VENGEANCE IS MINE
Page 14
“Oh, certainly. Do you want a word with him?” Pollock and Jacobstein both nodded, Jacobstein’s colouring beginning to return. “I’ll let him know if I see him, but I’ll say nothing about the content of this conversation. Don’t think I’ll see him anyway. I’m off to Argyll Street and Alasdair’s probably doing what he always does at this time of year, sitting along the road a bit in Glasgow Green, just gazing at the spot where Violetta died.”
Pollock had assembled his men. Glasgow Green, that busiest of all the city’s green spaces, was now virtually devoid of people as they had been quietly and quickly hustled away from the nearby James Templeton & Co carpet factory. Pollock tried hard not to imagine the hellish scenes from that disaster in 1889. The clearing of the green space left one solitary figure, a man seeking solace from being close by the very spot where his beloved daughter’s spirit had departed this life and left her mother seeking death as a refuge for herself and her father consumed with a hatred for all wealthy employers and a total disregard for the lives of any who got in his way.
Pollock could see Jacobstein approaching on Ballantyne’s left and Tiffney just north of him. Pollock, as he approached, knew that none of them were in any real danger. The periphery of the Green was now saturated with policemen, silent and waiting. Killing for Ballantyne had to have a purpose, had to be planned, well-thought out and had to connect with his love for his daughter. Pollock had slowly walked to within a few feet of the man before Ballantyne seemed to be aware of his presence.
“Hello, Mr Ballantyne.”
“Hello, Inspector Pollock, I’ve been watching you. Oh, not here, around the East End on your journey to find me.” His voice was low but clear and Pollock momentarily thought they had got the wrong man. This was a quiet gentlemen, not a rabid killer of men, women and, worst of all, a new-born baby. “What would you like to know? I’m sure you want me to talk about it all for you’ll have to make a report, I expect. I’ll wait till Mr Jacobstein gets out his notebook. There was nothing my wife and Violetta liked doing better than shopping in your emporium, sir.” Jacobstein nodded his thanks for the compliment and took out his notebook and pencil and wondered what planet he himself was on.
“Before we begin, sir, do you mind if I search you?” asked Pollock mildly. “Police rules and regulations, I’m afraid.” Ballantyne shook his head and the inspector made sure that he carried nothing that could harm him or the officers. He stood back and let Ballantyne continue for he had a feeling that once he stopped talking, that would be the last words he would ever say on the subject.
“Ask what you like, inspector, for I’ve nobody to rush home to.”
“Thank you, sir. The first question is quite simple. Why did you do it?”
“Do what?”
“Kill. All three episodes in April 1890, 1891 and 1892. I’m assuming I’m right about the numbers.”
“Quite right. People who own businesses are in it for the money. I completely understand that. But I also understand that without people, they’ll make none and without jobs, people will starve. They don’t understand how much they rely on the workforce and how much responsibility they should take for keeping them safe. Mutual responsibility. I just thought I’d take my own little bit of revenge on Violetta’s behalf. Teach them all a lesson. Violetta lost her life, but the factory kept on thriving, none the worse for all those deaths. But my beloved wife didn’t, she didn’t thrive at all. I was left all alone. Violetta’s voice never sounded again, never sang, never laughed, never anything but an agonising silence. All funerals were paid for. Did they actually think I’d let anybody but her own father be responsible for setting his lovely girl on her last journey?” Ballantyne laughed a strange, chilling laugh and Jacobstein’s hand refused to use the pencil as Alasdair Ballantyne began his last ever meaningful communication with the world.
Epilogue
Shameena sat back and wondered how Ben Pollock, her much-loved husband, would take the news. Startled, yes. Excited? That was perhaps another matter. But that was for later. Still, Ben would get used to the idea for he had no alternative. This really was a lovely restaurant. Her thoughts were cut short as the waitress came to take their orders. Ned Bell smiled over at her. He knew her secret and his look was one of pleasure.
“Is it a fish tea each, folks?” asked Jake Jacobstein. There were loud murmurs of agreement and Jacobstein ordered in JAE’s special, small dining-room Uncle Avram had put at their disposal. Staff discount, too. Pollock was paying but this would not be an end of case feast. Frustration, fatigue, all was forgotten in the successful outcome of sorts. But many questions remained unanswered and all involved had gathered there that day, anxious to learn from Pollock the many aspects that still puzzled them.
Round the large, rectangular table sat the major players who had been involved in the drama that had produced a snapshot of East End life, its tragedies and its unique humour, but most of all, a life ruined for some by the needless loss of loved ones. It was very hard not to feel a modicum of compassion for a man who had lived a blameless, contented life but whose life had suddenly been completely knocked off kilter by tragedy and innocent people had died as a result. Ben Pollock smiled at those around him as he yielded to requests for him to explain it all. Shameena, Jake Jacobstein, Felix Tiffney, Austin Quigley, Ned Bell, Noel Flett, and last but not least, the incomparable Miss Euphemia Malone. All had played their part, all had done their duty.
