DS Jones looks pensive.
‘But say she’d done it, Guv – what about the knife? She’d have to get rid of it in the couple of minutes before raising the alarm – in her nightie. Surely it would be nearby – and we’d have found it first time around?’
‘There’s always the accomplice – the professional footballer waiting on the terrace to spirit it away.’
Skelgill says this with a grin, knowing his assistant still harbours a suspicion that Grendon Smith had some role to play.
‘Of course, there are swings and roundabouts.’
‘In what way, Guv?’
‘Miriam Tregilgis’s loss is Dermott Goldsmith’s gain. He receives Tregilgis’s half of the company at no extra cost, sells the lot to the Yanks – and doubles his fortune.’ Skelgill puts his hands behind his head and leans back in Krista Morocco’s articulating leather chair. ‘As far as having a financial incentive goes, Lord Goldsmith is in pole position.’
Now DS Jones is nodding.
‘A good reason to keep quiet about the takeover, Guv. Let the dust settle and then seal the deal.’
Skelgill nods, though he raises a caveat.
‘According to Zendik, the price would need to change without Tregilgis. That’ll probably come as a shock to Goldsmith – he’s got such an inflated idea of his own importance.’
DS Jones’s eyes light up.
‘What if the dispute was about their new jobs, Guv – when Goldsmith was hassling Tregilgis in the bar?’
‘Aye, well – I’m certain he wouldn’t be happy about playing second fiddle.’
‘Perhaps he hadn’t seen the job spec at that point, Guv – if Tregilgis only received the contract on Friday? It’s a reason to tamper with the briefcase. Then if he discovered something he didn’t like – that might have been reason enough to commit murder. With Tregilgis out of the way, he would be the new kingpin. And he could afford to drop the price – he’d own 100 per cent of the shares.’
Skelgill nods.
‘And, Guv – I phoned the Path. Lab – they agreed with that theory about the insulin – it would be a risky thing to do late at night – and surely Goldsmith would have known that?’
‘Aye, you’d think so.’ Skelgill ponders for a moment; he seems reluctant to get too carried away with this line of reasoning. ‘We just have to remind ourselves that, as yet, we’ve got nothing to link him with the crime scene. No witnesses, no forensics, no admission.’ He takes a deep breath, and then releases it slowly. ‘Still, the questions mount for his Lordship.’
22. WATERLOO BRIDGE
As Big Ben strikes nine times post meridiem, Skelgill can be found dining alone on Waterloo Bridge. He leans over the parapet and stares pensively into the murky Thames as it streams below on the ebb tide. Experimentally, he drops a chip, and watches fascinated as it seems to tumble slowly through the air, then suddenly to disappear beneath the oily surface, fodder for whatever foul and disfigured creatures inhabit these polluted reaches.
He studies a loose raft of flotsam drifting seawards: plastic bottles, sticks, a tennis ball, clumps of weed, even a training shoe – an evolving aquatic pastiche, a diverse collection of parts that has coalesced for no apparent reason (although the tennis ball and training shoe are conceivably related). These individual clues to the raft’s origins bob along, jostling one another for prominence in the eyes of the onlooker, while others perhaps are carried unseen by the undertow.
Skelgill rouses himself from his musings and stands upright. A heavily overcast sky heralds a premature nightfall, and the city is lighting up around him. Yielding to DS Jones’s exhortations, he has taken up her suggestion to see “the best view in London” – in reciprocation of their visit to Calton Hill; except she hasn’t come with him. So he has ventured south along Drury Lane and Aldwych – via a couple of hostelries – and is surprised to find the river flowing so close by. Now, in the centre of Waterloo Bridge, he must surely agree with his colleague’s assessment. Views might be hard to come by in a city whose highest point is a building, but astride this great curve of the Thames many of the nation’s most famous landmarks, ancient and modern, are visible in a single spectacular sweep of the eye.
DS Jones, meanwhile, at Skelgill’s insistence, has taken to public transport to meet her occasional though long-standing boyfriend in Clapham.
