Murdered On The 13th

Chapter Three

Chapter Three“How did you get on at the bank, Scuddamore?” Watters sat at his desk in the Duty Room in Bell Street Police Office, reading through his notes to see if he had missed anything.

“Not well.” Scuddamore consulted his notes. “Mr Forsyth seems to have been a hard manager but fair. He was neither liked nor disliked, with no enemies and no friends.”

Watters nodded. “A grey man, then. That's the impression I got in the golf club. People respected him for his position and his golf, without ever becoming close.”

“He was in the bank before dawn and often worked late,” Scuddamore said.

“Did anybody mention women?” Watters asked.

Scuddamore looked up. “He wasn't married.”

“How about other women? A sweetheart?”

Scuddamore looked blank. “Nobody spoke about women.” He grinned. “Golf, though. Most people I interviewed said he played golf.”

“Golf and money,” Watters said, “and he was murdered with a golf ball, with money crammed in his mouth. Whoever killed him, knew him well.”

“It was no random murder, then,” Duff had been listening to the conversation. “Somebody selected him.”

Watters nodded. “Aye. Maybe Eddie the Cabbie was right. Maybe it was a ritual murder. A customer who did not get a loan, perhaps?”

“Bloody expensive way to show disapproval,” Scuddamore said, “cramming a hundred pounds in the unfortunate fellow's mouth.”

“A disgruntled employee, then,” Watters said. “Has anybody been dismissed recently?”

“No.” Scuddamore shook his head. “I asked, Sergeant. The bank has had the same staff for three years, with no movement at all.”

Watters drummed his fingers on the desk. “We're getting nowhere here,” he said. “Who is in charge of the bank now?”

“A Mr Gladstone,” Scuddamore said, “the chief cashier. He's acting as manager until the directors of the bank make a decision.”

“What's he like?” Watters asked.

Scuddamore screwed up his face. “He's like you'd expect a bank clerk to be, Sergeant. Small, neat, dapper, fussy, meticulous.”

“Would he murder his manager to gain promotion?” Watters asked hopefully.

“I doubt he'd have the nerve to swat a fly,” Scuddamore said. “I can't see him sticking a golf ball in anybody's throat. He might get his delicate little hands dirty.”

Watters grunted. “All right. We'll visit Forsyth's house,” he decided. “We might pick up something there. If there were two or more women involved in the attack, as the doctor believes, one will talk, eventually.”

“Women like to talk,” Scuddamore said.

Watters lifted the solitary bottle of beer that remained from Mr Sturrock's gift, discovered it was empty and tossed it in the bin. “So much for this place,” he said, raising his voice. “I do all the work, and these hounds take my beer!”

In the far corner, Sergeant Murdoch raised a beefy hand. “We enjoyed it, George!”

“Have you not got a beat to walk?” Watters asked, shaking his head.

* * *

Forsyth lived in a surprisingly modest house in Thomson Street, off the Perth Road, a detached villa with an impeccably neat garden. He had no servants, but according to the neighbours, a housekeeper called three times a week.

“Do you know her name?” Watters asked the neighbour, Mrs Carruthers.

“Mrs Kelly,” the neighbour said. “She's a lovely woman. Was it true they found poor Mr Forsyth without any of his clothes?”

“Did anybody else come to the house? Relatives, friends?”

Mrs Carruthers shook her head. “No. Mr Forsyth kept himself to himself. He was a reticent, respectable man.”

“Did you ever see Mr Forsyth with a woman?”

“No,” Mrs Carruthers said at once. “He was not that sort of man. My husband said that Mr Forsyth had too much sense to marry. He only thing he loved was his golf, although I believe he visited his mother regularly.”

“How regularly?”

“Every Thursday,” Mrs Carruthers said. “He was a dutiful son.” She stepped closer. “I heard he was entirely unclothed.”

Watters nodded. “We'll speak to Mr Forsyth's mother. Thank you, Mrs Carruthers.”

The interior of Forsyth's house afforded no clues. The rooms were simply furnished, bare of character except for a scattering of golfing prints on the walls and a collection of golf clubs. One image of Tom Cribb the prize fighter looked a little out of place. The remainder of the house was as plain as the man himself with functional furniture, old and well-maintained. His wardrobe was the same, neat, sparse, and business-like.

“Look for anything that might belong to a woman,” Watters said to Duff.

There was nothing. Forsyth's life seemed as devoid of character as the man himself. Even the few books in his bookcase related to his work. Volumes of banking dominated, with two golfing books.

“So, we have a successful banker with no wife, no family, and few friends, who lived for his work and playing golf, found dead on a golf course, scratched to pieces, and choked on a golf ball,” Watters said when they returned to the Duty Room.

“What's next, Sergeant?” Scuddamore asked.

“We must find Mrs Kelly and Mrs Forsyth, or whatever his mother's name was, but first we look for his clothes,” Watters said. “They were not at the golf course, or in his house, so we try the pawn offices. I've had Duff searching, but now we join in.”

“Light brown trousers, brown boots and a short grey jacket.” Scuddamore consulted his notebook. “There might be hundreds of clothes like that.”

