‘Race you to the car.’
25. HILLEND
‘Jones, it’s seven-thirty – I reckon we’ll get a taxi to Letsby Avenue.’
‘Guv – look – no need – here’s DS Findlay.’
Indeed, no sooner have the detectives passed through the arrivals door at Turnhouse than they are intercepted by the familiar figure who dropped them off some forty-eight hours earlier.
‘Cameron – am I glad to see you – how did you know when we’d be back.’
‘Och – we’re not as green as we’re cabbage looking.’ He permits himself a satisfied grin. ‘You’ll have had yer tea?’
‘Aye – on the plane – not exactly cordon bleu.’
‘Aye – well not tae worry – I’m under orders to take you home fae a proper meal.’ He glances conspiratorially at DS Jones. ‘When he worked up here we used tae call him Two Dinners, ye ken?’
DS Jones smiles and nods, and looks like she does ken – and that she is beginning to get the hang of this little Edinburgh figure of speech.
‘Where’s your hotel?’
‘It’s in an area called Corstorphine.’
DS Findlay grins at DS Jones’s pronunciation.
‘Aye – that’s near where I stay, except it’s called Kus-tor-fin.’
DS Jones giggles at her faux pas.
‘Thanks for putting me right.’
‘Nae bother – it’s over there.’ He points to the east, towards the city. ‘See that big wooded lump? That’s Corstorphine Hill.’
They round a corner of the multi-storey to be greeted by the sight of a large marked motorway patrol car sitting in a restricted zone. Skelgill’s eyes light up.
‘Nice one, Cam.’
‘It was all they had spare. I need tae get it back in a hurry.’
‘Then I’m your man.’
DS Findlay shakes his head, but nonetheless hands the keys over to Skelgill, who leaps into the driver’s seat and gets busy twiddling knobs and adjusting levers. But the incoming evening flights have clogged the airport with traffic, which must merge with homebound commuters from Glasgow, so their initial progress is slow. DS Findlay begins to recount his findings to date.
‘Seems these Goldsmiths are pretty high-profile characters – like to be seen with the right people about town – appear in every edition of this society magazine we have up here.’
Skelgill nods, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and his various mirrors.
‘Who’s driving that? Goldsmith, or the wife?’
‘Apparently he’s got some financial interest in it. My pal at The Scotsman spoke tae the editor, but he was a bit cagey.’
‘If you’d met them, Cam, you wouldn’t be surprised to hear they’ve got their own PR machine.’
DS Findlay nods grimly.
‘Goldsmith being from down south – it’s harder to get information on him – but I discovered more about her – pal of mine’s a retired Sheriff and there’s a legal connection.’
‘Go on.’
‘Aye – your Elspeth Goldsmith, she was adopted. The MacClartys were both lawyers, well heeled – old Edinburgh firm. They were childless into their forties – then after they’d taken in Elspeth an unexpected younger sister came along. But the wee lassie drowned in the Water of Leith. She was aged five and Elspeth about nine or ten. They used to go down and play unsupervised by the river – it runs right through the city but ye cannae see it most of the time – it’s down in a gorge. It looks like a daft wee burn in places – but when there’s been a couple of days rain on the hills –’ He tails off to indicate the Pentlands, the range that protects the city’s southern reaches. ‘It can turn into a torrent before your eyes.’
‘What about the parents?’
‘The old man was killed about ten years ago in a car accident up north – fishing trip – had been on the bottle. The wife died in a nursing home a couple of years later – by all accounts she’d never been right since the wee one drowned.’
‘So she’s not had such an easy time, Elspeth Goldsmith.’
There is a note of sympathy in DS Jones’s voice as she makes this observation. Though Skelgill is more flippant.
‘Let’s hope we don’t have to put Dermott away, then, to cap it all.’
There is a moment’s silence as they each consider this eventuality. They are stationary at the roundabout that marks the intersection of the city bypass with the main A8. Then Skelgill suddenly chimes in.
‘Hey up – what’s this?’
