Murder in Adland (23 page)

‘Go ahead.’

‘He called last
night – to put me in the picture, he said.’

‘Is this
the first time he’s been in touch?’

‘Yup. 
He knows we’ve got an M&A firm working for us in London – he said he’d
assumed they gave us the headlines last week.  Said that he’d been too
messed up to call until now.’

‘Ford
– M&A?’

‘Mergers
and acquisitions, Officer.’

‘Got
it.  Did he mention the takeover?’

‘Couldn’t
get there fast enough.  Offered me a big discount so long as he gets the
top job and a cut of the profits.  Said he’d privately thought Tregilgis
was pushing for too much and would rather take some of the dough as
payment-by-results.  And he wants to put the deal back by three months
while he gets things straight with the staff and clients.  Said he’s got a
big sympathy thing going with clients right now and could pick up some extra
contracts on the back of it.’

Skelgill’s
features crease with a look of distaste.

‘So he was
fully informed about the details of your provisional agreement?’

‘The Heads
of Terms?’

‘That’s
it.’

‘I’d say
so, Officer – he sounded pretty au fait to me.’

‘When we
last spoke, you mentioned that a lower price might be something that could come
into the equation.’

‘Sure
– although you’d think Goldsmith would leave that one for me to raise,
Officer.’

‘Is he
afraid of losing the sale, sir?’

‘It’s been
eating him up, alright.  You see, Officer – when he called I was
working late in the office and didn’t really think about it.  Then it hit
me when I got in this morning – it must have been after three a.m. your
time.’

*

Skelgill, following
some minutes’ contemplation and a cup of tea and a good chew of his thumbnail,
dials a number from a list on his desk.  He appears surprised when the
call is answered almost immediately.

‘Hello?’

‘Mr
Goldsmith – it’s Inspector Skelgill.  Do you have a moment?’

‘Certainly,
Inspector.  What can I do for you?’

Skelgill seems
unprepared for Dermott Goldsmith’s amiable tone.  He sounds to have shaken
off both the angry teenager and the faux aristocrat.

‘How are
things going?’

‘Oh –
we’re working at it.  Everyone’s pulling together.  We’ll get through
this as a team and come out stronger on the other side.’

Skelgill
scowls – this string of platitudes perhaps tells him why Dermott
Goldsmith is a bean counter (as Zendik put it) and not a copywriter like his
late colleague.

‘Sure. 
I understand you’re having a company get-together this weekend?’

There is a
moment’s hesitation before Dermott Goldsmith replies.

‘That’s correct,
Inspector.  Elspeth and I thought it would be good for morale. 
Especially given the state of limbo at present.  Unless you’ve er...?’

‘No arrest
as yet, I’m afraid, sir.’

‘I see.’

Dermott Goldsmith
inhales as though he is about to add something, but then thinks the better of
it.  Skelgill fills the void.

‘I gather
Mrs Tregilgis will be going up to Edinburgh?’

‘Yes.’ 
Now he adds, hurriedly, ‘I mean, she insisted – there was no pressure,
Inspector.’

‘Life must
go on.’

Dermott
Goldsmith sounds encouraged by Skelgill’s own use of a platitude.

‘Just what
I said, Inspector.  And we’ve got an obligation – to the business
– to one another – our jobs – our livelihoods.’

Skelgill
nods, unseen by Dermott Goldsmith, of course.  After a few seconds’
silence he can tell that the adman is becoming a little anxious.

‘If your
company was taken over, sir – would that mean job losses?’

But now
Dermott Goldsmith is quick to answer.

‘Unlikely,
Inspector – we run a tight ship – that’s one of the reasons we’re
attractive to so many potential buyers – our ratios are the envy of the industry.’

‘But isn’t
it usual – when there’s a takeover – for the new owners to put
their own people into the key jobs – what about your office heads, for
instance?’

‘Well
– you can never say
never
, Inspector – but I should have
thought their jobs would be safe in such circumstances.  They know the
clients best, after all.’

‘And how
are the two of them bearing up?’

Dermott
Goldsmith seems unprepared for this question – in the sense that it is
perhaps not something to which he has given much thought.

‘I, er –
think they’re fine – just getting on with their work.’

‘I see, sir
– okay.  Well, that’s about it for now.’  He takes a long
breath.  ‘Oh – just one thing I wanted to ask?’

‘Inspector?’

‘How’s
Pictorial
doing these days?’

‘You mean
the magazine?’

