no accident and that she knows who did it.”
“Then tell her to let the inspector in charge know.”
“She has. She says they’re incompetent.” Pollock shrugged.
“They might very well be at the moment if like Jake and me, they’ve been on the go for days on end listening to folk who say they know absolutely nothing or, worse still, folk like that lassie out there who thinks she knows everything. Tell her to leave her name and address with Manley and somebody will get back to her.” The door behind Jacobstein was suddenly kicked and kick
ed hard. “Are you any good at climbing out of windows and scaling roofs, Jake? I’m pretty good at it. A misspent youth. Show the lady in, Austin. I need my bed.”
Elizabeth McNab stormed into the room and scowled at Jacobstein.
“Were you leaning against that door?”
“I was. Is it your door?” Pollock brightened up noticeably. It was the first time he had ever heard the well-bred Jacobstein being sharp with a girl. Her look of utter contempt brought a grin to Jacobstein’s handsome features and a look of fury to hers.
“Elizabeth McNab.”
“Detective Inspector Pollock.” Pollock indicated a chair and he sat behind his desk. “DC Quigley has given DS Jacobstein there and me what, I believe, is a very comprehensive summary of the dreadful assault on your friend.”
“They don’t believe it.”
“What don’t they believe and why not?”
“That it was an accident, so I’ve come to the CID. In other words, you.” But Pollock interrupted her.
“Whilst the consequences of this assault are obviously dire indeed, Miss McNab, the police have no details of the reason for it as far as I know. Therefore, finding the assailant will take quite some time and I believe they are working on it at the moment. As I am involved in another case, I have no idea how far their enquiries have taken them and how successful or otherwise they have been. I presume she was walking alone at the time.?”
“Yes, she was supposed to wait for me after the rally on Glasgow Green. We’d had an argument, a big one, and she just took off on her own. I found her just lying there. In Honiton Street, it was. Some man has been harassing her lately, pushing her about, she told me. It’s happened twice before but not to this extent obviously.”
“You can then surely understand how complicated these things are. They will also be looking into your part in this.”
“Mine!” Miss McNab shouted.
“I’m afraid so. The obvious scenario here is that you caught up with her, quarrelled, pushed her, she lost her balance and fell unnoticed by you as, perhaps, you walked away from her. It could just as easily have happened that way as any other.” Elizabeth McNab’s face displayed both shock and horror in turn. She suddenly turned round and faced Jacobstein full on.
“And what have you to say?” Jacobstein found himself facing a human version of an angry lioness.
“You must give them time, Miss McNab.” But she was already half-way out of the door.
“I thought I handled that well,” said Pollock. “I’ll make a few discreet enquiries in the morning. Explain that the girl’s very worried. They’ll sort it out. Now let’s leave it all behind us and take our food and visit the soft furnishing department of a famous Glasgow department store. Austin, here’s some money. Pick up some breakfast for the three of us and be in JAE’s staff kitchen by 7.30 am tomorrow. Don’t be late.”
Chapter 5
Pollock gazed up at the ceiling from a prone position on a bed of luxurious cushions and wondered what Shameena was doing. Sleeping soundly, no doubt. He forced himself to rise. A swift look to his left told him that Jacobstein was a very early riser, and, what’s more, he had erased all traces of his overnight stay. Uncle Avram was indeed a formidable relative. Within fifteen minutes, Pollock had washed, shaved and tidied up and was heading towards JAE’s staff kitchen and the tempting aroma of hot food on newly-baked rolls.
Austin Quigley was giving his full attention to making the tea, Jacobstein had laid the table in his usual high-class manner including condiments, and Pollock wondered if he would be lowering the tone if he started with a hot jam tart.
“Now, boys,” he announced as all three sat down at the old deal table, “you know my rules about breakfast conferencing, no talking shop till we’ve finished eating. It’s bad for the digestion and an insult to the cook, Mrs Seaton, the baker’s wife.” The three detectives ate breakfast in silence except for Quigley whistling, Jacobstein murmuring as he read his notebook and Pollock anxiously telling no one in particular that his jam tart was helluva hot every other minute.
“All finished? All satisfied? Good. Austin, please make another pot of tea and at some point today, remind me to buy some jam tarts for Shameena from Dough Frae Me. Now let us begin. We’ll exchange all facts, nearly but not quite facts, and simple instincts on this one. So just pile in. You start, Jake, as this is your kitchen in a manner of speaking.” Jacobstein took a long draught of tea and then suggested that they should first clear the table, open a window to let the smell of cooked food escape and then wash-up. Thoroughly, he added. The other two meekly agreed and five minutes later, they all sat down again.
