Dangerous Destiny

by Chris Longmuir

  Sergeant Edwards turned to look at her.

  ‘And how do you know this is the missing woman?’

  ‘Because this handbag was beside her body.’ Martha slammed it on to the counter.

  ‘You should not have removed the bag until a policeman inspected it.’ He leaned forward and scowled at her.

  ‘And leave it there for anyone to remove? Far better to bring it here for evidence,’ Martha snapped.

  The sergeant sighed, lifted the flap at the end of the counter and opened the door to the quadrangle.

  ‘Buchan. McDonald. You’re needed.’

  The two policemen left the bicycle they’d been attempting to repair and scurried over to him.

  ‘McDonald, get yourself to the Howff and mount guard on the gate. Don’t allow anyone to enter. Buchan, fetch Inspector Hammond. Off you go, then, the pair of you. At the double, no hanging about.’ The sergeant returned to the charge-room. ‘The inspector will want to interview you when he gets here, so I suggest you make yourselves comfortable.’ He pointed to the wooden bench running the length of the room.

  Martha glared at him, but she perched on the bench, thinking that she would never have described the seat as comfortable. Ethel and Kirsty, after sharing a glance, sat down beside her. Paul remained standing, one elbow leaning on the countertop.

  It would probably be a long wait. Martha closed her eyes and tried to obliterate the picture her imagination was conjuring up of Victoria’s body lying in the graveyard. She had no idea whether the image was worse or better than the reality.

  * * *

  Gran was in a foul mood. It had started at breakfast-time and all because he’d lain in his bed longer than usual.

  ‘Lazy lie abed,’ she’d said, dolloping a spoonful of porridge into his bowl.

  ‘But I didn’t get home until after midnight,’ Hammond protested.

  ‘That’s another thing –’ she slapped a second spoonful into the bowl ‘– stopping out until all hours of the night.’

  ‘Saturday night’s always busy. There’s hardly one goes by without a riot in the Scouringburn.’ He stirred the greyish mess in front of him. ‘You know fine well it’s my job.’

  She snorted and banged the pot into the sink.

  ‘Time you had a wife. I’m too old to be running around after you.’

  Hammond concentrated on his porridge. Cold, tasteless and lumpy. Gran’s cooking left a lot to be desired. As for finding a wife? Hammond had no intention of doing that. He hadn’t met a woman yet who didn’t strike fear into his heart. Why get tied to someone who would turn out to be just like his gran? He pushed the plate back and rose.

  ‘I’m off to the office,’ he said. ‘I’ve reports to complete.’ He didn’t wait for her response.

  It was the middle of the afternoon before he returned, and Gran was in an even worse mood. He was only two steps inside the door when she pounced on him.

  ‘Why can you never be home on time? What time of day do you think this is to be served dinner? It’s been ready since one o’clock.’

  ‘Sorry, Gran, but I told you I had to finish reports.’

  She snorted.

  ‘I was tempted to let you go hungry, but I kept something back for you.’

  ‘That was good of you.’ He pulled out a chair and sat at the table.

  Gran bent and drew a plate out of the oven. She slapped it in front of him, making the cutlery rattle and a cup teeter in its saucer.

  ‘Don’t say I’m not good to you.’

  Hammond looked at it and swore under his breath. He wasn’t having the best of days; Gran had taken care of that with her foul temper, and now this. He poked a sausage with his fork. Other folk got beef on a Sunday. But what did he get? Bloody sausage and mash, and burnt sausages, at that. He glowered at it and gave the sausage another poke.

  His gran stood over him. ‘Well, don’t just look at it, get it down you.’

  The clatter of boots on the path followed by a knock on the door sent his gran scurrying to answer it.

  ‘It’s one of your bobbies,’ she said, returning to the kitchen. ‘I suppose that means you’ll be off out again.’

  Hammond pushed his plate aside. A recall to the police station was preferable to eating the muck his gran cooked for him. He grabbed his jacket and, ignoring his gran’s mutterings, rushed out the door.

  ‘Sorry, sir,’ Buchan said, ‘but Sarge ordered me to come get you.’

