by Marie Rowan
“What about that girl’s stalker?”
“Are you serious? Are you from a circus family, able to juggle any number of serious cases at the same time, Mr Jacobstein? We’re dealing with, officially, two dead and over three hundred almost dead. We’re full up!”
“Do you think Miss McNab will be back, Ben?” asked Jacobstein quietly. He could understand how his boss was feeling.
“Do I care? Inspector McLachlan’s onto it and he’s exceedingly conscientious, so leave it. We’re dealing with an incident that could have had massive fatalities plus two decapitations and you and Quigley are running scared of a young woman who talks loud and glares at you. You, Jake, have all the makings of a hen-pecked husband, so do something about it or get yourself transferred out of my team.” Pollock stormed out, the other two remained silent then took after him at the double. They paused at the top of the stairs in order to let the inspector exit the building alone.
“Well, Jake, it had to be your turn sometime. Mine was last week.”
“It wasn’t being soft on the girl, that wasn’t why I asked. The case will be dealt with thoroughly, I know that. It was the stalker business, being stalked after the rally. That was a suffragette rally. I just think it’s odd that that word has come into play twice on the same day.”
“Forget it!” And Jacobstein did the only thing open to him. He tore downstairs and caught up with Pollock as the night-watchman waved him through the goods entrance.
They walked along the street in a heavy silence. Jacobstein took the bull by the horns.
“I’d like your permission to have a few words with the inspector to speak about it, sir.”
“You do that, Jake, and then report back to HQ. You’re off any case I’m on. I’ll work with Austin here and DC Mooney can do the missing persons trawl.” Pollock wheeled away in the direction of Camlachie police station, quickly writing a note as he went. “Give that to Sergeant Manley, Austin, and ask him to see that the instructions there are carried out. I’ll walk round to the tyre warehouse but first I’ll have a word with any experts still sniffing around the ruins of Tara’s Halls. Meet me there as quickly as you can.” He passed the note to Quigley and walked away towards Great Nelson Street. Jake entered the police office and knew he had blown his future.
Andrew Dorman was leaning on the closed wrought-iron gates that had signalled the entrance to the short pathway to Tara’s Halls’ etched-glass doors.
“It was set right enough. It’ll all be in the report you’ll get, Inspector Pollock.”
“I daresay it will be, Mr Dorman. Any idea where the experts are right now?” asked Pollock.
“Breakfast. Benito’s café round the corner. Porridge, ham and eggs, excellent coffee, lovely bread from Dough Frae Me, salted or unsalted butter? Take your pick, Mr Pollock. Could feed my family on what they’ll eat there for a week.”
“Sounds tasty. Any more thoughts on the groups going round?”
“Can’t say as I have,” answered Dorman with a shake of his head. “I’ll tell you one thing, though. Whoever did it had it all thought out.”
“Yes, he had to for it’s not easy to kill strong men or fully-grown ones anyway, chop off their heads, blow up the place and walk away as free as a bird.” Pollock felt slightly annoyed that he had to spell out the obvious. He had the feeling that a bad morning was about to get worse.
“I know that, Inspector Pollock, but what I mean is the notices. The men who saw them on the doors, just turned back and went to use the other facilities. There were plenty of them in Tara’s Halls. Wee Jamie Callendar was telling me about them for I wasn’t aware of that situation. He says the notices weren’t handwritten like I would put up for an unexpected hitch but printed. Not fancy notices, mind you, just machine printed on a bit of paper.” That, thought Pollock, was very interesting but anybody working in an office could type one out. He filed it away for further scrutiny.
“I’m very glad you told me that, Mr Dorman. Now here’s my colleague so I’ll have to be going. Remember to let me know anything that occurs to you and thanks once again.”
Pollock and Quigley entered The Tyre Warehouse building which was no more than a huge shop with two floors above, all containing an assortment of bicycles, tyres and baskets. The place reeked of the smell of burnt rubber. The fire damage seemed to be confined to a few dozen tyres at the side of the building nearest Tara’s Halls. They had been removed further away but their damaged presence lingered on. A well-dressed sales man sidled up and then deftly swerved when he recognised the detectives.
