Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 18

  It had immediately struck Skelgill that there would be no conversation hereafter. The beat was deafening, with no gaps between tracks. They’d eased their way to the bar amidst twisting torsos; most it seemed to him attired only in underwear and fake tan. After a frustrating delay Skelgill ordered a double round, which paradoxically helped to numb the shock of the bill. They edged away, finding a spot by a brick column that afforded some protection. There appeared to be no dance floor as such: people were breaking into motion all around them, although a couple of raised podia served for serious showing off. The emphasis seemed to be upon hands, arms and the lower abdomen.

  Skelgill’s conundrum became one of where to look. He could hardly stare his colleague, but wherever his gaze fell there seemed to be bare flesh. DS Jones, meanwhile, seemed entirely relaxed, half closing her eyes and rhythmically shaking her head. After a while she had tapped him on the shoulder and beckoned him to bend towards her. She’d suggested they dance. His response was a look of trepidation, but she simply smiled and began to move her hips in time with the beat. Skelgill shuffled his feet and rolled his head from side to side, trying not to look self-conscious.

  In the heat, and absence of conversation, it did not take either of them long to drain their drinks, and DS Jones had insisted upon going for refills, leaving him guarding their space beside the pillar. He could see her at the bar – she was laughing with a guy of about her age, good looking, with a stylish haircut and a tight-fitting t-shirt that showcased his physique. DS Jones already had their drinks – four bottles, two clasped between the fingers of each hand. She held them aloft as she mirrored his offered dance for maybe ten or fifteen seconds. But then, to Skelgill’s relief, she had gradually backed away through the writhing crowd, until she had returned to his side.

  Skelgill had made short work of his next few drinks, and the tide of battle that had been raging amongst his sensibilities, flight versus fight, began to turn in favour of the latter. The urge to escape was subsiding, and he began to relax into the vibe and the silent company of his colleague. At some point he’d glanced at his watch and been surprised to find it was after two a.m. Despite the hour, the club seemed to be filling up, and gradually gently gyrating, glistening bodies hemmed them in. In time, there became a choice between being separated and standing to face one another; they dispensed with their empties (Skelgill could reach a ledge on the pillar) and became as one. It seemed the sensual presence of his colleague pressing against him became too much for Skelgill, and, anonymous in the seething crowd, he reached out. Their kiss became part of the dance, slow and rhythmical, unending, fingertips exploring hair and skin and muscle and sinew.

  33. KRISTA MOROCCO

  A solitary Skelgill, bleary-eyed and balanced awkwardly upon an aluminium barstool, sips absently on his beaker of unsatisfactory tea. He has taken up position in the window of a deli on a busy corner in St Martin’s Lane. His view should give him advance notice of DS Jones’s anticipated approach. Outside is another glorious Wednesday morning ruined by not being on Bass Lake.

  He seeks reparation in watching the goings-on of this very different world. Porters pass with trolleys stacked with cardboard boxes. An old guy, scruffy, a large rucksack on his back and a laptop under one arm, hails a cab. Two young men, peroxide crew cuts, tight sleeveless vests, mirrored sunglasses, glide by, arm in arm. A dapper business-suited female gnaws at a great flapping wedge of breakfast pizza. Directly below him at a pavement table two geezers pore over a newspaper that announces, “Police Raid Smashes Heroin Gang”. He can see the pictures: cops with a battering ram, and another arresting a skinny youth who seems more interested in giving the finger to the camera. Skelgill appears intrigued by the idea of the Met allowing a press photographer to be in on the act. The men rise and leave, and immediately a slick feral pigeon moves in to scavenge their crumbs, artfully dodging the boots that could end its Wednesday.

  ‘Penny for your thoughts?’

  Skelgill starts.

  ‘Jones – how did you get there?’

  ‘There’s another entrance – over by the counter.’

  ‘Oh.’ Skelgill seems unprepared for conversation. ‘Look, Jones – about last night, I think –’

  ‘Guv – thanks for getting me back in one piece – I can’t remember a thing after we left the restaurant – it must have been that red wine.’