  ‘What’s up?’ Hammond reckoned it must be an emergency if the duty sergeant had sent for him.

  ‘He didn’t say, sir. But that reporter from the Courier turned up with three ladies. I reckon it must be something to do with them.’

  Hammond suppressed a groan. He could do without having to deal with know-it-all reporters.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  The edge of the wooden bench dug into the back of Ethel’s legs. No matter how much she wriggled, she was unable to find a comfortable position. She wrinkled her nose. Maybe it was her imagination, but she was sure the smell of death hung over them.

  Martha, slumped on her left, had lost her normal sparkle; Kirsty moved restlessly on the bench to her right. Over by the door, Paul stood staring out into the courtyard, a cigarette between his fingers. Every few moments he puffed it, sending a cloud of smoke whirling around him.

  Ethel reached out and gripped Kirsty’s hand.

  ‘Will we have to wait much longer?’ Kirsty whispered.

  Ethel shrugged.

  ‘Depends how long it takes the inspector to get here, I suppose.’

  ‘My aunt will wonder where I am.’ Kirsty’s eyebrows drew together in a worried frown.

  ‘They’re coming.’ Paul nipped the glowing end of his cigarette between his finger and thumb and dropped the stub on the floor.

  ‘It’s about time,’ Martha muttered. She stood up and faced the door.

  The man who thrust his way into the room wore a black suit which reminded Ethel of the one her father had hanging in his wardrobe for special occasions. His eyes reflected a meanness of spirit and he didn’t bother removing his bowler hat when he entered. Ethel pursed her lips, not convinced this man would waste any energy on finding Victoria’s killer.

  A policeman followed the inspector, and Ethel’s eyes widened as she recognised him. It was the constable who had rescued her from her father yesterday.

  * * *

  Hammond stamped into the charge-room, ignoring everyone apart from the duty sergeant.

  ‘You sent for me, Sergeant Edwards?’ He kept his voice abrupt. He liked to keep his officers in their place and knew the sergeant would recognise the implicit threat behind his question.

  ‘Yes, sir. These women –’ he looked at them with a contemptuous glance ‘– and this, here, reporter, reckon they’ve found the body of a woman in the Howff.’

  ‘I would expect there to be bodies in a graveyard, sergeant.’

  ‘Yes, sir. But they maintain this is foul play, sir, and I reckoned I should inform you.’

  Hammond recognised the smaller blonde woman. She was one of those damned suffragettes. He’d seen her when he was investigating the death of that other woman. And now, here she was again. He supposed all three of them were suffragettes. Bad enough he had to interview the reporter, without having to deal with these harridans, as well. He glared at them for a moment before turning back to address the sergeant.

  ‘Has anyone gone to check the Howff to determine if their claim has any substance?’

  ‘I thought you’d want to do that yourself, sir. But I sent Constable McDonald to stand guard at the gate.’

  ‘I see.’ Hammond drummed his fingers on the countertop. He ignored the restless movements and muttering behind him. He’d talk to them when he was good and ready.

  ‘Are we going to stay here forever, waiting for you to take our statements?’

  Hammond’s face tightened into a frown, his body stiffened, and he swivelled around to face the reporter

  ‘Ah,
Mr Anderson, I believe. You seem to have an unfortunate habit of finding dead bodies.’

  The reporter moved closer. Hammond stepped back to escape the smell of stale cigarettes on the man’s breath.

  ‘If you did your job better, then I wouldn’t have to do it for you.’ Annoyance radiated from the reporter’s face and voice.

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake.’ The blonde suffragette pushed the reporter out of the way. ‘I informed you on Wednesday that Victoria was missing, and you did nothing. And all this time she’s been lying in the Howff where her killer left her. If you had been doing your job, you would have found her instead of leaving it to us. And that’s not all. She is the second suffragette to have been killed this week. You need to do something before there are more deaths.’

  ‘Madam, I think I know how to do my job.’ Hammond didn’t bother to keep the annoyance from his tone.

  The woman snorted with disgust, confirming Hammond’s belief that suffragettes were harridans, not fit to be called women.

