Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1)

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘No!’

  ‘It wouldn’t look very good for you if we found your fingerprints on Mr Tregilgis’s briefcase.’

  Dermott Goldsmith’s features contort once again.

  ‘But, I – I might have accidentally touched his case when we were all in the room – I can’t remember – I was the one who ushered everyone out and locked the door until the police came.’

  ‘Where was the key?’

  ‘It was lying on top of the dresser.’

  ‘But you didn’t lock the terrace door?’

  Dermott Goldsmith looks perplexed.

  ‘It didn’t occur to me that it might be open – but, anyway – Ivan’s briefcase was probably locked.’

  ‘Why should that be?’

  ‘I just know he usually locked it – I’ve been at plenty of meetings with him over the years.’

  ‘So you know the combination?’

  ‘No.’

  Skelgill pauses.

  ‘Why didn’t you mention in your statement that you went to your room?’

  ‘I’m not sure – I, er – I think the policeman who took it just wanted to know where I was after two a.m.’

  ‘Why didn’t you explain about the cross-option agreement when I spoke with you on Sunday?’

  ‘Well – I, er – it’s a very complicated document – I didn’t know if it was relevant.’ Again he rubs a hand over his upper lip. ‘The, er – the insurance policy – it may not have been valid in the event of murder – in which case it would have been irrelevant.’

  ‘And is it valid?’

  ‘I’m still waiting for confirmation – from our accountants.’

  Skelgill shakes his head and sighs.

  ‘But why didn’t you just say, yes – there’s this instrument called a cross-option agreement and you needed to check its validity? We’re bound to think you were trying to hide that information from us, Mr Goldsmith.’

  Dermott Goldsmith’s features contort into a wounded grimace.

  ‘Look here –’ His voice is strained, whining almost. ‘I haven’t done anything – I never had anything to do with Ivan’s death.’

  Skelgill sits back in his chair and folds his arms.

  ‘Mr Goldsmith, on Sunday you described yourself as the brains behind the business Financial Director, Company Secretary – various other titles. While Mr Tregilgis was just the sales guy. You remember?’

  Dermott Goldsmith gives a single reluctant nod.

  ‘So you can probably appreciate that I find it more than a little implausible when you claim not to know what’s been going on.’

  Skelgill collects up his papers and rises, indicating to DS Jones to do the same.

  ‘Mr Goldsmith, I suggest you have a think for a few minutes, and when we come back, let us know if there’s anything that might help.’

  Dermott Goldsmith sits unmoving. From the door, Skelgill turns back.

  ‘By the way – why didn’t you close your offices on Monday – as a mark of respect to Mr Tregilgis?’

  There is surely a glint of avarice in Dermott Goldsmith’s dark eyes.

  ‘Ivan wouldn’t have wanted that – there were deadlines to meet – we could have lost a lot of business.’

  Skelgill does not deign to reply. He holds the door for DS Jones and follows her out of the room. Then he strides across to a desk where a duty constable presides.

  ‘Do us a favour mate – the guy in there. Give him an hour then tell him he can go – say we got called away and we’ll be in touch.’

  27. HAYSTACKS

  Much as Skelgill finds great solace in fishing, and frequently seeks refuge from the world by paddling his trusty craft beyond reach on Bassenthwaite Lake, when he needs to really think, angling can be an unreliable medium. Though he might set out with the best intentions to unravel a particular tangled conundrum, the plain fact is that he can become so engrossed in outwitting some imaginary monster pike that he will forget about the riddle altogether.

  So, for serious problem solving, Skelgill swears by a good session out on the fells – not running, mind, but just a steady pull (albeit at a pace that will leave most casual walkers floundering in his wake). In this state of autopilot, requiring just sufficient concentration to preoccupy the conscious mind, the subconscious is left to its own devices. He has discussed this state of affairs with DS Jones, and she has related a similar experience whilst working through a basket of ironing – a version of the karma that Skelgill admits he is unlikely to discover.

