Detective Watters Mysteries

Chapter 3-1

The police headquarters at Bell Street was busy as always, with uniformed men arriving for their shifts or marching out for their regular beats. Two men struggled with a well-known p********e, and one constable nursed a bruised face after attending a domestic dispute between husband and wife. Sergeant Murdoch looked up when Watters came in. “Afternoon, George,” he said. “About time you appeared. Mr Mackay has been asking for you this past two hours.”

“I’ve been busy. What does Mr Mackay want?”

“There’s been a robbery at Sinclair’s the Jewellers in the Nethergate,” Murdoch said. “Mr Mackay wants to talk to you about it.”

“I’ll see him right away,” Watters said.

Mr Mackay had his office on the top floor of the building, with a view to the prison next door. He looked up when Watters entered, put down the pen he had been holding and immediately began to speak.

“Have you got your men onto the burglaries yet, Watters?”

“Yes, sir, I have them working on tracing the stolen items.” Watters removed his hat and held it under his arm.

“Good,” Mackay grunted. “Any results?”

“I’ll find out in a few moments, sir. I’ve been concentrating on the scuttling case.” Watters removed his hat and placed it under his arm.

“That should not take long,” Mackay said. “Find out who the insurance company pays the money to, and you have your man.”

“It doesn’t appear to be as simple as that,” Watters said. “There are complications.”

“Never mind that now,” Mackay waved away Watters’ words. “The scuttling is in the past; it’s done with. This spate of robberies is more important as they are ongoing. I want you to concentrate on them.”

“I don’t think the scuttling was a one-off,” Watters said.

Mackay leaned forward in his chair. “Is Toiler sunk?”

Toiler “Yes, sir,” Watters said.

“Was anybody drowned?”

“No, sir.”

“Then it’s a simple case of insurance fraud. Put it to the bottom of the pile and deal with it later. These burglaries are becoming serious, Sergeant, so I am ordering you to prioritise them.”

“Yes, sir,” Watters said.

“Go to Sinclair’s Jewellers and find out what happened,” Mackay said.

“Yes, sir,” Watters turned around and marched out. Not until he returned downstairs did he vent his feelings in a sequence of words that should have blistered the ears of anybody listening.

“Temper now, Sergeant,” Murdoch leaned against the corner of a door, puffing on a curved-stemmed pipe.

“I feel I’m making progress on the scuttling case when the old man takes me off and sends me to deal with a jewellery theft!”

“I know,” Murdoch said quietly, puffing smoke into the air. “How much was the ship worth?”

“What?”

“The ship, Toiler, how much was she worth?”

Toiler,“About three hundred and fifty pounds,” Watters said.

“Well, this particular jewellery theft is worth two and a half thousand pounds, and it’s only one of many. Mr Mackay is doing you a favour by steering you away from the scuttling.” Murdoch removed the pipe from his mouth to add tobacco. “Anybody who catches the jewel robbery may be in line for a promotion, and wouldn’t Marie like that? Especially with her new baby.”

“Two and a half thousand pounds!” Watters repeated. “That’s twenty years wages.”

“I know,” Murdoch thrust the pipe back between his teeth. “That’s why Mackay wants you to find the thief. He could have sent Lieutenant Anstruther.”

“Anstruther couldn’t find a puddle in a wet November,” Watters said.

“Maybe aye, maybe och aye,” Murdoch added more smoke to the air. “But you’d better prove that you are better than him.”

The Nethergate was one of Dundee’s principal streets, stretching from the City Churches and the High Street until it became the Perth Road and the western highway out of town. The term gate was from the old Scots word gait, meaning a street rather than a place of entrance. With shops at street level and residential tenements above, the Nethergate was bustling with shoppers and crowded with traffic. Sinclair’s, the Jewellers, was on the north side, a short step from the p********e’s haven of Couttie’s Wynd. Watters saw Jim Bogle, one of his preachers, his informants, standing in the shadows of the Wynd, and nodded.

I’ll speak to you later, Jim, my lad.

I’ll speak to you later, Jim, my lad.Mr Sinclair was inside his shop when Watters arrived, with Scuddamore and Duff hurrying in a few minutes later.

“Look what they’ve done, Sergeant Watters, look what they’ve done to my shop!” Sinclair was nearly in tears as he showed Watters the damage. “I had the door double-locked and iron shutters on all the windows. What more could I do?” He held onto Watters’ shoulder as if about to collapse. “I ask you, Sergeant Watters, what more could I do?”

“I see they entered through the ceiling,” Watters looked at the mess in the back of the shop, with pieces of plaster and timber scattered on the floor.

“Yes,” Sinclair said.

Watters prodded his cane at the square hole in the ceiling and pulled at the length of knotted rope that hung from the flat above. “You,” Watters pointed to the youngest constable of the half dozen who swarmed in the shop, a man in his early twenties with clear, intelligent-looking eyes. “I don’t know you: what’s your name?”

