VENGEANCE IS MINE

by Marie Rowan

  “Right, Austin, we’ll scour the list for Mr Finlay or Finlay Somebody. If we see a likely suspect, we’ll haul him in. If not, we’ll interview the Tierney brothers in the Royal. If another DS has turned up, he can take the Beardmore’s lot and you stick with me. The results of the missing men should come in soon, but I put no great reliance on that. This is one of the greatest cities in the Empire and folk come and go here, live and die here and no-one’s any the wiser.”

  “What about Jake, sir?” asked Quigley, who was loyal to a fault.

  “I wish him every success in his new team, Austin, and remember no matter how freely the head of any investigation allows discussion, that’s all it is, talk, an exchange of views. You never, under any circumstances, desert the ship and join the crew of another. No captain will respect anyone who does that, either the one he deserts or the one he tries to join. Right now, although he doesn’t yet seem to realise it, Jake Jacobstein is languishing in no-man’s land and hell mend him.” Quigley’s face was chalk white. Pollock laughed. “Cheer up, Austin, Jake can stew or languish as the well-bred prat might himself say. I’ll haul him back on board when I need the clever stuff and he realises that vague coincidences and such are noted but not acted upon to the detriment of what we’ve already got. Let the uniform men do the spade work there. I see Jake up at the office window, so give him the cold-shoulder and his pride a dent. He’s been chucked off the team so he gets to know nothing. It’s all character-building, son, and he’ll definitely be the better for it. I’ll maybe hint that he should volunteer to help traffic-control at the Scottish Cup Final on Saturday. That’ll teach him.”

  The CID men entered the building and made for the stairs.

  “Inspector Pollock!” shouted Sergeant Manley, “a verbal message for you, sir. Sergeant Tiffney is being sent to help you.”

  “Felix? Felix Tiffney? Aw God! His mind will be entirely on the Cup Final and his Celtic heroes. Hope to God they win or this investigation will come to a juddering halt for want of sober personnel. Win or lose, mind you, it’ll be just the same old Felix. Celebrating or drowning his sorrows, it’ll all be out of the same bottle. It looks like, Austin, we’ll have to get Felix and the entire CID up to full speed if we want it to be wrapped up by 3pm on Saturday. Where exactly is he, Roddy?”

  “On his way as we speak.”

  “Send him right on up when he gets here. How come his name’s not on the brake club list, Roddy?”

  “Says he’s a free spirit, doesn’t take to being given orders, hampered by regulations.”

  “Well, he’s in for a helluva shock when he gets here.” Quigley already had the office door open and his face tight closed. Jacobstein lingered just beyond the far end of the desk.

  “Something you want?” asked Pollock sharply, sitting down and reading his mail.

  “A word, please, sir.” Pollock shook his head.

  “Some other time. We’re busy and as you have no authorisation that allows you to sit in on this briefing, I must ask you to leave.”

  “Just a quick word of explanation, Ben.”

  “You’ve already been replaced, Sergeant Jacobstein, and no quick word in the entire dictionary will change that. Now, if my memory serves me right, those heavy footsteps mounting the stairs no doubt belong to your replacement, DS Felix Tiffney. Sergeant Manley, uniform branch, is downstairs and will perhaps be inclined to listen whilst you both unburden your soul and ask how to spell ‘resignation’. Good morning, Felix, going to the game on Saturday? Goodbye, Sergeant Jacobstein, and don’t slam the door on your way out.” Jacobstein closed the door quietly as the other three came together round the desk.

  Felix Tiffney was quickly apprised of the situation. He was nobody’s fool and grasped facts and instincts quickly.

  “So, this is the list, sir? I know the lot of them. What exactly are we looking for in it this time, for I assume you’ll have already interviewed them?”

  “We have, Felix, plus we’ve got five groups who were planning on hiring the Halls for various functions such as weddings and the like and they were all given the grand tour yesterday. They’ll have to be included. Austin and I have spoken to the committee of the Shettleston Emerald Club.” Tiffney nodded knowingly.

  “A nice lot in that club. A bit wild at times but I don’t think they’re into decapitation. I’d stake my own head on that.”

  “We talked to the social committee a short time ago. The entire club were at a funeral tea in the Nether Park Bakery tearooms.”

