Murder in Adland (8 page)

‘Er, I don’t
believe so, Mrs Goldsmith – was there something?’

‘Well, of
course... its just the old industry grapevine – but word is they had a
clandestine fling before Ivan married Miriam.  In those days Krista was a
client of Ivan’s former firm, before she joined us.  Naturally, client-agency
liaisons are frowned upon – never mind the fiancée, eh, Inspector?’

‘We’ll bear
that in mind, Mrs Goldsmith.’  Skelgill is fumbling for reverse
gear.  ‘You’ve been very helpful, madam.’

As she
waves them off, Skelgill notices through his rear-view mirror that she hauls a
mobile phone from the hidden depths of her ample chest.

‘She
obviously didn’t want to let go of her cheesecake, Guv.’

‘Aye
– what was all that about?’

‘I got a message
from the office, Guv – the fingerprints on the dish that you tasted in
the Tregilgis’s room were hers.  I thought it would be interesting to ask
her how it got there.  It seems the beer bottles had been left by a couple
of the lads who’d gone in to help.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.  He has decided to postpone their interview with Dermott
Goldsmith.  The more they hear the more he feels it is important to be
fully informed before that meeting takes place.  Instead, and perhaps with
an ulterior motive in mind, he has suggested they kill a little time in order
that he can show DS Jones “the best view in Edinburgh”.

To this
end, they have parked near St Andrew’s House, home of Scotland’s civil service,
and climbed the stone steps to the summit of Calton Hill.  One of
Edinburgh’s ‘Seven Hills’, and just two minutes from the east end of Princes
Street, a short scramble rewards the breathless visitor with what is arguably
the most dramatic urban panorama this side of the Atlantic.

Now DS
Jones’s mobile rings.  Suitably awed by the vista, she continues to gaze
out over the ancient town as she takes the call – it is from her team at
headquarters.  Skelgill saunters away and joins the queue at a burger van
stationed beside the old City Observatory.  His philosophy is that, in
their job, you never know when you might get your next meal, so if an
opportunity presents itself it is important to grasp it.  Thus he returns to
the viewpoint with various packets, and teas in disposable paper cups.

He sits
down on the bench beside her, in the shadow of the Nelson Monument, and begins
to tuck in contentedly.  As he munches thoughtfully, he snatches glances
at his new colleague.  He might well be reflecting that – against
his better judgement – he is actually enjoying working with her.  She
is far less antagonistic than his regular partner, DS Leyton, and frankly is
smarter and naturally harder working.  Moreover – and something he
probably wouldn’t admit to himself – she panders to his ego.

‘Guv, how come
you’re such an expert on Edinburgh?’

‘I lived
here.’

‘When you
were a student?’

‘I’d call
it more of a gap year.’

‘What did
you do?’

‘I was in a
band.’

‘Really
– what kind?’

‘Punk
– well, sort of folky rocky punk.  We were called
Against The
Grain
.’

‘What
instrument did you play?’

‘I was lead
singer.’

DS Jones
looks like she might be about to giggle.  She has already been subjected
to several tuneless renderings during their travels so far.

‘Wow
– that’s – amazing, Guv.’

Skelgill
looks a little sheepish.

‘I had to
get drunk – to get up on the stage – but it kind of went with our
image.’

‘Don’t
suppose you’re on YouTube?’

‘Luckily it
hadn’t been invented.’

DS Jones
grins – more openly now he has admitted to his failings.

‘It looks
like a great place to live – Edinburgh.’

‘Aye
– it was alright – excellent ale.’  He casts about and takes a
deep breath of fresh North Sea air.  ‘But I missed the fells.’

‘I was a
bit like that in London, Guv.  It’s a crazy city – absolutely
brilliant in many ways.’

‘Aye, well
– you can be my tour guide tomorrow.’

DS Jones
nods.  They refer to their planned itinerary, which will take them this
evening by air to the English capital, where tomorrow they will meet with the
southern contingent of the agency,
GT&A
.  For a few moments
they eat in silence, perhaps each recalling their times in the respective
metropolises.  About half way through his second burger, Skelgill picks up
the conversation.

‘What did
you make of Lady Goldsmith’s performance?’

DS Jones grins
at his facetious attribution of the title.

‘She didn’t
stand on ceremony when it came to dishing the dirt, Guv – Miriam
Tregilgis was right when she said Elspeth Goldsmith knows everything there is
to know.’

‘Kicking up
dust, do you think?’

DS Jones
ponders this question.

