‘The bed in the Tregilgis’s room was completely stripped and changed yesterday morning, Guv. The underwear could only have got there some time later.’
Skelgill nods. This is as expected.
‘Anything else?’
‘Not from the chambermaid, Guv – but I did check the menu.’
‘Enlighten me.’
‘The sweet was sticky toffee pudding.’
‘Hardly original.’
‘I suppose they’re all visitors, Guv – they wouldn’t know we have it every day.’
Skelgill grins, amused by her sense of humour.
‘Come on, Miss Marple – there’s more, I know.’
‘The plate of cheesecake, Guv – that you noticed in the bedroom? There’s a good three-quarters of a full-sized round in one of the fridges. Perhaps he got peckish and went and helped himself.’
Skelgill can no doubt identify with this behaviour, but he is suddenly overcome by an immense yawn, which immediately infects DS Jones in the mysterious way that yawns move.
‘You must be bushed, Jones – you’ve been up all night. I had a lie-in until three.’
DS Jones shakes her head determinedly, though in her eyes there is a look of relief.
‘I suppose am a bit tired, Guv.’
Skelgill nods and chews his bottom lip for a minute.
‘Okay – here’s the plan. Unless some devastating piece of evidence turns up, or someone confesses, let the advertising crowd leave once they’ve been interviewed. Politely remind your DCs that I want typed statements on my desk for seven a.m. sharp. Get a decent kip and we’ll go through them first thing. And don’t forget your toothbrush.’
9. POLICE HQ
Despite his best intentions to go home, get a hot bath, eat a late lunch and sleep for a very long time, Skelgill was unable to drive past his mooring at Peel Wyke without ‘just checking the boat’. One thing led to another, and he spent Sunday afternoon afloat on his beloved Bass Lake. In turn, a late lunch became an even later Chinese takeaway and a few bottles of local Cockermouth ale, and a long hot bath became a hasty cold shower at six a.m. this morning. He arrives at his desk in Penrith an hour later to find a note from the forensic department stating that there are no fingerprints on the kukri. To add insult to injury, his in-tray is bereft of statements. He is just picking up the phone to berate the person unfortunate enough to answer his call, when DS Jones works her way backwards into his office.
‘No bloody statements –’
‘Morning, Guv.’
Cheerfully, she turns and places before him police-canteen tray bearing two mugs, three bacon rolls, and a stack of A4 papers.
‘How come you’ve got them?’
‘Sorry they’re a few minutes late, Guv – I’ve been marking-up your set.’
She separates the bundle into two halves, and hands one to him.
Uninvited, he picks up the nearest mug of tea and takes a mouthful. He frowns suspiciously at the top sheet. The text is marked in places with fluorescent yellow highlights.
‘What’s all this?’
‘I had to do the printouts this morning, Guv. I took photocopies of the handwritten statements before I left the hotel – then I went through them last night.’
‘You’ve read them?’
‘I thought it would give us a head start, Guv.’
Skelgill’s features are still severe, though his voice softens.
‘Jones, you’re a star – but you need to get a boyfriend.’
She grins bashfully.
‘I’ve got a boyfriend.’
‘Aye – but one that lives nearer than – where is it – Chelsea?’
He glances away – perhaps he is thinking he should not have revealed that he knows this aspect of her private life.
‘Clapham – but it’s – kind of – near enough...’ Her voice tails off, but then she rallies and grasps her share of the documents between both hands. ‘I was wired last night, Guv – I would never have slept – the chance to work on a case like this.’
Skelgill regards her again.
‘No wonder you’ve got bags under your eyes, Jones.’
‘So do you, Guv, if you don’t mind me saying.’
‘Aye, well – I was up late myself – thinking about it all.’
