by Marie Rowan
“Thank you for coming in today with DC Quigley, Mr Livingstone.”
“Big Kev’s a mate of mine, sir.” And that seemed to be all the reason required for giving Austin Quigley all the co-operation he needed.
“I take it DC Quigley has given you a rough idea of the sort of information we’re after, sir?” said Pollock. Livingstone nodded slowly. “I’ll just elaborate on it if I may?”
“He has and you may, Inspector Pollock.”
“As you undoubtedly know, Mr Livingstone, there was a very serious incident in this area last night, in East Nelson Street, to be exact.”
“The Tara’s Halls,” said Livingstone nodding, “a truly dreadful affair. Two lives lost. It’s hardly believable that someone would do that.”
“Any decent person would agree with you, sir. It’s the sort of destructive act you would want to put out of your mind immediately. Not only were two corpses found but the halls were completely gutted and many a function written off. One major aspect which we mustn’t forget is the fact that it was sheer luck that many more people were not killed.”
“And you don’t have the luxury of forgetting, Mr Pollock.”
“That is so. Our job is to find out who was responsible for the tragedies that occurred. Now, many people have been interviewed and more will be before we arrive at charging the culprit. The vast majority will be totally innocent people, but we have to build up a picture and everyone’s evidence will help us do this. We track from one person to another to yet another and, hopefully, all these contacts will finally lead us to the person or persons responsible. We’re hoping that your information will take us another step along the road to discovering the guilty party.”
“I’ll do my best, Inspector Pollock, so, fire away.”
“One area of enquiry that we’re following concerns a group of men who, we’re told, were habitual travellers on one of your trams into the City Centre.” Livingstone nodded and waited. “I’m sure all drivers have their regulars but this group travelled for years on one of your early morning runs and got off just by The Saltmarket. They were all employees of McCorquodale’s Printworks. They were twelve in number, I believe.”
“That’s right. I remember them well, but just to nod to. All pleasant and well-spoken but if it’s names and descriptions you’re after, then I can’t help you. I was aware of them but that’s about it. There are loads of wee groups use the trams all the time and early morning journeys are all packed because of the factories starting at one and the same time.” The detectives all felt their spirits hit the floor, their optimism that they were at last getting somewhere, shattered. Pollock’s mind went blank for a moment. “But, having said that, sir, there’s one piece of information – sorry, two bits that you might or might not find useful, so I’ll give them to you. The Fishermen was what the other printworks men called them and they didn’t mind at all. It was because they were a churchy-type kind of group. The first clue that might help you is that they were not all from the East End. Only four were, the rest got on at the Trongate. I expect young Austin has already told you that.”
“Yes, he has, Mr Livingstone.”
“He won’t have told you the social bit, though, as I didn’t have time to tell him before he hustled me here. Keen, so you can’t fault him for that. These four had their own group nickname. It was The Four Apostles, you know, Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. If that’s any help to you. I’m more than pleased. Now, if that’s it, Inspector Pollock, I’ll be going back to my soup and buttered bread. Nice to have met you and great to see Austin here earning his keep.”
All was quiet in the CID office until Pollock broke the silence.
“Somebody put the kettle on and there’s still cake in that tin. We need to talk.” Five minutes later and the four of them, Pollock, Jacobstein, Tiffney and Quigley were eating, drinking and discussing the new elements of the case with the door locked. Total concentration was required and this was the tried and tested method of Pollock’s team.
