Murder in Adland (5 page)

A few wisps
of morning mist still hang around the Devil’s Beef Tub as Skelgill barrels his
long estate car through the s-bends that cut into the green Borders hillside. 
DS Jones hangs on grimly to the scalding coffees collected from a busy Moffat
café, now several minutes behind them.  “Best bacon rolls south of The
Horn”, had been Skelgill’s rather obscure comment.  His knowledge of
food-stops appears to be informed by their proximity to places he fishes.

‘Source of
the Tweed.’  He gestures in an almost proprietorial manner towards an unprepossessing
expanse of moorland to their right.

Before DS
Jones can reply, their radio crackles into life.

‘Got that
appointment sorted for you, Ma’am.’  It is one of her DCs. 
‘Ten-thirty and it’s 77, Frederick Street.  You’re to ask for a Mr R
Macdonald.’

‘Aye
– and a couple of
Happy Meals
?’

The
constable gives a little forced laugh, humouring Skelgill’s quip.

‘Straight
up, Sir – and it’s all cleared with Police Scotland.’

Prior to
their departure, DS Jones had left instructions for her team to track down the
Edinburgh-based accountancy firm that acts for Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates. 
This is the subject of the message now received, meaning Skelgill can achieve
his aim of becoming better informed about matters of a corporate nature.

DS Jones thanks
her constable and terminates the call.  She glances across at Skelgill.

‘Will we do
it for ten-thirty, Guv?’

At this
same moment her head almost makes contact with the roof of the car.

‘Cancel
that question.’

Skelgill
grins jubilantly.

‘Okay
– here’s one for you.’  He clears his throat, as if to buy a second
or two in phrasing the question.  ‘Why would you leave your –
underwear
– in someone’s bed?  I mean – surely you’d notice it was
missing?’

DS Jones
stares at the undulating road ahead, subconsciously adjusting the position of
the paper cups as the car rises and falls, her arms acting as shock absorbers.

‘I can
think of circumstances when it wouldn’t be a priority, Guv.’

‘Such as?’

‘Disturbed
in the act.  Panicked and ran for it.’

‘What
else?’

‘Maybe she
just couldn’t find them in the dark.’

Skelgill tilts
his head to one side and makes a clicking sound with his tongue.

‘I’ll give
you that one.  Many’s the time I’ve arrived home to find I’m wearing
women’s knickers.’

DS Jones
laughs.

‘It would of
course be possible to deduce that you went out wearing them in the first place,
Guv.’

‘You are a
mini Miss Marple, aren’t you?  They should have warned me.’

‘Sorry, Guv
– but seriously, assuming they don’t belong to Miriam – it does
seem feasible that Ivan Tregilgis and his lover were disturbed, and the female
went out through the French door.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.

‘Quite
possible – though we have no idea when that might have been.  The
fact is, the most likely person to come knocking is Miriam – and I don’t
see her throwing a sudden tantrum and knifing him.  She’s more likely to wait
politely and give the mistress time to clear out.  In any event – he
wasn’t prepared for the blow.’

‘He could
have been pretending he was asleep, Guv – thinking it was Miriam coming
to bed.’

‘Maybe.’

‘I was wondering,
Guv.’

‘Aye?’

‘Well
– what if the underwear belongs to the killer?’

‘Bit of a
giveaway, no?’

DS Jones
frowns.

‘I know
– but – say she were on top of him – if he were face down
– it would be easy to strike.  Then she could unlock both doors and
go back to her own room via the terrace.  It would be dark and probably
deserted out there.  In her own bathroom she could wash any traces and
prints off the knife.  Then just wait for the commotion and join on the
back of it.  And it would be easy to slip into the ladies’ to hide the
weapon.’

Skelgill
shrugs.  After a moment or two he speaks musingly.

‘Okay
– here’s a version for you.  Miriam comes back to the room –
disturbs the killer in the act – decides not to tell us about it.’

DS Jones
widens her eyes.

‘But that
could put her at risk, Guv.’

‘Not if she
was in on it.’

Within two
hours of leaving Penrith the soot-blackened spires and steepling volcanic
cliffs of Edinburgh come into view.  DS Jones last visited the Scottish
capital when a teenage school trip took her to Edinburgh Zoo – and
scenery was unlikely to have been much of a priority.  Now she sits in
something like awed silence as they weave their way through the Southside, heading
progressively back in time towards the medieval heart of the city. 
Skelgill seems to know where he is going.

‘Bit
different from the Smoke, eh?’

DS Jones
nods.

‘Trams. 
Saunas.  No kilts yet, though.’

But shortly
their route bisects Princess Street, to the strains of busking pipers (kilted,
of course).  A minute more and they have crossed into the New Town, cresting
the brae at George Street, and rumbling down the cobbles; glittering views of
the Firth of Forth and the Kingdom of Fife open up before them.  Skelgill
slews left into Heriot Row.  They exit the vehicle – he stretches
extravagantly, while DS Jones reads a sign that details the parking
regulations.

