Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 9

  19. SEVEN DIALS

  ‘I guess we can stop asking about the underwear.’

  DS Jones grins at her superior – his tone seems to carry a mixture of relief and disappointment.

  ‘Presumably forensics will be able to tell us they’re brand new, Guv?’

  Skelgill nods, though not with total conviction.

  ‘So who put them in Tregilgis’s bed?’

  They both shake their heads.

  ‘Convenient amnesia regarding events after midnight, Guv.’

  Skelgill chews his lower lip.

  ‘She didn’t try to talk her way out of anything she couldn’t explain.’

  DS Jones nods, and then she gestures at Skelgill’s empty mug.

  ‘Another cuppa, Guv?’

  But Skelgill rises to pre-empt her.

  ‘It’s my round. You sit.’

  They are in a traditional West End sandwich-bar just a stone’s throw from Seven Dials. Skelgill joins the assembly of waiting customers and contemplates the cryptically labelled fillings on display. Somewhere behind the high counter an indeterminate number of small Italians scuttle to and fro, every so often pitching up a finished article for collection. While Skelgill waits he perhaps contemplates an image that grabbed his attention a few moments earlier. There are many photographs on the wall of Krista Morocco’s private office – awards ceremonies, company nights out, outward-bound activity days – and one of these is billed as ‘Client-Agency Cricket Challenge’. It clearly dates from the period that Elspeth Goldsmith had described – when Krista and Ivan Tregilgis worked for separate firms and supposedly had a fling. The pair stand at the edge of a large group; a happily smiling Krista resting her head against Ivan’s left shoulder, her right hand clearly visible clutching the other side of his waist. She looks puppy-like and positively radiant – a far cry from the drawn and forlorn creature he has just encountered.

  ‘Guv.’

  Skelgill is sprung from the little cell in his mind – this is DS Jones’s eureka! voice.

  ‘Jones?’

  She brandishes a sheaf of papers – while she has been waiting for him to queue she has been reading the autopsy report they picked up at Fettes Avenue. Her eyes are wide, though she speaks in hushed tones.

  ‘Tregilgis wasn’t killed with the kukri.’

  ‘What are you talking about?’

  Skelgill sits down opposite her and leans over the table. DS Jones runs a finger along a line in the report.

  ‘It says the entry wound is consistent with a straight-edged blade at least five inches long and no thicker than an inch at its widest. It’s nothing like the shape of a kukri.’

  Skelgill stares out of the window and across the road. In another eatery, a never-ending snake of sushi simultaneously circles and fattens its victims.

  ‘How did we miss this?’

  DS Jones looks alarmed, but she holds out her hands in an appeal to common sense.

  ‘We’ve been dashing about like crazy, Guv – and it was a natural conclusion to jump to – a stabbed victim and a knife stolen and hidden nearby.’

  Skelgill nods reluctantly.

  ‘We’ll need to get another search organised. It can’t be too far away.’

  DS Jones is already tapping instructions into her smartphone.

  Skelgill raps his knuckles on the table.

  ‘What the hell was that kukri doing in the cistern?’

  DS Jones glances up.

  ‘It could be a diversionary tactic, Guv – to throw us off the scent – we did call off the search as soon as it was found.’

  Skelgill shakes his head ruefully.

  ‘So, who did it?’

  ‘A female?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘It was in the ladies’ loo, Guv.’

  20. MELANIE STARK

  It has not escaped Skelgill’s eagle eye that both the Edinburgh and London offices of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates are predominantly staffed with attractive females. If this has been a deliberate recruitment criterion, Melanie Stark has somehow slipped through the net. It is not that she is ugly, but by the average standard she is plain. And there is something about her pinched mouth and narrow eyes that give her a shrew-like appearance, as she sits hunched across the desk, her gaze darting hungrily from one to the other of the detectives. DS Jones is conducting the interview.

  ‘And when did you join the agency?’

  ‘Just over six years ago.’

  ‘So that makes you the second-longest-serving employee after Ms Morocco?’

  Melanie Stark nods eagerly.