  “That would be Auld Bertie’s send-off. Did you get any additional information there?”

  “Nothing except that, as we were leaving, the manager passed on the information from his uncle, Colm Regan of The Fruit Bowl and the King of the Parsnips, that our suspect could be called Finlay.”

  “I’ll bet there’s not a single Finlay on that list. Not a popular name round here. A second name, perhaps?” Pollock’s finger ran quickly down. He shook his head.

  “Not there either, I’m thinking,” said Tiffney. “What we have here, just to complicate matters, is a lot of these folk have middle names they don’t use. Now my own middle name is Dorotheus but I don’t use it.”

  “I’m not surprised,” said Pollock sourly and Quigley grinned, safe in the knowledge that his was the acceptable ‘John’. “Have a bit of a closer perusal, Felix, while Austin and I make the tea and butter some scones Manley has left for us. Help yourself, by the way, to milk and sugar.” Felix applied himself noisily.

  “I’m told they buried Auld Bertie with his ticket for the game. Nice touch,” mumbled the DS as he puzzled his way down the list. “Well, it wasn’t exactly a ticket – what man ever gets one of these? – more an invitation to join the members on the terracing free gratis.” Pollock helped himself to more tea. He noticed Quigley had not put out Jacobstein’s cup. Too sentimental. Bet he spouts poetry, too, he thought. Tiffney looked up and smiled. “If we win this one, Austin, we’ll have two of the three cups going this season and there’s still the Glasgow Charity Cup in June. A treble! I’ll definitely drink to that.”

  “Right, now I want you to go.” There was a sudden rap on the door and PC Proctor entered. He was familiar with Pollock’s methods and gratefully accepted a couple of biscuits and the buttered half of a scone.

  “Sergeant Manley sent me up, sir. He says this information might save you a bit of time.”

  “Fire away.”

  “DS Jacobstein was telling him you’ll probably be interviewing the groups that were shown round Tara’s Halls yesterday.”

  “Always helpful, is Sergeant Jacobstein. What else did he say?”

  “Nothing, sir, for he’s a man of few words. More the thinking type, I’d say. Anyway, he rolled off the five groups and Sergeant Manley says to tell you he can eliminate some regardless of whether any of them were behaving oddly during the tour.”

  “Alright, let’s have it.”

  “When I said some, I meant three. First of all, the wedding party bill was paid by the racing winner. Mr and Mrs Vincent Coulston’s party. Their movements are all accounted for, all five of them, from the minute they left East Nelson Street till they were arrested some twenty yards further on for affray and they languished here till 9.15pm. Secondly, the ceilidh people, for they had a gig waiting outside the Halls and all six of them travelled to a local, private distillery for a whisky tasting session where they became progressively inebriated and the local police had to be called in at 10.05pm. Last but not least, those works folk went straight back to Beardmore’s, clocked in and they had to work the hours they had spent in Tara’s Halls at the end of their usual stopping time. They all clocked out at 8pm and then went into The Weaver’s Maiden for a pint, women included. They left there at 9.10pm. That’s it. Must go.” PC Proctor vanished.

  “Now, that’s what I call good news, comrades. Those three groups plus the Shettleston Emerald one which we covered ourselves, are now all done and dusted. That leaves only the Grassford Mill Company
near Bridgeton Cross. Felix, King Cotton is all yours. We’re just trying to find out where all the nosey folk among that group got to and if they saw anything suspicious or anyone acting oddly. Take one of our DCs and report back here when you’re finished. It was a visit to see the facilities available for a small wedding reception. The bride is the eldest daughter of Mr Ewan Douglas, the owner of the factory. A small, select affair with thrift as its watchword. Wee Frees and no drink up front but plenty out the back on the big day. Austin and I will stay here for the moment and see what’s happening in the missing persons line. We’ll try and see where Mr X and the other Mr X fit in, if at all. We’ll give it half an hour and then go to interview the Tirerney brothers in the Royal.

