DEATH WATCH

by Marie Rowan

  “She’s a working-class girl.”

  “And deserves and will receive the same care and attention as anyone in this city in any of my cases.” Lena Dolan looked directly into Pollock’s steady gaze, nodded, then quickly turned and left Camlachie police station. Pollock turned and beckoned to Jacobstein. “Has Tommy MacNamee been and gone?” he asked of the desk sergeant.

  “In the lavatory. He shot in there like a bat out of hell when he heard the sound of the advancing Adairs.”

  “Don’t blame him. Give Jake and me fifteen minutes to have a cup of tea and a short conference and then bring him up. The victim of the coal-yard murder is Margaret Hughes of the same address as the Adairs . She moved out recently but Yate Street will do for the moment. She’s Charlie Adair’s niece, his late sister’s girl. I’ll fill in the necessary forms.”

  “Noel Flett’s already up there, sir.”

  “Excellent. Right, Jake, let’s see to your arm.”

  Noel Flett poured the tea and opened the biscuit tin that housed a dozen or so Nankhatai biscuits Pollock’s Anglo-Indian wife had made for him and his team. His time in the sub-continent had left him with a great respect for his men, the incredible and varied cultural heritage of the people and, best of all, a deep and lasting love and awe of his wife Shameena. Shameena’s cooking was mediocre on a good day but her biscuits were delicious. And besides, Pollock’s mother was an even worse cook, so he was not used to having great culinary expectations.

  “Tea and biscuits and Tommy MacNamee for dessert,” said Flett as he chose two Nankhatais from the deep round tin marked ‘Cake’.

  “Right then, no talk of this case for three minutes and then Noel, we’ll have your report first.” A very short silence was followed by the sounds of stirring, the occasional slurp and then a crunching, the cake tin being opened twice more. Jacobstein washed up as Pollock put the tin away and poked the fire while Flett looked over his notes.

  “Right then, Noel, let’s have it.”

  “I didn’t have a talk with MacNamee – well, not much of a one anyway seeing as you intended interviewing him yourself, sir.”

  “Quite so. We’ll come back to him in a minute.”

  “As you can imagine, sir, once word had got out about the murder, all the locals appeared and each had his or her idea of what had happened. Trouble is, most of the free talk centred about Lena Dolan. By the way, I hear it’s not her.”

  “Her cousin, Meg Hughes.”

  “Well, the talk was of Lena and her husband.”

  “Think her pet name for him is ‘the weasel’,” said Jacobstein with a straight face.

  “Have you hurt your arm?” asked Flett. Pollock looked and felt slightly ashamed that he had forgotten all about it.

  “Getting better by the hour.”

  “Good. Anyway, the fact that it’s not Mrs Dolan scuppers most of what I heard all evening except one or two trains of thought I picked up in The Clay Pipe and Danny O’Rourke’s, the pub diagonally across from the former. It was a good general conversation in both pubs as regards a queer incident one evening last week. Seems Lena Dolan had gone into both pubs looking for her husband because she says she was being followed. It had happened on several occasions but she couldn’t describe the man as she hadn’t set eyes on him once. Just a feeling, but on each occasion, she had been overtaken by a tall man who had leered at her. Same shadowy man, her words, each time.”

  “Thanks, Noel, room for thought there but my brain’s as thick as that fog outside.”

  “They should give us a free day to write up our reports, Ben. Coming straight from that murder in the West End to this means we’ve been on the go for almost forty-eight hours without a break. I’m about dead on my feet,” said Jacobstein with feeling. His arm was coming back from the dead and hurt like hell.

  “Stay with it, Jake, for another twenty minutes and then bedtime for all. My chances of getting anywhere near home in the fog don’t exist so I’m about to be your family’s guest in the Emporium. I know you don’t sell furniture but.”

  “Occasional furniture only.”

  “But you do sell cushions?” Jacobstein nodded.

  “Of various sizes. You can help yourself only fluff them up when you’ve finished with them.”

  “Music to my ears, Jake. When the cleaners arrive, send one of them out for rolls with fried eggs in them and anything else you can think of. But don’t wake me up until the tea’s made and the hot rolls are on the table. Now for a few questions I’d like to put to MacNamee. Hope he can answer them now that he should be completely sober. Time’s a great healer.”

