Murder in Adland (17 page)

*

‘What do
you reckon then, bonny lass?’

Skelgill
and DS Jones have returned to the canteen.  DS Jones is studying the
blackmail demand, still inside its protective wallet.

‘Whoever
wrote this didn’t pay attention in English class.’

‘Why not?’

She reads
aloud from the letter.

‘Here, Guv
– it says, “One week to get the cash in” – that’s not ideal.’

‘How come?’

DS Jones
glances at Skelgill with the exaggerated look of a schoolmarm.

‘Never end
a sentence with a preposition, Guv.’

‘And what’s
one of them when it’s at home?’

DS Jones
opens her palms in a gesture of explanation.

‘You know,
Guv – with, by, at, on, from... and
in
.’

Skelgill
purses his lips thoughtfully.

‘So are you
telling me I shouldn’t say, “This is the rod I caught a twenty pound pike on?”’

‘Technically,
Guv.’

Skelgill
scowls.

‘On this
rod, I caught a twenty pound pike?’

‘I suppose
that’s more like it, Guv.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘Me mates
would think I’ve lost the plot.’

DS Jones
grins.

‘Still, Guv
– it might help us to narrow down the identity of the blackmailer.’

Skelgill
nods reluctantly.  DS Jones continues.

‘Who do you
think is most likely, Guv?’

Skelgill
appears unwilling to provide an answer.  DS Jones persists.

‘I was
thinking Smith’s the obvious candidate, Guv – we know he’s after money
– and I bet he’s still got access to the London office – he could
easily have slipped the envelope into the mail system – say on Thursday
night.’

Skelgill
blinks and widens his eyes at this suggestion.

‘So what
does Smith know about Elspeth Goldsmith that would make her cough up ten
grand?’

Skelgill’s
tone is sceptical, but DS Jones is not deterred.

‘Well
– maybe he’s trying it on, Guv.  She knows her husband is a suspect
in the case.  And she can’t be one hundred per cent sure he wasn’t
involved.  All the blackmailer has to do is pretend he knows something
that will incriminate Dermott Goldsmith.  So she pays up to silence him.’

Skelgill is
thirstily drinking down his mug of tea – it looks like the kind of
operation that can’t be interrupted – but he raises his eyebrows to
acknowledge her suggestion.  He puts down the mug and wipes his mouth with
his sleeve.

‘It’s a
neat little scenario – but how about the really obvious candidate?’

‘You mean
Julia Rubicon, Guv?  I know it would have been easiest for her to plant
the envelope.’

Skelgill is
shaking his head.

‘Julia
Rubicon, Krista Morocco, Melanie Stark – Dermott Goldsmith, even –
it could have been any of them – or any of the other staff.’

DS Jones
seems perplexed.

‘So who’s
the obvious one, Guv?’

‘Her
Ladyship.’

‘Elspeth
Goldsmith?’

‘Aye.’

‘But why,
Guv?  Why would she send a blackmail note to herself?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Maybe she
told us that – what was it she said?  Throw us off the scent.’

DS Jones
nods.  Skelgill rises and picks up the wallet file.

‘I’ll take
this along to forensics – there’s a couple of things I want to check with
them.  Catch up with you in my office – around four.’

‘Sure,
Guv.’

Skelgill
departs the canteen.  His route takes him through reception, where he
holds open a door for an attractive young WPC.  As his gaze follows her
departure, a voice barks a reprimand.  It is George, the desk sergeant.

‘Behave
yourself, Skelly.’

Skelgill feigns
innocence and begins to cross the foyer.

‘Skelly,
lad – I’m gannin’ fishing on the Eden, Wednesday night – if you
fancy coming with?’

As Skelgill
is passing through the opposite doors, he turns back and gives a qualified
thumbs up.

‘George.’

‘Aye?’

‘Never end
a sentence with a preposition.’

*

DS Jones
arrives on time for their four p.m. catch-up to find Skelgill listening
intently on the telephone.  He signals for her to enter and take a seat. 
He ends the call with the words, ‘Okay then, mate, send it through and we’ll
have a look at it.’

Then he
folds his hands on the desk and regards his colleague with a perplexed
expression.

‘We have a
coincidence.’

‘Guv,
that’s just what I was thinking.’

‘Aye?’

‘As I came
past reception – George called me over – he’s the second person
today to ask me what a preposition is.’

Skelgill shakes
his head.