“All right, lads, to summarise our position, here goes. After a devastating fire in which over three hundred men were extremely lucky to escape with their lives, it was discovered that two men had been murdered in a kitchen just off the Great Hall. In the lavatory beside it, their heads were found stuffed down the lavatory pan, bloodied platters lying beside it. Both the kitchen and the lavatory had been marked as ‘Out of Use’. As the caretaker knew nothing about this, and he would have been the first port of call when any such difficulty arose, we can assume that the notices were the killer’s work. He obviously had access to the keys but it would seem that everyone using these halls knew where to find them. There were, in fact, numerous copies. No-one seems to know exactly how many, but you can bet your life on it that the insurers will be the last to find out. It’s only our business because it concerns our murder investigation. We don’t need to take time out to help the insurers unless they specifically ask questions about it. The two victims have been named as two friends who were recently sacked from their jobs at McCorquodale’s Printworks in Maxwell Street. Their names are Lewis Morton and Simon Corrie. The fact that Morton walked with a limp due to a malformation of his right leg, clinched the identities. They were both gamblers and tended to go together to any gambling school they could get into. They tended to save money and then play for higher stakes than the usual run-of-the-mill ones. They were introduced to this particular gambling school by a fellow employee at the printworks. That person’s name is unknown but we know that when someone shouted, ‘Finlay’, during the panic when the fire was first discovered, our mysterious man in black, who had exited from the locked lavatory, turned round. Was he one of a group of people known as The Fishermen? We now also know that the East End group were sometimes known as The Apostles, four of them, namely Matthew, Mark, Luke and John. The actual names might be totally irrelevant, only the number meaning anything. We need their names but it was before the time of the men still there. Unfortunately, as you already know, we have no names or descriptions. We also know that there had been a man dressed in dark clothing watching the outbuildings for some weeks before the murders. And then we have Chris Kelly, the landlord of The Clew Bay Bar which is in Great Nelson Street right opposite Tara’s Halls which are now no more. Austin, will you nip down and get the latest on that ne’er-do-well. He wants revenge and he won’t wait forever.” Quigley exited fast.
“Don’t worry about Shameena, Ben. The fact of the matter is she’s downstairs locked up in one of the interview rooms with four of Inspector McLachlan’s best men, two inside and two outside. Has been there since you left your flat. Bell and his employees have got this police station locked up tighter than a drum. Kelly’s safely in our hands, too. Seems he was involved in a scuffle with some civilians twenty minutes ago and he’s being accused of attempted murder.”
“Thanks for that, Jake. It’s been a helluva weight on my mind. That business of Kelly going after my wife in revenge for his mother’s death is a side issue, but we think he might. We think that he actually does know something about the fire and the murders. That’s why I’ve requested his presence here. I want to interview him personally and directly. He’s baiting us and my opinion is he’s doing it for the sheer hell of it and he’s doing it with flowers. Violets! Seems his wife’s name is Rosie, but as he went to the florist shop as it was closing, violets were probably all they had left. Maybe he did have a wife named Violet once, but I doubt it. I’ve spoken to both Martin McLachlan and Roddy Manley and they don’t recall any investigations into the doings, legal or otherwise, of a Violet. Plenty of Rosies but no Violets. So, gentlemen, that’s the state of play.” Austin Quigley re-entered and sat down.
“Kelly’s now arrived and is being held in one of the cells until you want to speak to him, Inspector Pollock,” he said.
“Think you’d best spare a little time to be brought up to speed as regards Kelly, Ben,” said Jacobstein. He rushed on before Pollock could stop him. “He and his mates appeared outsid
e your empty flat, empty although they weren’t aware of it. A fracas ensued and Kelly now has a few scars he didn’t have this morning. Ned Bell and Noel Flett plus a few other operatives of Bell’s Discreet Enquiries will not be charged with Breach of the Peace and Miss Malone says she’ll plead guilty to swearing in a public place as there’s a law against that. But apparently there were no witnesses to it, so she gets off scot free.” That brought a broad grin to everybody’s face. “That’s it, short and sweet, because I know you’re in a hurry.” Pollock was lost for words but not for long.
“Bring him up, Austin. Has he been charged yet?”
“Yes, attempted murder. His solicitor is that older man from Howden, Gormley and Quinn of Union Street.”