  ‘Right –’

  DS Jones steps away.

  ‘I’ll get you a top up, Guv – back in a minute.’ Then she hesitates and holds up a hand. ‘Oh, Guv – message from forensics – that blackmail letter of Elspeth Goldsmith’s – the only prints they could get off it were hers and yours.’

  Skelgill nods. Left marooned upon his stool as she drifts through the sea of foraging sandwich buyers, he watches pensively the athletic form that has a new familiarity.

  *

  ‘So who do you think might have sent it?’

  Krista Morocco’s ice-blue eyes switch from the letter on her desk to return Skelgill’s inquiring gaze. Her body language is more relaxed than last time they met, albeit her chiselled Scandinavian features are still a touch guarded.

  ‘I find the whole thing impossible to believe, Inspector.’

  ‘But, if you had to pick someone?’

  ‘Well, I suppose – Grendon Smith would be my first thought.’

  Skelgill nods thoughtfully.

  ‘And what would he know that you wouldn’t want the cops to find out?’

  Krista Morocco purses her lips and shakes her head.

  ‘That, I should like to know, also.’

  ‘Nothing comes to mind?’

  ‘Maybe whoever sent it thinks I know something, when actually I don’t.’

  ‘When did you receive it?’

  ‘It was in my tray when I got in on Monday at about ten-thirty – I’d been at a meeting first thing.’

  ‘Had it been opened?’

  ‘No. It was sealed in a plain white DL envelope, typed ‘Private & Confidential’ on the front. There was no stamp or postmark – I’m afraid I didn’t keep it.’

  ‘How do you think it was delivered?’

  ‘I’m not sure. Geri who sorted my mail says she doesn’t remember seeing it.’

  ‘Is it possible that Grendon Smith still has access to these offices?’

  She pauses to consider, and a frown precedes her reply.

  ‘As you may recall – Ivan took his keys off him when he left. But I suppose he could have had copies made before then. We work such irregular hours that everyone has their own set of keys and can come and go as they need.’

  ‘What about Julia Rubicon? Could she have done it?’

  ‘You mean the letter?’

  ‘Aye – what did you think I meant?’

  ‘Oh, I thought for a moment – that you were asking me about the murder.’

  ‘Answer both.’ Skelgill opens his palms invitingly.

  Krista Morocco keeps her eyes fixed on Skelgill, virtually unblinking. Then she shakes her head doubtfully.

  ‘She’s certainly the jealous sort – but murder Ivan – I can’t see it, Inspector.’

  ‘And the blackmail note?’

  Again she shakes her head, slowly, as if she is trying to find a possible explanation but fails.

  ‘She might be a little crazy at times – impetuous – but Julia’s a very intelligent young woman. Why would she do something pointless like that?’

  ‘Maybe – if she thought you were the murderer?’

  A tinge of red colours Krista Morocco’s prominent cheekbones. This time she chooses to remain silent. Skelgill nods pensively.

  ‘How about Saturday night at Bewaldeth Hall – has anything more come back to you?’

  ‘I’ve been racking my brains, Inspector.’ She hesitates, and sighs. ‘There’s nothing tangible, but – you know – I just have this lasting impression of Ivan being really happy.’

  Skelgill makes a little cough.

  ‘And you’re certain you a
nd he didn’t spend time in bed together?’

  Krista Morocco’s full lips crease into a gentle smile.

  ‘That, I think I would remember, Inspector.’

  Skelgill turns to DS Jones and indicates with a hand that she should take over.

  ‘Ms Morocco – we’ve spoken with some of the people who worked with Ivan Tregilgis and Dermott Goldsmith at the time they left WNKR Advertising to set up on their own.’

  Krista Morocco leans forward, suddenly a little apprehensive.

  ‘When we last met – you mentioned that you’d had a brief relationship with Ivan Tregilgis around that time. Can you recall exactly when that was?’

  Krista Morocco seems to deliberate before forming her reply. She glances at Skelgill, to see that he is observing her closely.