Certainly, they have exchanged their ‘eccentric’ attire for normal wear, and they have gained the look of those who have burned the midnight oil, but it seems at least that their efforts have been positive. Skelgill – though plainly secretly feeling guilty about his subordinate’s unpaid overtime – whilst afloat did indeed mull over matters at Bewaldeth Hall. He has determined that, before he interviews any of the key players more thoroughly, there is something he must know. While his brief meetings with Dermott Goldsmith and Miriam Tregilgis could not have been more like chalk and cheese, what they held in common was a curious ignorance of the fate of the company.
Now DS Jones lifts a handwritten list from the top of her pile.
‘In chronological order, Guv – I think there’s about a dozen significant points.
‘Hit me.’
Skelgill leans back and jams a bacon roll into his mouth. DS Jones takes a quick sip of her tea, and then begins.
‘Everyone was due to meet in the bar at seven-thirty p.m. Ivan Tregilgis and Dermott Goldsmith were there already. The first employee to arrive overheard the end of a conversation. Apparently Goldsmith said, “Well, I need to see it,” and Tregilgis replied, “Sure.” Then they immediately changed the subject. Goldsmith was apparently looking quite exasperated.
‘Make a note to ask Goldsmith what “it” was.’
Skelgill is proficient at talking whilst eating – he claims it is an essential quality for efficiency in police work. DS Jones turns her pad towards him to show the question already written down. He winks for her to continue.
‘At midnight they opened champagne. It’s the company’s seventh anniversary. Ivan Tregilgis was seen to dance “intimately” with Krista Morocco, the girl who runs the London office. The pair of them may then have gone out on to the terrace to smoke. Apparently that door from the Great Hall was unlocked the whole time, and people were wandering in and out. Not long after, Tregilgis came back, and had a bit of an altercation with Julia Rubicon – she’s head of their Edinburgh office. It’s not known what was said – the music was pretty deafening – but she stormed off leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor.’
‘Who told us this?’
‘It’s from just one statement – a Melanie Stark, who works in the London office. And neither Krista Morocco nor Julia Rubicon mention these things.’
Skelgill taps on air with his half-eaten roll.
‘Why would you notice something like that?’
DS Jones grins.
‘She probably fancied him, Guv.’
Skelgill seems surprised by her directness.
‘You mean Tregilgis?’
DS Jones nods.
‘Next thing, Guv – at about a quarter to one Goldsmith quite conspicuously signalled to his wife that he was going off to inject himself – he’s a diabetic. Though he never mentions it in his statement.’
‘Do we know how long he was gone?’
‘It couldn’t have been many minutes, Guv – he was back by about one a.m. Someone came onto the dance floor with one of the voodoo masks from the lobby. In next to no time they were all hopping about with spears and drums and whatnot. One of the girls says Goldsmith asked her what his Zulu club reminded her of.’
Skelgill raises his eyebrows, but choses not to comment. DS Jones continues.
‘They eventually returned all the paraphernalia – Tregilgis made sure they did it properly. Then the next notable event was – as we know from his wife – that he went to bed at about two a.m. He didn’t make a great fuss of going – most people said they hadn’t noticed. Interestingly, Miriam says he was leaving early in the morning and would be away for two nights – but she didn’t know where.’
‘Odd.’
‘You’d think so, Guv.’ DS Jones waits to see if he has more to add, but he remains pensive, and she continues. ‘After that, Guv, if I had to paraphrase the statements, I’d say it’s all a bit of a blank. No one is admitting to going anywhere near Tregilgis’s bedroom – basically you just get a picture of twenty people milling around the public areas, getting increasingly drunk. Nothing happens until Miriam’s screams are heard and they all descend on Room 10.’
Skelgill picks up the pile of statements from his desk and casually flicks through them. There are a good hundred pages, and he scowls at the sheer mass of information.
‘Glad you couldn’t sleep, lass.’
DS Jones shrugs modestly, and reaches for the plate with the single remaining bacon roll.
‘It doesn’t really help us in narrowing down the possibilities, though, Guv.’
Skelgill sighs wistfully, though it is equally probable that he has been hoping she would not be hungry.
