DEATH WATCH

by Marie Rowan

  Pollock rose and gazed at nothing through the window overlooking Great Eastern Road. The fog had blanked everything out. This office was used as his headquarters when he had a case to solve in the East End of Glasgow. The uniformed personnel there were used to his sudden appearances and the office and desk were automatically filled with the paraphernalia he always left behind, namely his plates, mugs, cutlery and biscuit barrel, all stuffed into a large wicker basket and shoved under the desk. Flett returned, sat down and grinned.

  “Sir.” Pollock, too, resumed his seat and looked peeved.

  “Should have ordered some chips as well.”

  “I did, sir.” The atmosphere brightened considerably. “I told Jimmy to go to the top of the queue there.” Plates were dragged out from the bottom of Pollock’s basket and hands were diligently scrubbed in the sink in the inshot off the corridor outside. CID men always thought better whilst eating and in ten minutes, the three of them settled round Pollock’s desk to solve the problem of a particularly horrible crime.

  “Alright,” said Pollock, “let me sum up what we already know. A young woman was murdered in Roberts’ coal-yard earlier this evening. We’ve now been sent here officially to solve that particular problem. Now this woman was strangled and stoned. We’re awaiting the contents of her pockets. The time of death appears to have occurred between 6pm when the premises spewed out its workers and 8.30pm this evening when the lady was found. Maybe. That won’t be accurate until we hear from the police surgeon as he could very well be able to narrow it down. The person who discovered the body says it’s the body of a woman, a local woman, called Lena Dolan, a married lady of Coalhill Street who worked in the Dalmarnnock Weaving Factory and sometimes helped in the Goose Dubs pub just off Fielden Street. Your turn, Jake,” said Pollock and resumed eating his pie and chips which had been liberally coated with salt and malt vinegar.

  “If it is Mrs Dolan, she lives in 17 Coalhill Street with her husband named Timothy Dolan, a miner from Paisley, now working in the Barrowfield Pottery. That right, Noel?” Noel Flett was a real local boy. Flett nodded as his mouth was very full with extremely hot chips.

  “The gospel according to the crowd outside The Clay Pipe, I take it?” asked Pollock, eyebrows raised. Jake nodded and had a bite of his bagel and cheese. You never knew where the lard came from.

  “That’s right. She got a clean bill of health from the female frequenters of the pub – well, almost. Seems she was occasionally accused of stealing one of her neighbours’ hens.”

  “Which was kept in the back court?”

  “Where else?” asked Jacobstein.

  “Could’ve been stolen by anybody,” said Flett, having cooled down the chips with a mug of tea.

  “Quite so. The neighbours hereabouts are seldom wrong, though, gentlemen,” said their boss thoughtfully.

  “Light-fingered maybe,” Jacobstein suggested. Pollock shook his head.

  “Only with hens, it seems. Well, if we don’t solve the murder, we might just take up that cause. The Case of the Missing Hens. So, what else, gentlemen?”

  “Frequent barneys with Mr Dolan.”

  “Local police called in?” asked Pollock.

  “Mr Dolan suffered in silence, it seems. But had frequent resource to the frying-pan and knocked hell out of the stairhead lavvy door where Lena usually hid till he had quietened down. It seems they took turns about with the use of the frying-pan.”

  “To be pacified with a nice bowl of chicken broth and a couple of new-laid hens eggs?” Pollock suggested.

  “On occasion, yes.”

  “So apart from thinking we know nothing, gents, we actually do know nothing.” Pollock sighed and pushed his now-empty plate away. “Right now, here’s what we do. Noel, you take one of our men to The Clay Pipe and interview anybody and everybody in that and every other pub in the street. Jake and I will go round to Coalhill Street and see if we can have a word with – what’s his name? The husband?”

  “Timothy, Timothy Dolan.”

  “Timothy Dolan. Hope he’s not on the back shift. A look should be all it takes from him to say whether or not our woman is his wife, Lena. Right, Jake, you’re the Camlachie expert so where’s Coalhill Street?” Noel Flett was a Calton boy.

  “I worked here, Ben, I didn’t live here.”

  “You served in the shop and that’s all it takes. Ever do deliveries on you bike?”

  “If the article was prepaid, yes.”

