Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 8

  ‘Something exciting, Guv?’

  Skelgill is jerked from his reverie.

  ‘What?’ He is a little abashed, and waves a hand at the window. ‘Just admiring the view. Tell me what’s down there.’

  DS Jones leans across him.

  ‘Look – Westminster Bridge – you can see Parliament – then follow the road westwards – the first park is St James’s – there’s the Palace – then Green Park – Hyde Park Corner with all the traffic – see Park Lane running up from there – then Hyde Park to the left of it – the Serpentine – and there’s Kensington Palace.’

  Her commentary continues until they run out of obvious landmarks after Kew, although Skelgill stares for some time at a distant Wembley stadium – perhaps imagining its fabled twin towers and Bobby Moore, arm aloft, and wondering if England will ever again win the World Cup.

  With hand luggage only, they are soon on a train. There is an air of despondency and fatigue, and it infects the two detectives, who sit quietly rapt. Skelgill picks up a discarded copy of the Evening Standard. He flicks absently through the pages, pausing at the classifieds, and becomes engrossed by the myriad of small ads seeking plasterers and plumbers, table dancers, meter-readers and mystery shoppers (whatever they are); and there are one-bedroom flats to rent at weekly rates you wouldn’t even pay for a month back up north. Next he seems to be counting down the stops, his head nodding as he reads along the Piccadilly Line map displayed overhead. The journey is largely overground to Hammersmith, and they bisect rows of untidy houses with jumbled back-gardens and Heath-Robinson extensions, ramshackle sheds and lines of washing. Occasionally there are glimpses of families sitting out on white plastic garden furniture, seemingly oblivious to their dismal surroundings.

  Station by station, the train fills up. Skelgill scrutinises the growing cross-section of humanity that begins to throng the carriage. Initially, new travellers are solitary, glum and mostly of foreign origin – maybe cleaners and night porters on their way to work? At Hammersmith there is an influx of smarter, office workers. South Kensington and Knightsbridge see them joined by well-heeled shoppers, jet-setty middle-eastern women wearing expensive western clothes. As the train dives deeper under the West End, there is an inrush of tourists and small groups of trendily dressed younger people, and many of these leave with Skelgill and DS Jones at Covent Garden, where they press as a body into a lift reminiscent of a scene from Quatermass.

  Skelgill looks relieved to escape from the stale humidity of the underground. This is their first taste of fresh air since Edinburgh – if there can be such a thing in central London. However, there is a warm, almost continental, ambience, with the aromas of cooked spices and the clink of raised glasses. DS Jones leads the way assuredly up Long Acre, with its designer boutiques and disorderly beggars. They dodge between taxis and cross into Endell Street, where Bohemian sandwich-bars are mingled with outlandish clothing shops, open-fronted cafe-bars that spill onto the pavement, and a “lesbian sex club” that prompts a small debate as to where the missing hyphen should go, or whether it makes any difference.

  They take their hotel by surprise, DS Jones suddenly ducking in ahead from the sidewalk. The rooms are threadbare but adequate, although not for the money. By agreement, they simply deposit their bags and retrace their steps – they have settled on DS Jones’s proposal of a quick Chinese, and as early a night as possible.

  ‘The Tregilgis’s flat is down here.’ DS Jones takes them on a minor detour to show Skelgill the location.

  ‘Doesn’t look that smart.’

  ‘You should clock the price tags, Guv. And I bet it’s pretty cool inside.’

  ‘Sounds like Miriam Tregilgis.’

  18. KRISTA MOROCCO

  ‘Do you recognise these briefs?’

  ‘I bought an identical pair last week.’

  There is a silence. Skelgill, having thoroughly rehearsed a line of questioning agreed with DS Jones, has omitted to practise what to say if Krista Morocco replies in the affirmative. They sit in the latter’s glass-walled office, set in a highly fashionable Soho condominium. Arriving on foot Skelgill had been surprised by the early-morning calm that pervades Covent Garden before the couriers, taxis and tourists get going. He stopped to watch great dripping-wet sacks of live mussels being unloaded into the back of a Belgian restaurant, and marvelled at the number of old ladies walking tiny dogs. There were even uniformed children on their way to school. Perhaps ordinary people did live here after all? This notion was soon quashed by the rows of shining cars parked in Soho Square: BMW, Jaguar, Range Rover, Porsche, Mercedes.

