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

  7. MIRIAM TREGILGIS

  By nine a.m. the temperature is already pushing 20°C and Skelgill’s thoughts must drift to Bassenthwaite Lake, barely a mile distant as the crow flies. There has been much talk of medics this morning, but this hot spell is just what the doctor ordered – to warm up the water and rouse the fish from their late-spring torpor. Skelgill is practising a few invisible fly-casts when DS Jones’s voice reaches him in his secluded garden corner. Feeling claustrophobic inside the hotel, he has decamped to a cluster of garden chairs beneath an arbour of just-blooming climbing roses, a heavenly scented spot on the far side of the rear lawn. DS Jones, meanwhile, has succeeded in locating and returning with Miriam Tregilgis.

  She looks a most unlikely widow. With a model’s figure, shoulder-length blonde hair, perfect features and an immaculate white outfit – lightweight tracksuit bottoms and a close-fitting matching polo shirt – she could have walked straight off the page of a summer fashion catalogue.

  ‘Pleased to meet you, Inspector.’

  She smiles politely, flashing even white teeth, and sits down opposite him, calmly intertwining her ringless fingers upon her lap.

  ‘Do you have a suspect?’

  Skelgill allows himself a little grin. He glances at DS Jones, who is in the process of moving a chair so that she may rest her notebook on the small round cast-iron table that he has been using for his tea. Miriam Tregilgis’s opening question is the one it seemed Dermott Goldsmith was never going to approach asking. He shrugs in a friendly manner, opening his palms in a gesture of uncertainty.

  ‘You’re Welsh.’ Her brogue is soft, but distinct, and he says this as a statement.

  ‘Barry – near Cardiff. You’ve probably heard of Barry Island?’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘I’ve fished for conger off the Knap.’

  ‘Oh, there’s lovely, bach.’

  Whether her response is borne out of concealed nervousness or simply just the liberation of speaking with someone, it is impossible to know – but in this phrase her accent blossoms.

  ‘Now you sound really Welsh.’

  She smiles again.

  ‘I left home at eighteen to study PE in London – I met Ivan and never went back – now when I visit they tell me I sound like a Cockney.’

  Skelgill shakes his head determinedly.

  ‘Believe me, madam – I work with one, and you don’t sound anything like him.’

  She seems to relax, and settles back a little in the seat.

  ‘I suppose it’s all relative.’

  Skelgill nods. He regards her thoughtfully for a moment or two.

  ‘You seem very composed – if you don’t mind me saying so.’

  His tone makes this sound like a compliment rather than an accusation, but she seems to sense his dilemma.

  ‘I know, Inspector. A couple of hours ago I was screaming the place down – here I am now as though nothing had happened.’

  ‘It’s probably just the effects of shock.’

  ‘Actually, I think it’s because I’m relieved.’

  It takes a second or two for the gravity of this unexpected statement to sink in. Both Skelgill and DS Jones become still, and stare at the woman with unconcealed surprise in their eyes. But, for Skelgill, this is a little opening, and swiftly he moves through it.

  ‘Are you trying to tell me something, Mrs Tregilgis?’

  ‘Such as what, Inspector?’

  ‘That you – had some involvement?’

  ‘My God – no, Inspector.’ It seems the faintest hint of a smile teases the corners of her mouth, as if she can’t believe the turn the questioning has taken. ‘But I should certainly like you to catch the person who did.’

  Skelgill again watches for a moment, but her features remain serene.

  ‘It’s something I was going to have to ask sooner or later, madam.’

  ‘That’s okay, Inspector.’ Now she smiles more transparently. ‘It’s often the wife, isn’t it?’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows.

  ‘More often the husband, madam.’

  ‘But neither in this case.’

  Skelgill gives a non-committal shrug.

  ‘So, madam – when you say you’re relieved?’

  Miriam Tregilgis now leans forward apologetically.

  ‘It was a poor choice of words, Inspector. It’s hard to explain. If you’d told me yesterday that Ivan would be murdered in his sleep I’d have said it would be devastating. But now... well, I can only tell you how I feel. It’s like a weight that I wasn’t aware of has been lifted.’