‘Maybe, Guv
– she’s not stupid – and she must realise that we would have
Dermott Goldsmith in our sights, given he gets control of the company. 
She wasn’t slow to suggest why some of the others might have been unhappy with
Ivan Tregilgis.’

‘Think that
was a faux pas – mentioning the cross-option agreement?  She was
more forthcoming than his Lordship.’

‘I don’t
know, Guv – I suppose at least it shows they haven’t conspired not to
tell us.  Maybe Dermott Goldsmith was knocked out of his stride yesterday
– by the shock of the murder?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘Aye, maybe
– but he was composed enough when it suited him.’

Skelgill
again becomes silent while he tackles the remainder of his meal.

‘There were
a couple of things in that call, Guv – forensics and whatnot.’

‘Aye?’

‘There’s no
trace of anyone but Ivan Tregilgis having been in that bed – not a hair
– no signs of sexual activity.’  (She gives a diplomatic
cough.)  ‘No prints on that master key – nor on the kukri, as we
know.  However – remember the other kukri – the one that was
in the holder on the wall?’

‘Aye?’

‘It has
Krista Morocco’s thumbprint on the handle.’

‘Interesting.’

DS Jones
glances at her superior, but he seems to have nothing to add.  She remains
silent herself, as if she is trying to think through the implications of this.

‘Whatnot.’

‘Sorry,
Guv?’

‘You said
forensics and whatnot.’

‘Oh, yes
– it’s about Grendon Smith, Guv – the sacked employee.’

‘Don’t tell
me – he once had an audition for
The Killers
?’

DS Jones
chuckles.

‘No, Guv
– but he does have a dodgy alibi for Saturday night – claims he
slept in his car – stayed out all night somewhere in Norfolk –
apparently he’s a twitcher.’

Skelgill
looks disappointed.

‘You almost
had me interested then, Jones – I thought you were going to tell me he’s
a fisherman.’

‘Dan Dare. 
Long time awa’.’

These words
are uttered by a stocky man with short grizzled hair and a stern expression; aged
probably in his late fifties.

‘Can’t keep
a bad penny down, Cammy.  So, how’s it going, me old mate?’

‘Ach, yer
seein it, mon, yer seein it.’

‘Still not
speaking English, then, eh?’

‘Tch. 
Are ye nae going to introduce me to this bonny lassie?’

‘DS
Jones.  I’ve warned her about you.’

‘I bet he
didnae tell ye fifteen years back he saved my skin?’

*

Skelgill’s plan
is to leave his car at Edinburgh airport, and travel to and from London, and
collect it upon their return – when they can interview Dermott Goldsmith. 
To facilitate this, and deal with one or two other administrative issues
– such as obtaining a printed copy of the draft post mortem report on
Ivan Tregilgis – he has called upon his contacts in the Scottish
police.  As such, they are welcomed at the force’s Edinburgh HQ, Fettes
Avenue. (Skelgill’s little joke is that this surely ought to be renamed
Letsby
Avenue.)  Their chaperone, DS Cameron Findlay, now a deskbound
administrator, is an old acquaintance that Skelgill will never forget.  A
decade and a half before, they worked together on a joint-forces operation to
crack an organised poaching syndicate that parasitised the great border-country
salmon rivers.  A matter close to both their anglers’ hearts – it
was almost literally so in DS Findlay’s case in the unwanted form of the
contents of a 12-bore cartridge.  Only a brave if somewhat reckless
intervention by one rookie DC of the name Daniel Skelgill saved the day. 
Henceforth, in these circles, he became affectionately known as Dan Dare. 
Skelgill’s memory of the incident reflects the bizarre dry humour of his
Scottish ally, who, whilst Skelgill was wrestling with a shotgun-wielding
poacher, waist deep in the River Tweed, called out
‘Yer spookin’ the fish,
Danny’.

Now he stands
by awkwardly while DS Findlay recounts the tale of that stormy night.  To his
relief, however, they are interrupted by a secretary, who informs them that if
they get their skates on they can make the six p.m. flight for Heathrow.

‘Leave your
wheels here.’  DS Findlay is insistent.  ‘I’ll drive you out to
Turnhouse in a marked car so we can use the bus lanes – otherwise this
time of night you’d be quicker to walk.’

Ten minutes
later they are forcing their way across the homebound traffic choking the
Queensferry Road.  Edinburgh motorists are polite but stubborn (it is a
Scottish trait, and good reason never to invade).  Unwilling to give way
at the best of times, they seem reluctant even to let the police through. 
Finally, a belligerent squawk of the squad car’s siren confirms its occupants are
still on duty.