‘But mine
is more serious, Jones.  Krista Morocco just walked into Charing Cross
police station with a blackmail note just like Lady Goldsmith’s.  They’re
scanning it now.  Same wording except they asked for five thousand instead
of ten.’

DS Jones
looks keenly at Skelgill.

‘In a way,
Guv, I’m surprised they only asked Elspeth Goldsmith for ten.  That watch
she was wearing would more than cover it on its own.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows – perhaps he did not notice, for such statements of rank
are wasted upon him.

‘Guv
– it supports your opportunist theory.  Some chancer just trying it
on.’

‘Aye maybe
– but it also opens up an interesting avenue.’

‘You mean
Krista Morocco, Guv?’

‘Well
– not necessarily her – but
who else
got a little letter but
has decided not to tell us?’

DS Jones
nods eagerly.

‘Why stop
at two?’

‘Who would
you send notes to?’

DS Jones
pushes back in her seat and crosses her legs.  The weather is warm again
and she wears just a sleeveless top and a short skirt.  The skirt rides up
but she does not appear to be self conscious as Skelgill’s gaze rests briefly her
thighs.

‘Well
– Dermott Goldsmith, for a start, Guv.  And Miriam Tregilgis. 
They’re the most obvious ones.  After that Julia Rubicon and Krista
Morocco.  I’m not sure about any of the others.’

Skelgill
nods.  He stares at her fixedly, as though he does not trust his eyes to
be allowed to wander elsewhere.

‘Then if
you were on the receiving end of a blackmail letter, what would you do?’

DS Jones
ponders for a moment – she seems a little intrigued by his attention.

‘It would depend,
Guv.  I mean – if I had nothing to hide I’d just come forward. 
I think.’

‘You
think?’

DS Jones
nods slowly.

‘I suppose
some people might believe there’s a risk of incriminating themselves –
knowing the police are looking to pin the crime somewhere.’

Skelgill
affects injury.

‘As if.’

‘If I had
done it, Guv – depending upon what I thought the blackmailer knew –
I might try to get rid of them.’

Skelgill
seems rather alarmed by this prospect.

To many
people Penrith might seem an out-of-the-way place.  However, you can hop
on a train in this small Cumbrian town and, not much over three-and-a-half
hours later, find yourself in the centre of London without having left your
seat.  Thus Skelgill and DS Jones have opted for the iron road to the
capital, rather than suffer the delays and monotony of the motorway, with its
attendant frustration of having to watch helplessly the acts of blind stupidity
and blatant law-breaking taking place on all sides.

The train,
though, is not without its human irritations.  While Skelgill has insisted
their budget will stretch to the relative privacy of first class, now they have
crossed the Cheshire plain, their carriage has filled with anxious businessmen,
perspiring uncomfortably in their already-crumpled dark suits, wrestling ostentatiously
with large newspapers and barking loudly into their mobiles (unnecessarily, if
Skelgill’s irritated reaction is anything to go by, overusing the expression
‘Alright
Cock’)
.

It is
Tuesday of the second week.  The detectives have taken the window of
opportunity this journey affords to review the documents surrounding the
investigation – although in Skelgill’s case this has mainly taken the
form of gazing out of the window of the train at the passing countryside. 
Although the blackmail letters have introduced a thought-provoking new
dimension for the pair, as yet they sense no further enlightenment.  In
the absence of a murder weapon and an obvious fugitive, they appear to be faced
with a cluster of imperfect suspects who may have had their own reasons to
precipitate Ivan Tregilgis’s death, or at least to benefit from it. 
However, the danger with the matter of
motive
is that it is highly subjective
– what might to the beholder seem like an irresistible and burning
desire, to the person in question it may be an issue of no concern whatsoever.

And thus,
in the absence of any distinguishing forensic or circumstantial evidence,
Skelgill has little option but to drive the investigation forward along
speculative lines.  It is rather like taking pot luck with the map of the
London Underground, randomly hopping off at a station, and hoping there is
somebody hanging around with nothing better to do than provide useful
directions.

As if in fulfilment
of this metaphor, the two detectives arrive at noon at the Euston terminus. 
They do, however, have another destination in mind – an advertising
agency headquartered in Baker Street, of all places.  Skelgill has delegated
the job of navigation to DS Jones, and now as they alight upon the platform he sniffs
the air, rather like an animal emerging from hibernation (the aroma of fresh
doughnuts perhaps has something to do with this).  They pass the great
reptilian locomotive, its malevolent headlamp-eyes glowing a brooding red, and
cross the main concourse where a silent multitude stares perplexed at the
departures board, as a skilfully muffled announcer contributes additional
disinformation.

