Murder in Adland (28 page)

DS Findlay
chuckles.

‘Aye
– no body there.’

‘Thing is,
Cam – they all had the opportunity – and almost as many seemed to
have a motive – the only thing left was to work out how the crime was
committed.’

DS Findlay
raises his pint in a gesture of congratulations.

‘And how
did you do that, Danny?’

Skelgill
shakes his head ruefully.

‘By leaving
my flask on my dishwasher.’

DS Findlay
grins over the rim of the glass.

‘Explain
that one to me.’

It is five
p.m. on Saturday and they are convened in DS Findlay’s local bar – back
at Roseburn as it happens, just a stone’s throw from the Water of Leith. 
Skelgill and DS Findlay have cask ales, while DS Jones – for the time
being, is sticking to mineral water.  Skelgill cradles his glass as though
he is warming (or cooling) the palms of his hands.  He glances at DS
Jones.

‘Remember
when we had a cup of tea on the first morning with the batty Dutchwoman?’

DS Jones
nods.

‘Before she
poured, the cups were hot – I like that, I like drinks to be properly hot
– and I noticed.  And do you know why they were hot?’

He receives
blank looks.

‘The
dishwasher was still on.  Remember – I’d just been poking about in
the kitchen?’  (DS Jones nods to confirm.)  ‘And I heard the
dishwasher working.’

He pauses
now to take a drink of his IPA – a considerable draught, and he smacks
his lips approvingly.

‘The
dishwasher was on at half-four in the morning.  The kitchen staff left at eleven.’

The two
sergeants are both listening intently.

‘The
longest cycle on that dishwasher is two hours and twenty minutes.  I know,
because I checked the specification of the make and model.’

DS Jones’s eyes
have widened.

‘The knife,
Guv.’

Skelgill
nods slowly

‘The knife
that killed Ivan Tregilgis.’  He has another gulp of beer.  ‘When
Elspeth Goldsmith went into the kitchen, it wasn’t to feed her face – it
was to return the knife she’d just used for the murder – to put it on the
hottest, most effective cleaning cycle known to dishwasher engineers the world over.’

‘The
cheesecake was just her cover, Guv?’

Skelgill
nods.

‘If anyone
saw her – who would be surprised?  Melanie Stark didn’t bat an
eyelid when she brought her a plate of cheesecake at three-fifteen in the
morning.  Next thing, Miriam discovers the murder – and Elspeth
shoots along to make sure she gets plenty of Ivan Tregilgis’s blood on her
person by supposedly comforting Miriam.’

DS Findlay
is shaking his head.

‘I cannae
believe we didn’t get the knife.’

‘Aye
– but remember, Cam – there’s a kukri goes missing and next thing
it’s found hidden in a cistern – why would we think it was one of the
hotel’s kitchen knives when they’ve all been neatly returned to their place in
the rack – perfectly sterilised, I should add.  Nothing reported
missing – so it was easily overlooked.’

DS Jones
looks suddenly a little anxious.

‘What about
the hotel’s knives now, Guv – hadn’t we better get someone over there
– get them under lock and key?’

Skelgill
smirks knowingly.

‘Don’t
worry, Jones they’re in the back of my car.’

Now both
the sergeants shake their heads at the incorrigible Skelgill.  It seems
his first port of call upon disembarking at Peel Wyke had been a clandestine
visit to Bewaldeth Hall.  He drains his glass and, as he does so, a new
round of drinks is placed upon their table.  Evidently the eagle-eyed and
rather eccentric barman, an elderly chap in Buddy Holly spectacles and a maroon
jacket that matches the décor, has been monitoring their progress.  DS
Findlay and he are acquainted, and have already been communicating in
vernacular terms at the limits of their English guests’ comprehension.  He
hands over a twenty-pound note to the bartender.

‘Have one
yersel’, Gus.’

‘Chu’ pal.’

DS Findlay
regards his fresh pint, and then casts about the interior of the pub.

‘Aye, well
Danny – you came up on a whim – but yer saved the life of that
lassie, Julia Rubicon.’

Skelgill is
reluctant to agree.

‘Cam
– I reckon self-preservation saved the life of Julia Rubicon.  How
she hung on in that chimney I’ll never know.  We just tidied up the loose
ends.  Or you did – with your rope – without that we’d have
been lost.’

DS Findlay
grins ruefully.

‘I’ve had
that in the boot for a guid ten years – can ye believe that’s the first
time I’ve used it.’

Skelgill
nods, though his thoughts have drifted.  In the hours between Elspeth
Goldsmith’s incarceration and their arrival here for a recuperative beverage, he
briefly interviewed the various actors in the past fortnight’s events. 
This included Julia Rubicon, who had been taken to the Accident and Emergency
unit at the nearby Western General.  Remarkably, she suffered only minor
cuts and bruises, and – having been given a shower and a hospital
dressing gown – was able to converse in surprisingly calm terms. 
Indeed, Skelgill was struck, both by the lack of tension in her demeanour, and the
fact of the inadequate gown leaving little to the imagination.  Having
shared such a life-threatening and intimate ordeal only an hour or so earlier,
it had been a peculiar meeting – and perhaps each of them, in its
privacy, had felt a bond that was hard to put into words.  As Skelgill had
been about to depart, she had offered beguilingly to enlighten him further –
if he happened to be staying in Edinburgh tonight?

‘So, Danny
–’  DS Findlay rouses Skelgill from his reverie.  ‘What about
the murder itself – how did she do it?’

Skelgill
inhales, and looks around, blinking.