‘Oh, I don’t know, Jones. What was it Miriam said about him falling in love? Sounds like there’s a few likely lasses in that mix.’
DS Jones nods.
‘However, Guv – more than half the company is female – there are only five males, excluding Ivan Tregilgis.’
‘Three to one ratio – don’t know if I dare set foot in their offices.’
DS Jones smirks knowingly.
‘Don’t worry, Guv – I’ll ride shotgun.’
10. MOFFAT AND BEYOND
A few wisps of morning mist still hang around the Devil’s Beef Tub as Skelgill barrels his long estate car through the s-bends that cut into the green Borders hillside. DS Jones hangs on grimly to the scalding coffees collected from a busy Moffat café, now several minutes behind them. “Best bacon rolls south of The Horn”, had been Skelgill’s rather obscure comment. His knowledge of food-stops appears to be informed by their proximity to places he fishes.
‘Source of the Tweed.’ He gestures in an almost proprietorial manner towards an unprepossessing expanse of moorland to their right.
Before DS Jones can reply, their radio crackles into life.
‘Got that appointment sorted for you, Ma’am.’ It is one of her DCs. ‘Ten-thirty and it’s 77, Frederick Street. You’re to ask for a Mr R Macdonald.’
‘Aye – and a couple of Happy Meals?’
The constable gives a little forced laugh, humouring Skelgill’s quip.
‘Straight up, Sir – and it’s all cleared with Police Scotland.’
Prior to their departure, DS Jones had left instructions for her team to track down the Edinburgh-based accountancy firm that acts for Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates. This is the subject of the message now received, meaning Skelgill can achieve his aim of becoming better informed about matters of a corporate nature.
DS Jones thanks her constable and terminates the call. She glances across at Skelgill.
‘Will we do it for ten-thirty, Guv?’
At this same moment her head almost makes contact with the roof of the car.
‘Cancel that question.’
Skelgill grins jubilantly.
‘Okay – here’s one for you.’ He clears his throat, as if to buy a second or two in phrasing the question. ‘Why would you leave your – underwear – in someone’s bed? I mean – surely you’d notice it was missing?’
DS Jones stares at the undulating road ahead, subconsciously adjusting the position of the paper cups as the car rises and falls, her arms acting as shock absorbers.
‘I can think of circumstances when it wouldn’t be a priority, Guv.’
‘Such as?’
‘Disturbed in the act. Panicked and ran for it.’
‘What else?’
‘Maybe she just couldn’t find them in the dark.’
Skelgill tilts his head to one side and makes a clicking sound with his tongue.
‘I’ll give you that one. Many’s the time I’ve arrived home to find I’m wearing women’s knickers.’
DS Jones laughs.
‘It would of course be possible to deduce that you went out wearing them in the first place, Guv.’
‘You are a mini Miss Marple, aren’t you? They should have warned me.’
‘Sorry, Guv – but seriously, assuming they don’t belong to Miriam – it does seem feasible that Ivan Tregilgis and his lover were disturbed, and the female went out through the French door.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘Quite possible – though we have no idea when that might have been. The fact is, the most likely person to come knocking is Miriam – and I don’t see her throwing a sudden tantrum and knifing him. She’s more likely to wait politely and give the mistress time to clear out. In any event – he wasn’t prepared for the blow.’
‘He could have been pretending he was asleep, Guv – thinking it was Miriam coming to bed.’
‘Maybe.’
‘I was wondering, Guv.’
‘Aye?’
‘Well – what if the underwear belongs to the killer?’
‘Bit of a giveaway, no?’
DS Jones frowns.
‘I know – but – say she were on top of him – if he were face down – it would be easy to strike. Then she could unlock both doors and go back to her own room via the terrace. It would be dark and probably deserted out there. In her own bathroom she could wash any traces and prints off the knife. Then just wait for the commotion and join on the back of it. And it would be easy to slip into the ladies’ to hide the weapon.’