‘That’s the
Goldsmith’s place back there, isn’t it?

This
observation comes from DS Jones, who suddenly seems to get her bearings as the
giant shape of Murrayfield stadium comes into view.

‘Aye, that’d
be it.’  DS Findlay produces a rueful grin.  ‘How the other half
live, eh?’

‘You should
see their new bathroom.’

Skelgill,
sounds in good spirits; perhaps he is buoyed by DS Findlay’s earlier tribute.

‘It’s not
funny, Guv.’  DS Jones protests.  ‘While you were out I got the
full-blown kitchen tour. 
Le Creuset, Sabatier, Dualit, Gaggia
-
you name it, they’ve got it.  And then they tell you about it, every last
product detail.’

‘Poor devil
Tregilgis.  No wonder he avoided the place.’

DS Jones
nods, her brow furrowed.

‘You’d
never have guessed she was Scottish, would you?  I’d have said Home Counties
from her accent.’

‘Ach, there’s
a thing.’  This intervention comes from the taciturn DS Findlay.  ‘Ye
see, we pretend tae hate the English – but in fact we know you’re mostly
just like us – and, after all, ye cannae help being English.  But
those Scots that
act
like they’re English – that’s what really
gets us.’

Skelgill
chuckles.

‘Cammy,
just a thought, mate.  Any chance you could do a bit of digging on this
lot up here?’

‘Aye. 
Dare say I owe you one.’

‘Just
background stuff.  You know – the Goldsmiths, anything on the
company, employees, suppliers – that sort of thing.’

DS Findlay
nods economically.

‘I’ve got a
pal over at
The Scotsman
.  Works on the business desk.  I’ll
see what a couple of pints of Eighty Bob will turn up.’

In due
course, with a few deft manoeuvres and judicious use of the blues and twos, DS
Findlay delivers his charges to the drop-off at Edinburgh airport with time to
spare.  A lively dash and some pulling of rank will see them make their
flight.

‘Much
appreciated Cammy.’  Skelgill reaches to shake hands across the roof of
the car.  ‘See you in a day or two.  No joyriding in my motor, now.’

DS Findlay
grins.

‘You mind
to look both ways when you’re crossing the road down there.  I’ve heard they
dinnae stop for anybody.’

‘I’ll be
fine – this lass lived there for three years.  She’s one-quarter
Cockney.’

‘Aye well,
anything beats being a Geordie.’

‘Very
witty, Cam.’

‘You’re not
a Geordie, Guv?’

DS Jones
sounds puzzled, as they ride the escalator up to the departures gate.

‘Certainly
not.’

‘So what was
that all about?’

‘It’s one
of his little jokes.  Besides, could you tell the difference between an
Aberdonian and an Invernesian?’

‘I guess
not, Guv.’

‘Same
principle – as far as they’re concerned, we’re Geordies.’

*

The
Edinburgh-Heathrow flight is barely half-full, so Skelgill turns his charms to
the task of getting them moved to an empty row, where they can discuss police
matters free of eavesdroppers.

‘Are you
sure you don’t want the window seat?’

‘Guv
– it says on that instructions card – when a male and female are
travelling together, the man must always have the window seat.

‘Where?’

Then
Skelgill sees his colleague is smirking.

‘And the
stewardesses must wear high heels and suspenders.’

‘Point taken,
sergeant.’

‘Guv
–
you
have it, really.’

Skelgill
needs no further encouragement, and slides across to the window.

‘Very
generous of you – you can have it on the way back.’

‘I’ll
probably fall asleep anyway.  The view’s wasted on me.’

Skelgill struggles
until he gets comfortable with the seat belt.  At five-eleven he is not
overly tall, but there is something lanky about his rangy form, and it takes
him a minute or two to settle.  He takes a deep breath, and then clears
his throat, though it is in hushed tones that he begins to speak.

‘Talking of
underwear, I’m guessing we’ve narrowed the g-string down to Krista Morocco.’

DS Jones
nods.

‘If the
statements are correct, Guv – it sounds like she and Ivan Tregilgis were
getting along fine on Saturday night – and they did disappear out onto
the terrace.  If his bedroom door was unlocked...’

Skelgill nods,
though he clearly has reservations about developing the scenario beyond the
facts.

‘We have to
remember it was only midnight – whatever they did, it could be entirely
unconnected to the murder.’

