Murder in Adland (16 page)

In the far
corner of the site Skelgill finds Smith’s convertible beside one of the
caravans.  The car is empty and the curtains of the van are drawn. 
Skelgill notes the number – 88 – and continues driving.  He
returns to the shop and goes inside.  In the absence of customers, a
sullen youth at the counter is playing a game on his mobile phone.

‘I’m
interested in buying one of the caravans.  Number eighty-eight.  I
believe it’s for sale.’

The youth
transfers his empty gaze to Skelgill.

‘You’d have
to speak to the owner.’

‘And how
would I get in touch with him?’

For a
moment the youth’s expression suggests this is too demanding a question. 
Then he turns away and with a grunt brings down a ring binder from the shelf
behind him.  He hands it to Skelgill.

‘It’s in
there.  He hands it to Skelgill.

The file
contains a series of handwritten pages detailing the particulars of the various
proprietors.

‘Right.’

Skelgill
closes and returns the binder.  The youth seems unperturbed by his failure
to take a note of the contact details.

‘How often
does he use it?

‘What, the
owner?’

‘Aye.’

‘Hardly
ever.  His son stays sometimes.  Got a flash motor.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘Thanks.’

*

Skelgill’s
next port of call is the fish and chip shop patronised an hour or so earlier by
Smith.  Having availed himself of several of its offerings, he wipes his
hands on the wrapper and drives the short distance to Hunstanton police
station.  Here he makes the acquaintance of the local bobby with whom DS
Jones has been liaising, for the purpose of trying to verify Grendon Smith’s
alibi for last Saturday night.  Over a welcome pot of tea in the
staffroom, Skelgill outlines his day’s findings. While he is unable to shed any
more light on the murder investigation, he does provide the news that Smith is
masquerading as the son of a Mr Victor Collinson from West Bromwich, and
appears to have obtained a key to his caravan – indeed he might well be
apprehended there at this very moment.  Skelgill also details his
observations regarding Smith’s behaviour in the car park of the bird
reserve.  This is well received, following a spate of thefts of high-value
optical equipment from birders’ vehicles – most recently last Saturday
night.

Unconventional
as it is for a Detective Inspector to spend his Saturday off shadowing a
suspect, the kindly sergeant does not question Skelgill’s entreaty not to
mention his presence in Norfolk.  The officer does however inquire as to
Skelgill’s plans for accommodation – but he has none – he is going
home.  It is now seven-thirty, and with a fair wind the stroke of midnight
should find him back in Cumbria.  Having taken his leave, Skelgill pauses
at the rear of his car to change his walking boots into something more suitable
for driving.  As he does so, the sound of an over-revved engine attracts
his attention – and flashing past, comfortably exceeding the speed limit,
is Smith’s red convertible.  It is heading south.

Skelgill
quickly climbs aboard and sets off in pursuit.  It is still a couple of
hours to dusk, and the crisp evening air affords good visibility.  The
stretch of coast road that runs parallel to the east side of the Wash is
largely straight and true, and Skelgill has no need to get too close. 
Smith’s route takes him onto the Snettisham bypass, and through the oak woods
of Sandringham estate, thence down to the main junctions at King’s Lynn. 
On this latter stretch Skelgill finds himself closing on Smith and, indeed, when
they eventually reach the island where Smith will take the A10 south and
Skelgill the A47 west, he approaches to within thirty yards.

Entering
the roundabout first, Smith veers off as expected.  Just as Skelgill crosses
behind, an arm snakes out of the driver’s window of Smith’s roadster and gives a
sporting farewell.  Or is it a V-sign?

It is 12:15
p.m. on Monday.

‘Guv -
guess what?’

‘What?’

Skelgill’s
reply is glum sounding.

‘Something
to cheer you up.’

‘I am
cheered up.’

‘You don’t
look it, to be honest Guv.’

‘You should
have seen me in the pub last night.’

DS Jones
smiles charitably.

‘The Met
have just been on – when Grendon Smith claims he was driving to Norfolk
the evening before the murder, his car was caught by a speed camera heading
west out of London – roughly the opposite direction, I’d say.’

Skelgill lifts
his melancholy gaze from his lunch plate and stared at DS Jones.  His eyes
are bloodshot and he looked tired.

‘Was he
inside or outside the M25?’

DS Jones ponders
for a moment.

‘It would
have been inside, why?’

‘Well,
maybe he was just going out of town that way.’

‘Not from
Pentonville – surely he would have headed north?’

‘We don’t
know where he started from.  What if he was already over that side of
London?  He’d have taken the shortest route to the M25 and then driven
round clockwise to pick up the M11.’

DS Jones
persists.

‘Guv
– he could have been going to see Ron Bunce.’

‘Jones
– it wasn’t Smith.  I just know it.’

‘Well the
Norfolk lads still haven’t managed to find any sign that he was there.’