  ‘Sit down,’ he growled. ‘When I want to talk to you, I will let you know.’

  He turned to face the reporter.

  ‘If you follow me, Mr Anderson, I will take your statement.’ He led the way through a door to the inner corridor of the police station. ‘You, too,’ he called to Buchan. ‘You can act as note-taker.’

  * * *

  ‘What a horrible man,’ Martha said, as they left the police station.

  ‘I may wish to talk to you again,’ Inspector Hammond had said, dismissing them after his interrogation.

  ‘You certainly couldn’t accuse him of being polite.’ The reporter stopped under the archway to light a cigarette. He threw the spent match on the ground and inhaled. ‘I needed that.’

  Martha smiled at him.

  ‘Thank you for your support, but I think we can manage now.’

  She was anxious for him to leave them because she wanted to visit Victoria’s sister, Elizabeth, and she didn’t want a reporter present. The news about Victoria’s death would be better to come from her than from the police.

  ‘It’s no trouble. I can accompany you as far as the Courier building – it’s on my way.’

  ‘That’s very kind.’ It was the opposite direction to the one in which Martha wanted to go, but she walked alongside him rather than risk him following her.

  They parted company with Paul at the Courier building, and the three young women crossed the road to the top of Reform Street.

  ‘I can see my aunt at the window.’ Kirsty looked up to the first-floor window which curved around the corner of the building. ‘I’d best leave you here.’

  ‘I am so sorry we subjected you to such a distressing experience,’ Martha said, grasping Kirsty’s hand within her own. ‘I hope it hasn’t dissuaded you from joining the Women’s Freedom League.’

  ‘On the contrary, it’s made me more determined. It’s opened my eyes to how women are treated, and if I can help change that, I will.’

  Martha reached into her reticule and drew out a calling card. She thrust it into Kirsty’s hand.

  ‘The address of the Women’s Freedom League office is on the front and I have put my home address on the back. I hope we see you soon.’

  ‘I’ll call in tomorrow,’ Kirsty said.

  Once the door on the corner of the building closed behind Kirsty, the two women continued along the street.

  ‘I’m going to visit Victoria’s sister,’ Martha said as they reached the end of the street. ‘Someone needs to tell her what happened, and I don’t trust the police to do it.’

  ‘Would you like me to come with you?’

  ‘I think it best if I go alone.’

  After she left Ethel at the Nethergate, Martha’s pace didn’t slacken. Her task was not a pleasant one, but it had to be done.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

  The sculptures of literature and justice, carved into the stone above the arched doorway, stared down at Paul as he entered the Courier building by the staff entrance on Meadowside. With its russet-coloured stonework and arched windows, the impressive, five-storey structure looked more like a museum or fancy hotel than a newspaper office. He reckoned no other newspaper in Britain could boast an office equal to this. The building had been only been completed two years before and contained all the modern facilities it was possible to have. According to the other reporters, it was far superior to the old offices in North Lindsay Street.

  The glass-panelled door swung closed behind him and he strode across the vestibule to the lift. Seconds later, he stepped out of it at the fourth-floor newsroom and hurried over to his desk. The desks were laid out in rows of two, so the reporters faced each other. It could be distracting but, if you were in luck, the reporter opposite might be out on a story. Paul was out of luck today. Old Angus – Paul had never heard him called anything else – looked up with a brief nod before returning his scrutiny to the copy in front of him, over which he made tutting noises as he scribbled corrections.

  Paul slumped into his chair, grabbed a pencil and started to compose his copy for tomorrow’s paper. He paid no attention when old Angus got up and padded off in the direction of the editor’s office.

  Several minutes later, the man returned waving his article.

  ‘Duncan’s in a good mood today. He gave the go-ahead, so it’ll be in tomorrow.’

  ‘Congratulations.’ Paul suppressed his annoyance at the interruption. ‘Maybe he’ll like mine for a change.’

  Angus rolled the paper and stuffed it into a container for the pneumatic tube to whisk up to the case room on the fifth floor.

  ‘I’m off now. Good luck.’

