Murder in Adland (3 page)

‘Okay.’ 
Skelgill speaks through a mouthful of bacon-and-egg sandwich.  ‘What have
we got so far?’

DS Jones
gazes thoughtfully across the lake, her eyes involuntarily following the
aerobatics of a swallow as it hawks for flies.

‘It doesn’t
look like a bungled robbery, Guv.  Wouldn’t the average sneak thief have stolen
the valuables without waking him – and done all the other rooms, too?’

‘More often
than not.’

‘I suppose
it could be something business-related – and yet his briefcase wasn’t
taken, Guv.  With it being locked you would imagine that would be the
first thing to go.  Unless someone just wanted to eliminate him?’

Skelgill grunts
and shifts position on the angular boulder beneath him.

‘I can’t
see it being a professional hit, Jones.  You’d need too much inside
information, right down to which room he was in.  Why come to the Lakes
and hang about on the off chance – when you can mow him down any day of
the week in London?’

‘The chap
Smith who never turned up, though, Guv – he would have known about the
location and maybe the timings.’

‘He’d run a
big risk of being spotted.  Then he’d stand out like a sore thumb. 
He’s probably at a funeral.’  Skelgill reaches for the aluminium pan at
his feet.  ‘Have another butty?’

This is a
generous offer coming from Skelgill – the last of his fisherman’s
breakfast.  But DS Jones shakes her head diplomatically.

‘I feel
quite full, thanks, Guv.’

Skelgill needs
no further encouragement.  He munches in silence, surveying the surface of
the water for signs of rising fish.  Taking a few minutes out to gather
their thoughts, the pair has driven to the spot where the nearby River Derwent empties
from Bassenthwaite Lake.  It is now six-fifteen a.m. and, encamped on the
shingle bank, Skelgill has demonstrated his expertise with a battered vintage
Trangia
stove and a strange smoking contraption he claims is called a
Kelly Kettle
. 
Being self-sufficient in food and drink is a state of affairs he swears by.

‘If it’s an
inside job –’  His voice tails off as he tosses his last piece of
crust at a shoal of tiny dace that shimmer in the shallows close by.  He
watches the bread bob as the voracious whitebait attack it from beneath. 
‘We’ll have a hell of a time with the evidence.’

‘Contamination,
you mean, Guv?’

Skelgill
picks his teeth pensively.  The early indications are that virtually
everybody in the hotel had flocked to the scene of the crime, and several of
them touched the hysterical Mrs Tregilgis in her bloody nightie.

‘Aye, that
– and the fact that the place is like a rabbit-warren – anyone
could have nipped along to the lobby, swiped the kukri and stabbed him –
meanwhile the rest of them were probably so drunk they wouldn’t have noticed a
thing.’

‘How long
should we keep them, Guv?  Mrs Groteneus says they’re scheduled to check
out after breakfast – the company’s offices are in Edinburgh and
London.  They’ve got train tickets booked from Penrith.’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘It depends
what the search team turns up.  We need that knife.  Can’t have
someone slipping away with it in their luggage.’

‘No, Guv.’

Skelgill
stands and stretches his arms above his head.  He has removed his gilet,
and his shrunken t-shirt now rides up to reveal the effect of regular rowing
upon a man’s abdominals.  DS Jones looks on innocently, though she averts
her eyes when he glances in her direction.  He stoops and begins to busy
himself with tidying his equipment.

‘Get a
couple of your DCs over as soon as you can.  Might as well take
preliminary statements while we’ve got everyone under one roof.  And
events will be fresh in their minds.  Pay particular attention to the
period between two and three – when he went to bed – and when he
was stabbed.  Make sure the staff’s whereabouts can be corroborated. 
And we need to speak to the chambermaids when they come in – find out
when that bed was last stripped.  Then we’ll both talk to the wife –
after I’ve seen this Lord Goldsmith character.’

‘So Lord is
a Christian name?’

There is a
certain literal irony in Skelgill’s question, although his tone of voice errs
more towards the sceptical.  He is interviewing the surviving partner of
Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates in a small anteroom situated above the
hotel lobby.