“Fine. Give us five minutes and then wheel him in. Off you go. Jake, vanish and listen in outside. We don’t want to ruin our good relationship with Ned Bell by signalling you and Miss Malone were in this together. She’s got no known connection with Ned so let’s keep her cover and his good offices. Felix, you do the talking, I’ll sit over here and keep silent. I might pass you a few pertinent notes. Quinn’s pissed as a newt most of the time, so he won’t notice a thing. Here’s what I want you to ask.” Pollock had already written down the questions.
“He’ll think me awful clever for a DS, Inspector Pollock, sir.”
“I hope so, for if he thinks I’ve written them, he’ll complain loud and clear to the powers that be as it was my own wife he was trying to kill.” Pollock scribbled quietly and Jacobstein positioned himself inside the slightly open door of the walk-in stationery cupboard. Tiffney straightened his jacket and combed his hair. An ex-army warrant officer, he knew how to look both impressively turned out and in absolute command.
Kelly entered, sneered at Pollock and looked contemptuously at Tiffney. Both CID men swallowed the bile raised by the sight of this man who had deliberately tried to kill an innocent woman. Jake Jacobstein could hear but could not see. His notebook was perched on a shaky shelf and his attention was divided between listening and holding the shelf up. Introductions were made, Kelly in handcuffs, and one of his police escort stood by the door and one by Pollock’s chair.
“Good-day, Mr Kelly. Hello Mr Quinn.”
“What’s good about it?” asked a morose Kelly.
“Well, I’m told on good authority, Mr Kelly, that the birds are singing here in the East End despite the smoke from the factories and that the flowers are out. Violets, even, so they tell me. But that’s all beside the point.”
“The point is, mister, I’m saying nothing!”
“And you’ve just said nothing very well. By the way, I hope you didn’t make any arrangements for the game on Saturday. Very annoying when business gets in the way of pleasure but that’s just by the by. I’m sure the team will win without you. I’m going. I’ll make sure you hear the score. This is the first time Celtic might win The Scottish Cup and you won’t even be there. I’m told you’re a big fan. They might even win the treble of cups, you know, The Glasgow Cup which we‘ve already won, The Scottish Cup if we beat Queen’s Park on Saturday and The Glasgow Charity Cup in June.” Tiffney shook his head as he looked pityingly at Kelly. “Ah well, let’s get down to business. This, Mr Quinn, has no bearing on the charges already laid against your client, so relax. We’re just looking for some help as regards that terrifying incident concerning Tara’s Halls the other evening. Some of Mr Kelly’s best friends were almost killed in that fire.”
“Can’t help you there. I know nothing about it. I was in the bar all day. I knocked a penny off a pint just to show that I knew how shocked they all were and needed a drink to face it. Even got in a band to cheer them up. Didn’t turn up but it’s the thought that counts.”
“Quite so, Mr Kelly. Now we know that someone has been watching the place for the past month or two. Have you seen him?” A shrug answered that one.
“I told you I know nothing. I don’t have time to go gazing at Tara’s Halls in the off-chance I might see a maniac. It’s a building with some outbuildings like a thousand others in the city. Was, I suppose I should say. Why would anybody want to watch that place anyway? Maybe Allison’s wife was meeting a boyfriend in that wee shed at the back. Maybe he was jealous.” Kelly laughed at that.
“Are you speaking from personal experience, Mr Kelly? If you were somebody’s boyfriend then I hope you have a first-class memory for that’s all you’ll have for a long, long time.” Kelly jumped up from his seat and was pushed back into it immediately. “Now, violets. A nice touch. Your mother’s name, was it? No? It was Jess, wasn’t it?” Just thought they might be commemorating a family bereavement. Your mother is dead, isn’t she?” Kelly stared Tiffney straight in the eye, his colour rising dangerously. But Pollock intervened and took Tiffney’s place.
“As I recall it, your mother died of a knife wound.”
“You’re a bloody liar, Pollock.”
“The difference between you and me, Kelly, is that I read what’s in front of me, you don’t. The death certificate. Have you actually read it?”