  Pollock scrutinised that list thoroughly and his thoughts turned once more to the state of play so far. One massive, destructive conflagration, two dead, killed before the fire began. Main suspect was seen coming out of what had been a locked lavatory wearing a suffragette badge on his jacket, a white handkerchief covering his face, his name possibly Finlay, first or second name. There was also a man seen watching an outbuilding behind Tara’s Halls which was used as the occasional home of a gambling school. Is there a link between the gambling and the two murdered men? Also, a girl going home from a suffragette rally was found badly injured. She had complained to her friend about being followed a few times. No real evidence of an assault as far as Pollock was concerned. Could have been, but the girl, was found by her friend with whom she had quarrelled. Could the friend have done it? Not Pollock’s case. It was being investigated by the uniformed branch. Also, why would anyone wearing a suffragette pin-badge assault another suffragette? Nothing nor person unusual had been seen so far in Tara’s Halls in the afternoon before the fire.

  “Austin, nip down and see if anything’s come in about the missing person enquiry.” Quigley exited, his eyes spinning with looking at closely typed names, grateful for the chance to blink freely again. A loud tap was heard at the door and Pollock shouted,

  “Come in!” and ex Detective Inspector Edward Bell entered followed by a lady named Miss Euphemia Malone. Ned Bell had retired a few months previously just after his fiftieth birthday and his detective sergeant, Ben Pollock, had taken his place. Pollock jumped up and there was a bit of hand-shaking and banter.

  “And what can I do for you, Ned?” Pollock asked when all were seated round the desk.

  “This is really just a courtesy call, Ben. Just to let you know that we’ve been hired to solve the Joan Cranstoun assault case, the suffragette found in Honiton Street. Don’t want to step on your toes.”

  “You won’t, Ned, I’m not on it.”

  “Got your hands full with the fire?” asked the very fetching Miss Malone, one of Ned Bell’s operatives.

  “And the killings, Miss Malone.” Euphemia Malone was probably Bell’s right-hand person in the newly-established Bell’s Discreet Enquiries, a detective agency by any other name. Bell had been an immense figure in the CID and Miss Malone herself was simply formidable with an irresistible line in humour. “That assault is somewhat problematic, Ned,” admitted Pollock.

  “I know, because no-one saw it happen and the friend who found her, so she says, had quarrelled violently with her a short time before?”

  “Quite so. But Inspector McLachlan is on the case as far as I know. None of my business.” Bell nodded.

  “I see you’re working with Felix, Ben. How’s that?” Pollock did not reply. Bell pressed on. “Jacobstein’s looking decidedly glum downstairs. Didn’t forget to stand to attention, though. Old habits die hard.” Pollock gave in to his old mentor.

  “He told me he wanted to speak to a uniformed officer about the case you’re now on. Wasn’t satisfied with my performance or my attitude.”

  “Oh dear, Ben, not good. In fact, that’s very, very bad. I’d have had him out on his ear.”

  “He is, but he won’t move on. We’re working on one massive fire and two decapitations. Even the vaguest suggestion of perhaps they’re connected is a step too far at the moment. Ignoring my instructions simply can’t and will not be tolerated, Ned.”

  “A short, sharp lesson then?” suggested Bell. Pollock nodded.

  “I don’t want to lose him, but I won’t have him back on this enquiry.”

  “Fallen for the suffragette’s friend, has he?” Bell laughed quietly. “What can I do to help?”

  “Hard to say.”

  “My advice to you, Ben, is to solve this case you’re on without his help and bawl him out when you do. Don’t miss him and hit the wall. Inspector McLachlan would have thrown him to the high heid yins if Jake had approached him.”

  “And rightly so, Ned.”

  “What on earth got into him? Just as well his family are well-heeled, for he might need their cash if he goes on like this. And Euphemia, Miss Malone, now no feeling sorry for him when he sees us solving his problem. I don’t want him transferring his affections to you and buggering up my new company’s stellar rise to fame. Anyway, Inspector Pollock, we’re off. Just not wanting you to think we’ll be tramping all over a police investigation. If we turn up anything significant regarding your own case, we’ll let you know. Besides, Tiffney will make sure it’s all wrapped up in double quick time so that he can go to the Cup Final.”

  “That’s a great commendation. Maybe I’ll keep him for good.” But Bell shook his head and smiled.