  ‘Did you wear them on Saturday night?’

  ‘I didn’t wear any on Saturday night. My dress was sheer and clingy and partially see-through. Underwear simply wasn’t an option.’

  Krista Morocco’s sky-blue eyes are unblinking.

  Skelgill’s mouth appears to become somewhat dry. DS Jones steps into the breach.

  ‘When did you last see this pair?’

  Krista Morocco lifts up the plastic evidence bag.

  ‘I guess when I packed on Friday night. I didn’t wear these at all at the weekend.’

  ‘You didn’t mention in your statement that they were missing.’

  DS Jones is getting into her stride.

  ‘If they’re mine – I had no idea I’d lost them. I kept most of my belongings in my overnight case at the hotel, and I still haven’t unpacked.’

  ‘Can you explain the fact that they were found in Ivan Tregilgis’s bed?’

  ‘Jesus.’

  Skelgill, despite his momentary disorientation, is watching very carefully this reaction. DS Jones, however, presses for an answer.

  ‘Ms Morocco?’

  ‘Sorry.’ She sounds genuinely apologetic. ‘I can’t explain it. Someone must have taken them from my case.’

  ‘Did you leave your room unlocked at any time?’

  ‘I don’t think I locked it at all.’ Krista Morocco looks at them innocently. ‘We usually take the whole place for these events, so there’s never any need to lock your door.’

  ‘How about the French door that led onto the terrace, was that unlocked too?’

  ‘Yes – at least, from mid-afternoon onwards.’

  ‘Can you recall anything happening that could explain how your underwear got into Room 10?’

  Krista Morocco shakes her head.

  ‘Just after midnight you went out onto the terrace with Mr Tregilgis. Why was that?’

  She stares at DS Jones, and then, rather more pleadingly, at Skelgill. Her reply, slow to form, is spoken in sad tones.

  ‘I don’t know.’

  Skelgill appears perplexed.

  ‘Surely something happened? Did you talk, smoke, maybe kiss one another – go to his room – or yours?’

  Krista Morocco remains silent. Then her eyes flood with tears that run down her sculpted bronze cheeks. She shakes her head again.

  ‘I really don’t know. I can’t remember going outside with him, Inspector.’

  Skelgill returns her gaze with a perplexed frown.

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘We started drinking just after lunch – out on the terrace – then there was barely a break before we met for cocktails – everything from somewhere in the middle of dinner is a blank – until the shock of, you know... Ivan?’

  ‘Do you normally drink that amount?’

  ‘Hardly ever – but at the company do – everyone lets their hair down – it’s a great release – and we all get our bonus letters – and partying... it’s in the advertising industry’s DNA, Inspector.’

  More tears spill down her face and she pulls a box of tissues from her desk drawer. Skelgill himself appears uncomfortable – there are more tough questions to follow.

  ‘Ms Morocco, your fingerprints were found on a knife – a highly dangerous Nepalese kukri to be precise – that was identical to the weapon which it is believed was used to murder Ivan Tregilgis.’

  Krista stares
in disbelief, glancing from one detective to the other. Skelgill swallows – after all, it is an unfair question and he knows it.

  ‘Can you explain that, Ms Morocco?’

  There is no answer. Skelgill sighs.

  ‘And I suppose you wouldn’t recollect if you stabbed Ivan Tregilgis?’

  She twists the tissue between trembling fingers. Her nails are expensively manicured.

  ‘Are you here to arrest me, Inspector?’

  A note of panic has infected her voice.

  Skelgill stares at her for what seems like an age. DS Jones seems poised on the edge of her seat, ready to pounce if Krista Morocco suddenly tries to make a break for freedom.