‘Maybe they
went into
her
room, Guv?’

‘What
– and he nicked her undies as a souvenir?’

DS Jones
chuckles.

‘I believe
it’s not unknown, Guv – although usually it’s from a washing line they’re
taken.’

Skelgill raises
his eyebrows, as if to say not guilty.  He folds his arms and pushes back
against his seat.  The space is cramped and reclining is not yet allowed.

‘Remind me
what was in Tregilgis’s briefcase.’

DS Jones
closes her eyes momentarily, and then begins to recite as if she is picturing a
collection of items travelling along a conveyor.

‘A travel
voucher for two nights at the Plaza – it’s a hotel on Fifth Avenue. 
A couple of climbing magazines.  Passport.  Toothbrush. 
Radio.  Condoms.  And that presentation with examples of their work.’

Skelgill seems
dissatisfied.

‘Something’s
not right, is it?  You wouldn’t go on business to New York without taking
some reference to whatever meeting you were attending.’

‘Maybe it
was the new client thing, Guv – to get a brief.’

‘How does
that work?’

‘Well, the
first stage in advertising is normally that the client gives a brief to the ad
agency, and they go away, conduct market research, come up with the ideas, then
go back and present them.’

‘When did
you become the oracle on advertising procedure?’

‘Bloke I
went out with for a while when I lived in London – he was a copywriter
with an ad agency.  Bit of a psycho.  Hardly ever turned up for work. 
I dumped him when I found he’d been sleeping with my flatmate.’

‘Sorry
about that.’

‘Don’t be. 
My flatmate was a guy.’

*

Once
airborne, Skelgill becomes silent, and distracted, as he watches the world go
by.  The breeze has dictated a westerly take-off, followed by a left turn
just before Glasgow – it seems only a stone’s throw from its east-coast
rival.  The pilot now tracks the M74 towards the English border, still
climbing into the early evening sunshine.  Skelgill stares intently as the
Solway creeps nearer, a vast glistening bay drawing the eye across the Irish
Sea, where the distant Isle of Man seems to float above the horizon.  With
growing excitement he begins to pick out the Lakeland fells, first the blunt
twin massifs of Blencathra and Skiddaw guarding the northern reaches, and soon
the jagged cluster that makes up the Langdale and Scafell Pikes.  The
lakes themselves are harder to discern – blending as they do into the
dusky landscape until suddenly illuminated by the sun’s direct line of
reflection.

‘Look at
Windermere!’

Skelgill
turns to his companion – but DS Jones is fast asleep.  Indeed, as he
leans back into his seat her head lolls sideways and rests upon his shoulder.

‘Jones.’ 
His whisper is tentative.  ‘Jones.’

But these
entreaties are to no avail.  Rather like a child whose batteries have suddenly
run flat, it seems the events of the last two days have finally taken their toll;
she is sound.  He cranes awkwardly to look at her, and slides into a more
comfortable position.  Then he sits very still, his hands folded on his
lap.  She sinks more heavily against him.  Skelgill closes his eyes,
and sighs.

When DS
Jones wakes up Skelgill is just finishing the last of her airline sandwich.

‘Oh, Jones
– didn’t like to disturb you.  I got you a coffee.’

‘Thanks.’ 
She frowns at the dubious dark brown liquid.

‘What do
you want to do tonight – are you planning to see your boyfriend?’

DS Jones
does not answer for a moment.  Then she shakes her head.

‘No, Guv
– he doesn’t even know I’ll be down.  I didn’t think I’d have any
spare time.  And he’s away over in Clapham.’

‘You’re not
obliged to be on duty round the clock, you know.  Feel free if you want to
shoot off.  I’ll be fine on me tod.’

‘If it’s
okay with you, Guv – I fancy a quiet Chinese, to be honest.  I mean
– we need to discuss tomorrow’s interviews, don’t we?’

Skelgill regards
her reflectively.

‘What time
do you think well get to the hotel?’

She
examines her wristwatch.

‘If we land
on schedule we should be on the tube by seven-thirty.  Piccadilly Line all
the way to Covent Garden – about an hour.  Then it’s only a couple
of minutes’ walk – the hotel’s just off Drury Lane.  We could be in
Gerrard Street by nine – plenty of cheap places to eat.’

