Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 5

  ‘Unfortunately – in the absence of a definite suspect – we have to examine a number of lines of inquiry.’

  Ronald Macdonald folds his arms and leans forward on his elbows over the boardroom table.

  ‘Shareholding.’

  Skelgill seems a little surprised by this seamless transition to business matters – perhaps one of the silky skills of the accountancy profession.

  ‘Has Mr Goldsmith spoken with you this morning, sir?’

  ‘Actually, no – just that it’s the obvious question, really. You know – who gets what?’

  ‘And are you able to give me that information, sir?’

  ‘Certainly.’ He sits back and stretches out his legs, at the same time bringing his hands together. He twists the gold ring on his left index finger. ‘Mrs Tregilgis automatically inherits her husband’s shares, but then what’s called a cross-option agreement kicks in. It triggers an insurance policy which pays out to Dermott Goldsmith – then under the agreement he’s obliged to buy the shares from Mrs Tregilgis.’

  Skelgill’s gaze drifts from Ronald Macdonald to a landscape painting of a loch with a fisherman plying his craft on a distant bank. Whether this image distracts him, it is hard to say, but into the silence that ensues DS Jones poses a question.

  ‘So Dermott Goldsmith gets the company and Mrs Tregilgis gets the cash?’

  ‘Correct, Sergeant.’

  Skelgill is back with them.

  ‘How much cash?’

  ‘Half a million.’

  Skelgill’s eyes narrow.

  ‘How much is the company worth?’

  Now Ronald Macdonald folds his arms and puckers his lips.

  ‘Och, Inspector – if only you had asked me that yesterday I should have given you a different answer.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Ivan Tregilgis was alive.’

  ‘And that makes a big difference?’

  ‘I should say so, Inspector – these advertising agencies, they are not like ordinary companies – they have few fixed assets – other than their staff and their attendant skills.’

  Skelgill is nodding.

  ‘Take away the skills.’

  ‘Precisely, Inspector. Half a million would have been a poor deal for Mrs Tregilgis yesterday – but today, who knows?’

  Skelgill lifts an eyebrow.

  ‘It’s still not bad for a poor deal.’

  Ronald Macdonald nods several times, as if to say it’s the sort of poor deal he too would be happy with.

  Skelgill’s grey-green eyes are alert, in the way that they gain light when he is fishing and senses a bite.

  ‘Who would know about this?’

  ‘Well, of course, I can’t vouch for whom they might have told – but in theory it’s quite possible that it never went beyond Dermott Goldsmith and Ivan Tregilgis.’

  ‘Who thought up this scheme?’

  ‘Er... I did, actually.’ Ronald Macdonald makes an endearing mea culpa face. ‘It’s not uncommon, Inspector. If I remember rightly Ivan was pretty keen on the idea. It protects you from suddenly finding that half of your company is henceforth controlled by your late-partner’s spouse.’

  Skelgill grimaces.

  ‘There’s no chance that Mr Goldsmith could just pocket the money and carry on as though nothing happened?’

  Ronald Macdonald shakes his head decisively.

  ‘The administration process only allows the cash to be paid to the ultimate beneficiary.’

  ‘And Mr Goldsmith would know that?’

  ‘Yes, I’m certain. He was closely involved in all the paperwork. He’s our main point of contact.’

  At this moment there is a knock on the door and the receptionist enters.

  ‘Pen-rrith CID on the telephone for Serr-geant Jones.’

  She rolls her r’s in the fashion of the Scots, although it might be a slightly different variant of this expression that comes to Skelgill’s mind as he watches her pencil skirt lead DS Jones out of the room. As the door closes, he turns his attention back to the accountant.

  ‘Mr Macdonald, I appreciate your being so open with us.’

  The man regards him earnestly.

  ‘We both need the facts to do our jobs, Inspector.’

  Skelgill nods appreciatively.

  ‘How would you describe Dermott Goldsmith?’

  ‘Och – now you want some opinion.’

  Skelgill opens his palms in a helpless gesture.

  ‘I just get the impression that his employees will be somewhat circumspect when I ask them the same question.’

