Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 20

‘I felt – gut feel – that I actually had it in my grasp – something that I’d picked up, perhaps subconsciously – and that is was just a matter of time before the penny dropped.’ Now his shoulders slump dejectedly. ‘Since then – aye, we’ve found out some interesting things about a number of people – reasons why they might be wrapped up in it – but none of them is walking around with a smoking gun.’

  DS Jones, however, continues to remain positive.

  ‘Maybe it’s just one of those cases, Guv – where it’s going to take patient, detailed, persistent police work – until we unearth something that makes the difference?’

  Skelgill acknowledges her efforts with a wan smile.

  ‘Aye – but what worries me is that it’s not over yet.’

  ‘What, Guv – you mean the killer might try to strike again?’

  Skelgill nods gravely.

  ‘We have to consider that possibility.’

  Now they are silent for a few moments. DS Jones absently begins to tidy the wrappers and cups that mingle with their admin on the surface of the table. Then she notices the quartered Daily Telegraph.

  ‘Guv – you finished it!’

  Skelgill sits back and folds his arms.

  ‘Aye, well – never underestimate the Mighty Skel.’

  36. TELEPHONE CALLS

  Ten a.m. on Thursday finds Skelgill attached to the telephone at his desk – at this particular juncture in conversation with Edinburgh accountant Ronald Macdonald.

  ‘So it’s still in the melting pot?’

  ‘In a manner of speaking, Inspector – the insurance company is keeping its head firmly buried in the sand while your investigation is still active.’

  ‘Any inkling whether they’ll pay out if it’s murder?’

  ‘Och – they say so – but... I guess that would depend on who was charged with the crime.’

  ‘Aye, I get your drift.’

  There is an intake of breath at Ronald Macdonald’s end.

  ‘I don’t suppose, Inspector – you’re any further?’

  Skelgill, too, pauses to inhale.

  ‘Maybe a little – but, I wanted to ask you, sir – your man with the big magnifying glass.’

  ‘Woman, actually.’

  ‘Sorry, woman – anything to report?’

  ‘Yes – there is one thing, so far, that is – and it may turn out to be entirely in order, of course?’

  ‘Fire away, please, sir.’

  ‘Have you heard of Pictorial, Inspector?’

  ‘I don’t think so, sir.’

  ‘It’s a local magazine – och, a kind of poor man’s Hello!’

  The description strikes a chord with Skelgill.

  ‘Now you mention it – one of my Edinburgh colleagues brought it to my attention – there’s a Goldsmith connection, I believe?’

  ‘Well, Inspector – I don’t know if your information concerns the same point, but we were running a check on the National Insurance calculations for Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates, and our lady auditor – who happens to subscribe to the magazine – noticed that the Editor is actually on the GT&A payroll.’

  ‘What – so are you saying that the agency is subsiding the magazine?’

  ‘It looks that way, Inspector. The publication hasn’t filed any accounts yet – however, we’ve made a couple of discreet inquiries and the word on the street is that they’re not selling a lot of advertising space.’

  ‘Is this an unusual arrangement?’

  ‘I should say so, Inspector.’

  ‘Who decides who gets put on the payroll, sir?’

  ‘We’d only take that instruction from a Director.’

  ‘Was that something Ivan Tregilgis ever got involved in?’

  ‘Not that I’m aware of, Inspector – I don’t think he had much time for company admin.’

  Skelgill is nodding to himself.

  ‘Okay – well, thanks for letting me know that, sir.’

  Skelgill – himself a sparse note-taker at the best of times – jots a few untidy words on his pad. Another question for Dermott Goldsmith, perhaps.

  *

  ‘Aye, right – aye – well, thanks for that Cam – aye – maybe see you next week. Cheers.’ Skelgill replaces the receiver and looks across his desk at DS Jones, who has joined him in his office. ‘Cameron sends his regards.’

  DS Jones nods gracefully.

  ‘Suits you, sir.’

  Skelgill grins self-consciously.

  She refers to his shirt, the second of his Covent Garden purchases.