‘That’s it,
sir – one of my Scottish colleagues mentioned you had an involvement with
them?’

Now Dermott
Goldsmith seems to be floundering about in search of some small lifeline.

‘Oh, we, er
– we place ads with them – and they cover some of our client’s events
– cocktail evenings, sponsored awards dinners, that kind of thing.’

‘I see, sir
– that must be what it was.’

*

Skelgill is
turning over in his mind his various conversations of the past couple of hours
when his phone rings again.   It must interrupt him at an especially
profound moment, for he glowers at the handset, ignores it for some while, and
then rather barks his greeting when the caller refuses to give up.

‘Skelgill.’

There is a
sudden stiffening of his demeanour.  Then an unfamiliar change of tone.

‘Yes
Ma’am.’

‘Sorry
Ma’am – I was just finishing a call to a potential witness on my mobile,
Ma’am.’

‘Right
Ma’am – of course, Ma’am.’

‘I realise
it’s important, Ma’am – I’ll make it my top priority.’

‘I’ll do my
best, Ma’am.’

The caller abruptly
clears, and Skelgill is left with the handset dangling and the distinct impression
that there is only one thing that will find him in deeper water than if he does
not soon crack the Bewaldeth case, and that is defeat in the Blencathra Shield.

Ten p.m. on
Thursday finds Skelgill, apparently in the midst of a euphoric daydream, and
largely oblivious to the beery commotion around him, staring thoughtfully
through a bright pale-amber pint of Cumbrian ale at the distorted image of the
Man-of-the-Match trophy on the bar just behind it. 
His
Man-of-the-Match trophy, no less.

*

Yet the
game hadn’t begun auspiciously for Skelgill, who turned up at the local sports ground
fifteen minutes late – much to the consternation of his teammates. 
Fortunately, the opposition had won the toss and inserted Penrith in to
bat.  Skelgill’s tardiness, therefore, was less of a problem, since he was
listed well down the order.  Next he discovered he had omitted to pack a
white shirt, which meant he would have to wear the pale-blue garment in which
he had arrived for work that morning, and suffer the accompanying jibes from
the changing room.  Meanwhile, in ponderous style his team proceeded to
prop and cop their way in the face of accurate and at times hostile Carlisle
bowling to the ominously modest total of 111, for the loss of five wickets
– a score that would not have brought home the Blencathra Shield in the
last decade.  The services of Skelgill, padded up and due to go in at
number eight, had thus not been required (a further relief to him, since he had
also forgotten his box), and instead he had spent much of the innings chatting
with DS Jones, whom he had spotted sitting alongside a couple of the admin
staff on a bench on the far boundary.  Most of the crowd – which numbered
a good hundred – plus the non-batters, were thronged around the pavilion,
their attentions divided between on-field events (or lack of) and the ducking
of errant cricket balls emanating from a group of young lads who had raided the
spare kit and were setting about themselves in Bothamesque fashion. 
Certainly there had been no such danger from the direction of the middle.

There had
then followed a short tea-interval, in which DS Jones had declined to
participate, and during which Skelgill was regaled with sarcastic comments
along the lines of:

‘Ah, yuv
graced us with yer presence, then.’

‘Can’t yow
stop wuk for a minute, lad?’

‘It’s not
wuk ’e’s up ter – eh, Skelly, lad?’

‘Aye
– we saw yer sniffin’ round Fast-Track.’

‘Is she a
nat’rel blonde, eh Skelly?’

‘Yon lad’s got
no chance – t’lass’ll eat ’im alive.’

This
interchange was interspersed with much guffawing, and solid thumping between Skelgill’s
shoulder blades.  For the second time that day, he was relieved that DS Jones
had remained well out of earshot.

*

As fate
would have it, when Penrith took the field Skelgill had been promptly posted to
the deep – more or less in front of DS Jones’s vantage point – on
the grounds that he has a ‘good arm’.  In the meantime, the team’s regular
pair of opening bowlers began to ply their trade.  However, while Penrith
had scratched around for runs in their innings, Carlisle experienced no such
difficulties, with ten coming off the first over, and a score of thirty-five
for nought being clocked up by the end of the sixth.  At this rate they
would win at a canter.  One batter in particular – a sullen stranger
suspected of being on assignment from the Leicestershire force – was especially
making hay, and continued to post the ball to all corners of the ground. 
As tendrils of discontent began to insinuate themselves among the uneasy home
crowd, rumblings about his origins began to surface.  Following another
clean hit for six by the East Midlander, the most vocal local wag –
despite being a policeman – was unable to contain himself any longer and
yelled out, “Bloody ringer!” – thus drawing angry rebuttals from the
assembled Carlisle batters-in-waiting.