  Ronald Macdonald grins understandingly.

  ‘Pretty harmless, I’d say, Inspector. Bark worse than his bite. He’s successful – he likes people to know it. Capable businessman. Bit of a know-all – always telling me how I should present their accounts.’ He chuckles to himself and shakes his head. ‘Positive, up-beat sort of character. Sometimes a bit brash – you know, would try to haggle over our charges – not really the done thing in Scotland. But we can’t choose our clients – no more than you can yours.’

  Skelgill grins ruefully.

  ‘I’d go for damsels in distress, every day of the week.’

  ‘I just get Directors in distress, I’m afraid.’

  ‘And where do Goldsmith and Tregilgis sit on that scale?’

  Ronald Macdonald shakes his head.

  ‘Och – they don’t – at least not in financial terms. We’re just starting their year-end audit – looks like a seventh successive year of double-figure growth.’

  ‘So no pressing debts, angry creditors?’

  ‘Not even an overdraft, Inspector.’

  Skelgill looks pensive. Then with a flash of what might be insight, but what is certainly unaccustomed humility, he makes an unconventional request.

  ‘What questions would you ask you?’

  Ronald Macdonald’s smile is telling.

  ‘It’s a good question, Inspector. I think my answer would be, “Do I suspect any fraud?”’

  ‘And do you?’

  ‘No indication.’ Ronald Macdonald’s expression becomes grave. ‘But, given the circumstances, I shall wheel in our biggest magnifying glass.’

  Skelgill nods gratefully.

  ‘What sort of fraud could happen in a firm like theirs – that would be hard to detect?’

  Ronald Macdonald’s eyes now narrow, and he perhaps for the first time looks a little uncomfortable. It is as if the grey areas of accountancy are gathering like clouds in his mind.

  ‘I guess I’d be asking two main questions. Firstly, is anyone with access to the bank account spending money on themselves and disguising it as legitimate business expenditure?’

  ‘And the second?’

  ‘Are any employees living above their means?’

  ‘How would that come about?’

  Ronald Macdonald turns out the palms of his hands.

  ‘Anybody who places orders with external suppliers – agree an inflated price and pocket the difference – a backhander, perhaps in the form of a continental holiday or a new car.’

  ‘Could that happen in advertising?’

  ‘Certainly – the firm spends hundreds of thousands with some suppliers.’

  ‘And how do they normally prevent this kind of thing?’

  Ronald Macdonald frowns resignedly.

  ‘It isn’t always easy, Inspector. In a busy organisation, with delegated responsibility – they have to trust their employees. And for us, in an audit – when no two projects are alike it’s not easy to establish whether a price paid for a service was competitive.’

  Skelgill nods and, checking his watch, he indicates he must wrap things up.

  ‘Mr Macdonald – I must thank you again – and perhaps you would let me know if anything irregular does crop up in the audit.’

  As they move out into the lobby, Skelgill notices two office doors, both labelled with the name Macdonald.

  ‘What became of Campbell, sir?’

 
‘Och – I married her, Inspector – as we say in Scotland, I’m the heid bummer around here now.’

  12. BRIEFCASE

  Skelgill discovers DS Jones in the street below; a hand pressed over one ear and her mobile to the other. The traffic is not heavy, but the cobbles of Frederick Street amplify the sound of its passing. Skelgill indicates they should enter the brasserie. They take seats at a table a couple of yards back from the window, and he orders while she completes her call.

  ‘He thinks Goldsmith’s a bit of a plonker, you know.’

  DS Jones nods, but it is clear she has more pressing matters on her mind.

  ‘That was Forensics, Guv. I called them back so I could come outside. It’s about Ivan Tregilgis’s briefcase.’

  Skelgill eyes her inquisitively.

  ‘The combination was his wife’s date of birth.’

  DS Jones looks surprised, though she grins widely.

  ‘How did you guess?’

  ‘Intuition.’ Skelgill smirks in an exaggerated manner. ‘And inside it was a piece of lead pipe and a passport belonging to Colonel Mustard.’

