Murder in Adland (18 page)

‘I wouldn’t
say we were best mates – didn’t socialise outside work – but we shared
a few nights out with the same crowd.  We joined
WNKR
on the same
intake – did the same induction course.’

‘And did you
subsequently work together?’

‘Not
really.  I was in a different account group – fags and booze
clients.’

Here he
smirks, as if he realises there is no need to point out that this was manifestly
right up his street.

‘You
mentioned Krista Morocco – she was a client at the time?’

‘Of Ivan’s
group, yeah.’

‘And was
there a relationship outside of work?’

‘Your guess
is as good as mine.’

‘Not
really, Mr Railston-Fukes –
you
were there at the time.’

Railston-Fukes
changes his feet over with little regard for the furniture.

‘I only
ever saw her at client-agency shindigs.  We have annual cricket matches,
tennis, that sort of thing.  They obviously got on well – but that
was standard form with Ivan – charm the knickers off a nun.  Undying
love, though?’  He gives an indifferent shrug of the shoulders.

Skelgill
sits forward to speak, and DS Jones looks relieved to have a break. 
Railston-Fukes is hard work, aggressive and brash, and consistently sardonic.

‘There’s
just a couple more points, sir – we shan’t detain you much longer.’

‘Take as
long as you like.’  He casts an uncaring hand at his in-tray.  ‘Beats
my admin.’

Skelgill
seems torn between distaste and respect.  Railston-Fukes’s cynicism and
barely suppressed profanities are not endearing – but at least he appears
to be honest, and does not beat about the bush.

‘When
Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates was formed, did they take any of
WNKR’s
clients with them?’

‘Nope.’ 
Railston-Fukes grins with affected admiration.  ‘Hard to believe at the
time – a breakaway with zero business.  Hardly qualified as a
breakaway.’

‘Not even
Krista Morocco’s account?’

He shakes
his head.

‘No enemies
here, if that’s what you’re driving at.’

‘They must
have been confident of their abilities?’

‘Dammed
stupid, I thought – but what do I know?’

Skelgill
nods and moves to conclude the discussion.

‘Just one
last question, sir – is there anyone else still here who might have
worked with Ivan Tregilgis?’

Railston-Fukes
begins to shake his head, but then he obviously brings to mind a possibility,
for he raises a finger and reaches for his phone.  He dials an internal
number, and inhales as it is answered.

‘Mooro
– it’s Gary – did you join before Tregilgis left to set up
GT&A?’
 
There is a short pause before he continues.  ‘Got a couple of people like
to hear from you.’

‘Mooro’
– or
Planning Director, Marie O’Moore, according to the plate on her door – is
revealed to be none other than the combative redhead they had witnessed earlier,
ready to take on a traffic warden twice her size.  It appears she was
unaware of the watching detectives, at least going by her unconcerned reaction
as they enter her office.  Introductions completed, Skelgill begins to
lead the interview.

‘Ms O’Moore,
I understand you may have worked with Ivan Tregilgis in the past?’

‘Please
–’  She holds up a hand like a traffic cop.  ‘You must call me
Marie.’

‘Sure
– no problem – Marie.’

‘I did
indeed – and what a terrible tragedy.  I only pray you catch the
devil behind it all.’

Skelgill
nods several times, but before he can respond the girl suddenly stands up and
puts her hands on her hips.

‘I don’t
suppose that ignoramus Fukes offered you so much as a cup of tea?’

‘Er, no
– actually.’

‘And what
about food?  You’ll have a bite?  Don’t worry, I’ll find something.’

Skelgill
glances at DS Jones, who gives a non-committal shrug.  But he is beaming
happily – this is the sort of salesmanship of which he can only approve.

‘If it’s no
trouble, Marie?’

‘Of course
not.’  She reaches for her phone and taps out a number with long green
talons.  ‘How about you, Sergeant – would it be tea or coffee?’

‘Coffee,
please.’

Somebody now
answers and the girl smiles into the handset.

‘Hi,
Charlie – it’s Marie.  How’s it going now?  Grand.  Look
– thanks for that mountain of bacon rolls this morning – the client
crowd were in seventh heaven.’  (Skelgill puts a hand to his
stomach.)  ‘They’d had a heavy night, by all accounts.  That’s
right.  I know.  Now – I’ve got a couple of starving visitors
in my office.  Is there any chance you could rustle me up a plate of
sandwiches, a pot of tea and a skinny latte?’  She glances at DS Jones to
confirm her guess; the latter nods her approval.  ‘I already
do
owe
you, Charlie.  I shall – I promise – just remind me on the
night.  Thanks, Charlie – oh, and be sure to code it up to one of
Fukesey’s accounts now.’

‘Very kind
of you, Marie.’