With the
score already past seventy, in the next over things had gone from bad to worse for
Penrith – and for Skelgill in particular.  Fielding right on the
rope at deep long leg, DS Jones almost beside him, Skelgill was halfway through
an anecdote when a cry went up of, “Skelly – catch eet!”  The bowler
had pitched one short and the big East Midlander had gone for a hook. 
Skelgill initially reacted by setting off to his left, following the line of
the shot, but the batsman had spliced the ball and it was instead sailing high
in the direction of fine third man.  Skelgill, whose cracked off-white
boots had seen better days, and were now lacking half their studs, suddenly
picked up the flight and abruptly changed direction, slipping on the dewy
outfield as he did so.  This lost him a precious second, and as he dashed
frantically across it looked like he wouldn’t make it.  At the last
moment, however, he took off in a swallow dive and made the catch in his
outstretched, but weaker, right hand inches above the turf – only to land
with a crunching impact that jolted the ball free of his grip.  To add
insult to injury it rolled over the boundary for four, and Skelgill acquired a
great green smear across his expensive shirt.  (Later in the pub an old
lady would advise him to “soak it int’ yow’s milk.”)

This event,
of course, was manna from heaven for the wag, now in full sardonic flow:

‘Skelgill
– what
can
thee catch?’

Given the
current lack of progress in the Bewaldeth case, the significance of this remark
was not lost on a good many present, including the Chief, who had silently
appeared at the side of the congregation, unashamedly intending to bask in the
reflected glory of the rightful outcome.

Skelgill
threw the ball back angrily to the keeper and stood with his hands on his hips,
shaking his head.

‘Nice try,
Guv.’  DS Jones had encouraged him, but he was too absorbed in
self-admonishment to respond.  Thankfully, as Skelgill was later able to
reflect, this turned out to be his nadir.

At the end
of the over the Penrith skipper, a fresh-faced DC, had trotted down from slip
to speak with the disconsolate Skelgill.

‘Hard luck,
Sir.’  His brown eyes were calm beneath a bloodstained bandage (batting
earlier without a helmet he’d taken a vicious bouncer square on the brow). 
‘It was a miracle you even got to that.’  (An embarrassed shrug from
Skelgill.)  ‘Look, Sir – we need this bastard out.  Will you
take this over?’  He tossed the ball to his surprised superior.

Thus
Skelgill had come on to bowl.  He asked the skip for a run-saving ring of
fielders and meanwhile marked out his fourteen-pace run up.  The East
Midlander, now facing, after a single off the last ball, was five short of his
half-century, and seemed to be steering Carlisle home to their fourth victory
in a row.

Umpire to
Skelgill: “Right-arm over?”

Skelgill to
umpire: “Left-arm round.”

Umpire to
batsman: “Left-arm round.”

The batter
moved his guard across to middle and took up his stance.  Skelgill’s first
delivery, a loosener, was overpitched, and was deservedly despatched to the
boundary for four.  The next would have suffered the same fate, but for a
smart bit of work by the skipper at mid-off.  There were rumblings in the
pavilion, and the wag could be heard winding up for his next broadside. 
Then came the turning point.  The first two half volleys had been meat and
drink to the batsman, his eye firmly in.  But Skelgill is a lot faster a
bowler than his medium-pacer’s run up suggests.  With a fisherman’s whip
and timing – that can send a fly skimming a good sixty yards across the
water – he is deceptively quick.  His third delivery was short of a
length and the East Midlander instinctively leaned back to pull – but the
ball was upon him and before he knew it he had spooned it back down the wicket
high above Skelgill’s head.  Instantly, up went the panic-inducing chorus
of “Catch eeeet!”

Skelgill, neck
craned skywards and eyes bulging, turned from his follow-through and like a man
possessed levelled the stumps, the non-striker and the umpire – but emerged
triumphantly from the resulting ruck clutching the ball.  As he was
surrounded by jubilant teammates, he caught a glimpse of DS Jones on the
boundary, hopping about and clapping excitedly.

As the
applause died down for the retreating East Midlander, out for 49, the wag took
the opportunity to punctuate the silence.

‘Aye
– ’e can catch ’em off’ve ’is
own
bowling!’

