by Marie Rowan
Pollock rose yet again as Simon Corrie’s widow was ushered in by a solemn-faced Tiffney and he had the feeling that this widow would not be a mild-mannered bereaved woman either. Tiffney’s look said he had been on the receiving end of a very sharp tongue.
“Thank you so much for coming here at this sad time, Mrs Corrie. It is indeed a ghastly case.” The woman was tall, shapely and knew it. Pollock wondered why Corrie had strayed from home.
“I’ll tell you everything I know, which is very little. Still, you’re welcome to it.” But before Pollock could do his well-used preamble of consoling concern, Madge Corrie hurried on. “Corrie was a wastrel. Liked money, liked frittering it away, gave him a big thrill. So did I, of course, but not quite as lasting a one as he got from cards. He liked all other forms of gambling, but cards were his Waterloo. So here we are, me and my ample charms very much alive and Simon Corrie, useless bugger, dead and gone and will truly be forgotten by the weekend when my friend returns from selling spanners in Jedburgh. Corrie wasn’t insured but I’ve his funeral costs in tanners in an empty tea caddy. Good luck and good riddance! That’s his epitaph if anybody’s silly enough to want to raise a stone to his memory.” Pollock decided that he would take Shameena out for a meal as soon as this case was wrapped up, spoil her a bit.
“Well, Mrs Corrie, thank you for that. Now I’ve a few questions the answers to which you haven’t quite covered as yet. Did your husband have any enemies? I’m asking this for obvious reasons. The method used in your husband’s killing was vicious in the extreme and it might just be connected to someone who had a very deep grievance against him.” Mrs Corrie thought long and hard but came up with nothing.
“Simon was built like a bare-knuckle boxer. He looked like a really hard man and had all the patter to go with it. He was a sheep in wolf’s clothing, though. His mate, Lewis Morton was the same. They were two wee boys who never grew up. Nobody who knew Simon Corrie thought he was nothing more than a big, daft lump. No, daft’s the wrong word, soft more like. But he was actually very astute with figures and had a very retentive memory, as he was always telling me. His only redeeming features and yet they brought him to being discovered as just a pile of charred bones and his head down a lavatory pan. He was harmless, fun and absolute hell to be married to. Every penny he earned bypassed his wife and family and was squandered on gambling. In his more reflective moments, he hated himself and what he’d become. That gambling addiction completely ruined his life and almost ours. Hard work is second nature to me and that’s what’s seen us through. He was well-liked and despised for his weakness at the same time. A total waste of a life. No, Inspector Pollock, no enemies for he couldn’t even rise to making any.”
“Did he ever mention gambling here in the East End?” asked Pollock quietly.
“I expect he did for he’d travel any distance to gamble on anything.”
“Recently?”
“Actually, he did. It was about three weeks ago when he put in an appearance for a meal and clean clothes.” Pollock could feel his heartbeat quicken. “He went to work as usual for even when he was gambling, he was sensible enough to know he could only afford to get into a game if he had a bit of serious money. Worked all the hours he could get to finance his habit. At teatime he said he had an extra job in Motherwell where he could earn more than with McCorquodale’s and he’d be away for about a week. That’s why I finally reported him missing because he would always show up within seven or eight days after when he said he’d be back for clean clothes and a dinner. If I’m being honest, Inspector Pollock, if Janet Morton hadn’t come to me with the story of how badly she needed Lewis’ money, I wouldn’t have bothered myself. If he wanted to run out on me, I wouldn’t have minded. I’ve other fish to fry.” The spanner salesman, no doubt, thought Pollock. “Anyway, that’s what he said, a big stakes game coming up in the East End and he hoped to be able to work out a way of getting into it. He didn’t say exactly when, though.”
“Did he say who was setting it up?” Pollock asked. Tiffney looked as if he had stopped breathing.
“He did. He was very excited or he would have said nothing. But names? No.” Pollock’s hopes hit the ground. “I don’t think any of these gamblers use their own names anyway.”
“Probably not, Mrs Corrie,” Pollock agreed and rose to show the lady out.
