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

  Now DS Jones’s mobile rings. Suitably awed by the vista, she continues to gaze out over the ancient town as she takes the call – it is from her team at headquarters. Skelgill saunters away and joins the queue at a burger van stationed beside the old City Observatory. His philosophy is that, in their job, you never know when you might get your next meal, so if an opportunity presents itself it is important to grasp it. Thus he returns to the viewpoint with various packets, and teas in disposable paper cups.

  He sits down on the bench beside her, in the shadow of the Nelson Monument, and begins to tuck in contentedly. As he munches thoughtfully, he snatches glances at his new colleague. He might well be reflecting that – against his better judgement – he is actually enjoying working with her. She is far less antagonistic than his regular partner, DS Leyton, and frankly is smarter and naturally harder working. Moreover – and something he probably wouldn’t admit to himself – she panders to his ego.

  ‘Guv, how come you’re such an expert on Edinburgh?’

  ‘I lived here.’

  ‘When you were a student?’

  ‘I’d call it more of a gap year.’

  ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I was in a band.’

  ‘Really – what kind?’

  ‘Punk – well, sort of folky rocky punk. We were called Against The Grain.’

  ‘What instrument did you play?’

  ‘I was lead singer.’

  DS Jones looks like she might be about to giggle. She has already been subjected to several tuneless renderings during their travels so far.

  ‘Wow – that’s – amazing, Guv.’

  Skelgill looks a little sheepish.

  ‘I had to get drunk – to get up on the stage – but it kind of went with our image.’

  ‘Don’t suppose you’re on YouTube?’

  ‘Luckily it hadn’t been invented.’

  DS Jones grins – more openly now he has admitted to his failings.

  ‘It looks like a great place to live – Edinburgh.’

  ‘Aye – it was alright – excellent ale.’ He casts about and takes a deep breath of fresh North Sea air. ‘But I missed the fells.’

  ‘I was a bit like that in London, Guv. It’s a crazy city – absolutely brilliant in many ways.’

  ‘Aye, well – you can be my tour guide tomorrow.’

  DS Jones nods. They refer to their planned itinerary, which will take them this evening by air to the English capital, where tomorrow they will meet with the southern contingent of the agency, GT&A. For a few moments they eat in silence, perhaps each recalling their times in the respective metropolises. About half way through his second burger, Skelgill picks up the conversation.

  ‘What did you make of Lady Goldsmith’s performance?’

  DS Jones grins at his facetious attribution of the title.

  ‘She didn’t stand on ceremony when it came to dishing the dirt, Guv – Miriam Tregilgis was right when she said Elspeth Goldsmith knows everything there is to know.’

  ‘Kicking up dust, do you think?’

  DS Jones ponders this question.

  ‘Maybe, Guv – she’s not stupid – and she must realise that we would have Dermott Goldsmith in our sights, given he gets control of the company. She wasn’t slow to suggest why some of the others might have been unhappy with Ivan Tregilgis.’

  ‘Think that was a faux pas – mentioning the cross-option agreement? She was more forthcoming than his Lordship.’

  ‘I don’t know, Guv – I suppose at least it shows they haven’t conspired not to tell us. Maybe Dermott Goldsmith was knocked out of his stride yesterday – by the shock of the murder?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Aye, maybe – but he was composed enough when it suited him.’

  Skelgill again becomes silent while he tackles the remainder of his meal.

  ‘There were a couple of things in that call, Guv – forensics and whatnot.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘There’s no trace of anyone but Ivan Tregilgis having been in that bed – not a hair – no signs of sexual activity.’ (She gives a diplomatic cough.) ‘No prints on that master key – nor on the kukri, as we know. However – remember the other kukri – the one that was in the holder on the wall?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘It has Krista Morocco’s thumbprint on the handle.’

  ‘Interesting.’

  DS Jones glances at her superior, but he seems to have nothing to add. She remains silent herself, as if she is trying to think through the implications of this.

  ‘Whatnot.’

  ‘Sorry, Guv?’

  ‘You said forensics and whatnot.’

  ‘Oh, yes – it’s about Grendon Smith, Guv – the sacked employee.’