But the
careful listener might have detected a first hint of jubilation – and
perhaps, even, hope – beneath the thickly layered sarcasm.

The incoming
batter had let Skelgill’s next two balls go through to the keeper, but the
final delivery of the over, pitched just short on middle-and-leg had forced him
to play – but it lifted barely a couple of inches and struck the back pad
ankle-high.  Plumb LBW!  The Penrith team went up in unison –
but it had seemed to Skelgill that the great appeal was actually
preceded
by the Carlisle umpire’s resolute, “Not out.”  Skelgill had walked back to
his position in the field deep in thought.

As is often
the case, the next over had brought another wicket – again not without
controversy, since the batsmen, caught-behind off a snick to the keeper that
was audible halfway to Brough, had refused to walk and had to be sent on his
way by the Penrith umpire, in the shape of George, the Desk Sergeant.  Such
insubordination on the part of the opposition simply served to heighten the
determination of the home side and its supporters.

The wag
took the opportunity to introduce a touch of hyperbole.

‘They dunt
like eet when they’re ont’ run!’

Though this
met with the general approval of those around him, it was hard to ignore the
facts.  Carlisle needed only twenty-seven runs to win, with eight wickets
still in hand.  The gloating was severely one-sided.

Skelgill,
however, had other ideas.  On the grounds that he would get no assistance
from the surly Carlisle umpire officiating at his end, he switched to bowl over
the wicket at the start of his next over.  Although this decision brought
perplexed expressions to the faces of his teammates, they were quickly
dissolved as he proceeded to hit the dead spot on the pitch and take out the
batsmen’s off-peg with an unplayable grubber.

The very
next ball Skelgill repeated the feat.  And then, with the crowd roaring him
in – he did it again!  A hat-trick.  All bowled.  All
grubbers!

Carlisle
had subsided to 85 for 5 and chaos broke out.  There was a fourth wicket
in Skelgill’s over – this time a simple caught-and-bowled as he fooled
the batter with a slow delivery – and then another run-out in the
following over as Carlisle’s panic-stricken lower order began to scramble for
singles.

With the
tension mounting and the light fading into dusk, two further wickets fell (both
to Skelgill).  But the score was edging ever closer to the modest Penrith
total.  Indeed, it stood at 101 for 9 when Carlisle’s last man came out to
the middle.  A tall, craggy paceman, he had been responsible for the blow that
had earlier cracked the Penrith skipper’s skull.  He looked like he was
more than capable of swinging a bat, but Skelgill wasn’t about to allow him
that luxury.  He glanced at his skipper as he walked back to his mark and
gave an almost imperceptible nod.  The unseen message was passed on to the
fielders.  Skelgill spun on his heel and sprinted in, unleashing his
fastest delivery of the match.  It whistled past the astonished giant’s
nose and had him hopping backwards like a great mantis.  The next ball
embedded itself in his ribcage with a satisfying thud and saw him complaining
(between gasps) to the umpire.

A Carlisle
player, calling from the pavilion, had appealed for leniency.

‘Come off
it, lads – he’s a Number Eleven.’

But the wag,
now in full partisan flow, was ready for him.

‘Get on wi’it
– if yer kernt tek eet – yer shunt dish eet owt!’

The number
eleven didn’t have to
tek eet
much longer.  Stepping fearfully away
from Skelgill’s third approach he was suckered and clean bowled by an arrowing
yorker.  A tumultuous roar went up from the boundary; grown men hugged one
another (and took turns with DS Jones – who had gravitated to the centre
of the excitement); small boys streamed out to the middle; and the wag
surreptitiously stowed his baseball cap out of sight, having bet someone
– at the point that Skelgill had come on to bowl – that he would
eat it if Penrith won.

Sportingly,
the Carlisle captain and his team shuffled onto the outfield to clap-in the
winners, and Skelgill (doing his best to appear modest and surprised by his
achievements) was given the honour of leading his side off.  Even the big
paceman shook his hand, wincing and admitting, “I’d ’ave done t’same mesen,
marra.”

Thereafter,
for most participants it had been a case of frantically stuffing one’s kit into
one’s bag, and of joining the exodus to a favoured local alehouse,
The Cross
Keys
.  When Skelgill finally surfaced, his sweaty exploits requiring
him to take a shower, he’d found DS Jones waiting for him in the growing gloom.

‘Give you a
lift to
The Keys
, Guv?’