VENGEANCE IS MINE

by Marie Rowan

  “The memory comes and goes, Mr Pollock, but try me anyway.” Gavin Tierney settled down to enjoy himself.

  “Nothing too difficult for your memory. We don’t want you over-taxing your brain, bearing in mind you’ll need all your wits about you if you’ll be taking on the Procurator Fiscal. He’s a very shrewd and uncompromising man and the clearer your statements are to me today, the easier whoever reads them, your defence lawyer for example, will be able to prove you’ve nothing to hide and were, in fact, very helpful to the police, namely myself. If I mean, of course, you’re actually prosecuted for anything in particular in the future. It’s a sad thing, Mr Tierney, that honest men have to actively build up a reputation of good citizenship in these supposedly enlightened days. So, let’s get cracking. That small outbuilding that belongs to the owner of Tara’s Halls. Now I have it on the best authority that it has been used for several months as a venue for illegal gambling. Hold it,” said Pollock as Tierney began to protest, “there’s no sense in answering a question before I ask it.” Tierney lay back against the thin pillow. “That’s better. You’ll have as much time to confirm or deny anything I say once I’ve finished. Now I have it on the best authority that you were a participant in these card games.”

  “I was definitely and absolutely not, Inspector Pollock.” Pollock ignored the interruption.

  “Now when you were in that building with the other occupants. Oh, by the way, you’ll notice or realise as we progress as we most definitely will, that I shall ignore any obvious tripe you attempt to say.”

  “I’m gonnae shout for the doctor or even the matron.”

  “Even I, Mr Tierney, who have faced ferocious tribesmen in India thundering down towards me bearing gifts of excruciating torture and agonising death, would not dream of facing an angry hospital matron. But perhaps you’re made of sterner stuff? Evidently not so, therefore, I’ll continue.”

  “What do you want to know but I really know nothing.”

  “I’ll help you to remember. I will relieve your mind a little by assuring you that I have no interest in that gambling club in itself. The fact is, Mr Tierney, I’m looking for two answers – honest ones will be quite sufficient. I’m engaged on a murder enquiry, a situation that involved the decapitation, that is heads being cut off, of two men and a fire that almost burnt to death over three hundred men, yourself included. All I want are the names of the men who took part in the gambling school that used the outbuilding. Now, an answer to that would see me half-way out of this infirmary.” Pollock gave Tierney time to take stock and, glancing round, Pollock realised that Austin Quigley was making his way to the door at the end of the long ward and Sergeant Felix Tiffney. He hoped it was good news. Tierney was sitting up once more.

  “Names. The men only change occasionally. All very good players but sometimes some men overdo it and lose a packet. I’m a bit cautious for I’m hoping to build up a few bob and buy a share in a bicycle business. I’ve told that brother-in-law but he doesn’t believe me. He’s a headcase and I might be daft but I’m not stupid. One wallop from him and I’d really have concussion. So, here I am.”

  “Names?”

  “None.”

  “What?”

  “None are used. It’s too risky but I know a few of them anyway.”

  “And their names?” Tierney hesitated. “If they’re not involved in the fire or the murders, their names will be removed from the report. We are not yet certain that the two episodes are connected. You have my word on that.”

  “Fair enough. Jack Creamer and Shug Pettigrew. Creamer dropped a packet. It’s his business I’m buying into. He borrowed money from the till, got a loan to replace it and is now paying that back. It’s interest-free because it came from a pal he happened to meet in the street when he was still reeling. Lucky him, for his partner is a nasty piece of goods who’d have him jailed in jigtime if he knew. He doesn’t and has simply decided to head for warmer climates, Southern Italy. I’m buying his share. I intend keeping an eye on Creamer, don’t mistake that. He’s a nice man but too easily led.”

  “And who was this paragon of virtue who let a thief off the hook with an interest-free loan?” asked Pollock wryly.

  “Oh, it wasn’t a ‘he’, it was a committee. Creamer’s a life member of the Shettleston Emeralds and the finance committee offered their help. Don’t think they knew all the ins and outs of it. Creamer just bumped into the social secretary of that committee and they’re very keen on helping out folk in a fix.”