“You’re making me feel most unwanted, William, my lad,” Pollock said in a peeved voice. William McGlashan slunk back, his face as red as a beetroot.
“Alright, Ben, I might have exaggerated my importance a little. No harm in that, is there?”
“I encourage ambition at every turn, William, you know that, but don’t you think Emily will wonder why a managing director only earns £1.17.6d a week?”
“I said I was a trainee.” Pollock sighed.
“Well, if my favourite cousin believes you, she deserves you. Now, the real managing director, William, where is he?”
“I’m actually the head salesman on this floor and my sales figures are way ahead of everybody else’s.”
“Good to know, William, and I can assure you that your secret is safe with me.”
“Ben, I didn’t actually say the words ‘Managing Director’. I just told Emily that I was a rising star.”
“In the same sentence as ‘Managing Director’? The trouble with Glasgow’s East End is that it’s full of fancy wordsmiths, William. I’m hoping that at some point before I cross over the Great Divide, I’ll meet a man of few words and that those words will make sense. Has it not dawned on you folk that thousands are dying in those same tenements of filth and disease and men and women are working themselves to death in forges and factories? Write about that, William, for God’s sake.”
“Eh? I just write wee poems for Emily.” Pollock took a deep breath and calmed down.
“The Managing Anything, the owner or person in charge.”
“He’s out – having his breakfast with the man in charge of the firemen, Mr Watson, Mr Allison and Mrs Allison.”
“In Benito’s Café. I’m psychic, William. I must speak to the person in charge of the top floor. Right now,” Pollock added.
“That’s Wilhelmina Corkey, Mrs. She’s the only salesperson on that floor apart from her junior assistant. It’s accessories, gloves, baskets, bells, that kind of thing. Easy to carry upstairs. Mrs Corkey’s a leading light in the Carntyne Ladies Cycling Club and the present holder of the 1891 gold medal for the half-mile sprint. She’s a widow of some years standing and last month turned down our owner’s proposal of marriage – scathingly, I might add. Be careful, though, Ben, for she’s got a face like a nippy sweetie and a tongue to match.”
“I like women of character. A feisty lady. Just my type, William. We’ll find our own way up.”
Two flights of creaky, wooden stairs and they were there in a bicycle enthusiast’s paradise. Once a person had bought the bicycle, this was Valhalla. A whole floor of glass-fronted cabinets of highly polished wood and sparkling glass, drawers exposed, their contents a kaleidoscopic frenzy of colour and styles.
“Gentlemen,” a voice boomed as they gazed in wonder, “I’m Mrs Corkey.” Both detectives automatically obeyed the implied instruction and turned to face the great half-mile sprint champion. “How may I help you? Gloves, perhaps, a fashionable piece of headgear, goggles?” The lady slowly took stock of both of them, but her conclusions were not apparent in her sharp-featured face. Her amber eyes challenged Pollock’s and he almost confessed he hated cycling just to get a reaction. She was dressed in a very smart brown costume consisting of long brown skirt with a pristine white blouse beneath a short, fitted, darker brown jacket. Her figure was perfect and more than a little inviting, and every curve belied the stern, unyielding features of her face. Both detec
tives showed their warrant cards.
“Unfortunately, Mrs Corkey, we’re here on police business.” She nodded knowingly as Pollock spoke.
“The fire. The warehouse was closed when it occurred, Inspector Pollock, so I’m afraid neither I nor my junior here, young Archie, Mr Archibald McSorley, will be able to assist you.” Pollock noticed that she did not send young Archie about his business. She caught his glance. “I believe that all experiences are to be taken full advantage of, Inspector Pollock. I expect my assistant can tell you no more than I can. We work as a team.” Archie nodded proudly.
“Even so, Mrs Corkey, I would like a word or two with you alone. DC Quigley can undertake to interview young Mr McSorley.”
“Come along then,” the lady beckoned, “my office is just here.” They entered the office with its half-glass walls and filing cabinets in neat order.
“I would have asked your employer, Mr er.”