‘Middle
name, actually – initials DLG –
Delta Lima Golf
in your
parlance.’  Dermott Goldsmith is clearly pleased with himself for thinking
of this and beams at Skelgill.  ‘Close friends call me Dermott, but I tend
to use Lord in business circles – it has a certain cachet.  Our mission
is all about brands – creating distinctive identities that leave a
striking impression in the mind of the customer.  I try to do much the
same.’

Rather short,
balding and overfed, with dark arched brows that almost join above a nose and
lips too large for his face, Dermott Goldsmith had sauntered into the room, as
if accustomed to being important.  He wears deck-shoes without socks,
designer jeans, an obscure French t-shirt and a gold Rolex Oyster.  His
cool-dude image appears not to impress Skelgill, who still smells faintly of
last Saturday’s eighteen-pound pike.  Indeed, though he strives to be
civil at all times, Skelgill is probably least endeared when being patronised,
and the glad-handed-we’re-good-friends-already manner of Dermott Goldsmith is
not cutting a great deal of ice with the detective.

‘I’ll stick
to Mr Goldsmith to avoid confusion.’

‘As you
wish, Inspector – I am your humble servant.’

‘Mr
Goldsmith, we’ll be taking formal statements from everybody in due
course.  But I thought I should speak with you first to get a bit of a
picture of Mr Tregilgis and your company.  Perhaps you could tell me about
your respective roles in the business.’

Goldsmith nods
in a naturally condescending kind of way.

‘Well, Ivan
was our frontman – could sell sand to the Arabs – don’t know how he
did it – I couldn’t be so brash.  Whereas I basically run the
company.’  He pauses for dramatic effect.  ‘I am effectively
Financial Director, Company Secretary, I look after Personnel, Technology,
Administration – you could say I’m the brains behind the operation.’

‘You must
be a very busy man,’

Dermott Goldsmith
smirks coyly, not detecting the sarcasm in Skelgill’s tone.

‘I gather
you’re based in the Edinburgh office and that Mr Tregilgis worked from London?’

‘Correct,
Inspector.  Edinburgh is where it all happens.’

‘I would
have thought London was more the hub of the advertising industry?’

Dermott Goldsmith’s
features are momentarily discomfited.

‘Edinburgh
is a vibrant international capital, Inspector.  We have more restaurants
per head than any city in Europe; a galaxy of
Michelin
stars.  It
is an international financial centre; home of the world’s greatest arts
festival; extraordinary coastline, mountains – with sailing and skiing on
our doorstep.  Our neighbours high-achievers, there are leading private
schools – everything and more than London has got without the grime and
the crime.’

Skelgill
has a rather bemused expression upon his face.

‘I always
find Edinburgh a bit on the cold side.’

Dermott
Goldsmith frowns and shakes his head.

‘We have
the same level of rainfall as Paris and Rome.  This time of year it barely
gets dark at night.  We barbecue on our terrace most evenings.’

There
cannot be many occasions in his long experience as a detective when the close
associate of a murder victim has spent the first ten minutes of an interview
talking about himself.  Under normal circumstances Skelgill would
immediately suspect the person in question for trying to lead him astray
– but Dermott Goldsmith appears to be an exception to this rule. 
His abiding preoccupation is with self-aggrandisement.  However, Skelgill’s
time is precious, and if he is not to become the second casualty of the day, bored
to an early death, he must regain the initiative.  Presumably with this in
mind, he asks a rather abrupt question.

‘Have you
had any recent disagreements with Mr Tregilgis?’

‘What?’

Dermott
Goldsmith is plainly caught unawares, and a shadow darkens his features.

‘Arguments. 
Conflict.  It’s normal in business, isn’t it?’

‘We never
argued.’

Dermott
Goldsmith might be a professional talker, but when it comes to lying, his
performance is far more amateurish.  Skelgill, however, seems content to let
the slip pass unchallenged.

‘Are you
aware of anybody in the company, or connected with it, that might have wanted
to harm him?’

‘Nobody
– of course not.  What possible motive could they have?’

‘How about
– jealousy?’

Skelgill’s
suggestion appears to be plucked at random, but it engenders an interesting
response from Dermott Goldsmith.  He has regained his composure, and now
he rather preens as he anticipates the pleasure of his next response.