  “And Pettigrew?”

  “More money than sense but has Lady Luck permanently on his shoulder. He has independent means and an indulgent mother. She belongs to a shipbuilding family on the River Forth. The other nameless ones are not nice people and that’s putting it mildly. I’m telling you, Inspector Pollock, my nerves are shot to bits before I even enter that wee building.”

  “I appreciate your help, Mr Tierney, so just one last question, my second one for you. Who’s the person who’s been watching the building for the past month or two?”

  “What?” Tierney’s scream brought a stern-faced nurse walking smartly, if sourly, into the ward. “I’m alright, nurse, a lovely surprise Mr Pollock’s just told me about.” The nurse glowered at both of them and then left to continue her search for her lost bottle of the milk of human kindness.

  “So, who is he?”

  “I’ve no idea? Did I sound like I had?”

  “Not really, no. Definitely sounded as if you’d had a close encounter with a considerable piece of very bad news and not a lovely surprise.”

  “Alright, Mr Pollock, I’ve done my bit of giving information, now I think I should get some from you. Tell me who he is? God Almighty, this has been a helluva twenty-four hours. Backside knocked to blazes, heid dunted and that swine of a brother-in-law after me.”

  “Don’t worry Gavin, the watcher was not your six foot brother-in-law. I can also reassure you that he was not a member of the police force. Now that’s it over and done with. Thanks again and buy into that bicycle business as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll do that. Maybe take the brother-in-law on as a repair man. He’s good at fixing them, none better, and he’ll keep me on the straight and narrow. Think I’ll discharge myself from here and set up a meeting with him.” The two men shook hands, Tierney deep in thoughts of family reconciliations, and Pollock mulling over all he had learned.

  Felix Tierney and Austin Quigley were waiting for Pollock at the hospital gates.

  “We’ve done it, Ben,” said Tiffney, his face wreathed in smiles, “identified your victims. They are Lewis Morton and Simon Corrie.”

  Chapter 6

  Pollock could have danced for joy.

  “Who?” was his only outward reaction but his men knew him well. It was how he said it.

  “I’ll make that game yet,” said Tiffney, rubbing his hands together in delight. “I’ve got a copy of Mooney’s notes here, Ben. Simon Corie and Lewis Morton, workmates. Reported missing last night by relatives but actually haven’t been seen since a week past on Monday.”

  “So why were they reported missing last night?” asked his boss.

  “One of the wives has run out of money. It seems the pair of them occasionally duck out of circulation for reasons known only to themselves and guessed at by jealous or cashless wives.”

  “Right, now, let’s get all this straight and the way to do it is to get a table in the Old College Teashop and the two of you can bring me up to date. That café’s full of secluded nooks, so we’ll get peace and a discount for the owner’s a relative of mine of sorts. It’s just down the street a bit.”

  The small tearoom was practically empty for the moment and Mrs Louisa Purvis, an old flame of Pollock’s, showed them to a table in an inshot at the far corner of the room from the door and observation. They had met in India and Shameena had just pipped Louisa past the marriage post. She and her husband were now the proud owners of teashops cum bakeries from Glasgow to Edinburgh. T
his one in the High Street had been the first of the line and Louisa had never relinquished her post as manageress. Cakes and coffee having been brought and payment waived for old time’s sake, the CID men got down to business.

  “Our main aim for today, gentlemen, was to quiz all groups that had the grand tour of Tara’s Halls yesterday in the hope that they had noticed something out of the ordinary. Four out of the five have produced nothing, but you, Felix, can enlighten us as to whether or not you hit the jackpot. Also, as you have brought the latest news on the victims’ identities, it would look like that, in one of these cases, we have scored a bullseye. Who are they? What were they as far as family, acquaintances and so on go? In fact, every aspect of their lives we either know or will know by this time tomorrow. I’m listening and if you know anything at all, Austin, tell us when Felix has finished.”