As he speaks, a sporty hatchback breaks through the lights from the city direction and swerves between vehicles taking their turn of the roundabout. A few of seconds later a small police squad car, its blue light flashing, follows in token pursuit.
‘It’s the Keystone cops!’ Skelgill’s eyes narrow. ‘They’ll never catch it in that thing.’
He switches on the warning systems and joins the chase. As ordinary drivers dive for cover, the fugitives opt for the bypass; it is a dual carriageway and they quickly begin to pull away from the first police car. Skelgill, however, has different ideas, and forces his way through, while DS Findlay gives a rather sheepish wave to his bemused local colleagues. Now, at the wheel of a vastly superior machine, Skelgill has no difficulty in keeping up with the crooks – DS Findlay establishes by radio that they have robbed at knifepoint the service station at Drumbrae – but getting past them is another matter. The bypass is thick with traffic, and though motorists move to the inside lane, all he can do is to tailgate the hatchback. There are two occupants, and the passenger, a leering gap-toothed youth, leans out and gives them a one-fingered salute.
‘They’re taking the A702 exit – heading south.’
DS Findlay provides this commentary over the airwaves, as the two cars slew across the carriageway, burst through the stream of vehicles in the inside lane to gain the off-slip, and then ignore approaching motorists at the exit roundabout.
‘They’ve turned up for the ski slope. It’s a dead end.’
Indeed, as signs approach for ‘Midlothian Snowsports Centre’, the car ahead veers right, narrowly missing an oncoming grocer’s van – Skelgill’s route is blocked by a line of cars, until an alert bus driver grinds to a halt. The access lane is steep and winding, and at intervals there are sleeping policemen. DS Jones leans forward from the rear of the car.
‘What is this place?’
DS Findlay, with his characteristic dry turn of phrase, turns to her.
‘Longest artificial ski run in Europe.’
Indeed, the slopes are coming into view, and skiers like tiny ants can be seen zigzagging down the hillside – a curious sight on a pleasant early summer’s evening. By way of explanation, DS Findlay continues.
‘Ye cannae ski in Scotland in winter – plenty of snow, but it’s all blizzards.’
Skelgill chuckles at the untimeliness of this anecdote – but their minds turn to serious matters as they reach the car park – from here vehicles can go no further. They spy the outlaws’ car – the doors are open and magically, it seems, one of the offenders is being held over the bonnet by a couple of men in ski outfits. DS Findlay recognises them as off-duty police officers.
‘These are our boys – someone must have known they were up here and tipped them off.’
The three new arrivals trot across to the scene of the action. The men recognise DS Findlay and one calls out.
‘Cameron – the big yin’s away.’
He gestures towards the chair lifts, where a tracksuit-clad figure, some two hundred yards off, is running at some speed up the artificial slope. Skelgill mutters under his breath.
‘Big yin, big mistake.’
And he sets off at a steady trot.
‘Danny – yer wasting yer time!’
But DS Findlay’s entreaty is in vain. Skelgill raises a hand in acknowledgement, but carries on regardless. His blood is up. And did the youth only know it; he has made a big mistake. The policeman pursuing him might be twenty years
his senior, but he happens to be one of Cumbria’s leading fell-runners, only a month before having completed his second unassisted ‘Bob Graham’ (a punishing seventy-two mile circuit of forty-two Lakeland peaks that must be completed non-stop in under twenty-four hours). So, when the cocky lout has the temerity to pause and shout an obscene taunt, believing it is just a matter of time before the chase is given up, he has another think coming. Slowly but surely Skelgill with his long, loping stride makes ground. When the gap is down to about twenty yards, he can hear his quarry panting, the breaths starting to come in desperate gasps. And when the villain realises he is going to be overhauled and spins around, brandishing a carpet knife and screaming unintelligible threats – his final exclamation ‘oof-yabastat!’ reflects the moment Skelgill’s size tens thud into his chest and take him down. In the stramash that follows Skelgill quickly gains the upper hand, dispensing a couple of judicious kidney punches to subdue his opponent; then, holding him down with a knee in the small of the back, he wrestles to free his belt, intent upon using this to secure his captive.