  ‘No, we’re not.’

  The young woman bows her head, and wipes away more tears.

  ‘I loved Ivan, Inspector.’ Then she looks up at him, and there is fear in her eyes. ‘Is somebody trying to frame me?’

  ‘Who would do that, Ms Morocco?’

  She hesitates, as if sensing the gravity of the moment – of making an accusation – despite the opportunity it provides to shift the burden of guilt from her own shoulders.

  ‘I don’t believe anyone in the company could commit a murder, Inspector.’

  There is something about her generous manner that causes Skelgill to retreat back into his seat, and DS Jones mirrors his movement, the tension leaving her athletic frame.

  ‘How about if I said, who would take the opportunity to make things awkward for you?’

  Krista Morocco shrugs.

  ‘There could be people who might resent me.’

  ‘May I suggest one – perhaps Miss Rubicon?’

  Krista Morocco nods reluctantly.

  ‘I think she feels I’ve stood in her way.’

  ‘With respect to Mr Tregilgis, or to her career?’

  ‘Probably both.’

  ‘Were you having an affair with him?’

  Krista Morocco shakes her head. Her eyes glisten and the tears threaten to reappear.

  ‘No. We had a short relationship about seven or eight years ago – before he was married. I lost out, I suppose. But we remained very close. The advertising business might seem glamorous, Inspector, but it’s a constant battle – some clients treat agencies very badly – often you form very strong bonds with your colleagues.’

  ‘Were Ivan Tregilgis and Julia Rubicon having an affair?’

  ‘I think they did – at least until she went to Edinburgh. I don’t know if it continued.’

  ‘And how did you thwart her career?’

  ‘Well – it was just in her mind.’ Krista Morocco holds out her hands as if she appeals for his understanding. ‘I actually helped to get her promoted ahead of other candidates – but apparently she thought she should leap-frog me and be put in charge of both offices.’

  ‘How do you know?’

  ‘Because Ivan told me.’

  ‘Was she good at her job?’

  ‘Yes, a competent operator, very efficient. But too self-centred to be a good senior manager.’

  ‘What would you say to the suggestion that Miss Rubicon was transferred to get her out of your way?’

  Krista Morocco seems unruffled by this.

  ‘I don’t deny there was conflict. But Julia only had to say the word to Ivan if she wanted to stay – I had no power to put her in the Edinburgh job, and I wasn’t planning to remove her from my office.’

  Skelgill nods, seemingly satisfied with her responses. He looks to DS Jones to pick up the next line of questioning.

  ‘Ms Morocco, I understand last week you did sack somebody. Mr Grendon Smith?’

  ‘That’s correct.’

  ‘Why was he dismissed?’

  ‘We think he defrauded us, though I doubt if I could prove it. I had to sack him on the grounds of incompetence. It was all a bit unpleasant.’

  ‘What was the nature of the alleged fraud?’

  ‘Kickbacks from a supplier. We cross-quote all of our out-work to make sure it’s competitively priced, but there’s still scope for dishonesty.’

  ‘How did you find out?’

  ‘We got a whisper from a chap who’d moved job from one of our suppliers to another.’

  ‘How much is involved?’

  ‘Maybe around the five thousand mark.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘And what was he like – Mr Smith?’

  ‘He interviewed well – I made an error of judgement. At first he seemed very helpful and keen to learn, but as soon as things got tough he would start to blame everyone but himself – and that’s not our culture. Underneath the charm he was a spiteful person – he had unpredictable mood swings – and he became unpopular with the rest of the team.’

  ‘And on the day he was fired I understand he and Mr Tregilgis had a bit of an altercation?’

  Krista Morocco nods.

  ‘Grendon reacted badly. He was emptying his desk, slamming drawers and flinging computer disks into the waste bin. Ivan was nearby with a client and I rang him. He came over and saw Grendon off the premises. I don’t think it was too serious – but you wouldn’t want to mess with Ivan.’

  ‘Have you seen or heard anything of Mr Smith since?’

  Krista Morocco shakes her head.