  “Now here it is,” said Tiffney, reading from his notes. It seems your PC Proctor had been one of the constables assigned to trudge all over the city and collect all the relevant data. He turned up at the Saltmarket and hit the jackpot as you would say, Ben, after hours of fruitless searching. He’d been assigned all offices west of The Gallowgate and along the south side of Argyll Street. He’d had to wait at each police station whilst the statistics were collected, typed up and compared with our, well, bag of bones. It was the fourth one he visited that gave us what we wanted. They discovered that a likely man named Simon Corrie was missing. It was also highly unlikely that two men would be reported missing and connected with each other at the same time. When it was noticed that a piece of additional information mentioned that Corrie had last been seen in the company of an ex-workmate who had also been reported missing, bells began to ring. This fact was supplied by Corrie’s wife who had gone round to Morton’s house only to be told by his wife that she had just returned from informing the police of his absence. He had never left her skint, as she put it, before. Anybody wanting that last pancake?”

  “Help yourself, Felix. Now, Austin, you’ve been brought up to date by Felix, so carry on while he replenishes his energy. Felix, cut in if he misses anything out.”

  “He won’t. The Quigleys are famous for their photographic memories. That reminds me, Ben, the men were both photographed at a work’s outing last June and Mrs Morton had brought a copy along. It’s now at Camlachie police station as it looks like it’s been in the wars. Frankly, though, I think they didn’t trust me to be extra careful with it. They’re having it replicated for you. Four dozen.”

  “We’ll give copies to the beat lads to show on their travels and also to the men who did the questioning of the folk in Tara’s Halls. So, Austin, on you go.”

  “Both men worked at the printworks, McCorquodale’s, in Maxwell Street. Friends from childhood, it seems. Also distantly related and both addicted to gambling according to their wives.”

  “How often did they gamble and where?” Austin Quigley shook his head.

  “I don’t know any more, sir.”

  “You can find out all the answers to all your questions yourself, Ben,” said Tiffney, “at Camlachie, for Sergeant Manley has arranged for the two women to be taken there for you to interview them.”

  “That Manley has the second sight and no mistake. Is there anything either one of you would like to add or suggest be added to my questioning? Now about that cotton factory group, Felix, the wedding planners. Got anything out of that visit or was it a bummer like the others?”

  “I spoke to the top man who is a hands-on freak, including all details about the wedding of his eldest daughter, Jemima Douglas. His secretary told me in confidence that Miss Jemima is actually Miss Jemima Arbuckle, step-daughter of the said Ewan. Hence the Tara’s Halls and not the St Enoch Hotel. It seems the rumours were the bride and her esteemed ma were demonstrating their individual shows of petulance at the down-market venue by wandering away from the official party and looking thoroughly bored. They might, of course, yet get their wish. After they left the Halls, they headed for afternoon tea at the factory. From there they went home and spent the evening as one party fighting the bit out. That only stopped when they heard that Tara’s Halls had succumbed to the flames and Jemima and ma then ran up and down the exclusive street where they live cheering and bawling. They were cautioned by the police at 10.10pm and the bridegroom’s having second thoughts.” Pollock shook his head and grinned.

  “At least that rules that lot out. Now, let’s go and see the two possibly bereaved ladies.”

  Ben Pollock arranged the chairs around his desk. The room had a casual air about it, and he preferred seeing the women in a more relaxed atmosphere than in one of the cold, formal interview rooms downstairs. He would speak to them with Felix Tiffney present and Quigley would see to the distribution of the photographs. Hopefully, someone would have seen the pair somewhere that day. Pollock had thought long and hard as to how he should question the women extremely closely, yet bearing in mind their grief.

  “I’ll speak to Mrs Morton first,” he said to Tiffney for no particular reason, and the sergeant went out to bring her up. A few minutes later, the recently widowed woman entered. She was dressed in the darkest clothes she probably possessed. Once she was seated, Pollock began.

  “Let me begin, Mrs Morton, by offering you my most sincere condolences on the death of your husband. My team and I have been working flat out to discover who did this horrific deed and why. The ‘why’ part might just prevent it happening to other men even if the person responsible for this suffers the ultimate penalty.” The woman raised her eyes to Pollock for the first time.

