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

  ‘Doesn’t look like a sweet-eater.’ DS Jones is regarding the athletic figure on the bed.

  Skelgill glances at her for a second, a furtive question in his eyes. Then he turns his attention to the drawers, and begins to poke about amongst some underwear with the tip of his pen.

  ‘What do you reckon, Jones?’

  She peers at the neatly folded ladies’ briefs.

  ‘Expensive, Guv. You might say sensible.’

  Skelgill nods and moves away. A small polished writing desk stands beneath the window. Upon it rests a briefcase and a scrolled flip chart. Skelgill avoids the briefcase – presumably for fear of smearing fingerprints – and instead he unrolls the chart.

  ‘Looks like they’ve been doing pretty well.’ He scans through the headlines. ‘New clients... record turnover... won a load of awards...’

  ‘Guv.’

  They might be new to one another, but there is no mistaking the note of urgency in DS Jones’s voice. He swings around to find that she has carefully peeled back the crumpled top-sheet. There, at the foot of the bed, lies a flimsy sheer black g-string.

  ‘Not his, Guv.’

  ‘Nor hers.’

  4. MRS GROTENEUS

  After leaving Room 10 and ushering PC Dodd back to his post, DS Jones goes to find the owner, Mrs Groteneus. Skelgill, meanwhile, has optimistically taken up residence in the empty dining room, harbouring the misguided hope that a plate of lavishly buttered bacon sandwiches will be forthcoming. However, it is barely four-forty a.m. and the hotel is still bereft of staff. He rises and pushes through a swing-door. It leads into the darkened kitchen, silent but for the gurgle of an industrial dishwasher and the hum of a bank of refrigerators. There are some continental breakfasts made up. Skelgill rips open a packet of muesli and pours its contents into his upturned mouth. Then he hears voices from the dining room. Hurriedly he tries to swallow the grainy mixture. Attempting to retrace his steps, he finds himself trapped by the unfamiliar system of one-way doors. An anxious-looking, tall angular woman releases him; she has a prominent nose, and is aged perhaps in her mid-fifties.

  ‘Ah, Mrs Groteneus. Just wondered if we could get a cuppa?’ He indicates over his shoulder with a thumb.

  ‘Of course.’ She nods and bustles past him. ‘Please be seated and I shall bring it to you.’

  DS Jones lowers her voice, as they wait for Mrs Groteneus to return. ‘Seems a bit highly strung. She runs the place on her own – her husband left her ten years ago. She’s Dutch, Guv.’

  Skelgill scowls. ‘What is this, bloody Eurovision? It’ll be a French maid next.’

  ‘Polish most likely, Guv.’

  Skelgill is about to retort, but the woman reappears; having gathered assorted tea things on a tray. She takes a seat opposite the two detectives, and stares nervously as Skelgill loads a cup with extra sugar and then holds it out for her to pour the tea. He looks up, and appears surprised by her expression of concern.

  ‘Mrs Groteneus, I realise this is not good for business, and must be very upsetting, but it’s essential that I ask you some questions about last night.’

  She twitches, perhaps by way of acknowledgement.

  ‘I gather this was a company booking – they took all your rooms?’

  She nods.

  ‘Can you tell me about the sequence of events as they took place last night?’

  ‘Oh, ja – of course.’ She licks her thin lips and looks as if she could do with a drink herself. ‘But first I should tell you there was one person who did not arrive – I have a list of guests and the room allocation at reception.’

  ‘Excellent – very efficient. We’ll take note of that.’ He glances at DS Jones, who is already writing in her pocket book. He nods for the hotelier to continue.

  ‘They met for cocktails in the bar at seven-thirty and came in here for dinner at eight-thirty. The meal was over by just after ten, and then they went either to the bar or to the Great Hall – they brought a music system which was set up so they could dance in there.’

  ‘How long did you stay with them?’

  ‘I served the wine during the meal, and I was at the bar before and after. I went to bed just after midnight as I was due to get up at six o’clock to prepare the breakfasts.’

  ‘Do you have a night porter?’

  She shakes her head. ‘They could help themselves to drinks after I had gone. We usually have an honesty-bar, but with this company I agreed a price per head – it was a generous deal they made with me.’