  ‘Are you intending to report him to the police?’

  ‘I never mentioned the kickbacks. As I say, I have no concrete proof. Though I expect he put two and two together – and Ivan may have said something to him as he left.’

  ‘We may be able to find that out.’ DS Jones taps her notebook with her pen. ‘Perhaps before we leave you could give us contact details for the suppliers Mr Smith dealt with.’

  ‘Certainly – but there is another firm you may be interested in – they’re called BDL – Ivan was about to take them to court.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘I suppose you could say they did the dirty on us. They’re a specialist media contractor and they came to us about a year ago and offered us a higher agency commission to place work with them instead of one of their competitors. It’s standard industry practice – the client can only buy direct at a higher rate, so may as well go through an agency like us. We cover some of our costs that way. But then BDL went directly to one of our clients and offered them the agency discount. So they used us to build up the trading relationship, and then cut us out of the equation. We should never have trusted them – their MD is renowned as one of the most unscrupulous operators in the business. Our lawyers have advised us that we can sue them for breach of contract, so we formally put them on notice last week.’

  ‘And are you suggesting there could be a connection with Mr Tregilgis’s death?’

  Krista Morocco glances rather helplessly at the two detectives.

  ‘I really don’t know. It all seems unbelievable. I suppose I assumed someone had broken in and killed him, and I’ve just been trying to think who might have had a reason.’

  Skelgill clears his throat to speak.

  ‘In that vein, Ms Morocco, are there any other circumstances that affect Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates at the moment?’

  Krista Morocco nods immediately.

  ‘There is one thing. Although it seems far removed from a murder.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’d be interested to hear about it.’

  ‘About three weeks ago I took a phone call from an American – he said he was a headhunter and could I talk? I was curious and said yes, but that I’d need to call him back via his company switchboard – just in case it was one of our clients’ competitors trying to get confidential information. However he gave me a number – in The States – and I rang it and got through to him, no problem. He then said, sorry, he wasn’t exactly a headhunter, but that his firm – I’d vaguely heard of them – was one of the leading New York ad agencies and they were setting up an office in London, and were looking for someone to head it up.’

  ‘And were you interested?’

  ‘Well, flattered, I suppose. I wasn’t thinking of
leaving GT&A, and to be honest I don’t fancy working for a big shop again, what with all the bureaucracy and politicking.’

  Skelgill raises an eyebrow – this small firm does not seem to be short of these qualities.

  ‘So did it come to anything?’

  ‘Well, it was a strange sort of interview. When I thought about it afterwards I realised he hadn’t asked about my own achievements – it was more how I interacted with the principals – Ivan and Dermott – and the kind of systems and procedures that we use. He finished off by saying thanks and that he was coming over to London at the end of June, and would like to meet me then, and would be in touch.’

  ‘So what struck you as unusual?’

  ‘Frankly, I felt he was more interested in the company than in me. And he asked me not to mention our conversation to Ivan or Dermott. Now if you’re in the middle of getting a new job with a competitor, the last person you tell is your boss.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘So are you saying you think this American firm is trying to buy Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates?’

  ‘It seems that way – and we’re known as one of the best independents in the country. There’s no Creative Director with more awards than Ivan.’

  ‘And would the company be for sale?’

  ‘I don’t know – it’s not something Ivan ever mentioned. But it is the normal thing in advertising – you start your own shop – build it up, sell it to a big company – and disappear into the sunset.’

  Her eyes begin to well up again, but she fights against whatever deep urge rises and retains her composure.

  ‘Ms Morocco, I take it you have this American’s details?’

  ‘Sure, the number’s saved on my phone.’

  She reaches for her handset; it has been lying silenced on the table before them – and locates the contact. She turns the screen so Skelgill can see it.

  ‘Ford Zendik? Sounds like one of my old cars. Mind if I borrow your office to give him a call?’

  ‘Not at all, Inspector.’ At last there is a faint smile that threatens to trouble the corners of her delicate mouth. ‘But right now in Manhattan it’s four-thirty a.m.’