  “So, you know your way round. Now, if it was New Delhi, I’d be your man. Where is Coalhill Street from here?”

  “Second street along Great Eastern Road from here on your left.”

  “The attic, of course.” Pollock put a shilling on the table as Flett piled up the dishes. He was beginning to look forward to their appearances in Camlachie police station. “If you’re not back here when we return, Noel, we’ll come looking for you. I want another word with that coal-righ watchman myself.”

  The brown, stinking, wet fog engulfed both Pollock and Jacobstein as they stepped out into Great Eastern Road. It was one of the great arteries of the East End. The tramway that passed the police station ran all the way back into the Candleriggs in the city. Both men hitched their mufflers over their mouths as the foul-tasting fog seeped in and walked as smartly as it would allow along the street The fog was thick but now weak, yellow splinters of feeble light from the street lamps, haloed and diffused, piercing the suffocating gloom. They turned second left and into the foggy blankness of Coalhill Street, home of bad housing and a world-record for pubs per square yard. Clean air was an optional extra no-one could afford to buy. It made no difference, it seemed, to life as it was lived by the inhabitants and pub habituees. Jacobstein weaved his way unerringly around and over prone bodies, helped one out of the gutter whilst raising his hat to one of his family’s female customers. The sound of singing reverberated through the silent fog.

  “December 1891, which means Celtic v Clyde in The Glasgow Cup Final on Saturday?” Pollock asked.

  “And the sooner the better. Then normality might, just might, break out again.”

  “For all of forty-eight hours. Lucky beat men. Wouldn’t mind a night off. Jake, after we get the body identified and have another quick word with the watchman, I’m for the off. Home and bed and you likewise. We’ll meet again in Camlachie police station at 7.30am.” Jacobstein nodded.

  “Suits me. I’ll bed down in the emporium.”

  “And turn up looking like a bandbox. Nice new clothes, none paid for.”

  “You don’t know my Uncle Avram. I’ll change very little and put the money in the till.” Suddenly both men stopped as an almighty crash rent the air followed by yells and shouting.

  “Hey! Police here! One more episode like that and you’ll not be queueing up for that final, mate. And I’ll have that pub.”

  “The Weaver’s Maiden,” supplied Jacobstein quietly.

  “What? Jesus.” Pollock raised his voice again. “I’ll have The Weaver’s Maiden shut for a month!”

  “Bugger off, pal. I’m trying to sleep here.” Pollock lifted the complainant by the scruff of his neck, felt the navvy’s greasy neckerchief beneath his fingers, then frog-marched him inside the nearest closemouth. The smell from the man was strangely fresh and clean.

  “Didnae realise it wis the polis shoutin’, sir. My mistake. They’re a rough lot round here. You’re quite right not to stand for it, sir. Want any help? John Gordon’s the name, sir. And if you don’t mind me saying so, you look awful familiar.”

  “It’s my grease-soaked hands from your revolting neckerchief, man, that you recognize. You’re beginning to think they must be yours.” The man laughed softly.

  “Not me, Sergeant Pollock, for I’ve a mind like a steel trap. Once a thing’s in my mind, it never escapes. The winter, India, twelve yeas ago. A company of the Argylls joined our Scots Guards. I never forget a face – or a voice.” Pollock grinned from ear to ear.

  “Same here, Lance-Corpora
l Gordon. Still making the best curries out of India?”

  “I am, sir, but no-one will eat them. They stick to traditional fare here.”

  “Try me, tomorrow evening at Camlachie police station. Buy the ingredients with that and keep the change as a tip.”

  “For how many, Sergeant Pollock?” Pollock smiled on hearing his old army rank.

  “Four. You can join us.” John Gordon was quickly swallowed up into the night. “There’ll be a vegetarian dish or two as well, Jake, so you’ll be alright. I’ll tell you something, meeting Gordon has fairly cheered me up. He was the best cook in his regiment. Wonder what’s brought him down to sleeping in a closemouth.” The two detectives emerged back into the street again and saw The Weaver’s Maiden’s door closed and only one or two loiterers outside it.

  “Better to be looked over than overlooked, Ben.” They both laughed knowing that as soon as they were out of Coalhill Street, all hell would break loose again. The raucous singing, laughing and brawling continued unabated outside the other six pubs in the street.