  “Pollock and Jacobstein are a permanent fixture. There’s more than a pretty face behind this, Ben, you mark my words. You might want to work on it in your spare time, Miss Malone.”

  “Haven’t come across the ‘spare time’ part in my contract yet, Mr Bell,” said Miss Malone, “but it’s a challenge I just might take up. There’s a quiet dignity about the man that appeals to me and I always like to flesh out a mystery.”

  “And he’s single and so are you. Mystery solved. Free time, Miss Malone, definitely not on mine.” But Euphemia Malone was not to be outdone.

  “It was your idea, Mr Bell,” she said innocently.

  “All right, one hour per day or you’re fired,” replied her boss as Pollock and Quigley looked on in amusement.

  “I could then go into business on my own in competition with you, Mr Bell, and if the handsome Mr Jacobstein is still on the scrapheap as he is at present, he and I could join forces and run the business from JAE’s vast basement instead of from my single-end.”

  “What’s Jake got that we haven’t got, Ben?” asked Bell in feigned amazement.

  “Money,” said Pollock.

  “Expensive suits,” added Euphemia Malone.

  “Good looks,” Pollock suggested.

  “Lovely manners.” Miss Malone was counting them off on her long, tapering fingers. “And don’t forget class.”

  “And intelligence.” Pollock was beginning to feel a bit inadequate.

  “But apart from all that?” asked Bell.

  “Nothing,” conceded his assistant.

  “So, there you are. Jake’s just an ordinary man who’s made a very extraordinary mistake and needs understanding and rescuing which you, Miss Malone, will provide in your spare time. Now we are going to begin to earn our fee.” Both employees of Bell’s Discreet Enquiries rose and made for the door.

  “I’ll come down with you for I’ve two VIP interviews to conduct. Feel free to begin your part-time investigation into what lies behind Jake Jacobstein’s calm façade if he’s still downstairs, Miss Malone.”

  “I will and I know he is downstairs. He’s taking me to lunch.” Pollock was astounded, Bell was grinning widely.

  As they approached him, Jacobstein blushed slightly as Miss Malone, who could easily have bought and sold the lot of them put together in the common-sense department, took his arm and gracefully led him out into the street. They had met during Pollock’s last case in Camlachie.

  “A shark versus another shark. That will be an epic tale, my friend,” said Bell and then ran to catch a tram coming jiggling along the str
eet. Pollock turned to watch Jacobstein and Miss Malone walking slowly and talking intently towards Bridgeton Cross. What had really been behind Jacobstein’s move that morning, he wondered?

  Jake Jacobstein felt as glum as he looked and wondered if he had bitten off more than he could chew. It had been on an impulse that he had contacted Euphemia Malone. Miss Malone had been a witness in a previous murder case. It had been before Edward Bell had set up his private enquiry business. She was as sharp as a pin and sassy with it. He was placing his entire future in her hands. He looked at her intently, she smiled beguilingly back, and he suddenly didn’t give a damn about the future.

  Pollock and Quigley walked quickly up the High Street, that ancient thoroughfare that had once led to the Cathedral and the University of Glasgow. The university had moved but the ancient cathedral was still there. Pollock loved the winding street as it made its way uphill, despite the squalor and disease that now abounded among the achingly poor of that district in the great city. At the top of that historic street lay the Royal Infirmary and the Tierney brothers. He fervently hoped that Gavin Tierney was now compos mentis and that he could, with some astute and relentless questioning, help move the enquiry along.

  Pollock was very familiar with the medical professionals of the hospital and a few well-placed pleas and down-hearted expressions soon found him and Austin Quigley sitting by Tierney’s bed.

  “It’s yourself, Mr Pollock,” said the bold Gavin, trying his best to look frail.

  “How are you, Mr Tierney, I heard you had a bit of a set-back last night.” Tierney smiled broadly and Pollock knew Gavin had indeed had one – probably in the form of a threat from his wife’s brother on behalf of a deserted wife and children.

  “Nothing I couldn’t handle, Inspector Pollock.”

  “And how’s your memory? I hope it’s first-class and we can get this over with for it’ll save me from coming back here constantly until it’s as clear as crystal. With a high-powered enquiry like this, constantly repeating questions and getting nowhere does absolutely nothing for my temper.”