Murder in Adland (10 page)

‘So did it
come to anything?’

‘Well, it
was a strange sort of interview.  When I thought about it afterwards I
realised he hadn’t asked about my own achievements – it was more how I
interacted with the principals – Ivan and Dermott – and the kind of
systems and procedures that we use.  He finished off by saying thanks and
that he was coming over to London at the end of June, and would like to meet me
then, and would be in touch.’

‘So what
struck you as unusual?’

‘Frankly, I
felt he was more interested in the company than in me.  And he asked me not
to mention our conversation to Ivan or Dermott.  Now if you’re in the
middle of getting a new job with a competitor, the last person you tell is your
boss.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘So are you
saying you think this American firm is trying to buy Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates?’

‘It seems
that way – and we’re known as one of the best independents in the
country.  There’s no Creative Director with more awards than Ivan.’

‘And would
the company be for sale?’

‘I don’t
know – it’s not something Ivan ever mentioned.  But it is the normal
thing in advertising – you start your own shop – build it up, sell
it to a big company – and disappear into the sunset.’

Her eyes begin
to well up again, but she fights against whatever deep urge rises and retains
her composure.

‘Ms Morocco,
I take it you have this American’s details?’

‘Sure, the
number’s saved on my phone.’

She reaches
for her handset; it has been lying silenced on the table before them –
and locates the contact.  She turns the screen so Skelgill can see it.

‘Ford
Zendik?  Sounds like one of my old cars.  Mind if I borrow your office
to give him a call?’

‘Not at
all, Inspector.’  At last there is a faint smile that threatens to trouble
the corners of her delicate mouth.  ‘But right now in Manhattan it’s
four-thirty a.m.’

‘I guess we
can stop asking about the underwear.’

DS Jones
grins at her superior – his tone seems to carry a mixture of relief and
disappointment.

‘Presumably
forensics will be able to tell us they’re brand new, Guv?’

Skelgill
nods, though not with total conviction.

‘So who put
them in Tregilgis’s bed?’

They both
shake their heads.

‘Convenient
amnesia regarding events after midnight, Guv.’

Skelgill
chews his lower lip.

‘She didn’t
try to talk her way out of anything she couldn’t explain.’

DS Jones
nods, and then she gestures at Skelgill’s empty mug.

‘Another
cuppa, Guv?’

But
Skelgill rises to pre-empt her.

‘It’s my
round.  You sit.’

They are in
a traditional West End sandwich-bar just a stone’s throw from Seven Dials. 
Skelgill joins the assembly of waiting customers and contemplates the
cryptically labelled fillings on display.  Somewhere behind the high
counter an indeterminate number of small Italians scuttle to and fro, every so
often pitching up a finished article for collection.  While Skelgill waits
he perhaps contemplates an image that grabbed his attention a few moments
earlier.  There are many photographs on the wall of Krista Morocco’s
private office – awards ceremonies, company nights out, outward-bound
activity days – and one of these is billed as
‘Client-Agency Cricket
Challenge’.
  It clearly dates from the period that Elspeth
Goldsmith had described – when Krista and Ivan Tregilgis worked for
separate firms and supposedly had a fling.  The pair stand at the edge of
a large group; a happily smiling Krista resting her head against Ivan’s left
shoulder, her right hand clearly visible clutching the other side of his
waist.  She looks puppy-like and positively radiant – a far cry from
the drawn and forlorn creature he has just encountered.

‘Guv.’

Skelgill is
sprung from the little cell in his mind – this is DS Jones’s
eureka!
voice.

‘Jones?’

She
brandishes a sheaf of papers – while she has been waiting for him to
queue she has been reading the autopsy report they picked up at Fettes
Avenue.  Her eyes are wide, though she speaks in hushed tones.

‘Tregilgis
wasn’t killed with the kukri.’

‘What are
you talking about?’

Skelgill
sits down opposite her and leans over the table.  DS Jones runs a finger
along a line in the report.

‘It says
the entry wound is consistent with a straight-edged blade at least five inches
long and no thicker than an inch at its widest.  It’s nothing like the
shape of a kukri.’

Skelgill
stares out of the window and across the road.  In another eatery, a
never-ending snake of sushi simultaneously circles and fattens its victims.

‘How did we
miss this?’

DS Jones
looks alarmed, but she holds out her hands in an appeal to common sense.

‘We’ve been
dashing about like crazy, Guv – and it was a natural conclusion to jump
to – a stabbed victim and a knife stolen and hidden nearby.’

Skelgill
nods reluctantly.

‘We’ll need
to get another search organised.  It can’t be too far away.’

DS Jones is
already tapping instructions into her smartphone.

Skelgill
raps his knuckles on the table.

‘What the
hell was that kukri doing in the cistern?’

DS Jones
glances up.

‘It could
be a diversionary tactic, Guv – to throw us off the scent – we did
call off the search as soon as it was found.’

Skelgill
shakes his head ruefully.

‘So, who
did it?’

‘A female?’

‘What?’

‘It was in
the ladies’ loo, Guv.’

It has not
escaped Skelgill’s eagle eye that both the Edinburgh and London offices of
Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates are predominantly staffed with attractive
females.  If this has been a deliberate recruitment criterion, Melanie Stark
has somehow slipped through the net.  It is not that she is ugly, but by
the average standard she is plain.  And there is something about her
pinched mouth and narrow eyes that give her a shrew-like appearance, as she
sits hunched across the desk, her gaze darting hungrily from one to the other
of the detectives.  DS Jones is conducting the interview.