‘Ach, it’s
no problem.’  She replaces the receiver and grins warmly.  ‘You can’t
go around catching criminals on an empty stomach, now.’

‘Which
brings me back to the original question, if we may.  You said, Marie, that
you once worked with Ivan Tregilgis?’

‘That’s
right, I did.’  She fixes her emerald eyes on his.  They seem to fill
with life and flicker with a light of their own.  ‘I grew up in a village
near Galway – have you been, by the way?’ (Skelgill shakes his head
apologetically.)  ‘You must – we’ve a beautiful cathedral. 
Then I studied media at Queen’s in Dublin and when I graduated, like most of my
contemporaries I headed across the water.  That would be about eight years
ago.  I started here on the trainee scheme – it meant I worked in
every department, so Ivan was my boss for a few months.  Great
feller.  Of course, he was a Celt, you know – Cornish.’

Skelgill
nods – as a Cumbrian Celt the provenance of the name Tregilgis has not
escaped him.

‘How long after
that did he leave?’

‘It was
actually while I was working for him.’  She pauses to reflect.  ‘You
know, Inspector – he asked me more than once to join him in the new
start-up.’

‘You
didn’t.’

Skelgill
says this as a statement – for it would seem to be obvious. 
Nonetheless, she shakes her head thoughtfully.

‘What put
you off?’

‘You know
– I was just wondering there... maybe if I’d joined them, this would
never have happened.’

‘How do you
mean?’

The Irish
eyes glisten, as though she recalls something of import from her past.

‘Ach
– just fate – I don’t know.’  She blinks a couple of times and
gathers herself.  ‘But to answer your question, Inspector – I just
didn’t think it was the right move for me at the time.  For your first
job, a big agency like this is ideal.  We have training programmes and
courses, and you get to work in various departments, so you can find a
discipline that suits you.  I really wanted to get a couple of years under
my belt here.  On top of that, I was interested in Planning, while Ivan wanted
to position the new shop as having a Creative edge.’

Skelgill
nods comprehendingly.

‘And where
did Dermott Goldsmith fit in?’

The girl
frowns.

‘That’s a
good question, Inspector – which I really can’t answer.  I didn’t
have too much to do with him, but he wasn’t the most popular one about the
agency.’

‘That seems
to be a fairly widely held view.’

‘Ach, he
was harmless really – once you got to understand him – the mind of
a teenager in the body of a man.  I’m sure he was talented an’ all –
but he didn’t take kindly to not getting his own way.  And there was all
that business about calling himself Lord.’

‘And did you
work directly with him?’

‘He was
never my line manager – but we were alongside one another in a project
team for a short while.’

‘Did you by
any chance have a client called Krista Jonsson, now Krista Morocco?’

The girl
nods, but just then there is a knocking and she rises and crosses to open the
door.

‘Come in,
Gina – that’s magnificent, now.  You’re a star – and say
thanks to Charlie for me.’

A woman in
a catering uniform bears a tray laden with sandwiches and their drinks.

‘Inspector,
Sergeant – I run a course in presentation skills and one of the first
things I teach is that you should never try to compete with the tea-lady
– so I think we should deal with this feast before we continue.’

Skelgill
nods approvingly, and moves his chair so the woman can get at the desk and
deposit her burden.  There is a small triplicate pad on the tray, and
Marie O’Moore leans over with her pen.  As Skelgill watches, she signs it
in the name “G. Railston-Fukes”, and winks as she catches his eye.  For a
couple of minutes she oversees the dispensing of plates, sandwiches, teas and
coffee, and settles down, with just a drink for herself.

Skelgill rotates
a ciabatta two-handed until he finds the most propitious angle of attack.

‘So what is
it you do here, Marie?’

She
prefaces her reply with a self-effacing grin.

‘Not a lot,
some would say.  But in a nutshell it’s all about identifying insights
that will help our ads engage the right people.’

‘Sounds
like we have something in common.’

The girl
shrugs.

‘I can’t
help feeling your job’s rather more worthy than mine, Inspector.’

‘I wish we
had your resources.’  Skelgill makes a sweeping movement with his sandwich
to indicate her hi-tec, high-spec environment.  ‘Have you ever seen inside
a police station?’

‘Only when
the guards invited us into their Christmas parties – under drinking age
we were, an’ all!’

Skelgill
grins, but the notion perhaps brings him back to matters closer to hand.

‘Marie
– we were talking about Krista Morocco.  What was the situation as
you remember it?’

The girl
leans back in her chair and runs slender fingers through the great fan of red
hair.

‘Things
were all going pretty smoothly, as I recall.  We were in the run-up to
making a new commercial, so there were a lot of meetings –
pre-production, casting, location checks and suchlike.’