“The Fisherman. He was one of them. A workmate. Useless nickname. I’m sorry.”
“Eh?”
“That’s who had set it up. It meant nothing to me then and still doesn’t now. But good luck to you, Mr Pollock,” said Mrs Corrie as she rose. She stopped by the door. “It’s sad, though, isn’t it, two harmless characters ending up like that. Wonder if I’ll miss him?” With that, Tiffney left with Mrs Corrie and Pollock was now alone.
The door was opened abruptly and shut noisily.
“Don’t tell me to leave for I won’t.”
“Yes you will, Jacobstein, if I have to throw you out myself.”
“Let me explain, Ben.”
“No.”
“That bastard Chris Kelly knows something about the murders and, what’s more to the point, his pals have Shameena in their sights. I’ve no real proof and I know you’d tell me to see a doctor. That’s why I’ve had you take me off the corpses case and put myself onto the one where I’m sure Shameena is the target. Ben, Kelly definitely knows something about the decapitated bodies. I’ll shut up now.” Jacobstein stood resolutely on the other side of the desk with his arms folded, the look on his face daring Pollock to tell him he was talking nonsense. Pollock was stunned.
“You’d better tell me all about this from the start and fast, Jake, or I won’t be responsible for what I’ll do to you physically if you’re just trying to get your job back.” Jacobstein sat down and said firmly,
“And I’ll remind you respectfully, sir, that I haven’t officially lost it yet and if you sit there talking tripe, as you would say, it’s you who’ll be losing something, namely, your wife.”
“Get on with it then.”
“The reason I had to make that bit up about talking to the inspector was I knew you would no more believe me then that you do now. Last night I heard something that seemed quite innocent, but it puzzled me all the same.”
“Are Ned Bell and Noel Flett watching Shameena?”
“That’s right. Euphemia Malone is on Kelly’s trail and I’m about to rejoin her.”
“So, what did you hear, Jake?” Pollock could feel the anxiety beginning to flood over him.
“It was just a look I caught in Kelly’s eyes and what looked like a rude gesture in The Clew Bay Bar last night as he flicked at some violets in a jar as Ned Bell and Austin passed him. Later I saw him with a group of hard men having a very serious discussion. I saw Ned Bell sitting chatting near the end of the bar. Miss Malone was standing talking to a local man but obviously not with Ned Bell. I presumed they were working separately. I spoke to her later as you know, but the only word she recognised was ‘Shameena’. Meant nothing to her and I noticed Ned Bell had just gone to the lavatory and was obviously not aware of it. It intrigued me though. I arranged to meet Miss Malone as you now know and she in turn spoke to Bell. Seems Ned Bell realised that Kelly is the son of an illegal abortionist that you had put away. She had been charged under the name of Jess Barnes, hadn’t actually married the Kelly father. She had pleaded guilty and Kelly senior had never put in an appearance. She had died in prison last month and it seems that Chris Kelly has seen his chance for revenge. Bell has now switched his people to watching Shameena and Bell himself was watching Kelly till I showed up. He’s back keeping an eye on Shameena. This is still ongoing, still no concrete proof at all.”
“Get Quigley and Tiffney back in here.” Both detectives appeared appeared on the double.
“The game of cards was probably set up by a man known as the Fisherman. Ever heard of him? Or maybe it a group called the Fishermen?” asked Pollock. “Maybe even the name of a fishing club?” sugges
ted Jacobstein.
“There are plenty of them in Glasgow and lots more around Wishaw, Blantyre, you name it. Maybe we’re looking for a club limited to twelve members?” said Tiffney.
“Austin, you get out there and find that group of men fast. A group of gamblers called The Fishermen. Is that simply because they worked together to reel in the fools. My God, this might mean everything or nothing at all. Felix, get to that printworks and talk to Morton and Corrie’s workmates. They’ll know who these men are. This is one catch that won’t elude me.”
Chapter 7
The big lumbering Irishman and his Highland colleague, very slightly smaller but equally lumbering, glanced at each other as they stood in the reception area of the printworks. Beaton signalled to Tiffney to join him.
