Murder in Adland (9 page)

‘Do you
recognise these briefs?’

‘I bought
an identical pair last week.’

There is a
silence.  Skelgill, having thoroughly rehearsed a line of questioning agreed
with DS Jones, has omitted to practise what to say if Krista Morocco replies in
the affirmative.  They sit in the latter’s glass-walled office, set in a
highly fashionable Soho condominium.  Arriving on foot Skelgill had been
surprised by the early-morning calm that pervades Covent Garden before the
couriers, taxis and tourists get going.  He stopped to watch great
dripping-wet sacks of live mussels being unloaded into the back of a Belgian
restaurant, and marvelled at the number of old ladies walking tiny dogs. 
There were even uniformed children on their way to school.  Perhaps
ordinary people did live here after all?  This notion was soon quashed by
the rows of shining cars parked in Soho Square:
BMW, Jaguar, Range Rover,
Porsche, Mercedes
.

‘Did you
wear them on Saturday night?’

‘I didn’t
wear any on Saturday night.  My dress was sheer and clingy and partially
see-through.  Underwear simply wasn’t an option.’

Krista
Morocco’s sky-blue eyes are unblinking.

Skelgill’s
mouth appears to become somewhat dry.  DS Jones steps into the breach.

‘When did
you last see this pair?’

Krista
Morocco lifts up the plastic evidence bag.

‘I guess
when I packed on Friday night.  I didn’t wear these at all at the
weekend.’

‘You didn’t
mention in your statement that they were missing.’

DS Jones is
getting into her stride.

‘If they’re
mine – I had no idea I’d lost them.  I kept most of my belongings in
my overnight case at the hotel, and I still haven’t unpacked.’

‘Can you
explain the fact that they were found in Ivan Tregilgis’s bed?’

‘Jesus.’

Skelgill,
despite his momentary disorientation, is watching very carefully this
reaction.  DS Jones, however, presses for an answer.

‘Ms Morocco?’

‘Sorry.’ 
She sounds genuinely apologetic.  ‘I can’t explain it.  Someone must
have taken them from my case.’

‘Did you
leave your room unlocked at any time?’

‘I don’t
think I locked it at all.’  Krista Morocco looks at them innocently. 
‘We usually take the whole place for these events, so there’s never any need to
lock your door.’

‘How about
the French door that led onto the terrace, was that unlocked too?’

‘Yes
– at least, from mid-afternoon onwards.’

‘Can you recall
anything happening that could explain how your underwear got into Room 10?’

Krista
Morocco shakes her head.

‘Just after
midnight you went out onto the terrace with Mr Tregilgis.  Why was that?’

She stares
at DS Jones, and then, rather more pleadingly, at Skelgill.  Her reply,
slow to form, is spoken in sad tones.

‘I don’t
know.’

Skelgill
appears perplexed.

‘Surely
something happened?  Did you talk, smoke, maybe kiss one another –
go to his room – or yours?’

Krista
Morocco remains silent.  Then her eyes flood with tears that run down her
sculpted bronze cheeks.  She shakes her head again.

‘I really
don’t know.  I can’t remember going outside with him, Inspector.’

Skelgill
returns her gaze with a perplexed frown.

‘Why not?’

‘We started
drinking just after lunch – out on the terrace – then there was barely
a break before we met for cocktails – everything from somewhere in the
middle of dinner is a blank – until the shock of, you know... Ivan?’

‘Do you
normally drink that amount?’

‘Hardly ever
– but at the company do – everyone lets their hair down –
it’s a great release – and we all get our bonus letters – and
partying... it’s in the advertising industry’s DNA, Inspector.’

More tears
spill down her face and she pulls a box of tissues from her desk drawer. 
Skelgill himself appears uncomfortable – there are more tough questions
to follow.

‘Ms
Morocco, your fingerprints were found on a knife – a highly dangerous
Nepalese kukri to be precise – that was identical to the weapon which it
is believed was used to murder Ivan Tregilgis.’

Krista stares
in disbelief, glancing from one detective to the other.  Skelgill swallows
– after all, it is an unfair question and he knows it.

‘Can you
explain that, Ms Morocco?’

There is no
answer.  Skelgill sighs.

‘And I
suppose you wouldn’t recollect if you stabbed Ivan Tregilgis?’

She twists
the tissue between trembling fingers.  Her nails are expensively
manicured.

‘Are you
here to arrest me, Inspector?’

A note of
panic has infected her voice.

Skelgill
stares at her for what seems like an age.  DS Jones seems poised on the
edge of her seat, ready to pounce if Krista Morocco suddenly tries to make a
break for freedom.

‘No, we’re
not.’

The young
woman bows her head, and wipes away more tears.

‘I loved
Ivan, Inspector.’  Then she looks up at him, and there is fear in her
eyes.  ‘Is somebody trying to frame me?’

‘Who would
do that, Ms Morocco?’

She
hesitates, as if sensing the gravity of the moment – of making an
accusation – despite the opportunity it provides to shift the burden of
guilt from her own shoulders.

‘I don’t
believe anyone in the company could commit a murder, Inspector.’

There is
something about her generous manner that causes Skelgill to retreat back into
his seat, and DS Jones mirrors his movement, the tension leaving her athletic
frame.

‘How about
if I said,
who
would take the opportunity to make things awkward for
you?’

Krista
Morocco shrugs.

‘There could
be people who might resent me.’

‘May I
suggest one – perhaps Miss Rubicon?’

Krista
Morocco nods reluctantly.

‘I think
she feels I’ve stood in her way.’

‘With
respect to Mr Tregilgis, or to her career?’