“If I may say so, Jake, that idea of opening the window was an excellent one, for while I was wrestling with the window cord, it occurred to me that anyone working in the third floor of the tyre warehouse would have an excellent view of the small out-building that belongs to Tara’s Halls. We’ll get onto that as soon as we can. Right, Jake, it’s all yours.” Jacobstein nodded in his usual serious manner and began.
“Known. The Tara’s Halls fire was deliberately set. Two decapitated bodies were found in the smouldering ruins. As the kitchen and lavatory in that part of the building were both supposedly in action up to 6pm, the whole scenario must have taken place just before the ‘Out of Order’ notices were seen at around 6.30pm. We now know that the small out-building was used by gamblers unknown to the owner but known to the caretaker. He says he was threatened into allowing it. The corpses have remained unidentified. Colm Regan of The Fruit Bowl was pushed aside by a gent wearing a black suit who was exiting the lavatory just as the kitchen door blew out. Both rooms were seen to be filling with smoke at the time. This unknown man was wearing suffragette pin badge on his coat.”
“No comment,” said Quigley and laughed. Pollock simply shook his head at his young DC.
“I repeat,” said the more sober-natured Jacobstein, “Colm Regan has just identified the man whose jacket he latched onto as Gavin Tierney and he has also declared that Tierney is a well-known gambler who knows all the ins and outs of local gambling schools. There were also likely to take place in Tara’s Halls at some point, five other functions. A representative group from each of the five interested parties was shown round the halls yesterday, two in the morning and three across the afternoon.”
“Has Colm Regan been eliminated from our enquiries, Inspector Pollock?” asked Quigley.
“More or less. He’s given us our best clue to date so, from now on, apples and pears are bought only in his shop for our consumption in Camlachie police station.” Jacobstein continued.
“Andrew Dorman, caretaker, has also informed us that some of the group representing the cotton factory wedding party considering booking the Halls, were inclined to wander wherever they pleased. That’s about it so far, Ben.”
“We’re beginning to move and I can see a glimmer of hope on the horizon. If we knew the identity of the corpses, we’d be flying. But – we – don’t! So, how do we find out that vital piece of information? Any ideas, Austin?”
“Missing persons. Adult males are usually married and married men have responsibilities that generally require money. Maybe a wife has reported her husband missing.” Quigley sat back with his arms folded and waited.
“You’re just an old romantic, Austin. If those men were gamblers, they’d be a definite liability to a woman. Definitely not an asset. But missing persons is an obvious, but still excellent, way to go. Right now, the only connection we might just have with them is that outbuilding, and it’s a very tentative one indeed. There’s no other reason at the moment for us to make a direct connection between them and an eminently respectable suite of function rooms other than a seedy, perhaps vicious, gambling school covertly using part of the premises. Now, are we looking at a potential gambling feud? I sincerely hope not. Or are we looking at one unknown man who’s simply gone mad? What we need to do is interview Gavin Tierney yet again. This time, though, we’ll quiz him about the illegal act
ivities that went on in that small building which, in reality, is nothing more than a very small outhouse. Also, we’ll interview the occupants of The Bicycle Tyre Warehouse building’s top floor to learn if they’ve seen our man thereabouts yesterday or if, in fact, any kind of to-ing and fro-ing done over the last few months or so.”
“And what about the missing person files?” asked Jacobstein.
“Jake, you get onto that and get back to me the moment anything looks promising. Take young Stephenson with you. You and I, Austin, will interview whoever occupies that top floor to learn if they saw our man thereabouts yesterday and then we’ll go along to the Royal and see if they’ve unscrambled Gavin Tierney’s brain. I suppose, at a push, we can always fall back on Bruce Tierney if his brother’s brain is still out of commission for the moment. Then it will be interviewing the members of the five groups that went over Tara’s Halls. We can all take part in that.”
“What exactly are we actually looking for, sir?” asked Quigley.
“We’re looking for someone who was in the wrong place at the wrong time, Austin. It’s really as simple as that. We’re also looking for a further two people, adults, male, tall, one with a slight limp and missing from their usual abode overnight. That means Jake’s looking for two needles in a haystack. These men could have lived anywhere in Glasgow or the periphery. Anywhere in Scotland, in fact, but we’ll think lucky and narrow it down to Glasgow and environs. Gambling addicts don’t care too much about distance. It’s almost 100% certain they have not yet been reported missing or indeed ever will be. Jake, do the rounds and keep your ears open and your ability to join up odd facts to the forefront for, actually, as far as identity is concerned, we’re probably on a hiding to nothing.”