‘Danny – I can see the pub fae here!’
Skelgill glances up. Almost directly overhead, borne in a double chair of the ski lift, DS Findlay and DS Jones swing past. The chair behind brings the two constables from the squad car that was originally in pursuit. They are deposited just a short distance further up the slope, and DS Jones clatters pell-mell with panic in her eyes.
‘Guv, Guv – are you okay?’ She falls on her knees beside him and frantically pats his back and chest, as if she is determined to check he has no punctures. ‘They said he’d got a knife!’
Skelgill, grimacing as he holds the squirming yob in place, indicates with a toss of his head. The carpet knife lies safely out of range, dislodged by his unorthodox mode of self-defence. DS Jones now glances up the slope, reinforcements are scrambling towards them, and the two young constables overtake the more ponderous DS Findlay to relieve Skelgill of his prisoner.
Skelgill is dusting himself down as DS Findlay picks his way over the last few yards of the fibrous matting. At the foot of the slopes a swarm of blue lights is gathering, as nearby units respond to the emergency call. The felon is led away in handcuffs by the two uniformed officers, leaving the three detectives to their own devices. DS Findlay has a twinkle in his eye.
‘Nothing like making an unobtrusive arrival in Edinburgh, Dan Dare.’
Skelgill grins rather uneasily.
‘Cam – will your missus’s dinner keep for half an hour?’
‘Aye – it’s haggis ‘n’ neeps ‘n’ tatties.’
Skelgill nods with satisfaction.
‘I believe you mentioned you could see the pub from here.’
26. DERMOTT GOLDSMITH
‘What’s he doing?’
Skelgill’s voice is lowered. DS Jones is squinting through a peephole in the interview room door.
‘Fiddling with some sort of gadget, Guv – it looks like a pocket calculator. He keeps looking this way.’
‘Come on, let’s go in.’ Skelgill flips four paracetamol tablets into his mouth and swills them down with the last of his machine tea. He drops the plastic cup into a bin and rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers. ‘No hangover my backside.’
This latter remark is a reference to the events of last night. His post-chase thirst for a swift half soon proved to be more of a drought, and it was fortunate that the traditional Scottish dish of haggis, potatoes and swede is one that keeps well in a low oven. As a peace offering for Mrs Findlay they had collected some flowers (and some claret), and the ensuing bonhomie had ultimately led to her usually thrifty spouse breaking out a precious bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie. Insisting he had never yet suffered any morning-after complaints from ‘the water of life’, DS Findlay had set about schooling them in the correct modes of both tasting and pronunciation (“I tell yer, it’s Orangey, Danny”).
Thus it is an in-less-than-fine-fettle Skelgill that approaches the interview room. This is a state of affairs not improved by the news that the follow-up search of the grounds of Bewaldeth Hall has drawn a blank. Now, as they enter, Dermott Goldsmith, with apparently impeccable timing, pricks his finger and squeezes out a droplet of blood. Slowly, he looks up, as though it is a less pressing matter that interrupts him.
‘I won’t shake hands – I’m just testing my blood sugars.’ He gives a condescending smile and returns his attention to his task. ‘One of life’s little burdens.’
There is no response from the two detectives as they take their seats opposite him. After a few seconds he tries a different tack.
‘How’s the murder hunt going – any nearer to catching the criminal?’
‘No thanks to you, Mr Goldsmith.’
Skelgill’s abrupt retort causes Dermott Goldsmith to glance up sharply.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ve a good mind to charge you for obstructing the investigation.’
Dermott Goldsmith’s eyes widen.
‘What on earth do you mean, Inspector?’
Skelgill does not answer immediately, but watches with distaste as Dermott Goldsmith pushes aside his equipment and winds a tissue around his bleeding finger.
‘You didn’t bring a solicitor?’
‘Why should I, Inspector – I have nothing to hide?’
Skelgill’s features are impassive.
‘In that case perhaps you can tell me why you tried to hush-up the sale of your company?’
‘I d-don’t know what you mean.’