  Notwithstanding, seven a.m. on this Friday morning finds him chaining his motorbike to the village sign in Buttermere, whence he sets off thinking. He speculates his way south and gains the summit of Red Pike within the hour. From here he ponders purposefully in an easterly direction along the roller-coaster of a ridge that takes in High Stile, High Crag, Seat and, finally, the smaller and imperfectly formed Haystacks – favourite peak of his favourite Lakeland author, Alfred Wainwright, and resting place of the great man’s ashes.

  Now it is just before nine a.m. Sitting with hot flask and cold bacon sandwiches, perched on a ledge just below the summit, from where he can survey the dale and the lakes below, Skelgill is giving his grey cells a break. It can be no coincidence that Wainwright wrote of this place, “For the man trying to get a persistent worry out of his mind, the top of Haystacks is a wonderful cure.” Skelgill thumbs through his precious copy of The Western Fells, chuckling at the cantankerous sense of humour that had sustained the writer throughout his monumental journey. He casts his eye around. He must one day find the perched boulder of which Wainwright had dryly commented, “Note the profile in shadow. Some women have faces like that.”

  He returns the volume carefully to a pocket of his rucksack and leans back against the rocks. So much for the best views in London and Edinburgh. The day is set fair. Small white cumulus clouds are beginning to bubble up against a blue sky, drifting eastwards on a light breeze. Parachuting from above, a Meadow Pipit proclaims in plaintive tones its territorial rights. From somewhere on the razor edge of Fleetwith Pike the abrupt bark of a Raven resonates across Warnscale Bottom. And beneath him, a little to his left, Buttermere and the more distant Crummock Water lie mirror-like, reflecting the sapphire sky and emerald fells, a bejewelled composition heaven-sent for the box of a jigsaw puzzle.

  Indeed, this notion might well bring into clearer focus the paradigm he has been developing. As a child he once spent a wearisome wet week in a holiday caravan near Fort William, where he had misguidedly anticipated the christening of his new tenth birthday present of a spinning rod; his parents had unwittingly chosen the spot with the highest recorded annual rainfall in Great Britain. The rivers that bounded the site had been in permanent spate, and every fish surely flushed out to sea. Marooned indoors, the young Daniel Skelgill became something of a jigsaw expert; a distraction supplied by the caravan’s owner, the pieces rather ominously well thumbed. To the torrential rumble of rain on the tin roof, and the incessant but soothing hiss of the gaslights, day after day he had deliberated over Scottish scenes and traditions. There were no cover pictures – just a couple of thousand near-identical pieces scrambled in a blank plywood box. It had taken him two days to realise that there was more than one puzzle, and two further days to determine exactly how many! But slowly, patiently, he made judicious progress and, employing the edge-pieces, was able to complete a series of frames. Then came the guesswork and intuition. He built up little floating fragments – a piper, a kilted soldier, a wildcat, a distant castle, Nessie, a highland cow. But where did they go? Which fragments fitted inside which frame?

  Such is the paradox of the murder at Bewaldeth Hall. Like every investigation, it has thrown up fragments of interest – intrigue, even. But which of these belong to the case, and which are purely incidental? Take the sexy undies, for instance. Had they, as Krista Morocco suggests, been stolen from her luggage – and then planted in Ivan’s bed? If so, by whom? Was it a practical joke by one of the lads who’d had a fe
w too many beers? Or is it the work of an agent provocateur? If so, do their motives concern the crime, or does it have more to do with matters of the heart? Could it have been Krista herself?

  Another perplexing fragment is Ivan Tregilgis’s briefcase. Thoroughly wiped of fingerprints, such a meticulous act surely has some connection to the murder. And the circumstantial evidence points to Dermott Goldsmith – at least as far as being the most likely culprit to have rifled its contents. However, if others got wind of the sale – and Krista Morocco certainly had an inkling – then Goldsmith is not the only person with an interest. A sale of the company would mean job changes, promotion opportunities, and redundancies perhaps.

  Then there is the crooked Grendon Smith. If, as DS Jones would have it, he lurked in the rhododendrons with his binoculars, perhaps anything of potential value would catch his magpie’s eye. What if he had been burgling Room 10 when he noticed a slumbering Ivan Tregilgis?