  ‘And are these company do’s a regular thing?’

  ‘Oh yes, every year – sometimes twice if we’ve done particularly well.’

  ‘And how did this year’s compare to previous ones?’

  ‘Pretty similar – high spirits, posh nosh, unlimited free booze.’

  ‘You mentioned in your statement there was some friction surrounding Mr Tregilgis.’

  Melanie Stark smirks primly.

  ‘Julia and Krista fighting over Ivan. Miriam pretending not to notice. The usual form.’

  ‘Could you elaborate?’

  ‘Whenever Krista gets drunk, she gets the devil in her – and winds up Julia – by getting intimate with Ivan. He couldn’t seem to resist her. So Julia would go crazy.’

  ‘Was she drunk on Saturday night – Ms Morocco?’

  ‘Three sheets to the wind – but who wasn’t?’

  ‘Do you recollect people dancing with various of the tribal artefacts taken from the lobby?’

  ‘Yes, that was later on – a bit scary – all those masks and spears. I just had a set of tom-toms.’

  ‘How about Ms Morocco?’

  Melanie Stark thinks for a moment.

  ‘It was a head-dress – with strings of Masai beads that covered her face. I remember she shouted to me something about Lowlife.’

  ‘Lowlife?’

  'It’s a pet name for one of our un-favourite clients. She was making stabbing motions with a dagger.’

  DS Jones pauses to glance casually at her superior, but he affects not to notice.

  ‘Did you see anyone else with a similar knife?’

  Melanie Stark shakes her head.

  ‘It was all a bit of a blur – and we had the lights down low.’

  DS Jones nods and makes a note in her pocket book.

  ‘What happened to all the ornaments?’

  ‘Ivan made sure we put them back. He always said in his opening speech about how we should behave – so we would be welcomed back at any hotel we hired. I don’t mean he wasn’t up for a caper himself – he abseiled down a stairwell at one place – but any gratuitous damage and he’d be really upset.’

  ‘You said Mr Tregilgis had a weakness for Ms Morocco. What do you mean by that?’

  ‘They go back a long way. Krista once said Ivan had her on his conscience... from when they went out together – but I suppose she told you about that?’

  DS Jones does not reply. Instead she asks another question.

  ‘It seems to be a widely held opinion that Mr Tregilgis and Ms Rubicon were having an affair. Is it possible he was involved with Ms Morocco at the same time?’

  ‘No chance.’

  ‘How can you be so certain?’

  ‘Krista wouldn’t put herself in the position where Julia could manipulate her. Not after all the hassle she gave us. Thankfully she used her charms on Ivan and had Julia shipped to Scotland.’

  ‘You make it sound like a deportation.’

  ‘Who would voluntarily want Dermott breathing down their neck – literally?’

  Melanie Stark’s features crease into an expression of distaste.

  ‘He’s not so popular?’

  ‘His habits are rather schoolboy-like – something to do with being jealous of Ivan’s charisma – but he doesn’t have a grown-up solution of his own. Plus he’s obsessively anal when it comes to work – for instance, he insists we buy petrol in amounts divis
ible by the VAT rate to make it easy for the book-keeper to do our expenses!’

  At the memory her expression becomes one of incredulity.

  ‘I gather Mr Goldsmith is a diabetic?’

  Now Melanie Stark raises her eyebrows in a weary gesture.

  ‘Don’t we all know it?’

  ‘Somebody mentioned that they saw him at about a quarter to one – signalling that he was about to go to give himself an insulin injection – did you happen to notice him leave?’

  Melanie Stark shakes her head.

  ‘I’d be surprised about that. Normally we get a public display – usually at the dinner table – never mind that half of us are nearly throwing up. And Elspeth revels in it, too.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘We’re told she has an important role in the company.’

  Melanie Stark gives an ironic chuckle.

  ‘If by that you mean all the crap that Dermott doesn’t want to do, then yes.’

  ‘Mrs Goldsmith told us that she was “catching up on the gossip” with you on Saturday night – Sunday morning in fact.’