“McGuinness – by name and by nature,” said Mrs Corkey, disapproval writ large across her now open features.
“Yes, Mr McGuinness. It seems, however, that he’s not on the premises.”
“Breakfast!”
“Benito’s?”
“A last minute summons. Two poached eggs on wholemeal bread, very continental, two fried potato scones, one half tomato likewise fried, a pot of weak tea and a glass of soda water. Mr McGuinness is a man of very regular habits. I cannot abide boring men, Inspector Pollock.” Pollock thought that he, himself, came somewhere between the potato scones and a pint of Guinness. He had definitely failed the test.
“Not for everybody, Mrs Corkey.”
“And please don’t insult womanhood by suggesting it’s an acquired taste.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it. My wife is from India and as soon as I show the slightest hint of being boring, we are agreed that she shall be entitled her return fare out of our joint bank account. Now, to come to the point of this visit, Mrs Corkey, what I would like to know is do you ever happen to look out of that window over there that overlooks the back yard of Tara’s Halls?”
“I do on numerous occasions, Mr Pollock. I keep all my records very much up to date and so when times are slack, I find myself dusting and tidying up drawers, displays and the like. I also like to keep fit and I use any odd moments when there are no customers on this floor to walk smartly round the entire floor at a fair pace. That naturally leads me past the window you pointed out and I’m in the habit of resting there every ten circuits.” Pollock was beginning to think that this high-powered lady would be a step too far for most men and that Mr McGuinness would be well-advised to stick to Guinness. “You, I presume, want to know if I’ve seen anything of note there lately.”
“I do, Mrs Corkey.” A glance through the office window told him young Archie had sold Quigley a pair of goggles. He pushed all dark thoughts of Jacobstein’s betrayal to the very back of his mind.
“That window looks down at an angle on the small, white outbuilding belonging to Tara’s Halls. As you must know, there’s about two hundred feet between the buildings and they’re separated by a wall eight feet high. That wall has an iron gate inserted in it about a third of the way along from here. That was the result of an accident that brought down part of the wall a few years ago. Our fault. It’s our wall and Mr McGuinness had meant to replace it but has more or less forgotten about it. It’s kept padlocked. But, for the last four weeks, I’ve noticed a man watching the comings and goings around the outbuilding. An educated guess from the type of dress of the men frequenting the place says they’re gamblers of some note, for this area anyway.”
“Can you describe this man, Mrs Corkey?” Pollock was trying hard to suppress his excitement.
“Dark clothes, dark hair, about medium height, and I expect you could easily find out his name for he was one of yours, a policeman of sorts, I mean. Now, I hear some customers approaching, business always begins suddenly about this time. Good-day, Inspector Pollock.”
Pollock walked slowly into the tearoom of The Nether Park Bakery Co. and was met with a welter of black ties and various assorted get-ups. His mind was still on Sergeant Manley’s answer. Nobody official, as far as Manley knew, was keeping an eye on that outbuilding. He did not even suspect that gambling was going on there. He could name two dozen other spots but that one had never been highlighted. So, who was the stranger and what was his motive? A waiter approached and spotted Pollock’s lack of a black tie. Quigley was wearing a scarf of ancient origins, his new goggles in a brown bag in his pocket.
“CID. Detective Inspector Pollock and Detective Constable Quigley. I’d like a word with whoever organised this on behalf of the Shettleston Emerald Supporters Club.”
“No trouble, please, Mr Pollock, discretion at all times. I’m the manager but it’s all hands on deck when we’ve a big event like this on.” The tearoom was packed to bursting point.
“None expected, sir. Just a few questions about the incident in Great Nelson Street last night.”
“Dreadful, horrible, terrible. The club chairman is Mr Etherington. I’ll get him. I’ve a small office just through that gap there. Please feel free to use it.
“In that case, sir, perhaps you would ask him to bring the men who were with him earlier on yesterday in Tara’s Halls. Thank you.”
“If he offers us scones, sir,” asked Quigley quietly, “do we accept or refuse?”