“Maybe not the Indian scarf though,” Watters said.

“That seems out of character,” Scuddamore said.

“I thought so, too,” Watters agreed. “Maybe a present from an old flame?”

“More likely from his mother,” Scuddamore said.

“And Forsyth was nothing if not neat. His clothes will be clean, and top quality – things you won't find in many pawnshops in Dundee.”

Watters gave each of his men an area and chose Dock Street and the Maritime Quarter for himself, sharing the streets with the dockers, seamen, ropemakers, ship chandlers, small merchants, sailmakers, and various hangers-on.

“Aye, Betty.” He stopped at the first public house he came to, where he knew the landlady. “You'll have heard of the death of Andrew Forsyth, the banker.”

“I heard about it.” Betty was mopping the tables with a scrap of cloth that looked as if a coalminer had rejected it as unfit for use. “He wasn't one of my customers.”

“No, I imagine not,” Watters said. “You've got too much class for a man like that.”

Betty grunted. “I hear stories, though.”

“I know,” Watters said. “That's why I am here, Betty.”

Betty stopped adding dirt from her cloth to the grease on the tables. “My stories don't come free, Sergeant Watters.”

“No, I imagine not.” Watters sauntered around the interior, rattling his cane against the tables and chairs. “You must have rather a mixed bag of customers here, Betty, seamen, porters, factory hands and the like.”

“Aye, maybe.” Betty narrowed her eyes. She was around fifty, with a well-used face and a blackjack hidden up her sleeve for the more disreputable customers. A cutlass displayed above the bar was for any serious trouble. Betty had been known to chase drunken Greenlandmen halfway along Dock Street with that cutlass.

“They must feel secure in your public, knowing the bobbies seldom visit. What's the beat policeman's name? Constable Littlejohn, is it not? He's been a policeman for over twenty years and never risen above the rank of constable.”

“Maybe.” Betty waited to see where Watters was heading. The dirty cloth halted in its progress across the greasy table. A dog wandered in from the street outside, sniffed at a table leg and curled up, tail over its nose, and watched through one brown eye.

“Aye, Littlejohn. He doesn't seek trouble, so if nobody bothers him, he allows all sorts of illegalities to pass him by.” Watters leaned on the counter to peruse the bottles behind the bar. “If I replaced Littlejohn with a young, keen-as-mustard constable who is seeking promotion, who knows what sort of thing he might find in a place like this.”

“I run an honest shop.” Betty began to smear the tables again.

“I am sure you do,” Watters said. “But are all your customers honest? And how would your business fare if the bluebottles buzzed in here every night, or maybe twice a night, checking up for, say, illicitly distilled whisky, or whaling men selling duty-free tobacco or rum? Maybe arresting the odd petty thief or snotter-lifter, or a man selling the gold turnips (watches) he's grazed. Would your business hold up?”

“You're a bastard, Sergeant Watters.”

“That's my middle name,” Watters said cheerfully. “Now, then, what stories have you heard about Andrew Forsyth.” Smiling, he leaned closer to her, avoiding the filthy rag, and ensuring he blocked her loaded right sleeve. With a woman like Betty, one never knew when she would turn violent.

“Nothing definite,” Betty said.

“That's all right. All rumours are welcome.” Watters withdrew, to perch on one of the benches with his cane in front of him, tapping the weighted end on the floor as a reminder that he, too, carried a weapon. “There's no smoke without fire,”

Betty's glower would have scared a man with less experience than Watters. “I heard somebody murdered Forsyth because of a woman.”

“A woman?” Watters asked, trying to hide his surprise. “What sort of woman?”

Betty shrugged. “The female sort. I heard he had been with the wrong woman and crossed the wrong man.”

“I would not argue with that,” Watters said. “He crossed the wrong man, and the wrong man killed him. Do you know who that man was? Or that woman?”

“No.” Betty shook her head too emphatically.

“No. You might not know, but you do suspect,” Watters said. “Who was it, Betty?”

“Not a local man.” Betty began to smear grease again. “He doesn't drink here.”

Removing a crown piece from his pocket, Watters slid it over the table towards Betty, then slammed his hand on top, hiding the silver. “Tell me more, Betty.”

Licking her lips, Betty shrugged. “I don't know much more, Sergeant Watters. I just heard that Mr Forsyth paid attention to the wrong woman and somebody sent a man to kill him.”

Somebody sent a man to kill him. That is ominous. “The wrong woman? And who sent the man?”

“That's all I heard, Sergeant Watters.”

Watters lifted his hand, allowing Betty to snatch the silver coin. “Thank you, Betty.” He stood, raising his cane. As he reached the door, and he knew Betty would be off-guard, he turned around. “Just one more thing, Betty. You did not mention the women. Who were they?”

He saw Betty give a little start as if surprised. “Women?”

“Yes, the women who were involved in the murder. Do you know who they were?” Watters returned to the pub, pulling another crown piece from his pocket.

“I don't know.” Betty looked at Watters' coin with lust.