  ‘Were you happily married?’

  She shakes her head slowly.

  ‘I shouldn’t say so, Inspector.’

  Skelgill gives her the kind of inquiring look that would go well over the top of a pair of spectacles. She opens her palms as a sign that she will elaborate.

  ‘We’ve lived like flatmates for the past couple of years, nothing more.’

  ‘So you didn’t... er – sleep together?’

  ‘Not – as they say – in the biblical sense, Inspector.’

  ‘And – were you thinking of splitting up, divorce?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘It might sound strange – but we never really discussed it. We just got on with our separate busy lives, doing our own thing.’

  ‘Did you each have other partners?’

  Skelgill puts the question tentatively, but she does not appear unsettled.

  ‘Ivan spent his life falling in love with the most attractive and dangerous women he could find. He was a hopeless romantic. Though to his credit, only ever one at a time.’

  Upon hearing this description, Skelgill’s eyes seem to widen – although it is impossible to know which aspect so engages him. Perhaps he wonders if she considers herself to fall into the ‘attractive and dangerous’ category. Certainly she is attractive – but dangerous? He grins receptively.

  ‘And was there one at this time?’

  ‘Undoubtedly.’ Her singsong accent makes the word seem like it has extra syllables. ‘But I can’t tell you who, I’m afraid.’

  ‘You mean you don’t know – or you won’t?’

  She gives a little nervous laugh, as though she is amused by the idea of thwarting the police.

  ‘The former, of course, Inspector.’

  Skelgill smiles in a conciliatory manner. Then he asks quietly:

  ‘And what about you, madam?’

  ‘They say celibacy is good for the soul, Inspector.’

  It is her first oblique answer, but she holds his gaze, unblinking, and he seems to find this a little disconcerting. He glances at DS Jones, as if he is checking that she has noted the reply – though she writes in shorthand, and there are only illegible squiggles to see on her page. He turns back to Miriam Tregilgis. It seems he decides to let the minor evasion pass.

  ‘You’re a P.E. teacher – you said you studied it.’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘These days I’m a Personal Trainer. I have clients at a number of gyms in the West End, and I lecture on anatomy and physiology for two half-days a week at my old college.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘What about Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates – how much are you involved?’

  ‘Really just occasional do’s like this. She shrugs languidly. ‘I always feel a bit guilty, to be honest.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Well, you see, Elspeth – Dermott’s wife – she might as well work for the company – except Ivan didn’t want that, you know – Directors’ wives lording it over the staff? So she doesn’t have an official position. But Dermott has her running round like she’s his PA, organising this and that. She always knows what’s going on in the business – the next big pitch, clients’ names, latest projects, who’s going to get the sack. I just turn up and drink the champagne.’

  ‘Did you discuss the company with your husband?’

  ‘Hardly ever. Ivan wasn’t the sort to pass
on his troubles. And that suited me.’

  ‘How would you describe him?’

  ‘He was the leader.’ Her reply is immediate, and unequivocal. ‘They’d follow him over a precipice. He was phlegmatic – but passionate under the surface. And I know it sounds daft coming from me – but he was one of the most loyal people you could meet. He’d die for those he loved. Maybe he did – I don’t know.’

  Skelgill nods slowly. This picture of Ivan Tregilgis is not the one that Dermott Goldsmith wishes to paint. However, it appears to be one he can warm to.

  ‘Presumably you now inherit your husband’s shares in the company?’

  ‘I’ve really no idea, Inspector. Ivan’s hobby was climbing, and he always joked that if he fell down a mountain I’d be able to buy one of the Brecon Beacons in his memory.’ She shakes her head, though rather casually. ‘But I make a good living through my own job, so I’ve never really worried about the finances.’

  Skelgill seems to consider this answer for a moment, and then determines to move on.

  ‘I take it your belongings have been returned to you?’

  ‘Your people kindly moved everything to the spare bedroom once they’d finished, Inspector.’