  ‘What about your staff – when did they leave?’

  ‘Chef, about ten p.m. – I heard his motorcycle – he lives at Keswick. The three waitresses and two kitchen staff all left together at their usual time, just after eleven. They share a car – they live at Cockermouth or nearby.’

  ‘We’ll need their details. Do any of them have keys?’

  ‘No. I am the only keyholder for external doors. My two chambermaids, they each have a master key for the bedrooms, but do not take them out of the hotel.’

  ‘Was the place locked up last night?’

  ‘Er – ja en nee. You see, Inspector, I set the latch on the main entrance when I left, and locked the door from the storeroom – it is through the kitchen. And also I locked the bar door, which leads to a small patio. But I am at the mercy of my guests. If they did not lock their bedroom doors that lead on to the West Terrace – or they could have gone out on to the terrace by the door from the Great Hall and left it unlocked.’

  Skelgill looks pointedly at DS Jones as she diligently writes. When he gains her attention he signals with a toss of the head that she should go and check. While she is away, he makes small talk with Mrs Groteneus about the weather. When she returns, he abruptly switches back to business.

  ‘Jones?’

  ‘Store room and bar doors bolted from the inside. Terrace door from the Great Hall unlocked, as Mrs Groteneus suspected.’

  The woman wrings her hands but does not speak.

  ‘Don’t fret, madam – there’s no law that says you must imprison your guests.’ He pushes back his chair. ‘Perhaps we could get that list?’

  Mrs Groteneus is quick to lead the way, evidently relieved to escape the interrogation. She disappears behind the counter in the lobby, leaving the detectives to peruse the artefacts on display. Meanwhile she bustles about, muttering in Dutch and shuffling papers. Then suddenly she exclaims.

  ‘Mevrouw Goldsmith... Ja – here is the letter!’

  She hurries around to where Skelgill stands facing a wall. Insinuating herself between the two, she jabs at the list with a bony finger.

  ‘This one – Mr Grendon Smith – he did not come.’

  But Skelgill isn’t looking. He inclines his head towards a curved knife held in an odd-shaped wire fixture.

  ‘Mrs Groteneus.’ His voice is calm and measured. ‘This knife – it’s a kukri isn’t it?’

  She flaps the paper, apparently determined to get him to look at her list.

  ‘Ja, my husband brought them back from Nepal, many years ago.’

  ‘Mrs Groteneus.’ Skelgill persists. ‘You just said them?’

  ‘Mijn God!’ She jerks around to stare at the kukri. ‘There should be a pair!’

  5. BREAKFAST BY THE LAKE

  ‘Okay.’ Skelgill speaks through a mouthful of bacon-and-egg sandwich. ‘What have we got so far?’

  DS Jones gazes thoughtfully across the lake, her eyes involuntarily following the aerobatics of a swallow as it hawks for flies.

  ‘It doesn’t look like a bungled robbery, Guv. Wouldn’t the average sneak thief have stolen the valuables without waking him – and done all the other rooms, too?’

  ‘More often than not.’

  ‘I suppose it could be something business-related – and yet his briefcase wasn’t taken, Guv. With it being locked you would imagine that would be the first thing to go. Unless someone just wanted to eliminate him?’

  Skelgill grunts and shifts position on the angu
lar boulder beneath him.

  ‘I can’t see it being a professional hit, Jones. You’d need too much inside information, right down to which room he was in. Why come to the Lakes and hang about on the off chance – when you can mow him down any day of the week in London?’

  ‘The chap Smith who never turned up, though, Guv – he would have known about the location and maybe the timings.’

  ‘He’d run a big risk of being spotted. Then he’d stand out like a sore thumb. He’s probably at a funeral.’ Skelgill reaches for the aluminium pan at his feet. ‘Have another butty?’

  This is a generous offer coming from Skelgill – the last of his fisherman’s breakfast. But DS Jones shakes her head diplomatically.

  ‘I feel quite full, thanks, Guv.’