  ‘Don’t tell me – he once had an audition for The Killers?’

  DS Jones chuckles.

  ‘No, Guv – but he does have a dodgy alibi for Saturday night – claims he slept in his car – stayed out all night somewhere in Norfolk – apparently he’s a twitcher.’

  Skelgill looks disappointed.

  ‘You almost had me interested then, Jones – I thought you were going to tell me he’s a fisherman.’

  16. FETTES AVENUE

  ‘Dan Dare. Long time awa’.’

  These words are uttered by a stocky man with short grizzled hair and a stern expression; aged probably in his late fifties.

  ‘Can’t keep a bad penny down, Cammy. So, how’s it going, me old mate?’

  ‘Ach, yer seein it, mon, yer seein it.’

  ‘Still not speaking English, then, eh?’

  ‘Tch. Are ye nae going to introduce me to this bonny lassie?’

  ‘DS Jones. I’ve warned her about you.’

  ‘I bet he didnae tell ye fifteen years back he saved my skin?’

  *

  Skelgill’s plan is to leave his car at Edinburgh airport, and travel to and from London, and collect it upon their return – when they can interview Dermott Goldsmith. To facilitate this, and deal with one or two other administrative issues – such as obtaining a printed copy of the draft post mortem report on Ivan Tregilgis – he has called upon his contacts in the Scottish police. As such, they are welcomed at the force’s Edinburgh HQ, Fettes Avenue. (Skelgill’s little joke is that this surely ought to be renamed Letsby Avenue.) Their chaperone, DS Cameron Findlay, now a deskbound administrator, is an old acquaintance that Skelgill will never forget. A decade and a half before, they worked together on a joint-forces operation to crack an organised poaching syndicate that parasitised the great border-country salmon rivers. A matter close to both their anglers’ hearts – it was almost literally so in DS Findlay’s case in the unwanted form of the contents of a 12-bore cartridge. Only a brave if somewhat reckless intervention by one rookie DC of the name Daniel Skelgill saved the day. Henceforth, in these circles, he became affectionately known as Dan Dare. Skelgill’s memory of the incident reflects the bizarre dry humour of his Scottish ally, who, whilst Skelgill was wrestling with a shotgun-wielding poacher, waist deep in the River Tweed, called out ‘Yer spookin’ the fish, Danny’.

  Now he stands by awkwardly while DS Findlay recounts the tale of that stormy night. To his relief, however, they are interrupted by a secretary, who informs them that if they get their skates on they can make the six p.m. flight for Heathrow.

  ‘Leave your wheels here.’ DS Findlay is insistent. ‘I’ll drive you out to Turnhouse in a marked car so we can use the bus lanes – otherwise this time of night you’d be quicker to walk.’

  Ten minutes later they are forcing their way across the homebound traffic choking the Queensferry Road. Edinburgh motorists are polite but stubborn (it is a Scottish trait, and good reason never to invade). Unwilling to give way at the best of times, they seem reluctant even to let the police through. Finally, a belligerent squawk of the squad car’s siren confirms its occupants are still on duty.

  ‘That’s the Goldsmith’s place back there, isn’t it?

 
This observation comes from DS Jones, who suddenly seems to get her bearings as the giant shape of Murrayfield stadium comes into view.

  ‘Aye, that’d be it.’ DS Findlay produces a rueful grin. ‘How the other half live, eh?’

  ‘You should see their new bathroom.’

  Skelgill, sounds in good spirits; perhaps he is buoyed by DS Findlay’s earlier tribute.

  ‘It’s not funny, Guv.’ DS Jones protests. ‘While you were out I got the full-blown kitchen tour. Le Creuset, Sabatier, Dualit, Gaggia - you name it, they’ve got it. And then they tell you about it, every last product detail.’

  ‘Poor devil Tregilgis. No wonder he avoided the place.’

  DS Jones nods, her brow furrowed.

  ‘You’d never have guessed she was Scottish, would you? I’d have said Home Counties from her accent.’

  ‘Ach, there’s a thing.’ This intervention comes from the taciturn DS Findlay. ‘Ye see, we pretend tae hate the English – but in fact we know you’re mostly just like us – and, after all, ye cannae help being English. But those Scots that act like they’re English – that’s what really gets us.’