  ‘Was anything missing – jewellery, money, clothes?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘As far as I can tell everything is still there – of mine, at least. I believe you have Ivan’s briefcase? Someone asked if I knew the combination.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘We’d just like to check there’s nothing of import.’

  ‘I quite understand, Inspector – although you would think if there were, the murderer would have taken it.’ She purses her lips and nods. ‘Unless, of course, they knew the combination.’

  Skelgill raises his palms in a hushing gesture, as if to reassure her that she need not do the police’s job for them.

  ‘Can you remember, madam, if the door that leads from your bedroom onto the terrace was left unlocked at any time?’

  ‘We had it open most of the afternoon. Just about everyone was out on the terrace – sunbathing, drinking, chatting.’

  ‘What about in the evening?’

  ‘I think Ivan locked it when we went up to dinner.’

  ‘Are you certain of that?’

  ‘Not absolutely.’ She closes her eyes as if she is trying to picture the scene. ‘But I don't remember any sense of leaving valuables unattended – you know that feeling you get when you stay abroad in something rather flimsy – a villa on stilts in the ocean, a mountain ski chalet.’

  Skelgill looks like he doesn’t, but he nods all the same. He gets to his feet in a chivalrous manner.

  ‘Well, thank you – I think that’s all for now, Mrs Tregilgis. If anything does come to mind please let us know. Where are you planning to stay?’

  ‘Lenny Edwards, one of the boys from the London office, is going to drive me to my parents’ in Wales this afternoon. Then my sister will come up to town with me for a few days.’

  ‘Is that Central London?’

  ‘We have a flat quite near to the office’ She raises her eyebrows self-consciously. ‘I’ve got a flat. It’s just off Endell Street.’

  ‘Covent Garden.’ DS Jones seems to know the area.

  ‘That’s right, Sergeant.’

  Skelgill digs his hands into his pockets. He suddenly seems self-conscious of his unkempt appearance. He looks more like a gardener than a police inspector.

  ‘Subject to developments, we may need to look at Mr Tregilgis’s documents, admin – that kind of thing. So I imagine we’ll meet again soon.’

  Miriam Tregilgis rises and shakes the hands of the two detectives. Then she takes her leave, depositing an arrow-straight line of dewy footprints in her elegant wake. Skelgill runs his fingers through his hair, and clasps his hands at the back of his head.

  ‘Which was it, Jones – the truth and nothing but the truth – or is she looking for an Oscar?’

  8. KUKRI & KEY

  Skelgill spends the best part of the next hour making a nuisance of himself. He wanders about the hotel and its grounds, generally getting under the feet of the search team. He requisitions some hotel stationery, and draws a plan of the building, marking on all the possible exits. Then he fills in the names of the guests in their corresponding rooms. He notes that only the two company directors, Messrs Goldsmith and Tregilgis, had their partners with them, while all the rest were in single-occupancy. The more senior employees’ rooms were on the ground floor, benefiting from access to the terrace.

  DS Jones has been despatched to brief the DCs who are to conduct interviews. She is also checking upon a variety of technical points such as job titles and responsibilities in Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates. Sitting in on the first interview, with the aforementioned Lenny Edwards, she is rewarded with an immediate revelation. The reason for the absence of Grendon Smith is that he was dismissed last week by Krista Morocco, head of the London office. While this was apparently no great surprise, the bad grace in which he took the news rather was. “Started smashing up his desk,” was the description provided by his erstwhile workmate. In due course, Ivan Tregilgis was fetched from a nearby wine bar, and was obliged to escort Smith off the premises and relieve him of his office keys and company credit card. No one witnessed what went on between the lift and the main door, but when Tregilgis returned it was with a look of having given Smith “a bit of a helping hand,” according to Edwards. DS Jones is hurrying to convey this information to Skelgill when an animated PC Dodd scoops her with the tidings that the kukri has been found.