‘Probably
both.’

‘Were you
having an affair with him?’

Krista Morocco
shakes her head.  Her eyes glisten and the tears threaten to reappear.

‘No. 
We had a short relationship about seven or eight years ago – before he
was married.  I lost out, I suppose.  But we remained very
close.  The advertising business might seem glamorous, Inspector, but it’s
a constant battle – some clients treat agencies very badly – often
you form very strong bonds with your colleagues.’

‘Were Ivan
Tregilgis and Julia Rubicon having an affair?’

‘I think
they did – at least until she went to Edinburgh.  I don’t know if it
continued.’

‘And how
did you thwart her career?’

‘Well
– it was just in her mind.’  Krista Morocco holds out her hands as
if she appeals for his understanding.  ‘I actually helped to get her
promoted ahead of other candidates – but apparently she thought she
should leap-frog me and be put in charge of
both
offices.’

‘How do you
know?’

‘Because
Ivan told me.’

‘Was she
good at her job?’

‘Yes, a
competent operator, very efficient.  But too self-centred to be a good
senior manager.’

‘What would
you say to the suggestion that Miss Rubicon was transferred to get her out of
your way?’

Krista Morocco
seems unruffled by this.

‘I don’t
deny there was conflict.  But Julia only had to say the word to Ivan if
she wanted to stay – I had no power to put her in the Edinburgh job, and
I wasn’t planning to remove her from my office.’

Skelgill
nods, seemingly satisfied with her responses.  He looks to DS Jones to
pick up the next line of questioning.

‘Ms
Morocco, I understand last week you did sack somebody.  Mr Grendon Smith?’

‘That’s
correct.’

‘Why was he
dismissed?’

‘We think
he defrauded us, though I doubt if I could prove it.  I had to sack him on
the grounds of incompetence.  It was all a bit unpleasant.’

‘What was
the nature of the alleged fraud?’

‘Kickbacks
from a supplier.  We cross-quote all of our out-work to make sure it’s
competitively priced, but there’s still scope for dishonesty.’

‘How did
you find out?’

‘We got a
whisper from a chap who’d moved job from one of our suppliers to another.’

‘How much
is involved?’

‘Maybe
around the five thousand mark.’

DS Jones nods.

‘And what
was he like – Mr Smith?’

‘He
interviewed well – I made an error of judgement.  At first he seemed
very helpful and keen to learn, but as soon as things got tough he would start
to blame everyone but himself – and that’s not our culture.  Underneath
the charm he was a spiteful person – he had unpredictable mood swings
– and he became unpopular with the rest of the team.’

‘And on the
day he was fired I understand he and Mr Tregilgis had a bit of an altercation?’

Krista
Morocco nods.

‘Grendon
reacted badly.  He was emptying his desk, slamming drawers and flinging
computer disks into the waste bin.  Ivan was nearby with a client and I
rang him.  He came over and saw Grendon off the premises.  I don’t
think it was too serious – but you wouldn’t want to mess with Ivan.’

‘Have you
seen or heard anything of Mr Smith since?’

Krista
Morocco shakes her head.

‘Are you
intending to report him to the police?’

‘I never
mentioned the kickbacks.  As I say, I have no concrete proof.  Though
I expect he put two and two together – and Ivan may have said something
to him as he left.’

‘We may be
able to find that out.’  DS Jones taps her notebook with her pen. 
‘Perhaps before we leave you could give us contact details for the suppliers Mr
Smith dealt with.’

‘Certainly
– but there is another firm you may be interested in – they’re
called BDL – Ivan was about to take them to court.’

‘Why was
that?’

‘I suppose
you could say they did the dirty on us.  They’re a specialist media
contractor and they came to us about a year ago and offered us a higher agency
commission to place work with them instead of one of their competitors. 
It’s standard industry practice – the client can only buy direct at a
higher rate, so may as well go through an agency like us.  We cover some
of our costs that way.  But then BDL went directly to one of our clients
and offered them the agency discount.  So they used us to build up the
trading relationship, and then cut us out of the equation.  We should
never have trusted them – their MD is renowned as one of the most
unscrupulous operators in the business.  Our lawyers have advised us that
we can sue them for breach of contract, so we formally put them on notice last
week.’

‘And are
you suggesting there could be a connection with Mr Tregilgis’s death?’

Krista
Morocco glances rather helplessly at the two detectives.

‘I really
don’t know.  It all seems unbelievable.  I suppose I assumed someone
had broken in and killed him, and I’ve just been trying to think who might have
had a reason.’

Skelgill clears
his throat to speak.

‘In that
vein, Ms Morocco, are there any other circumstances that affect
Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates at the moment?’

Krista
Morocco nods immediately.

‘There is
one thing.  Although it seems far removed from a murder.’

‘Nevertheless,
I’d be interested to hear about it.’

‘About
three weeks ago I took a phone call from an American – he said he was a headhunter
and could I talk?  I was curious and said yes, but that I’d need to call
him back via his company switchboard – just in case it was one of our
clients’ competitors trying to get confidential information.  However he
gave me a number – in The States – and I rang it and got through to
him, no problem.  He then said, sorry, he wasn’t exactly a headhunter, but
that his firm – I’d vaguely heard of them – was one of the leading
New York ad agencies and they were setting up an office in London, and were looking
for someone to head it up.’

‘And were you
interested?’

‘Well,
flattered, I suppose.  I wasn’t thinking of leaving
GT&A
, and
to be honest I don’t fancy working for a big shop again, what with all the
bureaucracy and politicking.’

Skelgill
raises an eyebrow – this small firm does not seem to be short of these
qualities.