  DS Jones giggles, but quickly controls her mirth – for he is not so far from the truth.

  ‘Actually, Guv, there was a passport – Ivan Tregilgis’s – plus a return ticket to New York, due to fly out this morning from Manchester.’

  Skelgill tilts his head to one side.

  ‘So that’s where he was off to. Any indication why?’

  ‘Not as yet, Guv – there are some papers – but nothing that’s categorical – apparently there’s a presentation about the agency – the sort of thing they might give to a potential new client.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘He is supposed to be the sales guy. Maybe that’s it.’

  ‘One interesting thing, Guv – there are no fingerprints whatsoever on the outside of the case.’

  Skelgill stirs chocolate flakes into his cappuccino. In trying to suck the excess froth from the spoon, he gets it jammed in his palate, and for a comic moment he looks like a fish on a hook, his eyes bulging in surprise. With a jerk he frees the recalcitrant item of cutlery, and shakes his head in relief.

  ‘Why would anyone do that?’

  ‘Someone must have tampered with it, Guv – someone who doesn’t want us to know.’

  Now Skelgill purses his lips.

  ‘What was it in the statements – when they were overheard at the bar?’

  ‘Goldsmith said he needed to see something that Ivan Tregilgis had.’

  Skelgill is silent for a moment.

  ‘Makes you wonder if that had something to do with it.’

  ‘Do you think he would know the combination, Guv?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘I guess we’d better ask him. There he is.’

  ‘What –?’

  Dermott Goldsmith is just a few feet away, standing on the pavement outside the brasserie. Perhaps a combination of the bright day and the dark interior makes it difficult to see through the glass. Indeed, he surely cannot be aware of their presence, for he begins to use the window as a mirror, first checking his thinning hair, and then his clothing, including a look over his shoulder at his well padded rear. Then he wheels away, and apparently disappears into the stair from which they recently emerged.

  ‘He must be going to see the accountants, Guv.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘He won’t be too chuffed that we beat him to it. And, when the cat’s away...’

  *

  Having insisted they despatch their coffees in double-quick time, a striding Skelgill has his colleague skipping to keep up as they descend Queen Street Gardens West to the car. His cryptic reference to the cat being away signalled his intention to visit the Edinburgh office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates while its surviving principal is otherwise engaged. However, as they round the corner into Heriot Row, Skelgill lets out howl of dismay. There is a parking ticket on his windscreen. DS Jones pretends not to notice – she must figure that this is not a good time to remind him of her earlier advice. Skelgill stamps a foot and clenches his fists at his side, but fortunately for all concerned, there is no trace of the warden. A workman in a white boiler suit is loading some tools into a plumber’s van a few spaces along, and Skelgill approaches him.

  ‘Excuse me – I just got a ticket along there – is that right?’

  The man seems surprised by the question, and blinks several times, before a reply comes to him.

  ‘Aye – ye cannae park there, ken? Aw they meanies are right bastats, ken?’

  Then the man’s mobile rings, and he takes the call without further reference to Skelgill, closing up his van and wandering over to a house opposite. Skelgill shrugs and returns to DS Jones.

  ‘Looks like we’ve paid to park. Over the odds – but, hey – may as well leave it here now. Come on, we’ll walk – it’s only Charlotte Square.’

  A bemused DS Jones falls in behind him – now he sets off along the back of the gardens, heading west along Heriot Row.

  ‘Guv – what was all that about “Ken”? I thought they called you “Jimmy” in Scotland?’

  Skelgill grins, and glances across his shoulder at her.

  ‘Aye, well – we’re in the posh part now.’

  13. JULIA RUBICON

  ‘Do you recognise these briefs?’

  ‘They’re not mine, if that’s what you mean.’

  ‘What type were you wearing on Saturday night?’

  ‘Red, lacy.’

  ‘What size do you normally buy?’

  ‘Medium.’

  ‘Can I see the label in the ones you’re wearing?’