‘Macdonald’s
here we come.’

Skelgill
sets off at a pace, turning the corner and striding up the hill down which they
have just driven.  DS Jones has to scurry in pursuit, and she calls after
him anxiously.

‘But, Guv
– we’ll get a ticket – it says resident permit holders only.’

Skelgill
waves away her protestations.

‘Nah
– that’s just for at night – so the locals can get parked. 
Trust me.’

DS Jones
does not look convinced.  They pass a traffic warden who is at this moment
affixing a ticket to the windscreen of a parked car.  The man glances up
– no doubt accustomed to keeping his wits about him – and his
hungry eyes suggest he reads her plight.  He smirks and stealthily resumes
his task before an irate owner can return.

77,
Frederick Street turns out to be an impressive Georgian tenement, five stories
including the basement and loft levels.  The former houses a clandestine
nightclub, and the ground floor – much to Skelgill’s liking – a
brasserie.  The floors above are all converted into offices, and entered
by a communal stair, a place little changed since the building was erected 250
years ago.  They climb broad stone steps, curving in a spiral, worn down
at their centres, to the third floor.  Here a smartly painted blue door bears
a polished brass plaque with the words, “Macdonald & Campbell Partnership,
Chartered Accountants.”

The
detectives announce themselves at the entry phone.  Promptly there is an
electronic buzz and they are transported into a modern world of pastel colours,
brushed chrome and sparkling glass.  A tight-skirted receptionist leads
them into a meeting room, and Skelgill is noticeably polite as she takes their
orders for refreshments.  A couple of moments later, looking younger and
less like an accountant than one might imagine, a well-groomed man of about
forty bounces into the room.  He wears suit trousers, and an open-necked striped
shirt with the cuffs held by gold links.

‘Inspector,
Sergeant – Ronald Macdonald – pleased to meet you – but such
terrible news,
terrible
news.’

He sounds
distinctly Scottish – but only just, like a Scots rugby player
interviewed after a game; in fact his accent is a product of the extraordinary
influence that the independent school has upon the city’s professional class. 
His build is that of a number ten, or full back at a push.

‘Such a
young chap, too – what on earth happened, Inspector?’

They resume
their seats, and Skelgill opens his palms apologetically.

‘I can’t
say much, I’m afraid – we’re still waiting for a deal of forensic
information.  However, I can tell you this is a murder investigation.’

Ronald
Macdonald blows out his cheeks and stands up, as though this is too much for
him.  He paces across to one of the great sash windows, shaking his
head.  The detectives wait patiently while he regains his composure.

‘I only met
him a few times – but he was the sort of fellow you immediately warmed
to.  Charismatic, but modest as hell.  Can’t imagine anyone wanting
to... you know?’

Skelgill
concurs, with a sympathetic nodding of his head.

‘Unfortunately
– in the absence of a definite suspect – we have to examine a number
of lines of inquiry.’

Ronald Macdonald
folds his arms and leans forward on his elbows over the boardroom table.

‘Shareholding.’

Skelgill
seems a little surprised by this seamless transition to business matters
– perhaps one of the silky skills of the accountancy profession.

‘Has Mr
Goldsmith spoken with you this morning, sir?’

‘Actually,
no – just that it’s the obvious question, really.  You know –
who gets what?’

‘And are
you able to give me that information, sir?’

‘Certainly.’ 
He sits back and stretches out his legs, at the same time bringing his hands
together.  He twists the gold ring on his left index finger.  ‘Mrs
Tregilgis automatically inherits her husband’s shares, but then what’s called a
cross-option agreement kicks in.  It triggers an insurance policy which
pays out to Dermott Goldsmith – then under the agreement he’s obliged to
buy the shares from Mrs Tregilgis.’

Skelgill’s
gaze drifts from Ronald Macdonald to a landscape painting of a loch with a
fisherman plying his craft on a distant bank.  Whether this image
distracts him, it is hard to say, but into the silence that ensues DS Jones
poses a question.

‘So Dermott
Goldsmith gets the company and Mrs Tregilgis gets the cash?’

‘Correct,
Sergeant.’

Skelgill is
back with them.

‘How much cash?’

‘Half a
million.’

Skelgill’s
eyes narrow.

‘How much
is the company worth?’

Now Ronald
Macdonald folds his arms and puckers his lips.

‘Och,
Inspector – if only you had asked me that yesterday I should have given
you a different answer.’

‘Why?’

‘Ivan Tregilgis
was alive.’

‘And that
makes a big difference?’

‘I should
say so, Inspector – these advertising agencies, they are not like
ordinary companies – they have few fixed assets – other than their
staff and their attendant skills.’

Skelgill is
nodding.

‘Take away
the skills.’

‘Precisely,
Inspector.  Half a million would have been a poor deal for Mrs Tregilgis
yesterday – but today, who knows?’

Skelgill lifts
an eyebrow.

‘It’s still
not bad for a poor deal.’

Ronald
Macdonald nods several times, as if to say it’s the sort of poor deal he too
would be happy with.