“How many were there?” Watters held the coin between his thumb and forefinger. “You knew there were women, don't you?” He saw Betty's arm twitch as she contemplated the crown. She reached forward, hesitated, and pulled back as a shadow crossed her face.

“No,” Betty said.

“If you ever remember.” Watters replaced the crown in his pocketbook. “Be sure to let me know.”

Fear, he told himself as he stepped into the street. That was the shadow on Betty's face. She was too scared to say anything about the women. Something, or somebody, was spreading fear through Dundee. First, there was Charles Graham, and now Arbroath Betty. Neither were people who scared easily. Swinging his cane, Watters walked on. He had made progress, but he did not like the direction in which this case was moving.

* * *

There were two types of pawn shops in Dundee, which Watters called the “big pawns” and the “wee pawns.” The big pawns were reputable offices whose managers and owners were relatively respectable, scanned the police notices for lists of stolen items and tried to retain their licences. The wee pawns were not always so honest, small, often one-man or one-woman shops that operated on the very fringe of legality and catered for the very poor. It was the latter that Watters concentrated on, asking about clothes that matched those Forsyth generally wore. The sort of people who used the wee pawns would not be interested in Forsyth's missing golf clubs, except as offensive weapons.

The first three shops yielded nothing, and Watters entered the fourth, at the corner of Gellatly Street, just as evening was dimming the sky, and the night-people were emerging from their dens.

“Good evening.” Watters swung his cane, smiling at the balding man who ran the office. As in many wee pawns, the manager had raised the floor behind the counter, so he appeared taller, giving him a physical and psychological advantage over his customers.

“Evening.” The manager ran a suspicious gaze over Watters. “I run an honest shop.”

“You know I'm a policeman then,” Watters said.

“I can spot a bluebottle a mile away, even in disguise.”

Watters laughed. “Many habitual criminals can do that. It's a sign of a guilty conscience. You are right; I am Sergeant Watters of the Dundee Police.” He began to peruse the racks of clothing that filled a third of the small shop. “You have a fine selection of clothes here.”

“What are you looking for, peeler?”

“Light brown trousers, brown boots and a short grey jacket.” Watters did not mention the scarf. “They will have been handed in sometime in the last few days, honestly or dishonestly.”

“Common enough clothes,” the balding man said. “I might have some in stock.”

“They'd be good quality.” Watters ran his cane along the nearest rack, lifting the odd item of clothing here and there. “Maybe a wee bit worn.” He looked around. “The longer I am here, the more possibility that I will find stolen items.”

The manager grunted, recognising the implied threat. “Somebody handed in a collection of clothes like that this morning. I didn't know anybody would steal them. They were not worth much.” He scratched his head. “I paid out sixpence for them, I think.”

“Where are they now?”

“Here.” The manager rummaged for a few moments and unearthed the items from a box beneath the counter. “Good quality clothing, although well worn.” He looked up. “We don't get offered much stolen clothing,” he said. “The thieves keep the best so they can appear successful, flash, even, and the rest is on the racks.”

Watters checked the jacket, as the manager had said, it was good quality and well-worn, the sort of clothing he would expect a gentleman to wear if he was careful with his money or wore them only for his hobby.

“Who handed these in?” Watters looked up, smiling.

The manager grunted. “I thought you'd ask that. Yes, I do keep records, Sergeant.” Diving under the counter, he pulled out a large, paperboard-bound journal. “Here we are. Mrs Anne Jane MacDonough.”

“Is it a real name or a false one?”

The manager shook his head. “I don't know. Probably false. They often add a middle name to prove they are genuine when they're the opposite. The woman said they were her husband's old clothes.”

“I can check for the name,” Watters said. “I'll take these with me. How many women were there?”

The manager looked confused. “How many? Just one. Do you think this MacDonough fellow had more than one wife?”

“Could you describe her?”

The manager screwed up his face. “No. Just a woman. Well enough dressed, from what I remember, respectable anyway. She was well-spoken.”

“Would you say she was a common thief?”

“What's a common thief, Sergeant?” The manager gave a hint of a smile. “Any respectable woman can turn to theft if she loses her position and her children are hungry.”

Watters nodded, knowing that was true. “Would you say Mrs MacDonough was of the Criminal Class, then?”

“No,” the manager said at once. “I would not say that. I would say she was well set-up.”

“Hair colour?”

“From what I could see under her hat, she was blonde.”

“Did she give an address?” Watters asked.

“Aye.” The balding man checked his journal. “Seventeen Baltic Street.”

“Thank you.” Watters left the pawnshop with the bundle of clothes under his arm.

“Hey!” the manager said. “I paid for them!”

“Think yourself lucky I am not charging you with dealing with stolen property,” Watters said. He sighed, turned around and tossed a silver threepenny to the manager. “No wonder I've never any money left.”

Watters was satisfied with his day. He had made better progress than he expected, finding the clothes. The name and address would no doubt be false, but the description was not. Tucking the bundle of clothes under his arm, Watters swung his cane, watching an imaginary golf-ball travel towards an imaginary green.