  ‘Aye, well – it’s the weather for it.’

  More honest an answer would have been expediency in the face of a lack of laundered alternatives. However, the early summer heatwave does persist.

  ‘They said on the radio it might break at the weekend.’

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘Not before Saturday morning, I hope – I’ve got a dawn appointment with a pike.’

  Skelgill has not fished since his abortive trip on the morning of the murder, and now he gazes longingly out across the landscape, luxuriant and vibrant in the bright heat.

  ‘What news from DS Findlay, Guv?’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘I’d asked him to have a word with Julia Rubicon – about Lady Goldsmith’s letter.’

  ‘Did he tell her what it said?’

  ‘Nope – but that didn’t prevent her being uncooperative.’

  ‘In what way, Guv?’

  ‘Kept him waiting the best part of an hour while she was on the phone – then just ill-tempered and obstructive.’

  ‘And no further forward?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘So, I’m going to give her a call – I’d be interested in your thoughts on a line of attack.’

  DS Jones nods pensively.

  ‘If she did have something to do with the letters, Guv – she’d probably know enough to suspect that Krista Morocco and Ivan Tregilgis had some history, and possibly she could have got wind of the sale of the company – reasons to think Krista Morocco and Elspeth Goldsmith were worth targeting.’ She stretches out her legs and runs her fingertips down onto her knees. ‘Or it could just be bloody-mindedness, Guv – opportunism with no real intent to extort any money.’

  Skelgill is watching his colleague’s lithe movements. He blinks and stretches himself, bringing his hands down behind his head.

  ‘Then again, Jones, if she has received a blackmail letter, I’d fully expect her to keep quiet about it.’

  ‘Given that she’d assume it was about her affair with Tregilgis?’

  ‘Or worse, maybe.’

  *

  ‘Why is everyone hassling me?’

  ‘Are they?’

  Silence.

  ‘Have you had any threats made against you? It would be sensible to tell us.’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Look, Julia – I’m worried about you – if that’s hassling I’m sorry.’

  Silence.

  ‘I don’t doubt you feel isolated without Ivan to confide in. You obviously had a close working relationship with him.’

  ‘Huh.’ The dismissal is one of disdain.

  ‘Come on, Julia – you’re successful – incredibly so for your age – you’re attractive – you’ve got everything going for you. It seems to me like you’ve been dragged into a situation you didn’t ask for.’

  ‘Tell me about it.’

  ‘Well, you tell me.’

  ‘There’s nothing to tell.’

  ‘Listen – think about it – next week I’m going to be up in Edinburgh – we need to do a round of more formal interviews – there must be some things you’d be happier about if they were off your chest.’

  He says it as a matter of fact, rather than posing the question. There is again a silence – though more accommodating – and Skelgill makes small circles on his desk with the thumb of his left hand, as though he is picturing her winding a lock of hair anxiously between her own crimson-tipped talons
.

  ‘When you say formal – do you mean at the police station?’

  ‘That would be the usual thing. Or at your office if you preferred.’

  ‘Couldn’t we go out somewhere – make it look like we were having a drink – without everyone staring at me as if I’m some kind of criminal?’

  ‘I’m not sure that’s why they stare.’

  Julia Rubicon makes a little sharp expiration of breath that hints at an appreciation of the compliment, and Skelgill appears to yield.

  ‘Look, it’s fine by me, Julia – but you could equally be seen by a friend – a boyfriend?’

  ‘That’s not one of my problems.’

  ‘Really – I’m surprised to hear that.’

  ‘I’ve been rather career-focused since I arrived in Edinburgh, Inspector. When I set out to do something I put my head down and go for it.’

  ‘You sound like my sort of girl.’

  Now there is the semblance of a laugh, husky, from deep in her throat.

  ‘You never know, Inspector.’