“See all this marble?” asked the detective constable with a certain amount of pride. Tiffney nodded. “Comes from within half a mile of my family’s croft. Camus. The Isle of Mull.”
“That so, Malcolm? Dig it out yourself, did you?”
“Helped. Do you see that man the receptionist is bringing to speak to us?”
“Aye, the girl who said we’d no chance of seeing anybody?”
“Aye, Felix.”
“The one you somehow mixed up your rank with mine when you spoke to her?”
“Aye. Watch and listen, Felix, just watch and listen, although you’ll understand absolutely nothing.” Tiffney proceeded to remind the Mull man they were on a murder case but Beaton, as usual, did not listen. The next few minutes brought a mighty obvious change of expression to the newcomer’s face and an invitation, Tiffney presumed, to step into the office. Malcolm Beaton made the introductions in English as the Gaelic had already served its purpose.
“Mr Duncan Lamont, this is Detective Sergeant Felix Tiffney.” Tiffney took over. Once seated, he quickly realised that Beaton had summed up the whole situation.
“I presume DC Beaton has told you why we’re here, Mr Lamont.” The businessman nodded in agreement.
“That he has. We’re both from near Bunessan and folk from there are not noted for wasting time nor words. Now you’re wanting to speak to any of our employees who work or worked with a group of men nicknamed The Fishermen. Well, Sergeant Tiffney, that can easily be done for we operate a loud-speaker system. I’ll have them called out and you can interview them one at a time or altogether as you see fit. In a murder enquiry, speed and accuracy are of the essence, I believe. Wait here and I’ll see to it. A wee dram while you wait, Malcolm? DS Tiffney?” Both accepted out of politeness they told themselves. Five minutes later, they were in a room alone with some of the workers.
Tiffney gave what he supposed was a mildly reassuring smile to the men before him.
“Now nothing for any of you to worry about. All DC Beaton and I are here to do is gather some information from you. As you probably know, we are engaged in a murder enquiry.”
“The fire and the corpses?” asked one of the men warily.
“The very same. Now we have information that some of you were known to the poor devils, namely Lewis Morton and Simon Corrie, who lost their lives inside that now-ruined building. We’re not saying any of you were involved. What we’ve been told is that perhaps one of your group called The Fisherman, might have quite inadvertently put them on the path to their deaths. That, of course, is something that none of us would like to have on our conscience. We’re now giving you, whoever you are, the opportunity to get it off your mind. Now, my first question is, naturally, why The Fisherman?” A wee gent, slender but strong, spoke up.
“Just a bit of banter in the works, that’s all. By the way, there were a dozen or so of us at one point, but it was whittled down to the small group you see here through time.”
“Could you be a bit more explicit, sir? Thank you,” said Tiffney. Yet another list changed hands, the names that were still in The Fishermen group. Tiffney passed it to Beaton who looked at him after reading it and shook his head.
“Well,” said the self-elected spokesman for the group, “it began to break up about four or five years ago. We weren’t actually a group, or rather we were a sort of loose one.” Murmurs of agreement were heard from all the men present.
“You were keen fishermen?” That got a great laugh and Tiffney had a feeling he might just be getting somewhere.
“Not at all. The minister of the local church held a wee service in one of the unused sheds once a month. Got permission from the owner of the works. Anybody who went to it was called a fisher of men, in other words, The Fishermen. A works’ joke. Just a bit of a laugh and nobody took offence.”
“So why did the numbers dwindle?”
“Illness,” said the spokesman, shrugging slightly, “better jobs, emigration, retirement, any number of reasons really. The Fishermen as a going group never really existed and was constantly changing. The six of us here are a mixture of old hands and newcomers. As we’ve only been coming here for a few years off and on, I’m afraid we only know each other. Can anybody give the detective sergeant any more help?” The end result was basically a waste of time and Tiffney and Beaton decided that Camlachie police station was their best bet.