  “Hard to tell the difference, sir. But Barney McDaid has been keeping him in his kitchen for you so he should be as well as can be expected.”

  “Then, Noel, after your glowing testimonial, you can wheel a sober Mr MacNamee in and then we can all sleep the sleep of the just. Will you be availing yourself of your auntie’s hospitality tonight?” Flett nodded.

  “Comely Park Street, just along the road.”

  “Then when you’ve shown our star witness in, head on down to her house and your bed. We’ll see you here at 8am on the dot.”

  Pollock stood as Noel Flett ushered in Tommy MacNamee then left. The two men shook hands.

  “Have a seat, Mr MacNamee. Just a few questions, important ones obviously or I would not have kept you from your own fireside this late.”

  “Not at all, Mr Pollock, not at all. Anything to help, sir, for that was some death that poor Lena Dolan suffered.”

  “Your feelings do you credit, Tommy, but Lena Dolan’s alive and well and is now safe in the bosom of her family.”

  “Whit!”

  “Maybe a cup of tea for Tommy, Sergeant Jacobstein, to help him digest that information.” There was silence until it came and MacNamee gulped it down in a oner as it was the last in the teapot and none too warm at that.

  “So, who was it – is it? Can you tell me?”

  “I can indeed for the deceased has been formally identified. Her name is Margaret Hughes, Lena Dolan’s cousin.” Tommy MacNamee was almost speechless but not quite. He was just about capable of uttering almost incomprehensible noises. Jacobstein fixed his notebook to the desk with the elbow of his near-dead arm and waited. “Right now, Tommy, can you tell me exactly what convinced you that the young woman you saw tonight was Lena Dolan, bearing in mind how dense the fog was.” Tommy answered with a question of his own.

  “Are you sure it isn’t Lena, Mr Pollock?”

  “Well, Lena said it wasn’t her and her father, mother, husband and brothers assured us she was telling the truth.”

  “Sort of clinches it then, doesn’t it?” said MacNamee despondently. “Meg Hughes, you say?” Pollock and Jacobstein both nodded. Jacobstein had the distinct feeling his arm would be totally alive and kicking before this interview was over. “Wee Meg Hughes,” said MacNamee shaking his head slowly. “I knew her faither, you know. Liked a wee punt on the horses. My God, that’s them all away now, the entire family. Big Charlie Adair and Peter Hughes were inseparable, you know. Went to Celtic Park every home game come rain or shine together. Wonder if Charlie will still go to the Cup Final tomorrow? That wee lassie was just absorbed into the Adair family when she lost her folks. Who the hell would want tae kill an innocent lassie like that?”

  “We have every intention of finding that out, Tommy.”

  “And I’ll help you all I can but I’m truly sorry if my words tonight confused you. The identity, I mean. Anyway, you want to know what made me think it was Lena? You’re right about the fog. Think it was and still is bad but there was a good distance still where you could see – a bit hazy-like but not too bad. Maybe about fifty yards or so. Anyway, I saw who I thought was Lena Dolan walking east along Great Eastern Road on the other side of the road. I was sure of her because of the shawl. The design was broad round the edges but completely white in the middle. That funny edging – has a special name but I canny remember it.”

 
“Scalloped,” said Jacobstein quietly.

  “Aye, that’s it. My wife wants one. Some hope.”

  “I assume you couldn’t see the girl’s face clearly?” asked Pollock.

  “That’s right for she was still slightly ahead of me when I noticed her and facing forward. Just knew without having to think about it. Seems I was wrong. I expect it was because of Calum Dolan.” Pollock’s ears perked up.

  “Who?” he asked.

  “Timothy’s brother. The girl was walking along with him when somebody outside The Clay Pipe shouted over to him. I suppose that just sort of convinced me in a manner of speaking that it was Lena and her brother-in-law walking along together. Not that I would have doubted it was her if Calum hadn’t been with her.” MacNamee was gloom personified by now.

  “Was anybody else walking nearby? On their side of the road?” Pollock suggested. Tommy MacNamee thought hard about it.