  *

  This was an impromptu examination that Skelgill had perhaps reluctantly delegated to his female colleague, conducted in the privacy of Julia Rubicon’s office. Now that he enters, a few minutes later, he sees the almost imperceptible shake of his sergeant’s head – a pre-arranged signal that tells him this is unlikely to be their Cinderella. No classic beauty, Julia Rubicon has an allure in a bad-girl sort of way. The first impression is an aura of intense perfume and spectacular hair, full lips coloured scarlet, bare legs, and outrageous shoes. A bra appears to be an option not exercised today. If Skelgill were assessing her capability to find a weakness in Ivan Tregilgis’s sensibilities, he would probably comment along the lines that she could drive a coach and horses through them. However, is this any way to dress for a police interview?

  DS Jones, on the other hand, appears inured to such gothic distractions, and continues unperturbed.

  ‘You were seen arguing with Mr Tregilgis on Saturday night, just after midnight. What was that about?’

  ‘I don’t recall arguing with him.’ Julia Rubicon’s tone is flat; she sounds as though she is suppressing a building anger.

  ‘In her statement Mrs Stark says you strode off the dance floor leaving Mr Tregilgis standing alone.’

  ‘She would.’ Julia Rubicon’s eyes narrow, like an alley cat that spies a mortal enemy.

  ‘So you didn’t have a disagreement of any kind?’

  Julia Rubicon shakes her head, her features taut.

  ‘It’s been mentioned to us that you and Mr Tregilgis were having an affair. Is that true, Miss Rubicon?’

  ‘No.’

  Skelgill affects distraction – gazing out of the mullioned window at the trees of Charlotte Square Gardens – though he no doubt pays close attention. This is the first time he has witnessed DS Jones in action.

  ‘We’ll have access to all of Mr Tregilgis’s credit card bills, telephone records, computers and so on. It will be a very easy thing for us to cross-check.’

  There is no reply. Julia Rubicon sits obstinately, biting a cheek. Eventually she speaks.

  ‘Then I think you’ll find we worked together, Sergeant.’

  ‘For work reasons, then – did you go into Mr Tregilgis’s bedroom at any time prior to the discovery of his body at three-fifteen a.m.?’

  ‘No.’

&nb
sp; Julia Rubicon is determined, but DS Jones is tenacious. For Skelgill, it must appear an intriguing standoff.

  ‘Miss Rubicon, did you have anything to do with the death of Ivan Tregilgis?’

  ‘God, no.’

  At last there is a release of emotion. She bows her head away from them, covering her face with the veil of dark hair. She is not as tough as she tries to make out. For a few moments she sobs. DS Jones glances at Skelgill – she wants permission to press home the advantage. But Skelgill shakes his head. And now he intervenes more softly. There is a peculiar glint in his eye – perhaps it is the novelty of playing Good Cop.

  ‘Julia?’ His use of her Christian name seems to have an immediate effect. She turns back to face the detectives, blinking, not wiping her eyes, allowing the mascara to run. ‘How would you describe your working relationship with Ivan?’

  She breathes heavily, and her reply is somewhat oblique.

  ‘Mainly by telephone.’

  ‘Could you elaborate?’

  ‘Ivan was only involved in one of my accounts – Caledonian Bank. Their head office is here in Edinburgh. He came up for monthly creative review meetings. Other than that I would speak with him most days, often several times, frequently late at night – there were production deadlines every four weeks.’

  Skelgill nods broodingly. After a few moments’ silence he speaks again.

  ‘Wouldn’t it have been more practical for Mr Goldsmith to attend these meetings?’

  Perhaps Skelgill is angling at the idea of a convenient monthly liaison, but Julia Rubicon scotches this notion with her reply.

  ‘Their CEO insisted Ivan worked on the account.’

  ‘What’s wrong with Mr Goldsmith?’

  ‘Ivan is an award-winning Creative Director.’

  They must all note the present tense, but nobody is about to correct this slip.

  ‘And what does Mr Goldsmith do?’

  She sighs, and after a moment’s consideration, pulls a face of dark disapproval.

  ‘Tries to make us run with mediocre ideas we suspect his wife of dreaming up.’

  Skelgill nods diplomatically.

  ‘I take it you don’t always see eye to eye?’