  “The killer is probably no more of a waster than the person he killed.” Those words came as a severe shock to both Pollock and Tiffney. There was a shocked silence for a minute or two till Pollock recovered. He threw caution to the wind and abandoned the weeping widow approach.

  “Could you explain that comment for me, Mrs Morton, please.” He drew the line at calling Lewis Morton a waster. Maybe this was all bluff. But it wasn’t.

  “I called that swine a waster and that’s what he was. I’m better off now than when that scum was alive or will be when the insurance company pays out. And no, I didn’t do it. I’m a churchgoer and I respect everybody’s right to live. I’ll settle for saying that I’m sure Lewis Morton will be roasting in Hell right now. The minister agrees with me wholeheartedly as Morton gambled away the money collected for the children’s Easter trip to the Maxwell Park. That swine sweet-talked the poor, trusting soul in charge of the money into giving it to him. He had assured her that I, as the church social secretary, had instructed him to collect it so that I could bank it. I’ve three children at home, almost no furniture and even less money. All gone on gambling by way of the pawnshop. He’s no loss. The insurance policy covers the funeral and there will be about sixty pounds left. Lewis Morton’s death is a welcome piece of news, Mr Pollock. It will enable my family to get our very simple lives back on track and the odd bit of frivolous pleasure thrown in for the children’s sake. Their lives have been joyless for a long time. That will stop now. It’s extremely hard not to feel relieved at his passing although the manner of it is to be deplored. There will be a substantial donation from the insurance money to the children’s trip. The rest of the money will sit in the bank so that we’ll always have something to fall back on in time of need.”

  “The children won’t miss their father, then Mrs Morton?”

  “Yes, they will for he had the gift of the gab, as the Irish would say. The children will probably remember only the funny moments and there’s nothing wrong in that. I’ve never spoken ill of him in front of them. Totally pointless. Now your questions, Inspector Pollock.”

  “Of course, Mrs Morton.” The questions seemed totally pointless now, too, but he took a grip of the interview. “Can you tell me exactly what your husband’s occupation was in the print-works?”

  “He was a typesetter. He made reasonable money that we seldom saw. He gave me a few shillings when he felt like it. We
were battling his addiction to gambling, he wasn’t. I can sew after a fashion. My terms are cheap and my customers not very particular.” Pollock tried not to laugh, but he could not suppress a grin. “I admit quite freely to being colour-blind so it’s just luck whether the thread is black, brown or anything else the children buy for me in the market stalls cheaply.”

  “Your husband was not at his work on the day he was killed but it would appear he had actually been sacked a fortnight before for bad timekeeping.”

  “I didn’t know that.”

  “Are you surprised?”

  “No. He was a very early riser, always, but where he went instead of to McCorquodale’s, I don’t know. Gambling schools, probably. Time and distance makes no difference to them.”

  “Has your husband ever mentioned a specific place in this area where he joined games of gambling? We’re also trying to find out who he played with.”

  “Do you think an irate loser might have killed both of them?”

  “It’s a possibility.”

  “I’m afraid I know nothing about where he gambled or who he played with except Simon Corrie. They’ve been lifelong friends. I presume these games can be for reasonable sums of money. If Lewis ever won handsomely on occasion, we never saw the fruits of his labours. Probably lost it all on the toss of a coin. A completely irresponsible apology for a husband and father.” Pollock decided to cut the whole interview short as it was obvious that Mrs Morton knew even less than he himself did.

  “Just one last question. Do you know if anyone ever threatened your husband?” But that, too, drew the anticipated blank.

  “Again, if they did, he never mentioned it to me.”

  “Thank you for coming, Mrs Morton. We’ll keep you informed as the case progresses. Sergeant Tiffney will show you downstairs and I’m sure a welcome cup of tea and some biscuits will be waiting for you. When I’ve spoken to Mrs Corrie, we’ll have you taken home again.” Pollock shook hands with her and hoped Mrs Corrie would know a bit more but doubted it.