‘And how
would you describe the people-relationships?’

‘Well,
Krista was a lovely client – and that’s a rare thing.  And she
always had a twinkle in her eye when she dealt with Ivan.’

‘Was there
anything between them?  At a personal level, I mean.’

Now the
girl rocks her head from side to side, and her keen eyes lose their sharp
focus.  It is as if she is replaying old events in her mind, and casting
about for a new perspective.’

‘It was
basically a professional relationship as far as I could see.  I’m not sure
how long they’d known each other before I joined.  Sure – they got
on well – but I never saw them do anything improper, so to speak.’

‘I gather
client-agency liaisons are frowned upon?’

The girl
grins.

‘It could
be an expensive bunk up if the client takes their bat home
and
their budget.’

Skelgill smiles
briefly, but his tone becomes more grave.

‘Marie, we believe
something from that time may have a bearing upon recent events.  Can you
remember anything that struck you as out of the ordinary – thinking
especially of Ivan Tregilgis, Dermott Goldsmith or Krista Morocco?’

Now she
slides her hands over her scalp, drawing her hair into a reluctant
ponytail.  A frown creases her brow, and she seems to wince as some memory
pricks her conscience.

‘Well,
now.  I recall once that Ivan had asked me to come up to his office. 
He never closed his door – he said he detested the barriers of rank, you
know?’  (Skelgill nods encouragingly.)  ‘Well, he must have taken a
phone call in the time it took me to get there – because I could hear his
voice as I came along the corridor.  Then just as I was putting my head
round the door he exclaimed, “What do you mean
baby
?”  She pauses,
and stares expectantly at Skelgill.

‘Go on.’

‘Well,
that’s it really.  As soon as he realised I was there he ended the call.’

‘Who was he
talking to?’

She shakes
her head, her great tresses recovering their body.

‘I don’t
know – but the way he said it – it didn’t sound like he was calling
a girlfriend
baby
.’

‘He didn’t
comment to you about it?’

‘Not a word
– but he seemed a bit ruffled.  I’d only just started working here
– and I didn’t know him so well then – but I never saw him like it
again.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘Okay,
that’s very interesting.  How about Dermott Goldsmith – anything
spring to mind?’

‘I do
remember once – when we were on a night out – a bit of a
celebration, after we’d got the ad in the can – I witnessed something of
an awkward moment between him and Krista Morocco?’

Her
inflexion suggests she wonders if this is the sort of thing Skelgill seeks, and
he nods for her to continue.

‘We were in
a crowded bar – there was a lot of noise.  I don’t quite know what
had passed between them, but as I approached I heard Krista say something like,
“I must be going deaf – I shan’t embarrass you by repeating what I
thought I just heard you say.”  She did it with a smile, but I could see
Dermott’s face was all contorted, like a naughty schoolboy being told off.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows, and for an anxious second looks like he can identify with
the circumstances.  Marie O’Moore continues.

‘He turned
round and went out – to the toilets, I suppose – and Krista leaned
over to me and said, “Boys will be boys.”  I think she thought I’d heard
more than I had.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘And was
there ever anything beyond that, between the two of them – that you were aware
of?’

The girl
grins.

‘There was
more chance of Dermott catching hold of a leprechaun than of Krista Morocco,
Inspector – she was way out of his league.  Not the kind of girl to
be impressed by comments about her boobs.  He offended most of the
secretaries round here, if I remember.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘But he did
end up marrying a woman he met in advertising – at the agency he worked for
previously?’

‘That would
be
TW&TS
, Inspector – they used to be based over in Berkeley
Square.’

‘Did you
ever meet her?’

She shakes
her head.

‘No –
I can’t say I did – though now you mention it I do remember Dermott
having a bit of a tirade about her – we were driving up to where they
make the motorcycles – Hinckley is it?’

Skelgill
nods, as a
Triumph
owner himself, he is familiar with the name, if not
the place.

‘What did
he say?’

‘Well
– to the best of my memory – I think he was having second thoughts
about getting engaged.  He was worried she was having an affair –
and other stuff, like whether he could trust her once they were married.’

‘About
what?’

The girl
furrows her brow.

‘To be
honest, Inspector, the only thing that sticks in my mind is he said he thought
she would probably put on weight!’

Skelgill
glances at DS Jones, who has been diligently taking notes.  She pretends
not to notice and continues writing.  At this point there is a knock on
the door, and three junior members of staff arrive – apparently for a
scheduled meeting.  Marie O’Moore is on the point of sending them packing,
but Skelgill seems content that this is a good moment to bring matters to a
close.  As they are making their farewells, he remembers something and
digs into his jacket pocket.  He holds out the crumpled halves of the
parking ticket.