  There is now a rendezvous at the ladies’ toilet in the lobby. The knife had been hidden in the overhead cistern of the single-cubicle loo. As Skelgill is quick to point out, it has been submerged for perhaps seven hours in a weak solution of bleach, and regularly flushed. This is not ideal for forensic purposes. He stares at the weapon, held aloft in a transparent evidence bag.

  ‘What chance of prints?’ The forensic officer produces a well-practised expectation-lowering facial expression. ‘Okay – see what the boffins in the lab come up with.’

  The man nods and shuffles away. DS Jones draws alongside Skelgill.

  ‘Guv, could I have a word – it’s about this Smith character?’

  Skelgill glances at her – somewhat disinterestedly, it must be said – when a second scene-of-crime officer suddenly barges through the swing door from the bedroom block. Between finger and thumb of his gloved right hand he clutches a worn brass key.

  ‘Sir – down the back of the radiator outside Room 5.’

  Mrs Groteneus is summoned. To her credit – for she is plainly humiliated – she immediately identifies it as the master key belonging to the chambermaid responsible for the ground floor.

  ‘But I do not understand.’ She sounds most affronted. ‘Why has Kasia not reported this to me? It is not correct procedure. I shall speak with her at once. She is in the staffroom with the others.’

  ‘It’s okay, Mrs Groteneus.’ Skelgill intervenes, in the process probably saving the poor girl from a roasting. ‘We must do this formally.’

  The hotelier reluctantly yields to his authority, and stalks rather bad temperedly from their presence. Skelgill turns to DS Jones, still eager to impart her news about Grendon Smith.

  ‘You do this one, have a quick word now – she might be intimidated if I’m there – and I don’t speak Polish.’

  He grins mischievously, and disappears through the swing door.

  *

  Over yet another pot of tea (in Skelgill’s case only), DS Jones insists on first recounting the story of Grendon Smith’s ejection from the London office.

  ‘What do you think, Guv?’

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘I can’t believe that someone’s been hiding all day in the shrubbery waiting for a chance to have a pop at Tregilgis.’

  ‘But he could have done it, Guv.’

  ‘Jones – if getting the sack – which by all a
ccounts he was expecting – is a reason for topping your employer, imagine what state the country would be in. When was he dismissed?’

  ‘Wednesday, Guv.’

  ‘Well, it’s hardly heat of the moment.’

  DS Jones compresses her lips.

  ‘Say he was on the fiddle, Guv? Ivan Tregilgis might have threatened to turn him in.’

  Skelgill shakes his head, and then gives a reluctant sigh.

  ‘Look. I agree – he could theoretically have done it. How he crept in and took the knife without being seen – that beats me. But find out where he lives and get his whereabouts checked for Saturday night.’

  DS Jones gives a satisfied nod. She is clearly surprised that Skelgill is perhaps not as pig-headed as his reputation might suggest. However, she tries not to make too much of her little triumph.

  ‘The chambermaid, Guv?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘You were right – she is Polish.’

  ‘I think you guessed that before me, Jones.’

  ‘She speaks fluent English, Guv. But she’s terrified of Mrs G.’

  ‘Why does neither of those things surprise me?’

  DS Jones grins.

  ‘She misplaced the key yesterday, she thinks about one o’clock. The party had arrived, but they hadn’t checked into their rooms. She thought she must have left it in the door – she often does – but there was no trace of it. She was putting in clean towels and had reached Room 4. She borrowed the other girl’s key to finish off, because she didn’t dare own up. She was hoping it would appear when she went over the place this morning.’

  ‘What about it being behind the radiator? That’s outside Room 5.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘She agrees it’s possible that she might have put it down, on the windowsill, or even on top of the radiator. But she doesn’t understand why she would open Room 4 and then walk along the corridor to Room 5. She thinks someone must have moved it, Guv.’

  Skelgill regards DS Jones pensively. While a master key would be a useful asset to a would-be murderer, last night the Tregilgis’s door was unlocked. That said, the murderer is unlikely to have been able to predict such a state of affairs. DS Jones waits for a few moments, but as he appears to have no further questions, she moves on to the second aspect of her interview with the girl, Kasia.