‘Naturally,
Inspector, one can’t get to our position without making people jealous.’

‘Just what
is your position?’

‘Well,
Inspector, between us and these four walls – as fifty-fifty shareholders
– of course, we are multi-millionaires.’

Skelgill
seems unmoved.

‘So what
happens now – to the ownership of the company?’

From wallowing
in his own self-importance, Dermott Goldsmith again finds his mood being
wrenched from his control.  For a second or two, he appears entirely
unable to answer.  And when it comes, his reply is somewhat strangled.

‘Well,
Inspector – that is a very complicated matter.  I shall need to
consult with our accountants back in Edinburgh.’

Skelgill must
be tempted to remark that this is a pretty weak answer, coming from the brains
behind the business.  But he nods patiently.

‘Perhaps you
could let us know in due course.  Otherwise, that’ll be all for now, sir.’

Dermott
Goldsmith is further disconcerted, as if he is not accustomed to being the one
told to leave the room.

‘But,
Inspector – you haven’t asked me about the madman.’

‘Madman,
sir?’

‘The
intruder – the burglar – what about my thoughts on the crime?’

Skelgill
returns a rather blank stare.

‘When I’ve
formed some of my own, sir – I shall maybe take you up on that.’

Dermott
Goldsmith seems mollified – perhaps he senses the opportunity to make a
dignified exit.  He stands and brushes at his clothing ostentatiously; he
might be removing some contamination that has fallen upon him like ash. 
With a cursory nod to Skelgill he turns and departs, and as he crosses to the
door, it is noticeable that his stately alter ego seems to regain possession of
his demeanour.  Skelgill, meanwhile, purses his lips; he would be excused
for thinking that the assassin got the wrong person.

By nine a.m.
the temperature is already pushing 20
^°
C and Skelgill’s thoughts
must drift to Bassenthwaite Lake, barely a mile distant as the crow flies. 
There has been much talk of medics this morning, but this hot spell is just
what the doctor ordered – to warm up the water and rouse the fish from
their late-spring torpor.  Skelgill is practising a few invisible
fly-casts when DS Jones’s voice reaches him in his secluded garden corner. 
Feeling claustrophobic inside the hotel, he has decamped to a cluster of garden
chairs beneath an arbour of just-blooming climbing roses, a heavenly scented
spot on the far side of the rear lawn.  DS Jones, meanwhile, has succeeded
in locating and returning with Miriam Tregilgis.

She looks a
most unlikely widow.  With a model’s figure, shoulder-length blonde hair,
perfect features and an immaculate white outfit – lightweight tracksuit
bottoms and a close-fitting matching polo shirt – she could have walked
straight off the page of a summer fashion catalogue.

‘Pleased to
meet you, Inspector.’

She smiles politely,
flashing even white teeth, and sits down opposite him, calmly intertwining her
ringless fingers upon her lap.

‘Do you
have a suspect?’

Skelgill
allows himself a little grin.  He glances at DS Jones, who is in the
process of moving a chair so that she may rest her notebook on the small round
cast-iron table that he has been using for his tea.  Miriam Tregilgis’s
opening question is the one it seemed Dermott Goldsmith was never going to
approach asking.  He shrugs in a friendly manner, opening his palms in a
gesture of uncertainty.

‘You’re
Welsh.’  Her brogue is soft, but distinct, and he says this as a
statement.

‘Barry
– near Cardiff.  You’ve probably heard of Barry Island?’

Skelgill
nods.

‘I’ve
fished for conger off the Knap.’

‘Oh,
there’s lovely, bach.’

Whether her
response is borne out of concealed nervousness or simply just the liberation of
speaking with someone, it is impossible to know – but in this phrase her
accent blossoms.

‘Now you
sound really Welsh.’

She smiles
again.

‘I left
home at eighteen to study PE in London – I met Ivan and never went back
– now when I visit they tell me I sound like a Cockney.’

Skelgill
shakes his head determinedly.

‘Believe
me, madam – I work with one, and you don’t sound anything like him.’

She seems
to relax, and settles back a little in the seat.

‘I suppose
it’s all relative.’

Skelgill
nods.  He regards her thoughtfully for a moment or two.

