‘And did he say anything else?’
Smith straightens the knot of his tie, and shakes his head unhappily.
‘Well – between these four walls – he was rather disparaging about Krista. He said she was prone to be emotional when she didn’t get her own way, and that I was unlucky to have got the blame when actually the buck should have stopped with her.’
Skelgill folds his arms. That Ivan Tregilgis might have had the good heart to offer Smith a reference is just feasible. But to have bad-mouthed a woman for whom he obviously had great affection – had one time loved and perhaps continued to until his untimely death – this is one lie too far. It is almost as if the insult stings Skelgill as sharply as it might have Ivan himself. Skelgill compresses his lips, and does not speak. Smith, perhaps misreading this signal, simpers in return. If he only knew of the maxim trotted out from time to time by Skelgill’s regular partner, DS Leyton – “When Skel stops talking, you start walking” – he would appreciate the dangerous path he is treading.
DS Jones, of course, knows little of this – it being her first actual assignment with Skelgill – but his unfamiliar manner tells her something is amiss. Without further reference to her superior, she intervenes with a stern warning of her own.
‘Look here, Mr Smith – certain allegations have been made against you – and in view of your criminal record we may be obliged to investigate them – it would help if you were straight with us.’
Smith spreads his palms wide in a gesture of supplication.
‘Sergeant – I always believe in honesty as the best policy.’
‘It doesn’t strike me as very honest to forge the registration number on a tax disc, Mr Smith.’
‘Ah – that was a very difficult situation for me.’ He shakes his head despondently. You see – it was actually my father that had done it, God rest his soul. I didn’t even know until the police turned up. He’d gone without to help me get my first car on the road – his heart wouldn’t have survived the stress of being in court. As it was he died the following year.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mr Smith.’ DS Jones glances anxiously at Skelgill lest he rise to Smith’s latest outrageous deception. ‘But you also have several juvenile convictions, which don’t exactly mark you out as a paragon of virtue.’
Smith heroically sucks in the air that will form his next inflated excuse.
‘I was a victim of chronic bullying as a teenager. The gangs in this area – I was forced to take the rap for quite a few things I didn’t do – the alternative was to be even more severely ostracised – or worse.’
Skelgill rises to his feet. DS Jones dare not look at him. But his response, when it comes, is surprisingly controlled. Perhaps the red mist has dissolved.
‘We’ve more or less finished for the moment, Mr Smith – but you’ll be hearing from us again. Sergeant Jones will take some details about your car. I shall just use your toilet and meet her downstairs. Let’s hope your road tax is up to date.’
With that, he departs the room, leaving his deputy to deal with a surprised and somewhat injured-looking Smith.
*
A few minutes later they rendezvous outside a small off-licence-cum-newsagent’s a short distance from the entrance to the flats. Its roof is guarded by a rusty array of horrible-looking curved spikes. Skelgill is munching busily. He holds out a brown paper bag to DS Jones as she approaches.
‘Samosa?’
‘Er... no thanks, Guv.’
‘They’re alright, these – the shopkeeper makes them herself – four for a quid.’
DS Jones gives her boss a wide-eyed look – as if to say he seems remarkably laid back considering what has just passed inside Grendon Smith’s property. However, it is not long before Skelgill lets loose a string of invective – though in a rather half-hearted fashion, it must be said. They begin to retrace their steps towards King’s Cross.
‘Lying little toad. I wanted to wring his scrawny neck. But there was no point wasting our breath on him. Let’s hope he did take some backhanders and the local boys pin that one on him.’
DS Jones seems a little crestfallen.
‘What about the bigger picture, Guv – the murder?’
Skelgill shakes his head grimly.
‘I don’t see it.’
‘Why not, Guv – he’s obviously got a coke habit?’
Skelgill flashes his partner a congratulatory sideways glance – that she has worked this out from the evidence to date is impressive – whereas he has had the benefit of his unbidden visit to Grendon Smith’s private rooms.