  “It’s this next one, Ben,” said Jacobstein. Pollock eyed the tight-knit group of men arguing heatedly just outside Number 17.

  “Simmer down, men, somebody’s got to win and somebody’s got to lose. No broken heads while we’re here. Too busy.”

  “Good evening, Mr Jacobstein. Bit dreich. Your team gonnae win on Saturday?”

  “I sincerely hope so.” Pollock vaguely recognized Jacobstein’s American Emporium’s message boy as Jacobstein answered.

  “But business first, though,” said Pollock. The men reluctantly moved aside and the women gossiping just within the close watched with stony expressions on their faces.

  “Who are ye looking for, sir. I’m only asking in case it’s Mrs Butterworth or Mr Ogilvy because these families are now in Barnhill and no’ here, poor souls. But not for long because Mrs Butterworth has a daughter says she’ll go and fetch them out and Mr Ogilvy’s at death’s door anyway. So that’s two houses empty if one of them’s who you’re looking for. And,” she added, “there are no names on the doors.” The woman and various infants who had been playing about in the close, all waited to see the effect this information had on the two men. The rank smell of urine drifted in from the back close but did not deter the winchin’ couple there from having their moment of passion.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Pollock and this is Detective Sergeant Jacobstein. We’re from the Criminal Investigation Department.” The woman was impressed to the point of speaking once more, it seemed.

  “I’m looking for a nice wee Irish linen traycloth, Mr Jacobstein. Are they back in yet, d’ye know, sir? I’ve a nice wee brass tray my brother brought me back from India. He’s on the boats, a steward, and a wee Irish linen tray-cloth will be just right for it.” Pollock knew those trays well; he had one himself. An Irish linen tray-cloth just might be a lovely surprise gift for his wife.

  “I’ll find out and let you know, Mrs Peterson,” said Jacobstein smiling.

  “The Dolan’s flat?” asked Pollock.

  “The attic.” Pollock and Jacobstein had lived in hope but now all hope was gone. They both eyed the well-worn steps of the first flight.

  “Watch your feet on the stairs – the second flight – wan’s broken!” shouted a football fan as he turned to his fellows and explained. “Anything happens to these two and we’ll get the blame. They’ll say we shoved them.” Murmurs of agreement were made before the talk turned back to Celtic’s chances versus Clyde in the Glasgow Cup Final of 1891.

  “Aye, son, that’s right,” agreed one of the older women, “the hoose is empty. Naw, naw, no’ that, no’ Barnhill, not at all. Jist that they’re oot. Lena went off about six or seven o’ clock and Tim Dolan’s no’ back from his work.”

  “Is he on the backshift?”

  “Who knows? Could be anywhere. Could be doon by the river. Fancies a long sea voyage, the Far East, he says, but it would mean working his way and he’s no’ too keen on that idea. The river is where he’ll be. He’s aye lookin’ at it.”

  “If he sees his own feet down there tonight, he’ll be lucky,” said Pollock sourly.

  “Then any pub in the district. Does his barman stint when and if required,” said one of the men breaking off momentarily from the football. “He puts every penny he earns into his bank book, he says. Also says he’ll never run away from Lena. Says he can afford a taxi.” That got a laugh all round. Pollock gave Jacobstein the nod and his long legs soon had him banging on the attic door. Nothing. The CID men left.

  Once back in Great Eastern Road, Pollock stopped and leaned heavily against the gas-lit lamp-post.

  “We’ll nip round to wherever Mrs Dolan’s parents live, get one of them to try and identify her, a quick word with MacNamee and then home to Shameena and you to shake down in your Uncle Avram’s chairman-of-the-board chair. The watchman can wait. Noel can keep me company on the tram and we’ll part in the City Centre, him for his digs and me for Watt Street. Where do they live, Lena Dolan’s folks, and what’s their name?”

  “Charlie and Nellie Adair, 21 Yate Street, 1 up,” said Jacobstein reading from his notebook and smiling.

  “I like them already.” There was a broad grin on Pollock’s face, too. “Is it my imagination or is this fog beginning to lift?”

  “Slowly, very slowly, Ben, but it’s promising.”