  Particularly galling to Skelgill must be his inability to eliminate names from the list of suspects. The forensic evidence is compromised, and more than a dozen people had the opportunity to commit the crime. Almost as many seem to have a motive, however tenuous. And, while other indeterminate frames overlap Skelgill’s principal jigsaw, the actors in these subsidiary puzzles remain determinedly guarded.

  With a sudden start Skelgill seems to realise he has drifted into reverie. The sound of a boot dislodging a rock has penetrated his daydream. He turns to see an unlikely couple – perhaps in their mid forties – just reaching the summit, thirty or so feet above him. The man is small and wiry and totes a large tripod with a tiny camera perched on top. Despite the warm weather he wears a blue-and-white bobble hat and a red cagoule, and has round spectacles with thick lenses and a sticking plaster on one of the hinges. The woman, about the same height as her partner, though younger looking, seems more sensibly attired, in stretch jeans and a close-fitting t-shirt that highlights her femininity. A pair of rather overweight chocolate Labradors stretches her arms out in front of her. The dogs have spotted Skelgill and can probably detect his sandwich wrapper. The couple, meanwhile, are bantering in a curious Midlands accent.

  ‘S’aystacks, ar tellyer, doll’

  ‘Kernt be cannit? Tint very big.’

  ‘Swot yerdo wi’it, though, intit??

  This is obviously a private joke, for they both burst into laughter. Then the woman notices Skelgill and calls down to him.

  ‘Yoright, me duck?’

  Skelgill smiles back and raises a hand.

  ‘Lovely, intit?’

  The man joins in.

  ‘Ay up, mate.’ He points with the folded legs of his tripod to the ground at his feet. ‘S’aystacks, intit?’

  Skelgill tips his head to one side.

  ‘Certainly is.’

  The man turns to his wife.

  ‘They yar – toldyer.’

  The woman regards Skelgill with pride in her expression.

  ‘E were right, wernty?’

  Before Skelgill can reply, the man calls down again.

  ‘Wainwright’s ashes arrupeer yerknow?’

  This time Skelgill nods politely, but the couple become distracted as the man begins to wrestle with the tripod.

  ‘C’mon then doll – letsav that foter.’

  At this moment, Skelgill’s phone rings. He stands and digs for the handset in his back pocket, and hauls his rucksack upon his shoulder. Carefully he begins to pick a route away from the knobbly summit and the garrulous Midlanders. He sees that the call is from DS Jones.

  ‘Guv – where are you?’ She sounds a little breathless.

  Skelgill grins to himself. ‘Upaystacks.’

  ‘I don’t know what that means, Guv.’

  ‘“One can forget even a raging toothache on Haystacks.” A Wainwright.’

  ‘Are you climbing, Guv?’

  ‘Thinking.’

  ‘The Chief wants to see you – to recap on the case.’

  ‘It’s my morning off, Jones – I’ve had no leave for weeks.’

  ‘That’s just what she’s threatening, Guv – if we don’t get a move on.’

  28. TWITCHING

  It is Saturday, 5:20 a.m. Like a fox that has gone to earth, Grendon Smith emerges hesitantly from the unhinged communal door of his apartment block and stops to sniff the early morning air. He carries in one hand a smart black leather holdall, and on his back a small and rather worn green army-surplus rucksack, matching his fatigues. Satisfied there are no lurking threats, and jangling a bunch of keys, he hurries across towards a row of dew-covered vehicles on the opposite side of the dismal cul-de-sac. There is a resonant squawk, and the flash of the hazards of a new-looking crimson roadster. He drops his luggage into the passenger footwell, rounds the bonnet and slides into the low-slung driver’s seat. The engine fires into life, wipers flick a film of condensation from the windscreen, and tyres protest as the car snakes out onto Pentonville Road.

  Had Grendon Smith been inclined to clean his mirrors or rear screen, he might now note that a predator of sorts is indeed on his tail. Keeping its distance, but following the roadster’s every move, is a shabby but deceptively powerful estate, inconspicuous but for its aerial, which is fashioned from a wire coat hanger into the shape of a fish.