  Skelgill chuckles.

  ‘Cammy, just a thought, mate. Any chance you could do a bit of digging on this lot up here?’

  ‘Aye. Dare say I owe you one.’

  ‘Just background stuff. You know – the Goldsmiths, anything on the company, employees, suppliers – that sort of thing.’

  DS Findlay nods economically.

  ‘I’ve got a pal over at The Scotsman. Works on the business desk. I’ll see what a couple of pints of Eighty Bob will turn up.’

  In due course, with a few deft manoeuvres and judicious use of the blues and twos, DS Findlay delivers his charges to the drop-off at Edinburgh airport with time to spare. A lively dash and some pulling of rank will see them make their flight.

  ‘Much appreciated Cammy.’ Skelgill reaches to shake hands across the roof of the car. ‘See you in a day or two. No joyriding in my motor, now.’

  DS Findlay grins.

  ‘You mind to look both ways when you’re crossing the road down there. I’ve heard they dinnae stop for anybody.’

  ‘I’ll be fine – this lass lived there for three years. She’s one-quarter Cockney.’

  ‘Aye well, anything beats being a Geordie.’

  ‘Very witty, Cam.’

  17. EVENING FLIGHT

  ‘You’re not a Geordie, Guv?’

  DS Jones sounds puzzled, as they ride the escalator up to the departures gate.

  ‘Certainly not.’

  ‘So what was that all about?’

  ‘It’s one of his little jokes. Besides, could you tell the difference between an Aberdonian and an Invernesian?’

  ‘I guess not, Guv.’

  ‘Same principle – as far as they’re concerned, we’re Geordies.’

  *

  The Edinburgh-Heathrow flight is barely half-full, so Skelgill turns his charms to the task of getting them moved to an empty row, where they can discuss police matters free of eavesdroppers.

  ‘Are you sure you don’t want the window seat?’

  ‘Guv – it says on that instructions card – when a male and female are travelling together, the man must always have the window seat.

  ‘Where?’

  Then Skelgill sees his colleague is smirking.

  ‘And the stewardesses must wear high heels and suspenders.’

  ‘Point taken, sergeant.’

  ‘Guv – you have it, really.’

  Skelgill needs no further encouragement, and slides across to the window.

  ‘Very generous of you – you can have it on the way back.’

  ‘I’ll probably fall asleep anyway. The view’s wasted on me.’

  Skelgill struggles until he gets comfortable with the seat belt. At five-eleven he is not overly tall, but there is something lanky about his rangy form, and it takes him a minute or two to settle. He takes a deep breath, and then clears his throat, though it is in hushed tones that he begins to speak.

  ‘Talking of underwear, I’m guessing we’ve narrowed the g-string down to Krista Morocco.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘If the statements are correct, Guv – it sounds like she and Ivan Tregilgis were getting along fine on Saturday night – and they did disappear out onto the terrace. If his bedroom door was unlocked...’

  Skelgill nods, though he clearly has reservations about developing the scenario beyond the facts.

  ‘We have to remember it was only midnight – whatever they did, it could be entirely unconnected to the murder.’

  ‘Maybe they went into her room, Guv?’

  ‘What – and he nicked her undies as a souvenir?’

  DS Jones chuckles.

  ‘I believe it’s not unknown, Guv – although usually it’s from a washing line they’re taken.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows, as if to say not guilty. He folds his arms and pushes back against his seat. The space is cramped and reclining is not yet allowed.

  ‘Remind me what was in Tregilgis’s briefcase.’

  DS Jones closes her eyes momentarily, and then begins to recite as if she is picturing a collection of items travelling along a conveyor.

  ‘A travel voucher for two nights at the Plaza – it’s a hotel on Fifth Avenue. A couple of climbing magazines. Passport. Toothbrush. Radio. Condoms. And that presentation with examples of their work.’

  Skelgill seems dissatisfied.

  ‘Something’s not right, is it? You wouldn’t go on business to New York without taking some reference to whatever meeting you were attending.’