  “Aye, a tall guy, a working-man overtook them when Calum Dolan was calling over to the guys outside the pub. Further ahead, Alec Riley was taking his display of fruit and vegetables back intae his shop, closing up early, you see, for nobody would come out for anything on a night like this. Far too cold and damp and foggy for customers to be venturing out and it was getting on a bit anyway. The farthest I could reasonably see, well, not really, for the fog was beginning to get worse again was Danny O’Rourke’s. There were just a few outside and a lot inside judging from the shouting coming from it. All good humoured, mainly about the Cup Final this Saturday.”

  “The man who overtook the couple, Tommy, did you recognise him?” MacNamee shook his head.

  “He was nothing special, just somebody hurrying home. He vanished into the fog like all the rest of us. It’s been like that most of the day and all of the night. Just grey brown shapes flitting about.”

  “Did you notice anyone lingering about the coal-yard?” Tommy shook his head.

  “Mr Pollock, I was inside the pub from just after noticing Calum and the girl until Barney McDaid chucked me out.”

  “Right, Tommy, you’ve been a great help. You can feel free to go home now.” Both men stood up and Jacobstein led MacNamee to the door of the CID temporary office. Tommy turned back to Pollock.

  “I’ll think it all over in my bed tonight and if anything else comes to mind, Mr Pollock, I’ll come here and tell the desk sergeant.”

  “We’d be most grateful for any further help you can give us that would help solve this appalling crime, Tommy.” They shook hands as was Tommy’s habit with everyone and he then clattered his way downstairs led by Jacobstein and left the police station.

  Pollock sat down heavily behind his desk. Suddenly the door banged hard off the wall and Jacobstein rushed in.

  “Just been told. They’ve just fished a dead body out of the Clyde near here. It’s Owen Farrell!”

  Chapter 4

  Pollock lay and regarded the ceiling which formed his medieval bed canopy a long way above him. He luxuriated for a few moments longer on his bed of soft and decadent cushions provided free of charge by Jacobstein’s American Emporium.

  “Where did JAE, the name, come from, Jake?” His sergeant rubbed his forehead and Pollock realised that the swearing that had awakened him had come from his sergeant as his forehead had hit of the underside of a desk. “I warned you about that,” said Pollock still lying beneath a fireside rug of the finest quality nobody in Camlachie could ever hope to afford. It could easily be returned to the appropriate department with no-one any the wiser, blankets couldn’t.

  “I was trying to cut out the draughts,” replied Jacobstein.

  “No draughts, friend, only cold air. Under a desk is no place for a potential Chief Constable to sleep. Head still in one piece? Good. When will the fried egg rolls appear? Did you remember to say we wanted tattie scones on them as well?” Pollock began to emerge from his cocoon.

  “Fifteen minutes and the name came from my grandfather’s ambitious and melodramatic leanings,” explained Jacobstein.

  “Fifteen minutes? That’ll do nicely. Washed, dressed and shaved. Always carry an overnight emergency bag with me as you know, Jake. You got one, too? Right then, I’ll go first and then I’ll get gee-up the baker. I can get all that done quicker than you.”

  “The army training, I take it?”

  “Nope. Four sisters and five brothers. Survival of the fittest. A Saltmarket heritage. Not many of us native-born Glasgow folk left. Now for ablutions and food. You make the tea – it’s in my little bag – and I’ll bring the food up.” Pollock rose quickly and made for the staff toilet. Jacobstein turned over for a much needed extra ten minutes below the desk.

  Silence reigned as both men enjoyed their breakfast. Jacobstein cast an eye round the room and knew that no trace of their overnight presence would be left. Cushions and rugs were already back in place and all traces of food would be left only in their stomachs, cups back in the small cupboard. The cleaner would smell the eggs and tea but she would be too used to the younger Jacobstein brothers slipping in after a night on the spree to take any notice.

  “That was excellent. Had a little chat with Mr Seaton, the baker,” said Pollock, “while his wife fried the eggs. He came up with a very interesting idea.”

  “Didn’t realise you were interested in baking, Ben.” Pollock ignored that remark.

  “He says to keep an eye on Calum Dolan as he’s been spending heavily of late.” Jacobstein looked thoughtful.

  “And he was seen earlier that evening with Meg Hughes which we already know. Very interesting indeed.” Pollock nodded as he put on his Harris tweed coat.