‘Because, he might be a junkie, but he’s not thick – and he wouldn’t risk an alibi like the one he’s given us – if it were false a murder squad would rip it apart within twenty-four hours.’
DS Jones frowns, and seems disappointed by his uncompromising perspective; but as they pick up pace a look of determination soon returns to her dark brown eyes.
24. RON BUNCE
At King’s Cross, the detectives collect a small hire car. The idea is to drive across London to interview Ron Bunce, Managing Director of BDL – the firm that Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates is about to sue – and then continue westwards to Heathrow airport, where the rental car can be reunited with its owners. Their first stop, however, is at their hotel in Covent Garden, in order to collect their luggage. They set off rather gingerly, and at first Skelgill makes the same basic errors as any visiting motorist. He is hooted from behind for not running red lights or for failing to pull out into oncoming traffic; he leaves too much space between himself and the vehicle in front and is continually cut up by taxis and white vans; he shows consideration to cyclists and motorbike couriers. However, this does not last for long; his patience soon wears thin and he throws caution to the wind. Now he can employ his full repertoire of swear words and offensive gestures which, in combination with his police driver’s training, makes him a formidable adversary, despite his lack of horsepower.
However, nearing their hotel, he becomes trapped in a seemingly inescapable one-way system as they try in vain to get from the Kingsway to Drury Lane, and despite the best efforts of DS Jones to navigate with digital support, he is forced to pull over to give them a moment to identify just where is the hidden turning. No sooner has he done so, than there is a tap on the window. He glances up to see a fresh-faced constable standing beside the car. So accustomed is he to the sight of a police uniform, that he automatically assumes help is at hand. He winds down the glass.
‘The cavalry arrives.’
But his friendly smile is not reciprocated.
‘Is this your car, sir?’
‘It’s a rental car, officer.’
The constable clears his throat.
‘I’m sure you’re aware, sir, that it’s against the law to drive without wearing a seatbelt.’ Then he points back the way they have come. ‘I’d also estimate that you were travelling at well over 40 mph in a thirty zone, while you overtook the car as you came around that bend. You pulled across without indicating and the vehicle behind you had to take evasive action to avoid a collision.’ He steps back and looks beneath the car. ‘And now you are parked on a double yellow line – in a bus lane.’
For what must seem like a long moment Skelgill can perhaps identify with the scores of drivers he has stopped in similar situations. If they have not responded with an insult, they have simply driven off. The urge to put down one’s foot is almost irresistible – such is the potency of the human fight or flight instinct. But somehow, from somewhere, he finds a third way – and it is not, as DS Jones might anticipate, the flourishing of his warrant card and the pulling of rank on the unsuspecting junior officer.
‘I canna argue constable – that wo’ a ladgeful bit o’ driving – I’m reet sorry, marra.’
That Skelgill has lapsed into his native Cumbrian brogue is only part of the gambit. But it does help to delay the PC’s reaction, giving Skelgill the opportunity to press home his advantage. However, he to
nes down the vernacular, to make himself understood.
‘You see, officer – we’re visiting from up North – and to be honest, I'm having a job getting used to the speed everyone drives down here – every time I look in my mirror all I can see are the whites of the eyes of the bloke behind. And now we’re lost and we’re going to be late picking up our daughter in Drury Lane. I’d appreciate if you could direct us.’
Skelgill, though unlikely ever to represent England at diplomacy, does understand how to address a policeman who’s flagged you down. You don’t argue. You tell him he’s right. And you say you’re sorry. He would also recommend that you don’t make up pathetic excuses – although on this occasion he has deviated from his own advice. However, the tactic succeeds, and the constable takes pity on them – and perhaps he is busy, and the idea of booking someone for such a confusing array of offences seems just too mind-boggling. Kindly, he points out the escape from the one-way loop, and sends them on their way with his good wishes and advice to take it steady. (Although as Skelgill lurches away with a screech of rubber, the poor lad can be seen stepping out into the road shouting “Seatbelt!”)
‘What?’
Skelgill glances at DS Jones, who has her arms folded and is shaking her head.