  After Skelgill has replaced the receiver, he stands up and walks to his window. He declined DS Jones’s suggestion that she listen-in on the call, and now there is an impression of relief about his demeanour. He is breathing heavily, as if Julia Rubicon’s heady musk inhabits the stifling air of his office, depleting the oxygen. He separates the venetian blind with two fingers at eye level and lets out a sigh. Beyond the glass it is still sunny and cloudless. By evening Bass Lake will be a boiling cauldron of feeding fish, just asking for the fly. But he has been roped in to play in the annual cricket match against deadly police rivals from Carlisle. He lets the slats snap shut like the jaws of a hungry jack pike. As he turns back to face the room, DS Jones enters – her expression at first a little alarmed – as if she reads in his face the conflicting emotions that wrestle with his conscience.

  ‘How did it go, Guv?’

  ‘She claims not to have received a letter – as per her little chat with DS Findlay.’

  ‘Perhaps she’ll cough up when we stick her in an interview room for a couple of hours, Guv.’

  DS Jones has a note of professional efficiency in her voice, though it might just be overlaid by the merest hint of glee.

  ‘Aye.’

  There is obviously something about Skelgill’s reply that does not satisfy her, and she glances at him questioningly. However, in the absence of anything being forthcoming, she holds out a sheaf of papers she has brought with her.

  ‘The report for the Chief for you to check, Guv – I was waiting for you to finish on the phone.’

  ‘When does she need it?’

  ‘About twenty minutes ago – she’s got lunch with a couple of journos.’

  Skelgill groans, and takes the document to his seat. DS Jones seems reluctant to leave. She notices a folded copy of the Westmorland Gazette lying upon his desk.

  ‘Been doing the crossword, Guv?’

  ‘What? – er, no – I was reading the cricket scores.’

  ‘Oh – I heard you’re playing tonight, Guv.’

  Skelgill shakes his head ruefully.

  ‘I don’t know why I agreed. The fish’ll be jumping into the boat tonight.’

  ‘Word is you’re a bit of a demon bowler, Guv.’

  Skelgill now affects modesty, and pretends to study the first page of the report.

  ‘George reckons Carlisle have been trying to find out if you’re in the team. I thought I might come down and watch, Guv – I’ve got to do my Dad’s medicine tonight because my Mum’s over at her sister’s – but not until ten.’

  Now Skelgill glances up anxiously.

  ‘Don’t get your hopes up – I haven’t bowled since I did my back in rescuing an overweight tourist in flip-flops off Striding Edge last July.’

  ‘I take it you weren’t the one in flip-flops, Guv?’

  ‘No – but I might have to wear them tonight if I can’t find some boots.’

  DS Jones grins.

  ‘Apparently there’s a bit of a knees-up in The Keys afterwards. According to the jungle drums the Chief’s going to put in an appearance – apparently she wants the Blencathra Shield back – at all costs.’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘Aye – to claim all the credit for it, more like.’

  ‘George says Carlisle are taking it really seriously, Guv – he reckons they’ve got a couple of ringers who are up on assignments from other forces.’

  Skelgill makes a disparaging scoffing sound.

  ‘You’d think we were playing for the Ashes.’

  ‘By all accounts it’s more important than that, Guv.’

  *

  ‘Skelgill.’

  He sounds a little out of breath as he answers the call. This is because he has been practising his delivery stride in the limited space available in his office, door firmly closed. Now he flexes his back – it appears to be okay, for his grimaces seem precautionary rather than actual.

  ‘International call, sir. Sounded like Foyd. He said you’d know who it is?’

  ‘Aye, put him on.’

  There is a click, and heavy breathing also at the waiting caller’s end of the line.

  ‘Mr Zendik?’

  ‘Call me Ford, Officer.’ The Bronx accent explains the operator’s dilemma. The American gets straight into his stride. ‘Any further?’

  Skelgill inhales, by way of lowering expectations.

  ‘Not as far as I’d like, I’m afraid – though I have my suspicions, naturally.’

  ‘Sure. Listen Officer – you asked me to let you know if Dermott contacted me – with anything out of the ordinary.’ He sounds Dermott as Doymott.

  ‘Go ahead.’

  ‘He called last night – to put me in the picture, he said.’