  Five minutes later, Paul sat back, a satisfied smile on his face. This was one of the best news stories he’d worked on this year and he was sure he could expand on it. Tomorrow, he’d follow it up by interviewing the suffragettes.

  He whistled under his breath as he sought out the editor. There was no way Duncan could refuse to print this.

  * * *

  Martha’s footsteps slowed as she drew near Elizabeth’s house on Perth Road. There was no easy way to inform her of Victoria’s death. She hesitated on the doorstep for a moment before summoning the courage to knock. The door swung open so fast Martha suspected Elizabeth must have been hovering nearby, waiting for the delivery of bad news or for Victoria to return home.

  ‘Have you found Victoria?’ Elizabeth’s eyes moved to look over Martha’s shoulder as if she expected her sister to be behind her.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Martha said. ‘Can I come in?’

  ‘Of course.’ Elizabeth opened the door wider. ‘Where are my manners?’ She led the way up the corridor to the small living-room.

  ‘Who is it, Lizzie?’ The man sitting in the armchair looked up with an expectant look in his eyes. ‘Oh,’ he said. ‘It’s one of them. I suppose you’ve come to tell us that Victoria’s off gallivanting in London. Damned suffragettes can’t stay home for two minutes.’ He spat in the empty fireplace.

  ‘My husband, Davie. I don’t think you’ve met him before. Pay no heed to him, he’s got a bee in his bonnet about suffragettes. Him and Victoria used to have loads of arguments, but it made no difference to her beliefs.’

  ‘Load of codswallop,’ the man said, snorting.

  ‘There’s no need for that kind of talk, Davie.’ Elizabeth scowled at him. ‘Martha is as concerned as we are about Victoria.’ She turned back to their guest. ‘Have you found her?’

  Martha’s hand tightened on her reticule. This was more difficult than she had imagined. They were looking for good news and all she had to impart was bad.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ she said.

  ‘She’s dead.’ The light faded from Elizabeth’s eyes and her voice held no emotion.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘How?’

  ‘We found her body in the Howff. I don’t know how she died, but someone killed her.’

  Tears slipped down Elizabeth’s cheeks and Martha grasped her hand
s.

  ‘I expect the police will be along to visit you at some point, but I wanted you to hear it from me first.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Elizabeth mumbled.

  ‘I always said no good would come from her mixing with suffragettes.’

  ‘Oh, shut up, Davie! What do you know about it?’

  A feeling of impotence crept through Martha. It was time to leave Elizabeth to her grief, though she wasn’t sure Davie shared it.

  ‘I’ll leave now,’ she said. ‘If you need me, you know where to find me.’

  * * *

  Inspector Hammond paced back and forth on the cobbled path, waiting for the police doctor to finish his examination. His nose twitched, and he held a handkerchief to it in an effort to block out the stench. The smell of death was something he tolerated, but never got used to, and this one was fouler than usual.

  Dr Jenkins emerged from the bushes at the side of the path.

  ‘You don’t need me to tell you she’s dead,’ he said. ‘Been there several days, I’d say. They go off quick in this hot weather. She’s not a pretty sight.’

  ‘Can you identify how she died?’ Hammond removed the handkerchief from his nose and tried not to breathe too deeply.

  The doctor shrugged his shoulders.

  ‘Not at this stage. I’ll know more when I examine her.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it could be accidental?’

  Jenkins laughed.

  ‘Not a hope,’ he said. ‘By the way, she’s wearing a suffragette sash, bit like the other one you put my way this week.’

  ‘Damned suffragettes,’ Hammond responded. ‘If they would just stay at home where they should be, it would save us a lot of work.’

  ‘Not much chance of that.’ Jenkins laughed again and walked away from the inspector. ‘I’ll let Davvy know he can collect the body now – I see him waiting at the gate.’

  Hammond grunted. He couldn’t bring himself to thank the man.

  Davvy trundled towards him, pushing the coffin-shaped barrow. The man never minded what condition a body was in when he removed it. Hammond reckoned he’d be lucky to get this one in the barrow in one piece.