  Skelgill needs no further encouragement. He munches in silence, surveying the surface of the water for signs of rising fish. Taking a few minutes out to gather their thoughts, the pair has driven to the spot where the nearby River Derwent empties from Bassenthwaite Lake. It is now six-fifteen a.m. and, encamped on the shingle bank, Skelgill has demonstrated his expertise with a battered vintage Trangia stove and a strange smoking contraption he claims is called a Kelly Kettle. Being self-sufficient in food and drink is a state of affairs he swears by.

  ‘If it’s an inside job –’ His voice tails off as he tosses his last piece of crust at a shoal of tiny dace that shimmer in the shallows close by. He watches the bread bob as the voracious whitebait attack it from beneath. ‘We’ll have a hell of a time with the evidence.’

  ‘Contamination, you mean, Guv?’

  Skelgill picks his teeth pensively. The early indications are that virtually everybody in the hotel had flocked to the scene of the crime, and several of them touched the hysterical Mrs Tregilgis in her bloody nightie.

  ‘Aye, that – and the fact that the place is like a rabbit-warren – anyone could have nipped along to the lobby, swiped the kukri and stabbed him – meanwhile the rest of them were probably so drunk they wouldn’t have noticed a thing.’

  ‘How long should we keep them, Guv? Mrs Groteneus says they’re scheduled to check out after breakfast – the company’s offices are in Edinburgh and London. They’ve got train tickets booked from Penrith.’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘It depends what the search team turns up. We need that knife. Can’t have someone slipping away with it in their luggage.’

  ‘No, Guv.’

  Skelgill stands and stretches his arms above his head. He has removed his gilet, and his shrunken t-shirt now rides up to reveal the effect of regular rowing upon a man’s abdominals. DS Jones looks on innocently, though she averts her eyes when he glances in her direction. He stoops and begins to busy himself with tidying his equipment.

  ‘Get a couple of your DCs over as soon as you can. Might as well take preliminary statements while we’ve got everyone under one roof. And events will be fresh in their minds. Pay particular attention to the period between two and three – when he went to bed – and when he was stabbed. Make sure the staff’s whereabouts can be corroborated. And we need to speak to the chambermaids when they come in – find out when that bed was last stripped. Then we’ll both talk to the wife – after I’ve seen this Lord Goldsmith character.’

  6. DERMOTT GOLDSMITH

  ‘So Lord is a Christian name?’

  There is a certain literal irony in Skelgill’s question, although his tone of voice errs more towards the sceptical. He is interviewing the surviving partner of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates in a small anteroom situated above the hotel lobby.

  ‘Middle name, actually – initials DLG – Delta Lima Golf in your parlance.’ Dermott Goldsmith is clearly pleased with himself for thinking of this and beams at Skelgill. ‘Close friends call me Dermott, but I tend to use Lord in business circles – it has a certain cachet. Our mission is all about brands – creating distinctive identities that leave a striking impression in the mind of the customer. I try to do much the same.’

  Rather short, balding and overfed, with dark arched brows that almost join above a nose and lips too large for his face, Dermott Goldsmith had sauntered into the room, as if accustomed to being important. He wears deck-shoes without socks, designer jeans, an obscure French t-shirt and a gold Rolex Oyster. His cool-dude image appears not to impress Skelgill, who still smells faintly of last Saturday’s eighteen-pound pike. Indeed, though he strives to be civil at all times, Skelgill is probably least endeared when being patronised, and the glad-handed-we’re-good-friends-already manner of Dermott Goldsmith is not cutting a great deal of ice with the detective.

  ‘I’ll stick to Mr Goldsmith to avoid confusion.’

  ‘As you wish, Inspector – I am your humble servant.’

  ‘Mr Goldsmith, we’ll be taking formal statements from everybody in due course. But I thought I should speak with you first to get a bit of a picture of Mr Tregilgis and your company. Perhaps you could tell me about your respective roles in the business.’

  Goldsmith nods in a naturally condescending kind of way.

  ‘Well, Ivan was our frontman – could sell sand to the Arabs – don’t know how he did it – I couldn’t be so brash. Whereas I basically run the company.’ He pauses for dramatic effect. ‘I am effectively Financial Director, Company Secretary, I look after Personnel, Technology, Administration – you could say I’m the brains behind the operation.’