The
aircraft, now well into its descent, banks heavily to the right; it makes
disconcerting whirring and clunking noises.  Skelgill is a far-from-frequent
flyer, but he notices the stewardesses seem unconcerned, so he gazes down upon
the London rooftops; they stretch as far as the eye can see.  He might be
making a comparison: the great metropolis appears to cover as big an area as
the entire Lake District.  There he knows every square inch, every path,
every pike, and has trodden and climbed all of them.  Here, by his own
admission – and in his own idiom – he is a fish out of water. 
And, perhaps, still niggling in the depths of his mind, is the regret that he
had eschewed a posting to the city early in his career.  Even his parents
had said he should have done it – much as they would have missed
him.  Now it must seem he has forsaken the chance to spread his wings, to
launch himself into uncertainty and newness.  He had allowed a cautious
streak to override what he knew in his heart was right.  DS Jones –
a fellow Cumbrian – has clearly benefited from her three years studying
in London and subsequent travels beyond; though a decade his junior, in many
ways she is the more worldly of the pair.

‘Something
exciting, Guv?’

Skelgill is
jerked from his reverie.

‘What?’ 
He is a little abashed, and waves a hand at the window.  ‘Just admiring
the view.  Tell me what’s down there.’

DS Jones
leans across him.

‘Look
– Westminster Bridge – you can see Parliament – then follow
the road westwards – the first park is St James’s – there’s the
Palace – then Green Park – Hyde Park Corner with all the traffic
– see Park Lane running up from there – then Hyde Park to the left
of it – the Serpentine – and there’s Kensington Palace.’

Her
commentary continues until they run out of obvious landmarks after Kew,
although Skelgill stares for some time at a distant Wembley stadium –
perhaps imagining its fabled twin towers and Bobby Moore, arm aloft, and wondering
if England will ever again win the World Cup.

With hand
luggage only, they are soon on a train.  There is an air of despondency
and fatigue, and it infects the two detectives, who sit quietly rapt.  Skelgill
picks up a discarded copy of the
Evening Standard
.  He flicks absently
through the pages, pausing at the classifieds, and becomes engrossed by the
myriad of small ads seeking plasterers and plumbers, table dancers, meter-readers
and mystery shoppers (whatever they are); and there are one-bedroom flats to rent
at weekly rates you wouldn’t even pay for a month back up north.  Next he
seems to be counting down the stops, his head nodding as he reads along the Piccadilly
Line map displayed overhead.  The journey is largely overground to
Hammersmith, and they bisect rows of untidy houses with jumbled back-gardens
and Heath-Robinson extensions, ramshackle sheds and lines of washing. 
Occasionally there are glimpses of families sitting out on white plastic garden
furniture, seemingly oblivious to their dismal surroundings.

Station by
station, the train fills up.  Skelgill scrutinises the growing
cross-section of humanity that begins to throng the carriage.  Initially,
new travellers are solitary, glum and mostly of foreign origin – maybe cleaners
and night porters on their way to work?  At Hammersmith there is an influx
of smarter, office workers.  South Kensington and Knightsbridge see them
joined by well-heeled shoppers, jet-setty middle-eastern women wearing
expensive western clothes.  As the train dives deeper under the West End,
there is an inrush of tourists and small groups of trendily dressed younger
people, and many of these leave with Skelgill and DS Jones at Covent Garden,
where they press as a body into a lift reminiscent of a scene from
Quatermass
.

Skelgill looks
relieved to escape from the stale humidity of the underground.  This is
their first taste of fresh air since Edinburgh – if there can be such a
thing in central London.  However, there is a warm, almost continental, ambience,
with the aromas of cooked spices and the clink of raised glasses.  DS Jones
leads the way assuredly up Long Acre, with its designer boutiques and disorderly
beggars.  They dodge between taxis and cross into Endell Street, where
Bohemian sandwich-bars are mingled with outlandish clothing shops, open-fronted
cafe-bars that spill onto the pavement, and a “lesbian sex club” that prompts a
small debate as to where the missing hyphen should go, or whether it makes any
difference.

They take
their hotel by surprise, DS Jones suddenly ducking in ahead from the sidewalk. 
The rooms are threadbare but adequate, although not for the money.  By agreement,
they simply deposit their bags and retrace their steps – they have settled
on DS Jones’s proposal of a quick Chinese, and as early a night as possible.

‘The
Tregilgis’s flat is down here.’  DS Jones takes them on a minor detour to
show Skelgill the location.

‘Doesn’t
look that smart.’

‘You should
clock the price tags, Guv.  And I bet it’s pretty cool inside.’

‘Sounds
like Miriam Tregilgis.’