Skelgill shrugs. After a moment or two he speaks musingly.
‘Okay – here’s a version for you. Miriam comes back to the room – disturbs the killer in the act – decides not to tell us about it.’
DS Jones widens her eyes.
‘But that could put her at risk, Guv.’
‘Not if she was in on it.’
11. MACDONALD & CAMPBELL
Within two hours of leaving Penrith the soot-blackened spires and steepling volcanic cliffs of Edinburgh come into view. DS Jones last visited the Scottish capital when a teenage school trip took her to Edinburgh Zoo – and scenery was unlikely to have been much of a priority. Now she sits in something like awed silence as they weave their way through the Southside, heading progressively back in time towards the medieval heart of the city. Skelgill seems to know where he is going.
‘Bit different from the Smoke, eh?’
DS Jones nods.
‘Trams. Saunas. No kilts yet, though.’
But shortly their route bisects Princess Street, to the strains of busking pipers (kilted, of course). A minute more and they have crossed into the New Town, cresting the brae at George Street, and rumbling down the cobbles; glittering views of the Firth of Forth and the Kingdom of Fife open up before them. Skelgill slews left into Heriot Row. They exit the vehicle – he stretches extravagantly, while DS Jones reads a sign that details the parking regulations.
‘Macdonald’s here we come.’
Skelgill sets off at a pace, turning the corner and striding up the hill down which they have just driven. DS Jones has to scurry in pursuit, and she calls after him anxiously.
‘But, Guv – we’ll get a ticket – it says resident permit holders only.’
Skelgill waves away her protestations.
‘Nah – that’s just for at night – so the locals can get parked. Trust me.’
DS Jones does not look convinced. They pass a traffic warden who is at this moment affixing a ticket to the windscreen of a parked car. The man glances up – no doubt accustomed to keeping his wits about him – and his hungry eyes suggest he reads her plight. He smirks and stealthily resumes his task before an irate owner can return.
77, Frederick Street turns out to be an impressive Georgian tenement, five stories including the basement and loft levels. The former houses a clandestine nightclub, and the ground floor – much to Skelgill’s liking – a brasserie. The floors above are all converted into offices, and entered by a c
ommunal stair, a place little changed since the building was erected 250 years ago. They climb broad stone steps, curving in a spiral, worn down at their centres, to the third floor. Here a smartly painted blue door bears a polished brass plaque with the words, “Macdonald & Campbell Partnership, Chartered Accountants.”
The detectives announce themselves at the entry phone. Promptly there is an electronic buzz and they are transported into a modern world of pastel colours, brushed chrome and sparkling glass. A tight-skirted receptionist leads them into a meeting room, and Skelgill is noticeably polite as she takes their orders for refreshments. A couple of moments later, looking younger and less like an accountant than one might imagine, a well-groomed man of about forty bounces into the room. He wears suit trousers, and an open-necked striped shirt with the cuffs held by gold links.
‘Inspector, Sergeant – Ronald Macdonald – pleased to meet you – but such terrible news, terrible news.’
He sounds distinctly Scottish – but only just, like a Scots rugby player interviewed after a game; in fact his accent is a product of the extraordinary influence that the independent school has upon the city’s professional class. His build is that of a number ten, or full back at a push.
‘Such a young chap, too – what on earth happened, Inspector?’
They resume their seats, and Skelgill opens his palms apologetically.
‘I can’t say much, I’m afraid – we’re still waiting for a deal of forensic information. However, I can tell you this is a murder investigation.’
Ronald Macdonald blows out his cheeks and stands up, as though this is too much for him. He paces across to one of the great sash windows, shaking his head. The detectives wait patiently while he regains his composure.
‘I only met him a few times – but he was the sort of fellow you immediately warmed to. Charismatic, but modest as hell. Can’t imagine anyone wanting to... you know?’
Skelgill concurs, with a sympathetic nodding of his head.
Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 4