‘Where are
we going?’

‘Euston
Square, Guv – it’s a different tube station – further up the road
– confusing isn’t it?’

‘Why don’t
they call it something else?’

‘That’s the
sort of common-sense thing only the Americans would do.’

They pass out
of the station into a seventies-style open-air precinct surrounded by office
buildings, where a scattering of modern-art pieces and solitary people on
mobiles frozen in various listening poses form a surprisingly congruous
exhibition.  Reaching the broad pavement on the north side of Euston Road,
Skelgill is clearly struck by the sheer volume of traffic jamming what is in
places an eight-lane urban highway, a clogged artery relentlessly exchanging
precious oxygen for unseen fumes.  He marvels at the plane trees, which
seem to thrive in this pollution-rich environment.  An ambulance, its
plaintive siren appealing for cooperation, is hopelessly stuck somewhere among
the vehicles that have nowhere to go.

Just ahead
of them a stream of pedestrians is vacuumed into an entrance beneath a red
Underground sign.  As he and DS Jones join the press, he glances about,
conscious that the predominantly
Manc
accents of the train journey have
been replaced by the more bellicose London brogue. 
‘I ain’t got no
manny,’
complains a harsh female voice just behind him.  Two stops on
a waiting train, standing and swaying, find them clip-clopping through the
echoing Victorian labyrinth that is Baker Street station.  Skelgill gazes
around, as though these august surroundings will bring him inspiration –
if only he can detect the essential clue that hovers so tantalisingly within
his grasp.

Baker
Street itself is alternately deafeningly busy and uncannily silent, as pulses
of its one-way traffic are released by successive sets of lights.  It is
during one of the noisier intervals that they come upon a large and rotund
traffic warden mid-confrontation with a small, slim, fair-skinned girl attached
to a great mass of frizzy flame-coloured hair that would threaten to lift her
in a moderate breeze.  Though their voices are drowned out by the roar of
engines and the rumble of tyres, hostilities are evidently quite well advanced,
and the girl appears to be winding up for a punch.  Skelgill and DS Jones
make a precautionary detour towards the ill-matched pair, but to their evident
relief the girl settles for tearing the ticket in half in front of the dumbfounded
warden’s face, throwing the pieces on the ground, stamping upon them, and
marching belligerently away.

The
detectives watch as she crosses the wide pavement and bangs through a pair of
smoked-glass doors of a nearby building.  Skelgill pats the perspiring
warden on the shoulder and stoops to collect the scuffed remnants of the
ticket.  Then he and DS Jones follow in the girl’s tracks – for she
has entered the magnificent premises of
WNKR Advertising.

‘What is it
with all these initials?’

Skelgill hisses
his question as they cross the airy and minimally furnished reception hall.

‘Apparently
the advertising boys all like to have their names over the door –
initials is the only way they’ll fit.’

Skelgill
looks around rather disparagingly.

They are signed
in and directed to a broad cream sofa that has clearly been designed with
something other than sitting comfortably in mind.  In front of them a bank
of TVs continuously screen commercials, presumably created by
WNKR
Advertising
.  Skelgill – a man who watches precious little
television and who associates the commercial break with putting on the kettle
– seems thoroughly unimpressed.  However, his attention is captured
as a crowd of people emerge from a lift and begin an elaborate ritual of
shaking hands and kissing.  It appears that this is a client-agency
farewell, following a successful meeting.  The agency staff are
exclusively female: young, slim, blonde, tanned, black-clad in close-fitting skirts
and tops, with impeccable finishing school accents.  Their clients,
conversely, are male and older, and are dressed in ill-fitting off-the-peg
business suits and cheap shoes, and carrying scuffed briefcases.  Despite
their apparent disadvantage, it is the males who are on the receiving end of the
flattery, any comments they might make being greeted by choruses of “Super” and
“Absolutely”.

Skelgill
leans across to DS Jones.

‘Look at
that, Jones – the gentry picking the pockets of the working classes.’

DS Jones
grins.

‘Notice the
smart ones are all women, Guv.’

‘Not all of
us, I’m glad to say.’

This voice
comes from behind them.  They turn to see a man standing close by –
he has made a clandestine approach by means of a small service lift marked
‘Goods Only.’  He leans forward, hand outstretched.

‘Gary Railston-Fukes. 
Client Services Director.’