“The wife keeps it.”
“A report was made about that death and it states that your mother was killed in a fight in a women’s prison. She was killed when the woman she was fighting relieved your mother of her small knife and then used it on her. Who took that knife into prison for her? You? Your mother, Kelly, was an abortionist who was directly responsible for the deaths of many more women than she was accused of killing. She was imprisoned for her own punishment, rehabilitation and the good of pregnant women in this city. But that’s not what we’re here to discuss. The flowers you placed on the bar last night. Violets. Are violets somehow connected with the murder of two innocent men and stark unemployment for at least thirty others who worked at Tara’s Halls and relied on the money they earned there to feed their children? We know you’re using them to bait us, Kelly, and we also know that you know the name of the watcher.” Kelly laughed loud and long.
“I’ll say one thing and one thing only,” said Kelly turning in his seat as the uniformed men closed in as a deterrent to any violent behaviour Kelly might have in mind. “You must be a very clear writer for your puppet here read out your questions without any hesitation. This interview is now over, so one final fond farewell. I respect anniversaries, I respect every man’s right to remember one in his own way.”
The door closed but Kelly’s laughter had long since stopped before he reached the cell where he would await transport to the nearest prison. Jacobstein joined the other two.
“Sorry about that, Ben,” said Tiffney. “Got absolutely nowhere.”
“Don’t bother about it, Felix. That swine came with no intentions of talking. It was your badgering that made him unable to resist it. Chris Kelly, who’s an apology for a human being, has inadvertently given us a great lead. His parting shot hit the target for him but scored a bull’s eye for us. He recognised the watcher all right and I suspect the watcher knew it. But when the decapitated corpses turned up, Kelly, laughing boy, got the wind up and let the man know his secret was safe with him.”
“But how did he do that?”
“With the violets. Not a dead wife being remembered as he said to you and Miss Malone, but someone really called Violet. That someone belongs to one of the men in that pub that night. That was a hidden signal to him. We’re out of here, Felix. You write this interview up and leave out nothing. Jake and I are going along the street to have another word with Colm Regan, a man with a selective memory.”
“Thought he’s come up with all he knew, Ben?” said Jacobstein.
“So did I the first time and the second time, but I always believe in the third time being the lucky one. Let’s hope his wife is parading up and down Sauchiehall Street with their daughters. Colm Regan is a paragon of virtue when his wife’s around. We’ll see if he opens up when she’s not.”
Pollock got his wish – well, almost. The wife was out at the baker’s shop two doors down and Regan was polishing app
les as his three assistants worked their fingers to the bone.
“Good-day, Mr Regan,” said Pollock smiling to the employees and customers alike. “A word in the back-shop, if you don’t mind. Tell the customers that potatoes are off the menu for the next ten minutes.” Regan did not have to as Pollock’s loud voice and presence were well heeded. Regan hurried into the back shop, tripped over the potato weighing scales before shutting the door firmly once Pollock and Jacobstein were inside. Jacobstein edged his way round a half-empty sack of potatoes and its attendant piles of dust before leaning against the Belfast sink. It was pristine, a sure sign that Mrs Regan had rolled her sleeves up.
“About the other night, Mr Regan,” began Pollock. He knew that would be as far as he would get before Regan broke in.
“Exactly what do you want to know, Inspector Pollock. Mrs Regan will be back any minute, you know. She’s only buying Paris buns for a cup of tea.”
“The man you saw coming out of the locked room. Please picture it again in your mind, sir. I’ll ask some questions while you do, for they might jog your memory. We’ve narrowed our list down till we really think we’re getting there fast.”
“For God’s sake, get to the point. My wife’s no gossip when she’s hungry. Look at the table. She’s already laid it, put the kettle on to boil and got the tea-caddy beside the cake plate.”
“The colour of his hair?”
“Black or dark brown, dark anyway. Know nothing of what his face was like because of that handkerchief.”