Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Read online

  Bruce Beckham

  __________

  Murder in Adland

  A detective novel

  LUCiUS

  Text copyright 2015 Bruce Beckham

  All rights reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written permission from the publisher.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.

  Kindle edition first published by Lucius 2012

  Second edition published by Lucius 2015

  CreateSpace edition first published by Lucius 2015

  For more details and Rights enquiries contact:

  [email protected]

  EDITOR’S NOTE

  Murder in Adland is a stand-alone whodunit, the first in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates’. It is set in the English Lake District, London and the Scottish capital, Edinburgh. This second edition has been significantly updated and revised, and is now contemporary with the subsequent novels in the series.

  BY THE SAME AUTHOR

  Murder in School

  Murder on the Edge

  Murder on the Lake

  (Above: Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates)

  Murder Mystery Collection

  The Dune

  The Sexopaths

  MAIN CHARACTERS IN ORDER OF APPEARANCE

  DI Daniel Skelgill

  Detective Inspector, Cumbria Police

  DS Emma Jones

  Detective Sergeant, Cumbria Police

  Mrs Groteneus

  Proprietor of Bewaldeth Hall

  Dermott Lord Goldsmith

  Joint-principal of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates

  Miriam Tregilgis

  Widow of the murdered Ivan Tregilgis

  Julia Rubicon

  Head of Edinburgh office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates

  Elspeth Goldsmith

  Wife of Dermott Goldsmith

  Krista Morocco

  Head of London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates

  Melanie Stark

  Employee in London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates

  Grendon Smith

  Sacked employee of London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates

  Ron Bunce

  Media supplier to London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates

  CONTENTS

  1. Bassenthwaite Lake

  2. Bewaldeth Hall

  3. Room 10

  4. Mrs Groteneus

  5. Breakfast by the lake

  6. Dermott Goldsmith

  7. Miriam Tregilgis

  8. Kukri & Key

  9. Police HQ

  10. Moffat and beyond

  11. Macdonald & Campbell

  12. Briefcase

  13. Julia Rubicon

  14. Elspeth Goldsmith

  15. Calton Hill

  16. Fettes Avenue

  17. Evening flight

  18. Krista Morocco

  19. Seven Dials

  20. Melanie Stark

  21. Ford Zendik

  22. Waterloo Bridge

  23. Grendon Smith

  24. Ron Bunce

  25. Hillend

  26. Dermott Goldsmith

  27. Haystacks

  28. Twitching

  29. The letters

  30. WNKR Advertising

  31. The Irish girl

  32. London by night

  33. Krista Morocco

  34. Miriam Tregilgis

  35. The up-train

  36. Telephone calls

  37. It’s not cricket

  38. Reading

  39. Back on Bass Lake

  40. Flight to Edinburgh

  41. The Pretty Crossing

  42. Roseburn

  1. BASSENTHWAITE LAKE

  Wakey wakey, Skelly - 4 a.m. alarm call.’

  ‘George – I’m in the middle of Bass Lake. It’s Sunday. Tell me you're just bored.’

  ‘Sorry, lad.’ The Desk Sergeant’s disembodied voice softens: as a fellow fisherman, there is a note of compassion in his tone. ‘You’ve got a murder on your patch. Body’s still warm by all accounts.’

  ‘You’re pulling my leg, George.’

  ‘Fraid not, lad.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘Know Bewaldeth Hall – the hotel?’

  ‘Aye, it’s nearby. Look – I’ll call you from the motor. I need to get these lines in. Then I’m a ten-minute row from Peel Wyke, and I’ll have to chain the boat up. I’ll be there in half an hour max.’

  ‘Okay, I’ll pass it on. Caught owt?’

  ‘Nah. Just got bloody started. It’s a cracking morning though.’

  ‘Ah well, bigger fish to fry now, lad.’

  *

  Daniel Skelgill, 37, dedicated pike-angler and Inspector, Cumbria CID, reels in his last dead-bait with practised aplomb. He unhooks the slender sprat and lets its lifeless form slip through the mirrored surface of Bassenthwaite Lake, “The only lake in the Lake District,” as he enjoys telling bemused visitors.

  The A66 trunk road bordering the wooded western bank is empty and silent, though the ponderous chug of a distant tractor drifts across the still water, a contrast to the soft rhythmical swish and splash of Skelgill’s oars. In his wake the imposing bulk of Skiddaw seems pumped up like a body builder, as the late May sun’s first rays raise into relief the sculpted musculature of its upper slopes. Another of Skelgill’s nuggets of information, cheerfully dispensed to groaning stretcher-borne casualties in his voluntary role in the North Fells Mountain Rescue, it is England’s fourth-highest mountain. Its perfect reflection, slowly receding, begins to ripple as the boat’s wash creeps towards the opposite shore.

  2. BEWALDETH HALL

  ‘Jones?’