  ‘It began on Valentine’s Day. We got held up at a meeting in town – it got to about eight p.m. and Ivan suggested we went for something to eat – and I accepted.’

  ‘Did you know he was engaged at the time?’

  Krista Morocco nods rather meekly.

  ‘So was I, Sergeant.’

  There is just a fraction of a delay in DS Jones’s response as she absorbs this information.

  ‘And for how long did the relationship last?’

  ‘Just a couple of months – but we only met on a handful of occasions. We lived on opposite sides of London in those days.’

  ‘And was it an intimate relationship?’

  ‘We were very close.’

  DS Jones becomes more direct.

  ‘I meant – did you sleep together?’

  Now Krista Morocco folds her hands on her lap and takes a few deep breaths. Her gaze wanders aimlessly about the items upon her desk. While she could be excused for constructing an appropriately vague response, her expression is more suggestive of the recalling of a memory.

  ‘There are some things that will always remain private between Ivan and me.’

  DS Jones appears as if she is about to press for clarity, but now Skelgill intervenes.

  ‘Krista –’ He uses her Christian name for the first time. ‘You told us you loved Ivan Tregilgis – can you explain what you meant by that in chronological terms?’

  Krista Morocco lowers her eyes.

  ‘We fell in love a long time ago – I know that we did, both of us – and I suppose we never fell out of it.’

  ‘Yet you got married – and still are?’

  She nods slowly.

  ‘I’ve been very lucky with Marco – he’s a good man. My feelings for Ivan seemed to happen in a parallel universe – like a dream I had no control over, and couldn’t wake from.’

  ‘And down the years?’

  Krista Morocco lets out another sigh.

  ‘I guess you can’t stay properly in love with someone you can’t have – but something special always remains.’

  Skelgill folds his arms.

  ‘It was mentioned to us that you’d said Ivan had you on his conscience. What did that mean?’

  Krista Morocco shakes her head.

  ‘I don’t remember saying that to anyone.’

  Skelgill ponders for a moment before asking his next question.

  ‘Who ended the relationship?’

  ‘I would say that events ended the relationship, Inspector. Once Ivan left WNKR to set up with Dermott he was so busy – and I didn’t see him for a while – our working relationship was ended. Then it was about a year later that I joined them. By then our engagements had become marriages.’

  ‘When we spoke about this previously you suggested you’d lost out – what did you mean by that?’

  ‘I suppose I was referring to Miriam, that’s all – there’s no shame in that, Inspector.’

  Skelgill is forced to concur with a nod of the head.

  ‘So, how did you feel about Ivan Tregilgis and Julia Rubicon?’

  ‘I was hardly in a position to start casting any stones, Inspector. I’ve learned that life is not perfect.’ Krista Morocco smiles generously. ‘And I wouldn’t want to resent Ivan – if he was doing something that made him feel good – he had to get his creative energy from somewhere.’

  Skelgill’s eyes seem to widen at this suggestion – although with a look of intrigue rather than disapproval. His next question might suggest he attributes such open-mindedness to her provenance.

  ‘You’re from Sweden, right?’

  ‘That’s correct, Stockholm.’

  ‘And did you marry in England?’

  ‘Yes – Marco is British, despite the unusual name. Although his paternal line is originally from the USA.’

  ‘Where did you get married?’

  ‘Just a registry office in Streatham, Inspector – nothing so exotic as our backgrounds.’

  She smiles endearingly.

  Skelgill straightens his jacket and pushes back his chair as if he is making ready to leave.

  ‘You don’t have kids – we’ve asked you that?’

  Krista Morocco shakes her head, now perhaps a little sadly.

  ‘I’m still hoping for that to happen.’

  Skelgill nods and regards her thoughtfully as he gets to his feet.

  ‘Oh, there is one thing, Krista.’ Again he opts for her first name. His tone is conciliatory. ‘The kukri on which we found your fingerprints – it’s been ruled out as the murder weapon.’

  ‘Oh!’ Her reaction is of unrestrained delight. ‘I’m so glad – I spoke with Melanie and she was mortified that she’d told you she’d seen me fooling about with a knife.’