  ‘Well, knowledge is power, as they say.’

  ‘When exactly was this?’

  ‘Just before the big commotion. We were leaning up against the bar eating some leftover pudding that she’d rustled up.’

  ‘You didn’t mention in your statement that you were with her just as Mr Tregilgis’s murder was discovered.’

  Melanie Stark looks suddenly disconcerted.

  ‘I must have got confused – I mean – when the policeman interviewed me I hadn’t slept and I’d got a terrible hangover. Seeing Ivan’s body – and Miriam hysterical – it was such a shock – it was hard to remember much before that.’

  DS Jones remains silent. After a few moments Melanie Stark speaks again, her voice strained as she directs the question at a brooding Skelgill.

  ‘Inspector – you don’t think I had something to do with this, do you?’

  Skelgill rouses himself from his torpor and stares at her menacingly. But then he relents and shrugs his shoulders.

  ‘You sound like you’re telling the truth to me, madam.’

  The woman visibly relaxes, and then she leans forward across the desk, as though she wants to share something with them. But she waits for the invitation.

  ‘Madam?’

  ‘About Dermott – going to inject himself?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘My husband’s diabetic – he would never do it at that time of night – it could lower your blood sugars to a potentially fatal level.’

  21. FORD ZENDIK

  ‘Dead! You gotta be kidding, fella?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir – he was murdered.’

  ‘Moydered?’

  ‘Yes, sir – would it help if I called you back in a short while?’

  There is a pause followed by the sound of coughing and various muffled cusses, before the American voice returns.

  ‘It’s no problem, Officer – just a bit of a shock, that’s all. Actually I hardly knew the guy personally – met him just the once.’

  ‘So you don’t mind if I ask you some questions?’

  ‘Shoot.’

  While DS Jones has been despatched to inspect any paperwork kept at the Tregilgis’s flat, and to catch up with developments filtering back to HQ, Skelgill has commandeered Krista Morocco’s office in order to telephone The States. His patience in waiting is rewarded with the capture of Ford Zendik at his desk, partaking of his breakfast coffee and bagels. A brief introduction has established both parties’ credentials, enabling Skelgill to come quickly to the point with the straight talking though amiable New Yorker.

  ‘We believe Mr Tregilgis was due to fly yesterday to JFK – and thought he may have been intending to see you.’

  ‘Dead right.’ (The man coughs again, perhaps recognising his unfortunate choice of words.) ‘In fact, Officer, he was due here in my office in less than an hour.’

  ‘Where exactly are you?’

  'Corner of third and fifty-second.’

  ‘That’s Manhattan?’

  ‘Correct, Officer.’

  ‘And can you tell me what the meeting was about?’

  ‘Sure. We’re buying his company. Tregilgis was coming over so we could put some flesh on the bones of the deal.’

  ‘Do you mean the sale has already been agreed in principle?’

  ‘What I’m saying is we’d agreed a ball-park figure.’

  ‘Can I ask how much?’

  ‘Sixteen million dollars.’

  Skelgill pauses for a moment – perhaps for a quick mental calculation. It is a tidy sum to bank, even after the nation has taken its cut.

  ‘When did you hope to close the deal?’

  ‘Today. Tregilgis was bringing the signed Heads of Terms.’

  ‘That would be a printed document?’

  ‘Sure. We Fedexed it last week – he called me on Friday to say he’d received it.’

  ‘And do you know if he was in agreement with the main points?’

  ‘He said it looked fine. Said he should be able to sell it to his partner, no problem.’

  ‘Were they not entirely in accord?’

  ‘Oh they were in accord, alright – sixteen million bucks in accord. It was just a matter of swallowing the jobs we needed them to do for the next couple of years.’

  ‘How does that work, then? I’m new to this advertising business.’

  ‘When you buy a company like theirs, Officer, it’s standard practice to keep the principals on for continuity – staff like it, clients like it – it’s a people business.’

  ‘Right.’

  ‘In this case we wanted Tregilgis to front the show, and Goldsmith to take a bit of a back seat – don’t get me wrong, we’d keep him on – same package, impressive title with the word President in it somewhere – but his skills are superfluous in an organisation the size of ours.’