  “Seen walking boldly along Great Eastern Road with the deceased an hour or two before she was found dead plus spending with abandoned profligacy, that is to say, buying half a dozen pineapple tarts and two soda bread loaves from Mr Seaton’s ‘Dough Frae Me’ shop is indeed highly suspicious. Put that in your wee notebook, Jake, under the heading of Prime Suspects.” Jacobstein did so in an abbreviated fashion and slammed shut the notebook. “We’ve ten minutes before we meet Noel along at the police station, Jake, so check out the wee Irish linen tray-cloths and if they’re now in, put one by for me. We’ll be paying Lena Dolan a visit this morning and that wee wifie with the brass tray is likely looking out for you and your update on the tray-cloths.” On that piece of information, the members of the CID slipped out the side door, Pollock tipped the security man, and they made their way to the police office.

  The frozen face of the desk sergeant warned Ben Pollock that trouble was brewing and he quickly guessed what it was.

  “Good morning, Inspector Bell, feeling better?” he asked while noting Bell made no move to vacate Pollock’s chair. Noel Flett was chewing a wasp according to the look on his ruddy-complexioned face and Jacobstein muttered loudly under his breath in Yiddish. But swearing is swearing and it needed no linguist to figure out roughly the general drift of his remarks. Pollock could say the same thing in Punjabi but he settled instead for,

  “We’re extremely busy, Inspector Bell, with two murders so I’m sure you’ll forgive us if we thank you for thinking of us and have DC Flett here point you in the direction of The Loaves and Fishes tea-shop. Oddly enough, they always seem to be just out of fish. They have a pleasant sit-in area and do a fantastic egg and potato scone roll. If you buy two rolls, they don’t charge you for the tea. DC Flett, off you go and show the inspector the way. Good morning, Mr Bell.” Bell stayed put.

  “Sit down!” barked Bell. Pollock didn’t flinch. He had heard it all before

  “Sorry, Inspector Bell, but I’m in control here. Police regulations. Till you’ve been signed off by the doctor and allowed back on duty.” Pollock felt very secure for Flett was the police boxing lightweight champion. He was confident that his DC plus Jacobstein and himself could handle all-comers.

  “Which will happen later today,” said Bell, “and your services in charge of this investigation will no longer be required – or wanted,” he added with his
usual sneer. That was a massive blow to Pollock.

  “And you’ll be back on Monday, Inspector Bell. But we’re only concerned with today and we’ve work to do”

  “And the case as you see it so far, Sergeant Pollock?” Bell would sit it out and Pollock knew it. He also had a job to protect and Bell had friends in high places. If Bell were indeed back on the Monday, then he might as well hear the facts as they stood at that moment. Pollock, Jacobstein and Flett continued to stand. Besides, thought Pollock, a lot could happen in forty-eight hours and Bell was in absolutely no position, despite of the pull he had, to take control until Monday. He looked at the man and wondered when the Inspector Bell he had once known had gone. Overwork and too high an opinion of himself as a man. Hard to live up to and it had all contributed to his illness. A good detective – no, a great one, - and Pollock knew that he himself could not lace his boots as yet. But he still stood his ground and said nothing.

  “All right,” said Bell, “I’ll tell you what I know.” Pollock prepared to hear his whole investigation so far laid out before him, for although his own team were as clams, Bell’s fierce reputation would easily prise open the mouths of any other member of the constabulary. “It will take roughly two minutes and that’s including pregnant pauses. Your case consists of a woman, Meg Hughes, found brutally murdered in Roberts’ coal-yard. Strangled and stoned. Second is the case of a drowned man, Owen Farrell by name, in the Clyde, motive unknown as in the first case. The second, of course, is a very common and non-suspicious type of death in this great city of ours especially on a very foggy evening. Probably not a murder as you probably know. You, Sergeant Pollock, just like the touch of drama. It might just be one of those. Have I missed anything out?” Pollock shook his head. “Oh, and you found time to order a curry for yourself and these two chumps for this evening. Life on your team, Pollock, is really exciting and challenging or even, perhaps, just efficient but you do all eat well.” Flett wondered if Bell knew he had had a kipper for breakfast. He flicked a stray flake from his waistcoat and thought he probably did. Pollock had no intention of discussing the case and remained locked in silence.