  Skelgill regards her with interest – even now, her reaction seems to be one of unselfish concern for others – and this must make some impression on him. And it is almost as an afterthought that she poses the question that would be the burning one for most people in her situation.

  ‘Inspector – so does this mean I’m no longer a suspect?’

  ‘It certainly helps.’

  34. MIRIAM TREGILGIS

  ‘I can’t believe half of that gear’s legal.’

  ‘They mostly wear it for clubbing, down here, Guv.’

  Skelgill and DS Jones have paused momentarily at the window of a fetish accessories emporium. Heading briskly for Miriam Tregilgis’s apartment, they are cutting through Soho towards Cambridge Circus. Skelgill’s eyes have widened at the mind-boggling array of accessories and wet-look PVC clothing.

  ‘Look there – truncheons and handcuffs.’

  DS Jones smiles at her colleague.

  ‘Thinking of taking back a souvenir, Guv?’

  ‘What? – no fear.’

  Skelgill turns away and sets off at pace. It is eleven-forty a.m. and they have been informed that Miriam Tregilgis is unexpectedly on a tight schedule. DS Jones catches him and changes the subject.

  ‘I thought you were kind on Krista Morocco, Guv.’

  ‘Aye, well – maybe I’m going soft in my old age.’

  Skelgill glances hopefully at DS Jones – perhaps seeking a rebuttal of this notion (regarding age rather than amenability). But she is more single-minded.

  ‘She still doesn’t want to tell us the full story, Guv. I mean – what’s she got to lose by being straight about her and Ivan Tregilgis? It just creates suspicion.’

  ‘I suppose she’s entitled to her privacy – and it’s up to us to make of it what we will.’ He pulls a face that suggests concern. ‘We’ve given her a bit of a rough ride – first the underwear and then the kukri – she’d be excused for clamming up, and she hasn’t exactly done that. She could have denied the affair with Tregilgis. Bear in mind her husband may not know about that – nor Miriam – she’s taking the risk of it coming out.’

  DS Jones nods; Skelgill is right about this.

  ‘I suppose so, Guv.’

  Skelgill brightens.

  ‘One thing does puzzle me, though, Jones.’

  ‘Guv?’

  ‘Why would she take such sexy undies to the company party?’

  DS Jones grins. Now, paradoxically, she c
omes to the defence of Krista Morocco.’

  ‘Because, Guv – when you’re wearing nice clothes you want to wear nice underwear – it makes you feel... well, good.’

  Skelgill looks a touch disappointed.

  ‘Is that all?’

  DS Jones narrows her eyes, and just a hint of coyness enters her tone.

  ‘Well – I suppose you never know, Guv...’

  ‘What? When you might get run over by a bus?’

  Now she chuckles.

  ‘Something like that.’

  Skelgill nods, a little happier.

  ‘Anyway, Guv – remember, on the night she wasn’t wearing any.’

  ‘That must a be Swedish thing.’

  *

  It is an uncharacteristically flustered Miriam Tregilgis that admits Skelgill and DS Jones to her flat a few minutes later. The time is now eleven-fifty a.m. Beside the door in the long hallway stand a pristine fawn-coloured designer flight bag and a matching attaché case. Miriam Tregilgis wears a smart lime-green two-piece outfit.

  ‘Do you mind awfully if I don’t offer you coffee?’ She sounds genuinely apologetic. ‘It’s just that I’m running late and there’s a taxi coming at twelve.’

  Her pronunciation of the word taxi with ‘ach’ reminds the detectives that a Welsh accent lurks beneath her careful enunciation.

  She delves distractedly into her handbag, but then seems to surprise them by taking the initiative.

  ‘Any news, Inspector?’

  ‘We’re still hoping you might help us on that front, Mrs Tregilgis.’

  ‘Oh, really?’

  Now she is rummaging in a drawer of a cabinet.

  ‘There has been an attempt at blackmail – a note sent to a member of the company.’

  She looks up sharply, alarm in her eyes.

  ‘You don’t think I sent it, Inspector?’