“What caused it all, Ben?” asked Ned Bell, Pollock’s ex-boss and regarded by many, including Pollock, as the best detective the force had ever had. Bell and his agency, Bell’s Discreet Enquiries, had been on the periphery at the start but had finished up nailing Kelly and saving Shameena.
“Quite simply, the daughter of Alasdair Ballantyne, had died in the Templeton tragedy. Violetta. Perhaps you could even say that the whole grisly series of death and murder had been the result of extremely high winds that day. The new building was still minus its roof when the wind caused part of the building to collapse onto the weaving shed nearby. Ballantyne’s wife’s suicide some weeks later drove the man right over the edge of sanity. Anybody owning a business of any large type was now considered fair game. They took the blame for all his misfortunes, they were the real objects of his hatred in his revenge-obsessed mind. It was simple enough to choose the person he considered most suitable for his purpose. He simply turned to the births, marriages and deaths columns in his hour of need. His daughter, Violetta, had her birthday in April, so he commemorated it by following the trio, one a year in April, and simply picked from the forthcoming announcements in the papers. By the time we caught up with him, he had completed the round. Whether it was the first or last round, we’ll never know. He confessed freely and without remorse to having carried out all the tragedies. This latest one, this year’s contribution, was more of an execution than mere deaths. He had worked with Morton and Corrie and he knew they were wasters and that both had unforgiving wives. That latter part especially did not, oddly enough, sit well with him and his exalted view of womanhood. An accidental meeting sparked it all off some time before the brake clubs were due to hold their meeting. Like all their workmates, he knew of their gambling habits, knew he could lull them into that small outbuilding on a promise of an introduction whenever it suited him. It seems that Andrew Dorman was a friend of Ballantyne’s youth and he had once mentioned his problem with the hard men to Ballantyne. By the way, he also cleared up the mystery of the injured suffragette and saved Bell’s Discreet Enquiries their fee as they somehow got hold of this before the police report was filed.” The employees of the agency present maintained a fixed expression of innocence at this revelation. Miss Malone pouted a little at her boss, her boss studiously looked the other way.
“Go on, sir,” said Quigley encouragingly, content in the knowledge his team were now the holders of two of the three football trophies to be played for that season.
“It seems Mr Ballantyne was fleeing the scene of the fire when he inadvert
ently ran into the girl and sent her flying. He checked on her, thought her dead as we all did at first, then continued on his way. He had been determined to see the end of his day’s labours and had gone there with the other members of the Shettleston Emeralds. He returned to East Nelson Street ten minutes later and mingled with the crowd both in the street and in The Clew Bay pub.”
“But before our fish teas are served,” said Jacobstein, “what about the heads?”
“A biblical story reversed, was what he told me. Herod had the good John the Baptist killed and his head brought to him on a platter. Good being killed by evil. When in that kitchen, there were some platters lying out on the counter, empty, of course, it suddenly came to Ballantyne that he would make good use of both two platters and a kitchen knife which was also readily available. He simply reversed the Baptist scenario. Good triumphed over evil in his warped mind. It was enough that he alone knew it. The Four Apostles meant absolutely nothing, a simple nickname almost all had forgotten. He’ll never hang for any of it but at least he’s now, in his own diseased mind, living happily with his family once more. He has his brooch to hug and his women, only he sees, alongside him. It’s intensely sad.”
“Well, it’s all over now,” Felix Tiffney pronounced, “and Austin and I made it to the Scottish Cup Final. 5-1! What a night in Glasgow’s East End. I think I remember seeing Gavin Tierney with a bag of parsnips, but I can’t be sure as I was feeling a bit under the weather.”
“Overworked these past few days, Felix, that’s what it was”, said Quigley nodding wisely, as he thought. At that point, Miss Malone stood up and proposed a toast. There was a quick scramble for something for them all to drink.
“To Noel Flett, the man who downed Chris Kelly with one very lucky blow – yes, Noel, it was a lucky one. I saw it.”
“I would have hit him with the second,” protested Flett feebly.
“And to Shameena Pollock’s marvellous news,” continued Miss Malone. “Shameena is now the latest employee of Bell’s Discreet Enquiries.”
Pollock’s mind went blank, Shameena pondered over what to have printed on her business cards.
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Camlachie Nights Trilogy
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The Realms of Death (Book 2)
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Dom Broadley Series (Young Adult)
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Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Epilogue