Skelgill stares at him.
‘Are you saying you weren’t about to sell the company, Mr Goldsmith?’
Dermott Goldsmith is uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
‘Well... its, er... we get scores of approaches – we’re in informal discussions on a number of fronts – nothing concrete.’
‘Really, sir?’
Dermott Goldsmith seems unwilling to answer, though he gives what might be an abbreviated shake of the head.
Skelgill makes a play of consulting his notes.
‘Mr – Ford – Zendik. Now – he tells me he was expecting to seal a sixteen million dollar deal with you this week.’ He pauses for effect. ‘That sounds pretty concrete, Mr Goldsmith?’
Dermott Goldsmith’s prominent features become swathed in dark unease; he looks ugly, angry, cornered. But still he does not speak.
‘You do know Mr Zendik?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘But what, Mr Goldsmith?’
Dermott Goldsmith’s words are blurted.
‘Nothing was agreed.’
‘So you were selling the company?’
‘Certainly they were interested – but so are other firms.’
‘Mr Goldsmith.’ Skelgill sounds weary. ‘On Monday Mr Tregilgis was due to fly out to New York to conclude the Heads of Terms.’
Dermott Goldsmith stares blankly.
‘Then that’s news to me, Inspector.’
Skelgill folds his arms.
‘Come off it, Mr Goldsmith – how could you possibly not know?’
Dermott Goldsmith, though flustered, begins to offer some tremulous resistance.
‘Well – I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it, Inspector. I have signed nothing as far as Ford Zendik is concerned.’
Skelgill shakes his head and gives a pained look to DS Jones. He sits back to allow her to take over.
‘Mr Goldsmith, on Saturday night at about seven-thirty you were in the hotel bar with Mr Tregilgis?’
Dermott Goldsmith nods grudgingly.
DS Jones refers to her notes.
‘You were overheard to say, “Well I need to see it”, to which Mr Tregilgis replied, “Sure”. What was it that you needed to see?’
Dermott Goldsmith, for a fleeting second, has the appearance of the proverbial rabbit in the headlights – but a sly look suddenly enters his eyes.
‘It was the presentation – to all the employees – company update – we al
ways do one – while we were having cocktails.’ He wipes moisture from his fleshy upper lip with the tissue. ‘I asked Ivan about the charts.’
DS Jones ponders for a moment, but she is not yet knocked out of her stride.
‘I thought you were the Financial Director, Mr Goldsmith?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Surely it would be for you to produce performance charts?’
Dermott Goldsmith seems to have regained some confidence.
‘Ivan liked to take centre stage – I agreed to let him do it this year.’
DS Jones ignores his response and refers to her notes.
‘Perhaps if I can take you on a few hours, Mr Goldsmith? At a quarter to one you told your wife that you were leaving the Great Hall to give yourself an insulin injection. Where did you go?’
‘I went to our bedroom. All my equipment was in there.’
He gestures to the monitoring device and toiletries case on the table beside him.
‘Is that not a bit of an unusual time to take insulin – perhaps risky, even?’
Now Dermott Goldsmith swallows a gulp of water from the polystyrene cup that has been provided.
‘Well – I, er – just went to do a test – I felt my blood sugars were getting low and that I might need to eat something.’
‘I thought you just agreed you went to give yourself an injection?’
‘I, er – didn’t realise you were drawing the precise distinction.’
‘Which way did you go to your room?’
‘Straight along the corridor from the lobby.’
‘And you were in Room 9, beside Mr and Mrs Tregilgis?’
Dermott Goldsmith nods.
‘Did you go into their room?’
‘Just later on – after it had happened.’
At this point Skelgill interjects.
‘Mr Goldsmith, I don’t think you went to your room to inject yourself – I think you went snooping in Room 10 – for a peek at the contract that Ford Zendik had sent to Mr Tregilgis.’ (Dermott Goldsmith shakes his head) ‘I think you didn’t like what you saw. I think you decided that with Mr Tregilgis out of the way you could get his half of the company and then arrange a deal to suit yourself.’
Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1) Page 12