‘And when
did you join the agency?’

‘Just over
six years ago.’

‘So that
makes you the second-longest-serving employee after Ms Morocco?’

Melanie Stark
nods eagerly.

‘And are
these company do’s a regular thing?’

‘Oh yes,
every year – sometimes twice if we’ve done particularly well.’

‘And how
did this year’s compare to previous ones?’

‘Pretty
similar – high spirits, posh nosh, unlimited free booze.’

‘You
mentioned in your statement there was some friction surrounding Mr Tregilgis.’

Melanie Stark
smirks primly.

‘Julia and
Krista fighting over Ivan.  Miriam pretending not to notice.  The usual
form.’

‘Could you
elaborate?’

‘Whenever
Krista gets drunk, she gets the devil in her – and winds up Julia –
by getting intimate with Ivan.  He couldn’t seem to resist her.  So
Julia would go crazy.’

‘Was she
drunk on Saturday night – Ms Morocco?’

‘Three
sheets to the wind – but who wasn’t?’

‘Do you
recollect people dancing with various of the tribal artefacts taken from the
lobby?’

‘Yes, that
was later on – a bit scary – all those masks and spears.  I
just had a set of tom-toms.’

‘How about Ms
Morocco?’

Melanie Stark
thinks for a moment.

‘It was a
head-dress – with strings of
Masai
beads that covered her
face.  I remember she shouted to me something about Lowlife.’

‘
Lowlife
?’

'It’s a pet
name for one of our
un-
favourite clients.  She was making stabbing
motions with a dagger.’

DS Jones
pauses to glance casually at her superior, but he affects not to notice.

‘Did you
see anyone else with a similar knife?’

Melanie Stark
shakes her head.

‘It was all
a bit of a blur – and we had the lights down low.’

DS Jones
nods and makes a note in her pocket book.

‘What
happened to all the ornaments?’

‘Ivan made
sure we put them back.  He always said in his opening speech about how we
should behave – so we would be welcomed back at any hotel we hired. 
I don’t mean he wasn’t up for a caper himself – he abseiled down a
stairwell at one place – but any gratuitous damage and he’d be really
upset.’

‘You said
Mr Tregilgis had a weakness for Ms Morocco.  What do you mean by that?’

‘They go
back a long way.  Krista once said Ivan had her on his conscience... from
when they went out together – but I suppose she told you about that?’

DS Jones
does not reply.  Instead she asks another question.

‘It seems
to be a widely held opinion that Mr Tregilgis and Ms Rubicon were having an
affair.  Is it possible he was involved with Ms Morocco at the same time?’

‘No
chance.’

‘How can
you be so certain?’

‘Krista
wouldn’t put herself in the position where Julia could manipulate her. 
Not after all the hassle she gave us.  Thankfully she used her charms on
Ivan and had Julia shipped to Scotland.’

‘You make
it sound like a deportation.’

‘Who would
voluntarily want Dermott breathing down their neck – literally?’

Melanie Stark’s
features crease into an expression of distaste.

‘He’s not
so popular?’

‘His habits
are rather schoolboy-like – something to do with being jealous of Ivan’s
charisma – but he doesn’t have a grown-up solution of his own.  Plus
he’s obsessively anal when it comes to work – for instance, he insists we
buy petrol in amounts divisible by the VAT rate to make it easy for the
book-keeper to do our expenses!’

At the
memory her expression becomes one of incredulity.

‘I gather
Mr Goldsmith is a diabetic?’

Now Melanie
Stark raises her eyebrows in a weary gesture.

‘Don’t we
all know it?’

‘Somebody
mentioned that they saw him at about a quarter to one – signalling that
he was about to go to give himself an insulin injection – did you happen
to notice him leave?’

Melanie Stark
shakes her head.

‘I’d be
surprised about that.  Normally we get a public display – usually at
the dinner table – never mind that half of us are nearly throwing
up.  And Elspeth revels in it, too.’

DS Jones
nods.

‘We’re told
she has an important role in the company.’

Melanie Stark
gives an ironic chuckle.

‘If by that
you mean all the crap that Dermott doesn’t want to do, then yes.’

‘Mrs
Goldsmith told us that she was “catching up on the gossip” with you on Saturday
night – Sunday morning in fact.’

‘Well,
knowledge is power, as they say.’

‘When
exactly was this?’

‘Just
before the big commotion.  We were leaning up against the bar eating some
leftover pudding that she’d rustled up.’

‘You didn’t
mention in your statement that you were with her just as Mr Tregilgis’s murder
was discovered.’

Melanie Stark
looks suddenly disconcerted.

‘I must
have got confused – I mean – when the policeman interviewed me I
hadn’t slept and I’d got a terrible hangover.  Seeing Ivan’s body –
and Miriam hysterical – it was such a shock – it was hard to
remember much before that.’

DS Jones
remains silent.  After a few moments Melanie Stark speaks again, her voice
strained as she directs the question at a brooding Skelgill.

‘Inspector
– you don’t think
I
had something to do with this, do you?’

Skelgill
rouses himself from his torpor and stares at her menacingly.  But then he
relents and shrugs his shoulders.

‘You sound
like you’re telling the truth to me, madam.’

The woman
visibly relaxes, and then she leans forward across the desk, as though she
wants to share something with them.  But she waits for the invitation.

‘Madam?’

‘About
Dermott – going to inject himself?’

‘Aye?’

‘My
husband’s diabetic – he would never do it at that time of night –
it could lower your blood sugars to a potentially fatal level.’