  ‘Maybe it was the new client thing, Guv – to get a brief.’

  ‘How does that work?’

  ‘Well, the first stage in advertising is normally that the client gives a brief to the ad agency, and they go away, conduct market research, come up with the ideas, then go back and present them.’

  ‘When did you become the oracle on advertising procedure?’

  ‘Bloke I went out with for a while when I lived in London – he was a copywriter with an ad agency. Bit of a psycho. Hardly ever turned up for work. I dumped him when I found he’d been sleeping with my flatmate.’

  ‘Sorry about that.’

  ‘Don’t be. My flatmate was a guy.’

  *

  Once airborne, Skelgill becomes silent, and distracted, as he watches the world go by. The breeze has dictated a westerly take-off, followed by a left turn just before Glasgow – it seems only a stone’s throw from its east-coast rival. The pilot now tracks the M74 towards the English border, still climbing into the early evening sunshine. Skelgill stares intently as the Solway creeps nearer, a vast glistening bay drawing the eye across the Irish Sea, where the distant Isle of Man seems to float above the horizon. With growing excitement he begins to pick out the Lakeland fells, first the blunt twin massifs of Blencathra and Skiddaw guarding the northern reaches, and soon the jagged cluster that makes up the Langdale and Scafell Pikes. The lakes themselves are harder to discern – blending as they do into the dusky landscape until suddenly illuminated by the sun’s direct line of reflection.

  ‘Look at Windermere!’

  Skelgill turns to his companion – but DS Jones is fast asleep. Indeed, as he leans back into his seat her head lolls sideways and rests upon his shoulder.

  ‘Jones.’ His whisper is tentative. ‘Jones.’

  But these entreaties are to no avail. Rather like a child whose batteries have suddenly run flat, it seems the events of the last two days have finally taken their toll; she is sound. He cranes awkwardly to look at her, and slides into a more comfortable position. Then he sits very still, his hands folded on his lap. She sinks more heavily against him. Skelgill closes his eyes, and sighs.

  When DS Jones wakes up Skelgill is just finishing the last of her airline sandwich.

  ‘Oh, Jones – didn’t like to disturb you. I got you a coffee.’

  ‘Thanks.’ She frowns at the
dubious dark brown liquid.

  ‘What do you want to do tonight – are you planning to see your boyfriend?’

  DS Jones does not answer for a moment. Then she shakes her head.

  ‘No, Guv – he doesn’t even know I’ll be down. I didn’t think I’d have any spare time. And he’s away over in Clapham.’

  ‘You’re not obliged to be on duty round the clock, you know. Feel free if you want to shoot off. I’ll be fine on me tod.’

  ‘If it’s okay with you, Guv – I fancy a quiet Chinese, to be honest. I mean – we need to discuss tomorrow’s interviews, don’t we?’

  Skelgill regards her reflectively.

  ‘What time do you think well get to the hotel?’

  She examines her wristwatch.

  ‘If we land on schedule we should be on the tube by seven-thirty. Piccadilly Line all the way to Covent Garden – about an hour. Then it’s only a couple of minutes’ walk – the hotel’s just off Drury Lane. We could be in Gerrard Street by nine – plenty of cheap places to eat.’

  The aircraft, now well into its descent, banks heavily to the right; it makes disconcerting whirring and clunking noises. Skelgill is a far-from-frequent flyer, but he notices the stewardesses seem unconcerned, so he gazes down upon the London rooftops; they stretch as far as the eye can see. He might be making a comparison: the great metropolis appears to cover as big an area as the entire Lake District. There he knows every square inch, every path, every pike, and has trodden and climbed all of them. Here, by his own admission – and in his own idiom – he is a fish out of water. And, perhaps, still niggling in the depths of his mind, is the regret that he had eschewed a posting to the city early in his career. Even his parents had said he should have done it – much as they would have missed him. Now it must seem he has forsaken the chance to spread his wings, to launch himself into uncertainty and newness. He had allowed a cautious streak to override what he knew in his heart was right. DS Jones – a fellow Cumbrian – has clearly benefited from her three years studying in London and subsequent travels beyond; though a decade his junior, in many ways she is the more worldly of the pair.