  Having slewed his car to an extravagant halt that has carved his signature into Bewaldeth Hall’s neat gravel drive, from the open driver’s window he regards the girl with some uncertainty. At first sight her informal and scanty outfit would suggest a hotel guest, eager to intercept him – but now he identifies her as Detective Sergeant Emma Jones. A twenty-six-year-old product of the graduate programme, she is a local girl with a degree from London. Competent and confident, she is quickly making a name for herself, and is referred to by some as ‘Fast-track’ – while others covet her affections. However, perhaps Skelgill’s gun-slinging reputation precedes him, for she seems a little star struck beneath his icy glare.

  ‘Yes, Sir – that’s correct, Sir.’

  ‘Didn’t recognise you, Jones.’

  ‘No, Sir – there’s a rave in a hangar over near Cockermouth.’ She gestures with a downward sweep of the hand, indicating her party wear. ‘I was on duty – undercover, Sir.’

  Skelgill makes a cursory nod. His features remain taciturn. A man’s man – a touch chauvinistic, he would admit – he prefers male company when it comes to the cut and thrust of police work. But his regular DS is on annual leave, and his Chief’s rota has dealt him an unfamiliar hand. This – allied with the annoying curtailment of his fishing trip – is more likely the source of his dismay than what she wears. He pushes open the door in a careless manner, causing her to take a sudden step backward.

  ‘Call me Guv, will you? I’m more used to it from that Cockney layabout Leyton.’

  ‘Yes, Sir – Guv.’

  He shoots her a sideway
s glance and sees that her gaze has been drawn to his attire. He has revealed himself to be sporting threadbare brown corduroys, a faded olive-green t-shirt, and a scale-spangled taupe gilet hanging with jangling angling paraphernalia; these are lived-in favourites, owned for best part of a decade and laundered only slightly more often.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Er... you came in a bit of a hurry, too – Guv?’

  Though her tone is sympathetic, he remains defensive.

  ‘This is professional fishing gear. Cost a packet.’

  *

  Bewaldeth Hall is typical of the many small Victorian hotels scattered throughout the Lake District. Neat grey granite, a modern bedroom-block added at the back, lots of jutting eaves and mossy slates, and mature grounds where rhododendrons strain like ravenous tethered goats, eager to gobble up what remains of the gardens. A portly middle-aged constable stands yawning to attention on the stone steps. He seems to salute the two detectives, but in fact is just shielding his eyes from the early-morning sunlight, now slanting over the eastern fells. He stares quizzically as he notices their unconventional apparel.

  ‘Hey up, Arthur.’ Skelgill acknowledges the older man, the long-time local bobby for Bewaldeth and Snittlegarth, then adds, pointing by way of explanation:

  ‘Me fishing – her dancing. What’s the story here?’

  ‘Young Dodd’s guarding Room 10, where the body is. The Doc’s in there, too. Just arrived. Lot of blood. Knife-job, I reckon. The owner’s back in her cottage behind the hotel. Advertising company’s taken over whole place for the weekend. Dead lad’s one of the two business partners.’ He consults his notebook. ‘Name of Tregilgis, Ivan. Thirty-three. His wife’s int’ bar with t’other partner – Lord Goldsmith (also thirty-three), and his missus. WPC on the way. SOCO on the way. I’ve told all the rest to stay int’ residents’ lounge. Most of ’em are still gattered.’ He makes a drinking motion, and then purses his lips. ‘Some fit lasses, Skel.’

  Skelgill steals a sidelong glance in the direction of his assistant, but she has not reacted to this latter remark.

  ‘Behave, Arthur.’

  Skelgill nods his appreciation and leads the way into a square entrance hall, heavily beamed and adorned with paintings of African battle-scenes with red-coated soldiers; staring stuffed animals; antique rifles and various tribal artefacts, feathered spears and great machete-like knives. DS Jones hesitates, as if to comment on the frightening arsenal, but Skelgill instinctively bangs through a swing door guarded by two suits of armour. It opens on a corridor with windows on the right-hand side and a row of doors on the left. At the far end the aforementioned PC Dodd jumps to attention from a sitting position at the foot of a staircase. Then he sways, and drops back down with a thump.

  ‘Alright, lad?’ Skelgill approaches and puts a hand on his shoulder.

  ‘Sorry, Sir. I’ll be fine.’

  ‘Tell me what you know, then.’

  The young PC swallows.

  ‘Sir. No sign of the weapon. Alarm was raised by Mrs Tregilgis about three-fifteen a.m. – she’d got into bed in the dark, thinking he was asleep. Felt the damp, thought he’d been sick and switched on the light. Saw it was blood – then all hell broke loose – and the whole lot of them came crowding into the room. It’s a private party and it was still going strong. According to the wife he’d gone to bed first, maybe about two a.m., taking the room key. He’d left this door to the corridor unlocked so she could get in. No sign of a forced entry or a struggle, but the French door onto the terrace was unlocked and the small top window was open. Jewellery and a wallet lying in full view on the dresser. Couple of empty beer bottles. I had a quick look round outside – nothing obvious and nobody about. No thefts reported from other rooms, Sir.’

  Skelgill, listening intently, nods his approval.

  ‘Good work, Dodd.’ He indicates back along the corridor. ‘Are these all the bedrooms?’

  ‘No, Sir. There’s ten on this floor and ten more if you go up these stairs.’ He gestures over his shoulder.