  “Where have they taken the body?”

  “She’s in a small mortuary building just behind the police station. It was impossible to try for the morgue in this fog.”

  “Great. It should all take no time at all.”

  “I think the damp’s seeped into my very bones,” complained Jacobstein shivering. “If the Adairs offer us a cup of tea, Ben, shall we take it?”

  “Too right we will, but they won’t. They’ll want to be in that ice-cold room to see their daughter hoping like hell she isn’t. Are we almost there? I’ve walked these boots through every puddle in Camlachie, it seems, and they’ve soaked up a few gallons of mush and filthy water.”

  “It’s this one – almost in a straight line with the police station – where we started. Number 22.”

  The fog was definitely dispersing and Pollock hoped that by the time he had done as much as he could that evening, he would be able to get home. He would take the tram as far as Candleriggs if they were still running and cross the river on foot by Jamaica Bridge.

  “Reception committee, Detective Inspector Pollock, sir,” said Jacobstein loudly as two men straightened up from leaning against the entrance to the close in a most beligerent fashion.

  “CID and mind your manners, lads,” said Pollock breenging past them. Jacobstein was not so lucky. “Take your hands off him.” Pollock walked back slowly as his sergeant pushed the man aside. “Name?”

  “Adair, Edward Adair.”

  “So, Mr Adair, what’s your gripe?” Silence ensued, then Pollock went on up the well-worn, well-scrubbed stairs, Jacobstein at his back and Edward Adair at his.

  “They say three’s a crowd, Mr Adair, but in this case I suspect you’re a son of the house and have every right to be here.” The door was unlocked and all three of them entered in single file – to an introduction not uncommon to Pollock and Jacobstein.

  “It’s the polis, Ma.”

  “As your son has already stated, Mr and Mrs Adair, we’re the CID.” A barrage of epithets greeted this explanation of who they were exactly, but the two men rode out the storm unruffled. It was stiflingly hot in the flat, a most welcoming fire in the hearth, yellow-red flames leaping and licking their way up the chimney. Ned Dolan had a huge cup of tea thrust into his hand immediately, Pollock and Jacobstein had not.

  “You’ll be counting who’s in the house then and be noticing that three of my children are missing, sir.” Pollock did not question the logic of this as Mr Adair, patriarch, was around 6’ 4” tall and built like the muscled fireman he was. Mrs Adair had now sat down again having replaced the teapot back on the
range. She was a white as a sheet, her small, roughened hands fidgeting with the bottom hem of her linen apron. Two other young men, replicas of Mr Adair, stood immobile and the policemen could feel their latent resentment boring into them. Pollock came straight to the point.

  “We come on a very sad errand, Mr and Mrs Adair.” Adair butted in.

  “We know. It’s about Lena.”

  “There’s nothing certain about it at the moment, sir, except that a body has been found.” Pollock found his mouth drying up at the look of anguish on Mrs Adair’s face.

  “Murdered.” The tallest of the Adair boys spoke. “Strangled in Roberts’ coal- yard.” Pollock nodded and turned his attention to the distraught and anxious parents.

  “That is so. It has been suggested that the girl might be your daughter, Lena. The body has been taken to Camlachie police station.” Again Pollock was interrupted but this time it was the tremulous tones of Mrs Adair.

  “We know all that and she’s not the only Adair down there. Two of my sons are there as well.” Her eyes watered and hot tears streamed down her cheeks as she quickly turned back to face the fire again. Pollock could feel hostility building up and could not understand it.

  “Lena, Joe and Pat,” said Edward Adair.

  “Leave it to me, Ned.” Mr Adair took over.

  “Wee Tommy MacNamee came round when you’d gone into The Clay Pipe and told us. Camlachie police office, the building round the back of it.” It was beginning to dawn on Pollock.

  “And you and your sons went there?” Pollock had the sinking feeling he knew what had happened.

  “The bastards wouldn’t let me see her.”

  “They had no authority to do so, Mr Adair. Folks can’t be allowed to walk in and view bodies or we’d have every ghoul in the East End lining up to do so. The deceased must be treated with respect. They’re waiting for me to bring a family representative to help with the identification.” He could imagine a right donnybrook breaking out in that police office and he was not wrong.