‘Guv – our daughter?’
Skelgill grins mischievously.
‘Aye, well – it was the first thing that came into my head – I figured with him seeing you, he’d think we’d got a young bairn and feel sorry for us.’
DS Jones succumbs reluctantly to this flattery, and slumps back in her seat. In due course, though not entirely uneventfully, they reach Hammersmith. They park in the safety of a multi-storey and eat lunch in a stuffy, overcrowded sandwich bar that is part of the tube station complex. From here they go on foot; it must seem a relief to get back into the London air. The sun beats down from a still-clear sky as they thread their way through preoccupied pedestrians and hostile traffic. In sudden contrast, however, following the route recommended by DS Jones’s mobile, they find themselves turning into the almost-tranquil suburban oasis of Brook Green. Skelgill is drawn to walk down the long central strip of grass and trees that divides the two parallel strands of the street, like a sliver of pre-war greenbelt that has survived thanks to a planning error.
‘You know – it’s not so bad – London. And they’re no smarter than us, are they?’
DS Jones shrugs, perhaps unsure of where he is leading them.
‘You could do really well down here, Jones.’
‘The streets paved with gold.’
Her tone is wistful, but carries a hint of irony. Skelgill’s eyes are fixed on the grass as it passes beneath his feet.
‘You should think about it.
Now she casts him a surprised glance.
‘What – get a transfer, Guv?’
‘Aye, well – a promotion, at least.’ He grins ruefully. ‘Then, one day – Inspector Jones of The Yard.’
She nods, in earnest.
‘I realise it would probably advance my career – but I don’t think I could leave the North for good. I loved London while I was at college, and being here now reminds me of the things I miss – the shops, the weather, the nightlife...’
‘The boyfriend?’
She seems to pull a face at this suggestion, but turns away to gaze at the properties lined up along her side of the road. After a moment she continues, having sidestepped his question.
‘But most of my real mates are in Cumbria. And Dad’s not so good lately – I like to be around for Mum.’ There is a sombre note in her voice, and she seems to realise this and to make a deliberate effort to brighten. ‘Anyway, Guv – where would I be without you to teach me how to do everything by the book?’
Skelgill seems buoyed by this backhanded compliment.
‘Well, keep it in mind. Don’t make my mistake and leave it too late.’
She glances at him sharply, as if she disagrees.
‘You’re still plenty young enough, yet, Guv.’
Skelgill does not respond to this remark, though he checks his watch, perhaps by way of distraction. Within another minute they reach the premises of Bunce Display Limited. The company is housed in a peeling, run-down former cinema encased in billboards of all sizes. To their surprise, the gaudy exterior belies a relatively tasteful lobby, equipped with comfortable modern furniture and a pneumatic blonde receptionist.
‘Mr Bunce is ready to see you now. Through the double-doors, first on the right after the statue.’
The “statue” proves to be a hand-painted polystyrene bust of Lord Nelson, with his one good eye melted out where somebody has stubbed a cigarette. Signs of subversion continue at the door of Ron Bunce’s office where, beneath a small plaque of HMS Victory, the words ‘Captain Ron’ have been scrawled in biro and only half-heartedly scrubbed away. However, any expectation the two detectives harbour of encountering a Nelson-like figure within is quickly dispelled. In fact known euphemistically by his associates as ‘Big Ron’ – the bigness a function of girth rather than height – in appearance Ron Bunce is more in the Churchillian mould. From behind an ornate mahogany desk decked with model barques and imitation seafaring instruments, he rises slowly to greet them. Overweight without being flabby, his turgid suntanned skin seems oiled by an evenly distributed layer of fat beneath, ready to ooze from his prominent pores at the slightest squeeze.
‘Mr Bunce, I assume you know why we’re here?’
‘No idea, Inspector. Please enlighten me.’
He leans forward and places his hands on the desk; there is gold aplenty in the form of a wrist chain, cufflinks, sovereign rings and a wristwatch. His manner, neither guarded nor friendly, betrays no sign of discomfort.