Skelgill finishes his fish supper and crushes the greasy wrappings. Resisting any temptation to toss the ball into the Thames, he finds a waste bin nearby. Then he returns northwards and turns left onto the Strand. He slows as he crosses Savoy Court. Beneath a gilded knight with spear and shield, a stream of taxis deposits bejewelled passengers outside the mouth of the eponymous hotel, where they are fed into a revolving door by a top-hatted commissionaire.
A man that looks like Prince Charles comes towards him from the direction of the hotel. Not wishing to stare, Skelgill moves away. A few paces further on a postcard lying on the pavement catches his eye and he picks it up. It features a surprisingly well-educated oriental lady offering her services. He realises it has fluttered from a nearby phone booth, which has much of its interior decorated with an array of similar invitations. He peers through a vacant rectangle in the glass. The photographs leave little to the imagination.
‘Scuse me, John – aw-right if I get in there?’
Skelgill spins round – it is Prince Charles – or, at least, his Cockney doppelganger.
‘Aye – sorry.’
Skelgill steps away, perhaps embarrassed that he was caught ogling the images. There is a gap in the traffic, so he allows his momentum to take him across the Strand. As he glances to his left he sees a distant Lord Nelson, proud above the rooftops, silhouetted against a sliver of orange horizon. He is still holding the postcard, and as he strolls introspectively up Southampton Street he can be seen to fumble for his mobile phone and dial a number.
*
A few minutes later he presses the buzzer of an entry phone marked simply ‘Flat 3’. He stands back so the spy-camera can see him clearly beneath the neon of a streetlight. A subtle click is his cue to enter. He pushes into a small, clean hallway that smells of new carpet. Then he hauls on a chrome bannister as he climbs swiftly to the penthouse landing. Panting now, he reaches out to tap on the heavy reinforced door. Like magic it swings slowly open. In front of him, pink-cheeked and a little breathless herself, stands Miriam Tregilgis.
*
‘Good evening, Inspector.’
‘Have you been drinking, Sergeant?’
‘I can’t be the only one, surely, Guv?’
‘Aye – but I’ve had more practise disguising it.’
‘Did you make it to Waterloo Bridge?’
‘I saw Miriam.’
‘No?’
‘Straight up. Come on – the bar’s still open – I’ll tell you about it.’
Skelgill and DS Jones have arrived simultaneously to collect their room keys from the hotel’s reception desk. Now they wend their way into the lounge bar, a large, over-bright room that is badly in need of refurbishment. Skelgill procures their drinks and joins his colleague on a stained, though reasonably comfortable sofa.
‘Cheers, Guv.’
‘Aye, cheers.’
‘So what’s the news of Miriam Tregilgis?’
Skelgill shrugs, as though perhaps there is no news as such, and now he must manufacture something of merit. But he begins with a question.
‘When you went round earlier – was her sister there?’
‘No, Guv – apparently she’s already gone back to Wales. Something came up.’
Skelgill nods pensively. In Miriam Tregilgis’s flat there had been an unfamiliar though pleasant aromatic scent in the air. She had led him along a hallway, passing doors on either side. From behind one of these had come the sounds of a shower splashing, and a melodic female voice accompanying a radio tuned to a music channel.
‘When I arrived there was someone there – a girl, a woman. I assumed it was her sister and
that she’d introduce me later.’
‘And did she?’
Skelgill shakes his head.
‘Miriam didn’t – and the other one disappeared into thin air.’
‘Maybe she went to bed? Perhaps now that her sister’s away she’s got someone else staying to keep her company – a friend?’
‘A girlfriend?’
DS Jones lifts her head knowingly, understanding what Skelgill is getting at.
‘It’s possible, Guv.’
‘It might explain a thing or two.’
DS Jones nods.
‘I’m no expert, Guv.’
‘I’m glad to hear it, Jones.’
There follows a silence – one that is perhaps a little awkward, and they both end up by draining their glasses. By unspoken mutual consent they rise and make their way out into the lobby – the hour is late and another challenging day awaits. The lift is shaky and ponderous, and Skelgill makes small talk.