Skelgill
sighs.  As he had anticipated, Friday’s meeting with the Chief had gone
about as smoothly as the famously knobbly summit of Haystacks.  A brutal
killing on their doorstep and the culprit was still at large.  In fact not
even a prime suspect.  No arrests.  No murder weapon.  Two
costly searches.  And Skelgill swanning about the country clocking up
expenses.  To rub salt in the wounds he gets himself in
The Scot
sman
for apprehending one of Edinburgh’s local villains.  What was she supposed
to tell her superiors – and the press – clamouring for an
answer?  Her red hair had never looked so fiery and her pale blue eyes
never so icy.  Thus it had been out of some desperation that he had acted
upon DS Jones’s intuition and spent the best part of his weekend in East
Anglia.

‘Think we
should pull someone in, Guv – even if we get the wrong person it might
put the real killer off guard?  And it would take the heat off for a
while.’

Skelgill
sets about a sausage with grim determination – though certainly not his
usual enthusiasm.  Not patient by nature, if a lifetime of fishing has
taught him one thing, it is that if you strike too soon you risk spoiling your
chances for good.  Spook the fish, reveal your presence, and you may never
get a second bite.  There is something in this maxim that applies to
police work, and at times it makes him – one of the most decisive officers
in the force – appear uncharacteristically becalmed.  He shakes his
head and chews broodingly.

‘We need a
break, Guv.’

‘Hey up,
Skelly!’  The balding pate of George, the Desk Sergeant, is poking around the
door of the canteen.  ‘You’ve got a visitor – Interview Room
3.  Bewaldeth case.’

*

As Skelgill
and DS Jones enter a few minutes later they find Elspeth Goldsmith in the act
of brushing crumbs from her lap, having eaten the plate of digestive biscuits supplied
by George for all to share.

‘Mrs
Goldsmith.’  Skelgill shakes her hand and takes a seat across the
table.  ‘To what do we owe the pleasure?’

Elspeth
Goldsmith composes herself, and intertwines her small chubby fingers like an
arrangement of chipolatas.

‘Well, as
it happens I would have been passing anyway, Inspector.  You see, there’s
a whole heap of our stuff still at the hotel – the music system, outdoor
games – that sort of thing.’

‘And you
were coming down to collect it?’

‘It’s only
a couple of hours from Ravelston, Inspector.’

Skelgill
nods, and waits to see if she will be more forthcoming, but it seems she wants
to be invited.

‘So... er,
what exactly did you want to see us about?’

Now she rubs
her hands together excitedly and reaches down into her bag.

‘This
morning, Inspector,’ (she pauses for dramatic effect) ‘I received this.’

And with a
flourish she produces a clear polythene wallet that holds a single sheet of
white A4 paper.

‘The
envelope is at the back.’

Skelgill takes
the wallet and places it on the table between himself and DS Jones.  In
the centre of the page are printed the words, “
£10K OR THE COPS FIND
OUT.  ONE WEEK TO GET THE CASH IN.  AWAIT INSTRUCTIONS.  TELL
NOBODY.”
  Skelgill turns the wallet over to see the envelope.  It is
printed in the same typeface, “
PRIVATE & CONFIDENTIAL – MRS E
GOLDSMITH.”
  There is no address, stamp or postmark.

‘Where was
this delivered?’

‘It was in
Dermott’s pigeon-hole at the office – post for me gets put in there,
too.’

‘This morning?’

Elspeth
Goldsmith nods.

‘I made a flying
visit at about nine-thirty to collect our mail.’

‘Had it
been opened?’

‘No,
Inspector.’

‘And there
wasn’t one of these for your husband?’

‘No.  I
opened all of his – just routine correspondence.’

‘Who else
has seen it?’

‘Nobody.’

‘How about
Mr Goldsmith?’

‘He’s in
London today – caught the red-eye.’

‘Have you
phoned him?’

She shakes
her head.

‘It’s a big
client powwow – strictly phones off.’

‘So nobody
else knows about this?’

Again she
shakes her head.

‘So I
thought I should tell you ASAP – and since I was almost literally driving
right past...’

Skelgill
crunches the chewing-end of his biro.  He taps the envelope, still inside its
clear wallet.

‘This has
no address on it, Mrs Goldsmith.  Any idea how it got there?’

‘Julia
Rubicon arrived first and she took the post upstairs, and then one of the
juniors sorted it out when she got in at nine.  She thinks she remembers a
‘Private & Confidential’ envelope – but she can’t recall whether it
was just lying loose with the rest of the items delivered by the Royal Mail, or
if it came in the zip-pouch from the London office.  Apparently Julia had
already opened it to extract her own letters, and she’d tipped all of the
contents out onto the post table – so the two lots were more or less
mixed up.  I asked Julia, but she says she didn’t notice it at all.’

Skelgill nods
approvingly.

‘Very
thorough, Mrs Goldsmith.’

Elspeth
Goldsmith looks pleased with herself.

DS Jones
raises a question.

‘When was
Mr Goldsmith’s pigeon-hole last emptied?’

‘Dermott
brought back all the mail on Friday evening.’

‘And was
anyone in the office over the weekend?’

‘Not
according to Julia.’