“This is like looking for a needle in a haystack, Malcolm, but at least the whisky was first-class.” Beaton heartily agreed and they made their way to the nearest tram stop.
Pollock was quite aware that he was being watched. He had left Austin Quigley at the foot of the close, nodded to Noel Flett, his former detective constable, on the landing below his own, and let himself into his own home. Pollock was not a demonstrable type of man.
“Thought I’d call in for some clean clothes, Shameena. Just don’t know when I’ll be back.” But Shameena just ignored his practical talk as usual and Pollock made no effort to hold her back. “Can’t stay for more than a minute,” he said much later.
“Steak pie, potatoes, carrots and peas. The curry will keep till tomorrow.”
“Lovely. There’s nothing like a good wash to make a body feel good and a great meal afterwards.”
“I’m pleased for you,” said his wife, laughing quietly at her husband’s attempts at small talk.
“Sorry I can’t wait for pudding. Got a few murders to clear up.”
“Noel Flett could.”
“He needs building up, I don’t.”
“How’s the enquiry coming along, Ben?”
“Fine. Have you spoken to Ned Bell?”
“Yes, he doesn’t like peas, so he had parsnips.”
“Loves your curries.” The steak pie and carrots had vanished, the potatoes and peas were lapping up the gravy. Pollock smiled across the table at Shameena.”
“Don’t worry, Ben, I’m fine. I’m being well looked after.”
“I know,” was all her husband said. He finished his meal and rose. “If anybody comes near you, I’ll swing for him, Shameena. You’re as safe as houses in this flat. Ned’s got more people watching you than I’ve got men on a two corpse murder case. Lock the door after me.”
The atmosphere in Pollock’s office in Camlachie was electric. The tension was building, expectation rising and the determination almost tangible. Pollock, Tiffney, Quigley, Inspector McLachlan and his sergeant sat round the desk McLachlan habitually ceded to Pollock.
“I thought I’d like to have you in on this meeting, Martin, as your men have been putting in a lot of time and effort in this enquiry, door to door, photographs and the like. I know you’re busy being involved in trying to untangle all the elements.”
“And accusations,” put in McLachlan sourly.
“Quite so, concerning the assault on the suffragette, Joan Cranstoun.”
“We’re getting there, I hope, Ben. I’m told Ned Bell’s agency has been brought in and, quite frankly, with so much on the go that needs bodies on the streets, we’re beginning to feel a bit stretched. Ned won’t overstep the mark and any help or information he can dig up in a more unorthodox way, will be more than welcome.”
“He’s a bit
stretched himself at the minute, Martin, but he’ll do his best.”
“What’s this I hear about Jake Jacobstein being off your team?”
“Now you know better than to expect an answer to that, Martin,” said Pollock innocently.
“My mistake.” Both inspectors understood each other.
“Now what I’d like your co-operation on is keeping all quarrels, fights and general aggravation away from this area as much as possible.”
“You mean the Cup Final, Ben? This is very much a football area and that will be just as problematic as your investigation, Ben, but we’ll do our best to clear the decks for you.” Pollock smiled his gratitude.
“We were narrowing the search down, but it seems to have exploded yet again and we don’t know whether the person responsible has acquired a liking for this kind of killing or not.”
“Can’t figure out why a person would kill another person, decapitate him and then stuff his head down the lavatory pan. Then do the same thing all over again.”
“Unfortunately, neither can we.”
“I’ll leave you men to work on it and I’ll do my best to keep this area as quiet as possible, but I’m not promising anything.”
“Martin, if your men know or hear anything that involves the words The Fishermen or Fisherman, let us know at once. It was once a reasonable-sized group attached to McCorquodale’s printworks.”
“I’ll spread the word. Good hunting.” With that, Inspector McLachlan and his sergeant left and Pollock got down to business.”
“To put you in the know, Jake Jacobstein is still very much with this team. He’s discovered that my wife is the proposed target for a revenge killing. There’s absolutely no real evidence, simply hearsay, and we don’t have the resources to provide protection twenty-four hours a day for one day never mind indefinitely.”