  DS Jones is pushing at an unyielding fire-escape door that faces the staircase.

  ‘How about this, was it closed?’

  ‘Exactly as you see it, Ma’am – at least, when we arrived at about three forty-five.’

  DS Jones tries to conceal her discomfort at being called Ma’am. PC Dodd and she are erstwhile classmates.

  ‘Go and get some fresh air. We’ll take over here.’

  ‘Yes Ma’am.’

  3. ROOM 10

  Skelgill taps a knuckle beneath the Roman numeral X and gently pushes open the door.

  ‘Right then, Herdwick – what have you got for us, yer miserable old cuddy?’

  From his left materialises a dark, slender woman of Mediterranean appearance. Skelgill evidently does not recognise her, nor does she him. With a look of alarm she tries to press shut the door, trapping him against the jamb.

  ‘No, no! You may not enter!’

  ‘We’re the police!’

  Skelgill yanks his Cumbrian Water fishing permit from the breast pocket of his gilet and flashes it briefly. The woman’s started demeanour relaxes, and she steps away, raising her hands in a flamboyant gesture, one that might owe something to flamenco.

  ‘Ah – perdone – accept my apologies. I did not recognise... I mean, you English detectives you are so... eccentric in your dress.’

  She peels off a rubber glove and holds out a firm hand to each of them in turn.

  ‘You are Inspector Skelgill – y Signorita...?’

  ‘DS Jones, my Sergeant. Doctor...?’

  ‘Maria Garcia Gonzalez. I am locum for Doctor ’erdwick.’

  Skelgill might wish to pull a disapproving face at his colleague, but the intelligent black Spanish eyes never leave his own, even as the woman moves aside to reveal the double bed against the left-hand wall. There follows a few moments’ silence while they gaze, not breathing, on the scene. Frowning, Skelgill must be reminded that one can never cease to be amazed by the amount of blood that fits inside one person. Ivan Tregilgis lies naked, quite peacefully; face down, in a sea of crimson among waves of crisp white linen.

  ‘A matador, it is you seek.’

  The two detectives exhale in tandem and turn abruptly to Dr Garcia Gonzalez as her unintentionally melodramatic words break the spell.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Inspector – ’e was killed by a single violent blow to the back of the neck from a knife or sword. It severed the carotid artery and probably the spinal cord. It would cause paralysis and rapid loss of blood. If it was not the skill of an expert – it was, how you say – la suerte del diablo?’

  ‘The luck of the devil.’

  It is DS Jones who translates the adage. Skelgill is scowling.

  ‘The work of the devil, more like.’

  They all nod in agreement.

  ‘So he was stabbed where he lay?’

  ‘Si, Inspector. Almost all of the blood is close to ’is body. Just a few smears spread around the sheets, probably made by la esposa – and stains on the lady’s nightdress. ’E is there.’ She points to a flimsy, bloodstained, beige garment that lies crumpled inside the small bathroom.

  Skelgill appears to be warming to the Iberian medic’s efficiency.

  ‘When did it happen, Doc?’

  ‘From ’is body temperature – and the room temperature – with just a top sheet on the bed... ’e died at very close to las tres.’

  ‘Three a.m.’ DS Jones again does the honours.

  ‘No wonder his wife thought he was alive.’

  Skelgill’s tone is flat – as if to allow in his mind for the retort that “Maybe he was”.

  He turns to face the woman. She is packing items into a small black Gladstone bag, and for a moment he seems to appraise her figure. She is of medium height, like his colleague, though slim to the point of being skinny, with a shock of raven hair and great dark eyes beneath curved brows.

  ‘Thank you very much, Doct
or. I may need to meet up with you when you’ve filed your report.’

  She snaps shut her bag and stands upright. There is a conspiratorial glint in her eye as she glances as DS Jones. Then she reaches again to shake hands with Skelgill.

  ‘Encantada, Inspector – you old cuddy.’ And with a friendly nod to DS Jones she is gone.

  Skelgill shakes his head ruefully.

  ‘I'll swing for that Arthur one of these days. How am I supposed to know Herdwick’s got a locum in?’

  DS Jones perhaps has to suppress a grin; being a local lass she knows that a cuddy is a donkey. But Skelgill quickly gathers his wits.

  ‘Anyway – better have a quick shufti before SOCO kick us out.’

  The room itself is smart but unremarkable. Only the half-glazed terrace-door might strike one as unusual, though a pleasant facility, especially in this weather. All the curtains are still drawn, and they muffle the birdsong that drifts in through the open window noted by PC Dodd. More exceptional are the expensive toiletries that crowd the ledges in the bathroom, and rows of designer labels that grace the clothes rail.

  ‘Not short of a bob or two.’ Skelgill grips his gilet, rather in the manner of a dinner-jacketed announcer taking hold of his lapels. ‘Must be alright, that advertising lark, driving round London in a flash motor, top restaurants, expense account.’

  ‘Wouldn’t you miss the fishing, Guv?

  ‘Thames is good for chub.’ His reply comes as he absently pokes his finger into a half-eaten plate of what looks like cheesecake, left on top of the dresser. ‘Not bad. And still fresh. Think he brought back his pudding to eat in bed?’