‘You seem
very composed – if you don’t mind me saying so.’

His tone
makes this sound like a compliment rather than an accusation, but she seems to
sense his dilemma.

‘I know,
Inspector.  A couple of hours ago I was screaming the place down –
here I am now as though nothing had happened.’

‘It’s probably
just the effects of shock.’

‘Actually,
I think it’s because I’m relieved.’

It takes a
second or two for the gravity of this unexpected statement to sink in. 
Both Skelgill and DS Jones become still, and stare at the woman with
unconcealed surprise in their eyes.  But, for Skelgill, this is a little
opening, and swiftly he moves through it.

‘Are you
trying to tell me something, Mrs Tregilgis?’

‘Such as
what, Inspector?’

‘That you
– had some involvement?’

‘My God
– no, Inspector.’  It seems the faintest hint of a smile teases the
corners of her mouth, as if she can’t believe the turn the questioning has
taken.  ‘But I should certainly like you to catch the person who did.’

Skelgill
again watches for a moment, but her features remain serene.

‘It’s something
I was going to have to ask sooner or later, madam.’

‘That’s
okay, Inspector.’  Now she smiles more transparently.  ‘It’s often
the wife, isn’t it?’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows.

‘More often
the husband, madam.’

‘But neither
in this case.’

Skelgill gives
a non-committal shrug.

‘So, madam
– when you say you’re relieved?’

Miriam
Tregilgis now leans forward apologetically.

‘It was a
poor choice of words, Inspector.  It’s hard to explain.  If you’d
told me yesterday that Ivan would be murdered in his sleep I’d have said it
would be devastating.  But now... well, I can only tell you how I feel. 
It’s like a weight that I wasn’t aware of has been lifted.’

‘Were you
happily married?’

She shakes
her head slowly.

‘I
shouldn’t say so, Inspector.’

Skelgill
gives her the kind of inquiring look that would go well over the top of a pair
of spectacles.  She opens her palms as a sign that she will elaborate.

‘We’ve lived
like flatmates for the past couple of years, nothing more.’

‘So you
didn’t... er –
sleep
together?’

‘Not
– as they say – in the biblical sense, Inspector.’

‘And
– were you thinking of splitting up, divorce?’

She shakes
her head.

‘It might
sound strange – but we never really discussed it.  We just got on
with our separate busy lives, doing our own thing.’

‘Did you each
have other partners?’

Skelgill
puts the question tentatively, but she does not appear unsettled.

‘Ivan spent
his life falling in love with the most attractive and dangerous women he could
find.  He was a hopeless romantic.  Though to his credit, only ever
one at a time.’

Upon
hearing this description, Skelgill’s eyes seem to widen – although it is
impossible to know which aspect so engages him.  Perhaps he wonders if she
considers herself to fall into the ‘attractive and dangerous’ category. 
Certainly she is attractive – but dangerous?  He grins receptively.

‘And was
there one at
this
time?’

‘Undoubtedly.’ 
Her singsong accent makes the word seem like it has extra syllables.  ‘But
I can’t tell you who, I’m afraid.’

‘You mean
you don’t know – or you won’t?’

She gives a
little nervous laugh, as though she is amused by the idea of thwarting the
police.

‘The
former, of course, Inspector.’

Skelgill smiles
in a conciliatory manner.  Then he asks quietly:

‘And what
about you, madam?’

‘They say
celibacy is good for the soul, Inspector.’

It is her
first oblique answer, but she holds his gaze, unblinking, and he seems to find
this a little disconcerting.  He glances at DS Jones, as if he is checking
that she has noted the reply – though she writes in shorthand, and there
are only illegible squiggles to see on her page.  He turns back to Miriam
Tregilgis.  It seems he decides to let the minor evasion pass.

‘You’re a
P.E. teacher – you said you studied it.’

She shakes
her head.

‘These days
I’m a Personal Trainer.  I have clients at a number of gyms in the West
End, and I lecture on anatomy and physiology for two half-days a week at my old
college.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘What about
Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates – how much are you involved?’

‘Really just
occasional do’s like this.  She shrugs languidly.  ‘I always feel a
bit guilty, to be honest.’

‘In what
way?’