‘So this
envelope was either posted by hand through the front door in Edinburgh –
after the office closed on Friday evening – or it came in the internal
mail pouch sent from the London office on Friday?’

‘That seems
to be about it, Inspector.  I put it in the plastic wallet – in case
there are fingerprints?’

She waits
eagerly for more praise, but Skelgill’s mind has moved on.

‘Who do you
think sent it to you?’

Elspeth
Goldsmith’s eyes widen in surprise.

‘Good Lord,
I have no idea, Inspector.’

Skelgill
frowns.

‘Surely you
must have your suspicions?’

Elspeth
Goldsmith folds her arms, as if she suspects he may be humouring her.

‘Really,
Inspector – I don’t have a clue.’

Skelgill
throws her a doubting glance.

‘Surely
madam – you’ve just had a couple of hours in the car to think about it
– who’s the most likely person?’

She
considers for a moment.

‘Well, to
be honest, Inspector, under normal circumstances I would have said Ivan.’

Skelgill
raises a questioning eyebrow.

‘Inspector,
it would just be like one of his practical jokes.  Not long ago he left a
toilet roll in the ladies’ loo in the Edinburgh office.  He’d put a
printed sticker on the cardboard tube and wound the tissue back on.  It
said something like,
“Call now, you’ve won a car!”
– and the
person who used the last of the roll was taken in by the hoax – it turned
out to be a
Mercedes
showroom in London – but of course they knew
nothing about it.’

The flicker
of a grin crosses Skelgill’s lips – it looks like he has a good idea of
the identity of the sucker in question.

‘And do you
think this is a practical joke?’

‘Well
– my immediate reaction was that it must be.’

‘And now?’

‘Well
– it’s not funny, is it?’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘What does
it mean?’

‘
Mean
,
Inspector?’

‘Aye.’

‘Well, er
– it’s – asking for money – ten thousand pounds.’

‘But why
– what are they getting at?  What will the cops find out?’

Elspeth
Goldsmith rocks to and fro in her chair and makes a face of bewilderment.

‘Your guess
is as good as mine, Inspector.  I certainly haven’t done anything
wrong.  Being successful isn’t a crime, is it?’

Skelgill
shakes his head patiently.

‘Of course
not, Mrs Goldsmith.  But perhaps you know something – for instance
about the company – that would be embarrassing if it became public?’

‘I really
can’t think what that might be.’

‘How about,
for instance, the proposed sale to the Americans?’

Elspeth
Goldsmith shakes her head, her expression blank.

‘You see
madam, we have it on good authority that the company was due to be sold last
week – surely your husband would have mentioned that to you?’

Again there
is the shake of the head.  Perhaps now, however, there is the faintest
narrowing of her small brown eyes.

‘I’m completely
in the dark on that one, I’m afraid.’

‘Not even
an inkling?  If I recall, you described yourself as your husband’s sounding
board.’

Elspeth
Goldsmith affects to clear her throat, perhaps to buy a moment or two in which
to form a response.

‘Well,
something as significant as selling the company – it would be kept on a
need-to-know basis, Directors only.  Ivan could be quite touchy about
confidentiality.’

Skelgill does
not seem entirely convinced by this explanation.  However, plainly he does
not wish to alarm her.  He leans back in his seat and assumes a relaxed
posture.

‘You
mentioned you’re a bit of an amateur sleuth yourself, Mrs Goldsmith.’ 
(She nods, eagerly now, as if this line of questioning is more to her
taste.)  ‘Have you formed any theories?’

Elspeth
Goldsmith draws herself up and inhales, a little wheezily.

‘Well
– of course – I’ve been trying to work out the murderer’s modus
operandi – and, well, naturally when I arrived and there was Miriam all
covered in blood and screaming, I thought she’d finally snapped and stabbed
Ivan – but you would have arrested her by now?’  (Skelgill nods for
her to continue.)  ‘So I wondered if perhaps you are getting close to the
real killer and he or she has written this to throw you off the scent?  I
did actually consider not mentioning it – in case it became a
distraction.’

Skelgill
shakes his head decisively.

‘No –
you did the right thing in coming to us, madam.’

There is a
silence; Skelgill seems to be waiting to see if Elspeth Goldsmith has anything
to add, and in due course he is proved correct.

‘And, er...
Inspector –
does
it fit with anything you have found out?’

Skelgill
begins to nod slowly, although this reaction is at odds with his rather oblique
response.

‘I really
can’t say, madam.’

Elspeth
Goldsmith looks a little crestfallen.

‘What
should I do, Inspector?’

 ‘I’d
like you to work closely with us on this one, Mrs Goldsmith.’  Skelgill
scoops together the plastic wallet with his own papers, and makes as if to
rise.  ‘I suggest we try not to put whoever sent it on their guard. 
So I would prefer if you didn’t mention it to anyone – including your husband. 
And then we just wait.  The minute you hear anything, get in touch –
my colleague will give you our mobile numbers.  And whatever you do, don’t
try to act alone – you could place yourself in serious danger.’