  ‘You must be a very busy man,’

  Dermott Goldsmith smirks coyly, not detecting the sarcasm in Skelgill’s tone.

  ‘I gather you’re based in the Edinburgh office and that Mr Tregilgis worked from London?’

  ‘Correct, Inspector. Edinburgh is where it all happens.’

  ‘I would have thought London was more the hub of the advertising industry?’

  Dermott Goldsmith’s features are momentarily discomfited.

  ‘Edinburgh is a vibrant international capital, Inspector. We have more restaurants per head than any city in Europe; a galaxy of Michelin stars. It is an international financial centre; home of the world’s greatest arts festival; extraordinary coastline, mountains – with sailing and skiing on our doorstep. Our neighbours high-achievers, there are leading private schools – everything and more than London has got without the grime and the crime.’

  Skelgill has a rather bemused expression upon his face.

  ‘I always find Edinburgh a bit on the cold side.’

  Dermott Goldsmith frowns and shakes his head.

  ‘We have the same level of rainfall as Paris and Rome. This time of year it barely gets dark at night. We barbecue on our terrace most evenings.’

  There cannot be many occasions in his long experience as a detective when the close associate of a murder victim has spent the first ten minutes of an interview talking about himself. Under normal circumstances Skelgill would immediately suspect the person in question for trying to lead him astray – but Dermott Goldsmith appears to be an exception to this rule. His abiding preoccupation is with self-aggrandisement. However, Skelgill’s time is precious, and if he is not to become the second casualty of the day, bored to an early death, he must regain the initiative. Presumably with this in mind, he asks a rather abrupt question.

  ‘Have you had any recent disagreements with Mr Tregilgis?’

  ‘What?’

  Dermott Goldsmith is plainly caught unawares, and a shadow darkens his features.

  ‘Arguments. Conflict. It’s normal in business, isn’t it?’

  ‘We never argued.’

  Dermott Goldsmith might be a professional talker, but when it comes to lying, his performance is far more amateurish. Skelgill, however, seems content to let the slip pass unchallenged.

  ‘Are you aware of anybody in the company, or connected with it, that might have wanted to harm him?’

  ‘Nobody – of course not. What possible motive could they have?’

  ‘How about – jealousy?’

  Skelgill’s suggestion appears to be plucked at
random, but it engenders an interesting response from Dermott Goldsmith. He has regained his composure, and now he rather preens as he anticipates the pleasure of his next response.

  ‘Naturally, Inspector, one can’t get to our position without making people jealous.’

  ‘Just what is your position?’

  ‘Well, Inspector, between us and these four walls – as fifty-fifty shareholders – of course, we are multi-millionaires.’

  Skelgill seems unmoved.

  ‘So what happens now – to the ownership of the company?’

  From wallowing in his own self-importance, Dermott Goldsmith again finds his mood being wrenched from his control. For a second or two, he appears entirely unable to answer. And when it comes, his reply is somewhat strangled.

  ‘Well, Inspector – that is a very complicated matter. I shall need to consult with our accountants back in Edinburgh.’

  Skelgill must be tempted to remark that this is a pretty weak answer, coming from the brains behind the business. But he nods patiently.

  ‘Perhaps you could let us know in due course. Otherwise, that’ll be all for now, sir.’

  Dermott Goldsmith is further disconcerted, as if he is not accustomed to being the one told to leave the room.

  ‘But, Inspector – you haven’t asked me about the madman.’

  ‘Madman, sir?’

  ‘The intruder – the burglar – what about my thoughts on the crime?’

  Skelgill returns a rather blank stare.

  ‘When I’ve formed some of my own, sir – I shall maybe take you up on that.’

  Dermott Goldsmith seems mollified – perhaps he senses the opportunity to make a dignified exit. He stands and brushes at his clothing ostentatiously; he might be removing some contamination that has fallen upon him like ash. With a cursory nod to Skelgill he turns and departs, and as he crosses to the door, it is noticeable that his stately alter ego seems to regain possession of his demeanour. Skelgill, meanwhile, purses his lips; he would be excused for thinking that the assassin got the wrong person.