‘How was Clapham?’
‘Fine.’
Her tone suggests the opposite, and Skelgill does not pursue the matter. Their rooms are on separate floors, and they arrive at DS Jones’s first. As the doors slide open she suddenly clasps his sleeve and pecks him on the cheek.
‘Night, Guv.’
‘Night... Emma.’
23. GRENDON SMITH
Skelgill remarks that Pentonville Road is exactly what he had expected of a ‘pale-blue’ on the Monopoly board. While he is no fan of the urban environment, he has confessed to DS Jones a certain admiration for the flowing harmony of the architecture in London’s tightly packed West End. But now, as the two detectives stride uphill from King’s Cross, all before them is disunity and strife. Buildings of different sizes, shapes, styles – in varying degrees of repair and disrepair – jostle for space as they line up in disorderly fashion along each side of the road. Some are set forward, others set back. Some have cars crammed into improbably small courtyards; others are temporary construction sites. There are small office buildings; headquarters of obscure institutes; and blocks of flats with grimy net-curtains and tiny balconies choked by washing and satellite dishes and neglected houseplants. There are bin-liners bursting with rubbish stacked against lampposts and blackened tree trunks; dumpsters overflowing with a cornucopia of banana skins, chip wrappers and drinks cans; and few shops to speak of – just a cluster of narrow cafés, bookmakers and heavily shuttered sex emporia nearer to King’s Cross. Not even the dazzling morning sunshine and brilliant azure sky can make it seem agreeable.
They are shortly to meet Grendon Smith – although he does not know it. And they are forearmed with information that DS Jones’s team has unearthed concerning his past – chequered, as it turns out. There are several juvenile cautions and convictions: for taking pot shots at neighbours’ pets with an air rifle, four counts of shoplifting, possession of stolen goods (top-shelf magazines and videos); and one adult offence of fraud – the falsification of a stolen tax disc. His address proves to be one of the net-curtained flats, located in a small block down a side road about half way to The Angel, Islington (another ‘pale-blue’, Skelgill notes). The time is eight a.m. on this Wednesday morning.
Despite his relative youth – he is twenty-three – Grendon Smith seems aged and arthritic as he pokes his sharp, bony face around his door, blinking in the brightness and scowling like an angry weasel roused from its lair after an unsuccessful night’s foraging.
‘Yeah?’
‘Police – we’d like to talk to you.’
‘Not again.’
‘Just a few questions, Mr Smith. Then we should be able to leave you in peace.’
Grudgingly he turns and, leaving them to fasten the door, leads the officers into a sparsely furnished lounge that has a kitchenette on one side.
‘I was just in the toilet – I’ll be back in a minute.’
Without offering a seat, or waiting for a reply, he leaves the room.
‘Mind if we make ourselves a cuppa?’
There is no reply to Skelgill’s entreaty, just the click of the bathroom door. He looks hopefully at DS Jones, who shrugs resignedly and sets about locating the necessary ingredients beneath the empty food packets and crumpled takeaway wrappers that litter the worktops. Skelgill, meanwhile, busies himself in nosing about the room. Perhaps surprisingly, the tide of seediness that has stranded the district does not flow into the apartment, and the furnishings and carpets are new and clean, and the decor simple and actually quite stylish. What does win his attention, however, are several prominent gaps on shelves, and a corresponding lack of electrical goods – with only a small portable television opposite the sofa, beached upon a unit capable of accommodating a much larger set. There are two possible explanations for this dearth of equipment, and these must run through Skelgill’s mind: either the gear is hot and he has hidden it, or he is skint and – as the old Cockney nursery rhyme goes – he has popped it. Skelgill is stooping down examining a loose fibre optic cable when Smith re-enters the room. He glances over his shoulder.
‘Not had a burglary, have we sir?’
‘Pressing debts, I’m afraid, Inspector. I had to sell a few possessions – it’s a harsh old world.’