  Squinting, Skelgill lowers his visor and reaches for his sunglasses. They are heading due east. The sun slants over the rooftops and makes everything look either black or orange. There is some respite at Angel as they turn north, but soon they begin to veer eastwards again, bringing the sun back into play. At this time of day there are few cars on the road, and keeping a low profile is difficult in light traffic. Skelgill’s dilemma is compounded by Smith’s penchant for overtaking anything that gets in his way, forcing him to complete the same unpopular manoeuvres. At one point Smith gets himself into a race with a gang of youths in an old BMW – and for a while Skelgill knows his quarry’s attention is elsewhere – but after some sparring the gang spins off into a housing estate and Smith is freed of the distraction.

  Not long after, he takes the slip for the M11, and Skelgill might now reasonably speculate that his destination is Norfolk once again. Indeed, their course proves almost arrow-straight (the exception a small dog-leg at Cambridge), and in due course the Fens flatten out before them. Above these agricultural levels Ely cathedral towers like a great gothic spaceship that has landed from another time, and Skelgill must wonder at how folk live in this land of lonesome horizons, with not even a hillock for company. Joining the A10 they skirt Downham Market, and reaching King’s Lynn Smith holds his northwards course as he crashes through amber lights at a large island. The route is now signposted for Hunstanton – Skelgill recalls mention of the name in Smith’s statement.

  A couple of miles shy of this cliff-top resort, 115 miles into their journey, the red roadster takes an abrupt left, towards the adjoining holiday village of Heacham. Skelgill has difficulty maintaining contact along the winding lanes, and only a fortuitous glance to his right gives him a glimpse of Smith’s car – it has all but disappeared into one of the area’s many sprawling caravan sites. He draws to a halt and turns his vehicle. A prefabricated shop guards the entrance to the site, with stalls displaying faded flip-flops and sets of cheap plastic beach-toys. He pulls onto the hard standing meant for customers, and switches off his engine.

  It is seven a.m. and Skelgill’s only sustenance has been a bag of toffee éclairs and a bar of Kendal mint cake. There is a smell of baking in the air, and he must yearn for something savoury. But for the time being he watches the comings and goings. The shop appears to be doing a brisk trade, and not just from occupants of the mobile homes. A steady trickle of cars brings mainly elderly folk, who collect newspapers, loaves, milk and paper bags with telltale grease marks that betray their contents as hot pies or sausage rolls. Skelgill is clearly torn. He has nearly lost Smith once – if he ventures inside, he will never know whether he has slipped past in those few vital seconds. Then a movement i
n his wing mirror catches his eye. A newspaper delivery boy is leaning his bike against the railing next to Skelgill’s car. He winds down the window and leans out.

  ‘Hey up, son – do us a favour, will you?’

  Skelgill waves a ten-pound note.

  The boy’s brow creases with distrust.

  ‘It’s alright, lad – I’m a plain-clothes detective – I can’t leave my car. Nip into the shop and get us a couple of pies and a can of Coke – and the same for yourself.’

  The incentive seems to do the trick. The boy approaches – though only to arm’s length – and gingerly takes the money from Skelgill. Skelgill displays his warrant card.

  ‘Look – quick as you can, son.’

  The boy, still frowning, and mute, gives a barely perceptible nod. Then he retrieves his bike and, taking a wide berth around the car, wheels it over to the shop doorway, where he lays it on the ground, casts another doubtful look at Skelgill, and disappears inside.

  A moment later there is the roar of an engine – decelerating, in fact – and the crunch of gravel as tyres skid on the site’s driveway. Smith is leaving, in a hurry.

  Skelgill curses his luck.

  As he selects first gear the paperboy is just emerging from the shop, the requisite goods cradled in his arms. Gaping, the lad watches wide-eyed as Skelgill shoots past him, mouthing the words, “Keep the change.”

  *

  Skelgill manages to locate Smith ahead of him on the coast road. Weekend motorists are beginning to appear in good numbers, and the narrow Norfolk lanes make overtaking almost impossible, even for a reckless driver like Smith. They pass through Old Hunstanton, Holme-next-the-sea (puzzlingly landlocked) and Thornham, where an ancient smugglers’ inn is advertised. Shortly after leaving this village, Smith turns off towards the coast, down a track signposted for a bird reserve. There are a couple of cars coming the other way who are signalling their intention to follow, and Skelgill flashes them ahead of him, to put a little space between himself and Smith.