‘Aye, well
– I bet the whole thing took no more than a couple of minutes.  All
she had to do was wander into the kitchen – pick a knife from the
dishwasher – go out through the storeroom – and into Tregilgis’s
room through the French door.  Assuming it was her that had the master key
– she’d have been able to unlock it earlier in the evening.  That
way, she completely avoided the corridor and any risk of being seen entering or
leaving Room 10.  She returns by the same route – locks the
storeroom – puts the knife back in the dishwasher and re-sets it. 
In the morning, it’s going to look exactly as the kitchen staff had left it. 
She goes to the fridge – and comes out under cover of cheesecake. 
Joins Stark at the bar, and waits for the hue and cry to go up.’

DS Jones is
nodding.

‘Guv, do
you think the kukri was planned or spur of the moment?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Dunno
– she’d obviously done a recce on the place – she organises all
their events – but it might only have occurred to her when she noticed
Krista Morocco messing with it – except she picked the wrong one. 
Though it certainly put us off the scent for a while.’

‘So did the
underwear, Guv.’

‘Aye
– and that
was
a red herring.’  He shakes his head. 
‘You were right about Julia Rubicon, Jones.  Remember you said she was
hiding something?  As though she was expecting the questions about it?’

DS Findlay
interjects.

‘Why do you
think the lassie kept quiet?’

Skelgill
purses his lips.

‘Because
she thought she’d caused Miriam to kill Ivan Tregilgis – when it was just
her clumsy way of trying to get them to break up.  And then she was
terrified that we’d find out she was in their room and try to pin it on her.’

‘So why was
Elspeth Goldsmith trying to bump her off?’

Skelgill
nods pensively.

‘Combination
of factors, I reckon, Cam.  First, word of the underwear incident must
have reached her.  So now she starts to worry that someone might have seen
her on the terrace, entering or leaving Room 10.  Then Julia Rubicon
starts acting all withdrawn – and next thing Elspeth receives a blackmail
demand – in the mail brought to the office
by
Julia Rubicon. 
Time is running out – so she convinces Dermott Goldsmith that they should
hold a second reunion – she sets up the treasure hunt, pretends the hotel
have designed the questionnaire – and hatches a plot to make it look like
Julia has committed suicide – confessing posthumously to Tregilgis’s
murder.’

‘Who could
have sent the notes, Guv?

DS Jones’s
question sounds rather apprehensive.  Skelgill leans back against the
wooden stall.

‘Don’t be
surprised if that remains a mystery.  But I don’t think anything more will
come of it.’

She raises
her eyebrows, as if she can’t quite see his logic, but she continues
nonetheless.

‘I still
think Grendon Smith is the most likely candidate, Guv.’

‘Aye, well
– we’ll leave that nasty piece of work to the boys in the Met.’

‘Krista
Morocco will be relieved it’s all over, Guv.’

Skelgill
frowns and begins to nod.

‘I had an
interesting chat with her earlier.  It explained a thing or two. 
Between these four walls – I swore it wouldn’t need to come out –
she had a miscarriage – Ivan Tregilgis the father.  Apparently he
was all for breaking off his engagement to Miriam.  Then when she lost the
baby, she insisted he go through with the wedding.  She’s never told
anyone, to avoid hurting Miriam or her husband.’

DS Jones is
nodding sympathetically.

‘She’s had
a tough time, Guv – it didn’t look too good for her at one point –
as far as the murder was concerned.’

‘Aye
– ironic really – given Elspeth Goldsmith tried to position Miriam
Tregilgis as the prime suspect – she had money to gain and the
circumstantial evidence pointed to her.  I actually wondered if it was
going to be Miriam that took the fall along the river.’

DS Findlay
raises a finger.

‘Talk o’
the river, Danny.  I had a word with the powers that be, while you were at
the hospital.  They’re going to take another look at the files on the
death of Elspeth Goldsmith’s wee stepsister.  And the death of both the
MacClarty parents, come to that.  We might be wanting her back when you’ve
finished with her.’

For a few
moments they sit in silence but for the occasional sip of beer or water.

‘So it was
down to greed in the end, Danny?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Aye, well
– mostly greed, I reckon, Cam.  I don’t doubt she was jealous of
Ivan Tregilgis – if only on her husband’s behalf.  But getting Ivan
out of the way before the sale could go through was worth a lot of money. 
They must have known he was heading for New York – so it was imperative
she acted quickly.’

‘What about
the briefcase, Guv – how are you so sure that was Dermott Goldsmith?’

‘Because
this afternoon he told me yet more lies – that Ivan Tregilgis had left
the document lying out in Room 10 for him to read – and that afterwards
he put it back in Tregilgis’s open briefcase and scrambled the combination.’ 
Skelgill shakes his head.  ‘So where did it go?  Once Tregilgis was
dead he probably realised there was a better deal to be done, and he spirited
it away.  We’ll have him bang to rights, don’t worry.  Once he hears
the words
accessory to murder
he’ll co-operate.’

DS Jones is
nodding thoughtfully.

‘Do you
think they were in cahoots, Guv?’

Now
Skelgill shakes his head decisively.

‘Dermott
Goldsmith’s a crook and a liar – but he’s not a killer – he’s not
got the ruthless streak that she has.  I’m certain she acted alone.’

DS Findlay
has finished his latest pint, and gestures to Skelgill’s almost-empty glass.

‘Same
again, Danny?’

Skelgill
holds up an apologetic palm.

‘Much as I
love your ale, Cam – I’d better call it a day – I’ve got an
appointment at nine – I need to keep a clear head.’

DS Jones
glances up, while a grinning DS Findlay continues.

‘Oh, aye
– and where’s that, Danny?’

‘Taj Mahal,
Penrith.’

***