“We accept. After this, we’ll check in and see how the missing persons search is coming along and if they’ve sent me another detective sergeant. Then it’s that wedding party, the factory lot. We need a name and address. It’s on the list somewhere in the depths of my pocket-book. Here it is,” said Pollock after fishing about a bit. By this time they had reached the small office. “The Grassford Cotton Mill Co, 16 to 42 Aidney Street, Bridgeton. We’ll pay the owner a visit at his factory. Must be worth a bob or two. Right, Austin, here we go.” Pollock stood up as five men entered the office and they each found something to perch on. Pollock sat behind the desk with Quigley, plus notebook, just to his left. Warrant cards were shown and names given.
“You want to speak to us, Mr Pollock. I thought you might want to meet all who were there.” Mr Etherington was a great thinker, it seemed.
“Thank you and Good Day, gentlemen. My colleagues are interviewing all who were in Tara’s Halls yesterday to see if we can shed some light on what exactly happened. We’re especially looking for information about someone who might have been acting suspiciously. Sightings of such a person, anything unusual at all. Your group was one of five taken round the function rooms and we’ll be speaking to all of you today. We’ve been working extremely hard and have already interviewed all the men connected with the brake clubs. It’s your turn now.”
“Then first let me introduce my social committee,” said Mr Etherington, “Mr May, Mr McLuckie, Mr Ballantyne and Mr Goudie.” Hands were shaken and Pollock began.
“Let’s begin with the question I suggested. Anything seen that could be considered out of the ordinary? You, as far as I know, gentlemen, are all old hands at organising events in Tara’s Halls.”
“We are that, but maybe Mr Ballantyne, our social secretary, would like to speak first?” Etherington was obviously an old hand at controlling club meetings.
“Thank you, Mr Etherington,” said Mr Ballantyne. “I’m afraid I can’t really shed any light on this unfortunate matter as I was not aware that it was anything other than an ordinary, if extremely enjoyable, visit. We simply enjoyed Mrs Allison’s hospitality and discussed arrangements.”
“Excellent sherry,” commented Mr Goudie. “Which would not have been on the menu we chose. There’s no real call for it from our members. We have a very lively membership, Mr Pollock, and they’re more into Murphy’s and porter and plenty of it. I must confess I’m a very moderate drinker but I do share the general membership’s partiality for that type of drink.”
“As do all of us if we’re under oath here to tell the truth,” put in the c
hairman.
“Do any of you recall seeing someone different, someone unexpected, someone you hadn’t seen before?” asked Pollock, hoping that the excellent sherry had not suffered a severe depletion in stock that day.
“It’s a working environment, Inspector Pollock,” said Etherington, “and the faces of various members of staff sometimes change. I thought they were all just doing their work, nothing different at all.” The others all nodded their agreement. Pollock knew when he was beaten.
“That’s fine, gentlemen. Another group ticked off the list, the first actually interviewed. Is this a funeral of a member?” he asked as the men trooped back to the tearoom.
“Our mascot, Auld Bertie. A great loss. Only served for three games but his heart was right in it.” Pollock resisted commenting on the three defeats.
“No scones,” muttered Austin as the committee-men departed.
“No tea either,” said his boss sourly. But help was at hand.
“Now just you sit there and I’ll have a wee tray sent through to you on the house.” Life could be sweet sometimes and that manager was a first-rate fellow. He was as good as his word. A waiter placed the laden tray on the desk but hesitated as he went to leave.
“The manager says that you’re Inspector Pollock of the CID.” Pollock nodded, smiling, as Quigley poured the tea and eyed up the jam and cream scones.
“Yes, that’s right.”
“Well, I was speaking to my Uncle Colm last night and he says he forgot to tell you that the man with the pin badge was probably called Finlay, for when somebody shouted that name out, he turned round sharply.”
Pollock and Quigley jumped off the tram just opposite Camlachie police station. It was a beautiful spring morning and Pollock knew Shameena would be delighted to see the sun again. He decided that when this was all over, he would take her for a sail on one of the Clyde boats to Dunoon. A fish tea and ice-cream. Dreams were made of that kind of thing.