Skelgill’s grey-green
eyes are alert, in the way that they gain light when he is fishing and senses a
bite.

‘Who would
know about this?’

‘Well, of
course, I can’t vouch for whom they might have told – but in theory it’s
quite possible that it never went beyond Dermott Goldsmith and Ivan Tregilgis.’

‘Who
thought up this scheme?’

‘Er... I
did, actually.’  Ronald Macdonald makes an endearing
mea culpa
face.  ‘It’s not uncommon, Inspector.  If I remember rightly Ivan was
pretty keen on the idea.  It protects you from suddenly finding that half
of your company is henceforth controlled by your late-partner’s spouse.’

Skelgill
grimaces.

‘There’s no
chance that Mr Goldsmith could just pocket the money and carry on as though
nothing happened?’

Ronald
Macdonald shakes his head decisively.

‘The
administration process only allows the cash to be paid to the ultimate
beneficiary.’

‘And Mr
Goldsmith would know that?’

‘Yes, I’m
certain.  He was closely involved in all the paperwork.  He’s our
main point of contact.’

At this
moment there is a knock on the door and the receptionist enters.

‘Pen-
rr
ith
CID on the telephone for Se
rr-
geant Jones.’

She rolls
her r’s in the fashion of the Scots, although it might be a slightly different
variant of this expression that comes to Skelgill’s mind as he watches her
pencil skirt lead DS Jones out of the room.  As the door closes, he turns
his attention back to the accountant.

‘Mr
Macdonald, I appreciate your being so open with us.’

The man
regards him earnestly.

‘We both
need the facts to do our jobs, Inspector.’

Skelgill
nods appreciatively.

‘How would
you describe Dermott Goldsmith?’

‘Och
– now you want some opinion.’

Skelgill opens
his palms in a helpless gesture.

‘I just get
the impression that his employees will be somewhat circumspect when I ask them
the same question.’

Ronald Macdonald
grins understandingly.

‘Pretty
harmless, I’d say, Inspector.  Bark worse than his bite.  He’s
successful – he likes people to know it.  Capable businessman. 
Bit of a know-all – always telling me how I should present their
accounts.’  He chuckles to himself and shakes his head.  ‘Positive,
up-beat sort of character.  Sometimes a bit brash – you know, would
try to haggle over our charges – not really the done thing in
Scotland.  But we can’t choose our clients – no more than you can
yours.’

Skelgill
grins ruefully.

‘I’d go for
damsels in distress, every day of the week.’

‘I just get
Directors in distress, I’m afraid.’

‘And where
do Goldsmith and Tregilgis sit on that scale?’

Ronald
Macdonald shakes his head.

‘Och
– they don’t – at least not in financial terms.  We’re just
starting their year-end audit – looks like a seventh successive year of
double-figure growth.’

‘So no
pressing debts, angry creditors?’

‘Not even
an overdraft, Inspector.’

Skelgill
looks pensive.  Then with a flash of what might be insight, but what is
certainly unaccustomed humility, he makes an unconventional request.

‘What
questions would
you
ask you?’

Ronald Macdonald’s
smile is telling.

‘It’s a
good question, Inspector.  I think my answer would be, “Do I suspect any
fraud?”’

‘And do
you?’

‘No
indication.’  Ronald Macdonald’s expression becomes grave.  ‘But,
given the circumstances, I shall wheel in our biggest magnifying glass.’

Skelgill nods
gratefully.

‘What sort
of fraud could happen in a firm like theirs – that would be hard to
detect?’

Ronald
Macdonald’s eyes now narrow, and he perhaps for the first time looks a little
uncomfortable.  It is as if the grey areas of accountancy are gathering
like clouds in his mind.

‘I guess
I’d be asking two main questions.  Firstly, is anyone with access to the
bank account spending money on themselves and disguising it as legitimate
business expenditure?’

‘And the
second?’

‘Are any
employees living above their means?’

‘How would
that come about?’

Ronald
Macdonald turns out the palms of his hands.

‘Anybody
who places orders with external suppliers – agree an inflated price and
pocket the difference – a backhander, perhaps in the form of a
continental holiday or a new car.’

‘Could that
happen in advertising?’

‘Certainly
– the firm spends hundreds of thousands with some suppliers.’

‘And how do
they normally prevent this kind of thing?’

Ronald
Macdonald frowns resignedly.

‘It isn’t
always easy, Inspector.  In a busy organisation, with delegated responsibility
– they have to trust their employees.  And for us, in an audit
– when no two projects are alike it’s not easy to establish whether a
price paid for a service was competitive.’

Skelgill nods
and, checking his watch, he indicates he must wrap things up.

‘Mr
Macdonald – I must thank you again – and perhaps you would let me
know if anything irregular does crop up in the audit.’

As they
move out into the lobby, Skelgill notices two office doors, both labelled with
the name Macdonald.

‘What
became of Campbell, sir?’

‘Och
– I married her, Inspector – as we say in Scotland, I’m the
heid
bummer
around here now.’