‘What does the name Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates mean to you, sir?’
‘They’re an advertising agency.’
Skelgill hesitates – perhaps he was expecting Ron Bunce to refer to Ivan Tregilgis.
‘I understand they’re about to sue your company.’
Without taking his eyes off Skelgill, Bunce gives an indifferent shrug.
‘I doubt it.’
Skelgill has a copy of the solicitor’s letter to which Krista Morocco referred. He gestures to the page lying in front of him.
‘It doesn’t look that way to me, sir.’
Ron Bunce is impassive.
‘With the greatest respect, Inspector, all a solicitor’s letter ever tells me is that the sender has no grounds to sue. Otherwise why not just slap a writ on me?’
Skelgill must be aware he is skating on thin ice. Ron Bunce probably knows as much about corporate wrangling as he does about pike fishing.
‘Isn’t it the adverse publicity you’d be concerned about?’
Ron Bunce twists his upper lip in a semblance of a snarl.
‘If they’re bad-mouthing me I’ll sue them for slander. If they issue a writ and the press get hold of it I’ll counterclaim for defamation.’
‘Mr Bunce, there seems to be a lot of money at stake here – I can’t see Dermott Goldsmith letting go once he’s got his teeth into it.’
‘I deal with Ivan Tregilgis. I’m sure he’ll be far more reasonable.’
‘I don’t think so, Mr Bunce. Ivan Tregilgis is dead.’
Ron Bunce’s flabby eyes narrow to mere slits. There is silence for a moment. But is without emotion that he speaks.
‘I’m sorry to hear that. What happened?’
‘He was murdered, Mr Bunce. I’m rather surprised you haven’t heard.’
‘I’ve been away for a week.’ Ron Bunce seems unperturbed by the news. He reaches forward and turns a framed photograph. It shows him standing on a Mediterranean quayside, a vaguely familiar bulging blonde on his arm and the prow of a boat above his shoulder. Just legible in tiny white letters is the name, Victory. ‘I’ve got a yacht at Puerto Banus. Flew back last night from Gib.’
‘Can anyone confirm that?’
For the first time Bunce permits himself
a smile. He gestures towards the photograph.
‘Ask Sam – you just met her at reception.’
Skelgill evidently decides to draw the interview to a close. There are battles to contest and battles to avoid, and this is one of the latter – now he knows what ammunition is required to fight again another day.
‘Thank you for your time, sir – that was all we needed to know.’
Ron Bunce shadows them to the double-doors, and through one of the porthole windows watches them sign out at the desk, where Skelgill seems to exchange a few flirtatious words with the receptionist. When he strolls back to his office, he pauses to stand to attention and salute the bust of Lord Nelson. Then he notices the loss of his hero’s good eye, and his expression suddenly becomes one of intense anger. He storms back to the double-doors and wrenches them open, to bawl out a command to his girlfriend.
‘Sam! Here! Now!’
*
‘I wouldn’t fancy working for him, Guv – scary. I doubt we’d have to search far to find a disgruntled employee in there.’
Skelgill nods pensively.
‘Aye, but getting them to talk would be another matter. He’s a hard case.’
‘Think we should check with the Met to see whether they’ve got anything on him, Guv?’
‘No harm asking the question, I suppose.’ Skelgill glances at her with the semblance of a grin. ‘You know I don’t subscribe to the outsider theory.’
‘But, Guv – imagine if he were connected to Grendon Smith. I’m thinking drugs – the guy’s got a boat in the Med – he could be shifting stuff in from North Africa. Ivan Tregilgis might have stumbled across something in the office that led him to the big cheese.’
Skelgill looks half sceptical and half amused. His eager colleague has been quick to join up the dots, and he does not wish to quash her enthusiasm. He has a burgeoning respect for her abilities, and she offers a lateral challenge that is entirely at odds with his own way of thinking – not that he could ever explain what that is. Now he seems to struggle to find the right words to reply – and with an unexpected spurt of energy, he sets off at a jog.
Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 11