  ‘Whereas Ivan Tregilgis had more of a role to play?’

  ‘Correct. We’d made the usual discreet inquiries – talking incognito to their staff, clients, industry contacts. Tregilgis was highly rated on all fronts – a top Creative with international awards.’

  ‘And not so, Dermott Goldsmith?’

  ‘He’s okay so far as it goes. But he doesn’t really bring anything to the party – I’ve got bean-counters crawling all over me here, the last thing I need is another one in England.’

  ‘Was there some doubt that Mr Goldsmith would accept the position?’

  ‘Like I said, Officer, sixteen million bucks buys a lot of humble pie.’

  ‘Why were you dealing solely with Mr Tregilgis?’

  ‘That’s how they wanted it. It kept things simple – one point of contact.’

  ‘Will Mr Tregilgis’s death affect the deal?’

  There is a moment’s silence followed by a slurping sound, then in the background a muffled exclamation.

  ‘Sorry, Officer. Let my drink get cold. Yeah, we’d still be interested, but it may alter the price.’

  ‘Significantly?’

  ‘Hey, buddy – are you their agent?’

  ‘Sounds like it would pay well.’

  ‘Sure would. But to answer your question, Officer, I’d need to think about it. Tregilgis had intrinsic value – some clients were loyal to him personally – and we’d need to hire a replacement head Creative – it’s not easy to find top guns, even in London.’

  ‘I understand. Who else would have known about the proposed takeover?’

  ‘Couple of guys here – Tregilgis and Goldsmith over your side – I’d be surprised if they told anyone.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It could be unsettling if rumours got around – you don’t want your clients or staff to start jumping ship. Best to present a fait accompli and show everyone that it’s business as usual.’

  ‘And there’s no other agency in the mix? I mean – competing for your sixteen million?’

  ‘Not in Engla
nd, Officer.’

  ‘Okay. Look – I appreciate your co-operation. Just one last question – what are your feelings about this?’

  ‘We’ve lost one of the Good Guys.’

  *

  When DS Jones reappears forty minutes later, she is metaphorically empty handed, though Skelgill seems cheered by the late lunch she bears in a couple of deli-style sandwich bags.

  ‘Not a trace, Guv – but Miriam Tregilgis did take in a parcel from a courier on Friday.’

  ‘Nothing here either – he doesn’t have a desk in the office.’

  ‘Miriam is pleading ignorance about the sale.’

  ‘Seems hard to believe.’ Skelgill begins to investigate the bags. ‘How was she?’

  ‘Phlegmatic as ever, Guv. And she denies having a relationship with any of her personal training clients.’

  ‘What did she say?’ Skelgill selects a sandwich and seems impressed by its size.

  ‘At first she just said straight “no” – then when I explained somebody had seen her, she said that her clients might sometimes like to think that things were getting intimate, but that didn’t mean they were.’

  ‘I know that feeling.’

  DS Jones smiles sympathetically.

  ‘How about Ford Zendik, Guv? It confirms Krista Morocco’s suspicion.’

  Skelgill nods. Between bites he relates the details of his transatlantic conversation. When he reaches the part about sixteen million dollars, DS Jones quickly jots upon her notebook.

  ‘Not a good deal for Miriam, Guv.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘As things stand she gets half a million from the cross-option insurance arrangement – if the sale had gone through, Ivan Tregilgis would have been worth six times that.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows as he continues to eat.

  ‘It Makes Miriam look an unlikely murderess, don’t you think, Guv?’

  Skelgill cocks his head on one side.

  ‘It’s also the perfect alibi.’

  DS Jones throws him an inquiring glance.

  ‘Just look at the facts, Jones. She still walks away with a guaranteed half-million, plus whatever his personal life insurance is worth – mortgage paid off, tidy income of her own. Meanwhile, she’s the only person that we’ve got concrete proof was at the scene of the crime – virtually at the time of death – and covered in Tregilgis’s blood.’