  ‘Is this the first time he’s been in touch?’

  ‘Yup. He knows we’ve got an M&A firm working for us in London – he said he’d assumed they gave us the headlines last week. Said that he’d been too messed up to call until now.’

  ‘Ford – M&A?’

  ‘Mergers and acquisitions, Officer.’

  ‘Got it. Did he mention the takeover?’

  ‘Couldn’t get there fast enough. Offered me a big discount so long as he gets the top job and a cut of the profits. Said he’d privately thought Tregilgis was pushing for too much and would rather take some of the dough as payment-by-results. And he wants to put the deal back by three months while he gets things straight with the staff and clients. Said he’s got a big sympathy thing going with clients right now and could pick up some extra contracts on the back of it.’

  Skelgill’s features crease with a look of distaste.

  ‘So he was fully informed about the details of your provisional agreement?’

  ‘The Heads of Terms?’

  ‘That’s it.’

  ‘I’d say so, Officer – he sounded pretty au fait to me.’

  ‘When we last spoke, you mentioned that a lower price might be something that could come into the equation.’

  ‘Sure – although you’d think Goldsmith would leave that one for me to raise, Officer.’

  ‘Is he afraid of losing the sale, sir?’

  ‘It’s been eating him up, alright. You see, Officer – when he called I was working late in the office and didn’t really think about it. Then it hit me when I got in this morning – it must have been after three a.m. your time.’

  *

  Skelgill, following some minutes’ contemplation and a cup of tea and a good chew of his thumbnail, dials a number from a list on his desk. He appears surprised when the call is answered almost immediately.

  ‘Hello?’

  ‘Mr Goldsmith – it’s Inspector Skelgill. Do you have a moment?’

  ‘Certainly, Inspector. What can I do for you?’

  Skelgill seems unprepared for Dermott Goldsmith’s amiable tone. He sounds to have shaken off both the angry teenager and the faux aristocrat.

  ‘How are things goi
ng?’

  ‘Oh – we’re working at it. Everyone’s pulling together. We’ll get through this as a team and come out stronger on the other side.’

  Skelgill scowls – this string of platitudes perhaps tells him why Dermott Goldsmith is a bean counter (as Zendik put it) and not a copywriter like his late colleague.

  ‘Sure. I understand you’re having a company get-together this weekend?’

  There is a moment’s hesitation before Dermott Goldsmith replies.

  ‘That’s correct, Inspector. Elspeth and I thought it would be good for morale. Especially given the state of limbo at present. Unless you’ve er...?’

  ‘No arrest as yet, I’m afraid, sir.’

  ‘I see.’

  Dermott Goldsmith inhales as though he is about to add something, but then thinks the better of it. Skelgill fills the void.

  ‘I gather Mrs Tregilgis will be going up to Edinburgh?’

  ‘Yes.’ Now he adds, hurriedly, ‘I mean, she insisted – there was no pressure, Inspector.’

  ‘Life must go on.’

  Dermott Goldsmith sounds encouraged by Skelgill’s own use of a platitude.

  ‘Just what I said, Inspector. And we’ve got an obligation – to the business – to one another – our jobs – our livelihoods.’

  Skelgill nods, unseen by Dermott Goldsmith, of course. After a few seconds’ silence he can tell that the adman is becoming a little anxious.

  ‘If your company was taken over, sir – would that mean job losses?’

  But now Dermott Goldsmith is quick to answer.

  ‘Unlikely, Inspector – we run a tight ship – that’s one of the reasons we’re attractive to so many potential buyers – our ratios are the envy of the industry.’

  ‘But isn’t it usual – when there’s a takeover – for the new owners to put their own people into the key jobs – what about your office heads, for instance?’

  ‘Well – you can never say never, Inspector – but I should have thought their jobs would be safe in such circumstances. They know the clients best, after all.’

  ‘And how are the two of them bearing up?’

  Dermott Goldsmith seems unprepared for this question – in the sense that it is perhaps not something to which he has given much thought.