Skelgill stands up, a sceptical expression creasing his features. While Smith has provided a plausible answer to the obvious conundrum, it is his manner that elicits Skelgill’s reaction. It is as though a refreshed and charming persona has supplanted the cantankerous Steptoe-like creature that admitted them to the flat. And the transformation extends to his appearance. He wears a newly pressed collared shirt, neatly knotted tie, suit trousers and polished black shoes. His hair is trendily gelled, and he has shaved – indeed there is the elegant waft of expensive cologne.
‘You have drinks, officers? Sorry I left you to it – you caught me rather indisposed – is there anything else I can give you? And – please – do have a seat.’
This is evidently the Grendon Smith that, in Krista Morocco’s words, “interviewed well.”
‘We’re alright, thanks.’ Skelgill gestures with an open palm to DS Jones. ‘My colleague would like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Whatever I can do to help, Inspector.’
DS Jones picks up her notebook.
‘Mr Smith, presumably you know why we want to talk to you?’
‘You’re investigating Ivan Tregilgis’s death.’
‘That and other related matters.’
A hint of anxiety is revealed in Smith’s sunken eyes. He nods silently.
‘We’d like to confirm your whereabouts last Saturday night – between ten p.m. and eight a.m. the following morning.’
‘Am I a suspect or something? I told all this to the policewoman who came on Monday.’
‘We just need a few more details, Mr Smith. It’s a routine elimination process we have to go through.’
Smith shrugs, though now with no real sign of irritation.
‘Well, as I said before, I was in Norfolk from about nine-thirty on Saturday night – and I got back here about midday on Sunday.’
‘What were you doing in Norfolk?’
‘I’m a birder, you know – birdwatcher? And there was a Collared Pratincole at Holme Bird Observatory - it was a Life Tick for me.’
‘How did you find out about this –’
‘Pratincole.’ Smith grins affably. ‘I just rang Birdline on Saturday afternoon – it tells you about any unusual species that have been reported.’
‘And you say you slept in your car?’
‘I often do. It’s the best way to be on the spot first thing in the morning. You never know how long a bird will stay. I got fish and chips in Hunstanton on the way, and then parked down on the reserve at Holme. I’d got the tick before six a.m.’
‘Can anyone vouch for your presence there?’
‘Well – there were plenty of other birders – must have been close on a hundred by the time I left.’
‘Any names you could give us?’
Smi
th pulls an apologetic face.
‘Not off the top of my head – I mean, there were quite a few I recognised by sight – regular twitchers – maybe some of them will have made entries in the log book at the observatory?’
‘Did you buy anything for which you have a receipt – fuel, for example?’
Smith shakes his head.
‘I filled up before I left London, but I just paid cash.’ He glances across at Skelgill with a hangdog expression. ‘Card’s over the limit.’
‘So you can’t actually prove you were in Norfolk?’
Smith opens his palms in a helpless gesture. There is a glint in his eye that tells he knows they can’t prove he wasn’t (and that it is their job, not his, to do so).
‘I can show you my Life List?’
Skelgill obviously decides it is time for a change of tack. He sits forward to indicate to his colleague he is about to speak.
‘Mr Smith, you’ve mentioned a couple of times that you have some financial difficulties.’
Smith nods, a worldly expression now occupying his face.
‘Then presumably getting the sack doesn’t help?’
‘Oh, I wasn’t sacked, Inspector – I left by mutual agreement.’
If the question has taken Smith by surprise, he doesn’t show it. Skelgill furrows his brow.
‘That’s strange. I got the distinct impression from Ms Morocco that you were dismissed.’
‘Certainly not – it just wasn’t working out for either party – nobody’s fault – we each gave it a good shot – but these things happen, you know?’
Skelgill looks like he doesn’t.
‘Mr Smith, we have several reports that you had to be escorted from the premises by Mr Tregilgis on your last day.’
‘They must have been mistaken, Inspector.’ Smith’s tone is soothing. ‘Sure, I left with Ivan – but he wished me well – he offered to give me a reference when I need one for a new job.’
Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 10