“Constable Macpherson, sir, number 147.”

“Are you new to the force?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, welcome to the Dundee Police, and don’t call me sir. I’m only a sergeant. Has anybody been up there yet?” Watters pointed to the hole in the ceiling.

“No, Sergeant,” Macpherson replied.

“I thought not,” Watters said. “Duff, you and Scuddamore take over down here. Check the shop for anything the thieves may have left behind and get these blasted uniformed men away. Post two outside including this Macpherson fellow and send the rest back to Bell Street.”

“Yes, Sergeant,” Duff said.

“What a b****y mess,” Watters said as he climbed up the rope to the house above the shop. As he expected, the burglars had left nothing behind. There were no tools except the rope, no items of clothing. Nothing. Watters checked the front door lock, grunted, untied the rope, and dropped it into the shop below.

“I’ll speak to the neighbours,” he shouted to Scuddamore through the square hole.

“Yes, Sergeant,” Scuddamore was on his hands and knees, sifting through the mess for any clues as Sinclair continued to lament his bad fortune.

The flat above Sinclair’s was one of ten in a common stair or a close as the Dundonians termed it. Watters inspected the lock, saw it had not been forced and checked the floor for footprints in the dust. There were two, one without any tread and one a half print of a worn boot.

Two men, then, one wearing rubber over boots to deaden the sound and the other less professional and not successful, judging by the state of his footwear. That’s a start.

Two men, then, one wearing rubber over boots to deaden the sound and the other less professional and not successful, judging by the state of his footwear. That’s a start.Watters rapped on each door of the close and spoke to the inhabitants, asking if they had seen any strangers in the area recently.

“Strangers? There are always strangers here,” the nearest neighbour viewed Watters with suspicion. “People coming and going all the time.”

“Did any of them pay particular attention to the empty house?”

The woman screwed up her face. “The landlord has been trying to make that place respectable these last few weeks.” She shook her head. “We used to have a right bad lot in there, Irish, you know, so he’s improving it and raised the rent to attract a better class of tenant.” She sniffed and looked Watters up and down as if assessing him to see if he was suitable for her close.

“Who is the landlord?”

“I don’t know,” the woman said. “I know that the factor is John Munro because he’s the factor for all the houses in this closie.”

“John Munro. I’ll speak to him,” Watters scribbled down the name. “Thank you. Have there been any interested parties recently?”

The woman frowned and then nodded. “Yes, a few.”

“Do you recall any of them?”

“No, they were just people. Quite respectable men mainly, compared to the rubbishy lot we used to have here. I remember that one was a policeman.” The woman smiled, with her eyes softening a little. “I hope he gets it. I would feel a lot safer with a policeman in the close, particularly as we’re so close to the women in the Wynd.” She lowered her voice. “A lot of them are flashtails, you know, hoors!”

Watters nodded. “I am aware that many prostitutes live in the Wynd. Now, this policeman? Do you remember his name or number? He’ll have his number on his collar, just here,” Watters indicated the spot.

“No, he was quite a handsome chap, though. And well-spoken. I think he was a sergeant or even a lieutenant.”

“Thank you,” Watters said. If he could find the police officer, he might glean more information.

Attracted by the voices, the other tenants of the close gathered round to give their opinions and advice. “I’ll send a police officer to take your statements,” Watters promised as he squeezed through the crowd and entered the shop. “Did you find anything, Scuddamore?”

“Not a great deal, Sergeant. The thief picked the locks to get access to the display cases. He knew what he was doing and left no clues, sir.” Scuddamore said, “And he was either hungry or very relaxed.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Look, Sergeant,” Scuddamore pointed to the floor. “Biscuit crumbs.”

“Biscuit crumbs?” Watters crouched on the ground. “So they are.” He collected a small amount and placed them in a bag. “Sergeant Donaldson found crumbs at the Royal Hotel break-in as well.”

“I remember that, Sergeant,” Scuddamore said. “Maybe the thief is so nervous that he has to eat something.”

“Maybe so,” Watters said. “I rather doubt it, though. I suspect it’s deliberate.” He stood up. “We’ll keep the crumbs in mind. Scuddamore, go to the close above and take everybody’s statement. Ask if they’ve seen a police officer looking at the flat and try to get his name. Mr Sinclair,” he looked around. “Where’s Mr Sinclair? Ah, there you are, sir. How much is missing? Do you have a list for us?”

Sinclair had recovered some of his self-control. “Yes, Sergeant,” he said. “I’ve got everything written down.”

“Good,” Watters took the list. “I’ll have the details sent around the country, and we’ll check the local pawns and fences tonight, although I doubt we’ll find much in Dundee.” He touched Sinclair on the arm, “are you insured, Mr Sinclair?”