‘Well, you
see, Elspeth – Dermott’s wife – she might as well work for the
company – except Ivan didn’t want that, you know – Directors’ wives
lording it over the staff?  So she doesn’t have an official
position.  But Dermott has her running round like she’s his PA, organising
this and that.  She always knows what’s going on in the business –
the next big pitch, clients’ names, latest projects, who’s going to get the
sack.  I just turn up and drink the champagne.’

‘Did you
discuss the company with your husband?’

‘Hardly
ever.  Ivan wasn’t the sort to pass on his troubles.  And that suited
me.’

‘How would
you describe him?’

‘He was the
leader.’  Her reply is immediate, and unequivocal.  ‘They’d follow
him over a precipice.  He was phlegmatic – but passionate under the
surface.  And I know it sounds daft coming from me – but he was one
of the most loyal people you could meet.  He’d die for those he loved. 
Maybe he did – I don’t know.’

Skelgill
nods slowly.  This picture of Ivan Tregilgis is not the one that Dermott
Goldsmith wishes to paint.  However, it appears to be one he can warm to.

‘Presumably
you now inherit your husband’s shares in the company?’

‘I’ve
really no idea, Inspector.  Ivan’s hobby was climbing, and he always joked
that if he fell down a mountain I’d be able to buy one of the Brecon Beacons in
his memory.’  She shakes her head, though rather casually.  ‘But I
make a good living through my own job, so I’ve never really worried about the
finances.’

Skelgill
seems to consider this answer for a moment, and then determines to move on.

‘I take it
your belongings have been returned to you?’

‘Your
people kindly moved everything to the spare bedroom once they’d finished,
Inspector.’

‘Was
anything missing – jewellery, money, clothes?’

She shakes
her head.

‘As far as
I can tell everything is still there – of mine, at least.  I believe
you have Ivan’s briefcase?  Someone asked if I knew the combination.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘We’d just
like to check there’s nothing of import.’

‘I quite
understand, Inspector – although you would think if there were, the
murderer would have taken it.’  She purses her lips and nods. 
‘Unless, of course, they knew the combination.’

Skelgill
raises his palms in a hushing gesture, as if to reassure her that she need not
do the police’s job for them.

‘Can you
remember, madam, if the door that leads from your bedroom onto the terrace was
left unlocked at any time?’

‘We had it
open most of the afternoon.  Just about everyone was out on the terrace
– sunbathing, drinking, chatting.’

‘What about
in the evening?’

‘I think
Ivan locked it when we went up to dinner.’

‘Are you
certain of that?’

‘Not
absolutely.’  She closes her eyes as if she is trying to picture the
scene.  ‘But I don't remember any sense of leaving valuables unattended
– you know that feeling you get when you stay abroad in something rather
flimsy – a villa on stilts in the ocean, a mountain ski chalet.’

Skelgill
looks like he doesn’t, but he nods all the same.  He gets to his feet in a
chivalrous manner.

‘Well, thank
you – I think that’s all for now, Mrs Tregilgis.  If anything does
come to mind please let us know.  Where are you planning to stay?’

‘Lenny
Edwards, one of the boys from the London office, is going to drive me to my
parents’ in Wales this afternoon.  Then my sister will come up to town
with me for a few days.’

‘Is that
Central London?’

‘We have a
flat quite near to the office’ She raises her eyebrows self-consciously. 
‘
I’ve
got a flat.  It’s just off Endell Street.’

‘Covent
Garden.’  DS Jones seems to know the area.

‘That’s
right, Sergeant.’

Skelgill
digs his hands into his pockets.  He suddenly seems self-conscious of his
unkempt appearance.  He looks more like a gardener than a police
inspector.

‘Subject to
developments, we may need to look at Mr Tregilgis’s documents, admin –
that kind of thing.  So I imagine we’ll meet again soon.’

Miriam
Tregilgis rises and shakes the hands of the two detectives.  Then she
takes her leave, depositing an arrow-straight line of dewy footprints in her
elegant wake.  Skelgill runs his fingers through his hair, and clasps his
hands at the back of his head.

‘Which was
it, Jones – the truth and nothing but the truth – or is she looking
for an Oscar?’