As they
travel with him to the fourth floor, they take in his appearance, no doubt
drawing appropriate conclusions.  His clothes are casual but clearly
expensive, his haircut likewise; his build is average, overweight around the
face and midriff; his eyes, behind long lashes, are somewhat furtive; he bites
his nails, which are nicotine-stained, and there is a residual smell of the ashtray
about his person.  Still boyish, but showing signs of going to seed at the
premature age of thirty-four, Gary Railston-Fukes is a rare survivor from the
days when Ivan Tregilgis had worked and learned his craft at this same agency,
including the period during which Krista Morocco numbered among Ivan’s
clients.  DS Jones’s team at HQ has identified Railston-Fukes as someone
who can perhaps shed more light on the relationships of that time.

‘Fly
down?’  Railston-Fukes speaks at last, as though he feels he ought to say
something.

‘Train.’

‘Shambles
aren’t they?’  Railston-Fukes does not wait for a reply.  ‘Privatise
some sense into them, I always used to say – but they’ve botched that and
left a worse mess.  You should try commuting by rail down here. 
National disgrace.’

His voice
is clipped, his accent somewhere between Harrow and the Old Kent Road, though
it is difficult to tell which half is affected.  His resting facial
expression seems to feature a self-satisfied sneer.

‘Last door
on the right.’

Railston-Fukes
ushers them ahead of him along a broad, thickly carpeted corridor between
floor-to-ceiling walls of smoked glass.  His office is of the same
construction; you can see out but not in.  Skelgill looks like he is
wondering about the invisible denizens of the opulent glazed suites they have
just passed.

‘Have a
seat.’

Railston-Fukes
slumps into his own swivel chair and rests his feet on an open drawer of his
desk, stretching out languidly and folding his hands across his midriff.

‘You wanted
to speak with me about Ivan Tregilgis?’

Skelgill
nods and indicates with an open palm that DS Jones will begin the questions.

‘You heard
of course that Ivan Tregilgis was murdered?’

‘The
marketing press were wetting themselves all last week.’  Railston-Fukes shakes
his head and grins to himself.  ‘Just like Ivan to go out with a bang.’

‘When did
you last have contact with him?’

Now Railston-Fukes
gives a wry smile, as if he likes the idea of being a possible suspect.

‘How does
eight years ago sound?’

‘Not since
he left here?’

Railston-Fukes
nods.

‘Provided you
mean contact of any substance?  Naturally I’ve seen him at the odd industry
bash – we generally exchanged slurred insults and best wishes.’

‘When was
the most recent occasion?’

‘Just
before Christmas.  His crew picked up a top creative award.’

‘Can you
think of any reason why someone might want to kill Ivan Tregilgis?’

Railston-Fukes
shrugs.

‘Jealousy?’

‘Could you
elaborate?’

‘Good
looking.  Talented.  Successful.  Rich.’  He squints, as
though he is accustomed to speaking through a veil of tobacco smoke.  ‘And
still had a woman on each arm at that last awards ceremony.’

‘Did you
recognise them?’

‘Krista
Jonsson, yeah. 
Morocco
, as she is now.’

‘And the
other?’

‘Never seen
her before.  Looked like a tart on hire for the night.’

His gaze
rests penetratingly upon DS Jones’s blouse; but she gives as good as she gets.

‘Are
you
jealous, Mr Railston-Fukes?’

‘Yeah.’ 
Perhaps surprisingly Railston-Fukes answers without hesitation or apparent
inhibition.  ‘But I’m not bitter.’

DS Jones
nods.

‘It’s hardly
grounds for murder, is it?’

‘Not in my
book, no.  But maybe somebody closer.’

‘Such as?’

‘Wife. 
Girlfriend.  Wife’s lover.  Girlfriend’s husband?’  He grins at
his own joke.  ‘What about that dork he set up with?’

‘Are you
referring to Dermott Goldsmith?’

Railston-Fukes
nods slowly.

‘It was no
surprise when Ivan told me he was starting his own shop – but when he
mentioned Goldsmith I thought I was hearing voices.’

‘What was
wrong with him?’

‘Nobody
could stand him.  Not the best qualification for this business.’

At this,
the detectives might be excused for querying Gary Railston-Fukes’s own rise to
seniority.

‘How do you
know about Dermott Goldsmith?’

‘He worked
here just before they broke away.’

‘For how
long?’

‘Under a
year, thank Christ.  He joined from
TW&TS
.’

‘Ivan
Tregilgis presumably got on well with him?’

Railston-Fukes
sighs.

‘He must
have seen something no one else could.’

‘How well
did you know Ivan Tregilgis?’