Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1)

by Bruce Beckham

  She waits eagerly for more praise, but Skelgill’s mind has moved on.

  ‘Who do you think sent it to you?’

  Elspeth Goldsmith’s eyes widen in surprise.

  ‘Good Lord, I have no idea, Inspector.’

  Skelgill frowns.

  ‘Surely you must have your suspicions?’

  Elspeth Goldsmith folds her arms, as if she suspects he may be humouring her.

  ‘Really, Inspector – I don’t have a clue.’

  Skelgill throws her a doubting glance.

  ‘Surely madam – you’ve just had a couple of hours in the car to think about it – who’s the most likely person?’

  She considers for a moment.

  ‘Well, to be honest, Inspector, under normal circumstances I would have said Ivan.’

  Skelgill raises a questioning eyebrow.

  ‘Inspector, it would just be like one of his practical jokes. Not long ago he left a toilet roll in the ladies’ loo in the Edinburgh office. He’d put a printed sticker on the cardboard tube and wound the tissue back on. It said something like, “Call now, you’ve won a car!” – and the person who used the last of the roll was taken in by the hoax – it turned out to be a Mercedes showroom in London – but of course they knew nothing about it.’

  The flicker of a grin crosses Skelgill’s lips – it looks like he has a good idea of the identity of the sucker in question.

  ‘And do you think this is a practical joke?’

  ‘Well – my immediate reaction was that it must be.’

  ‘And now?’

  ‘Well – it’s not funny, is it?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘What does it mean?’

  ‘Mean, Inspector?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘Well, er – it’s – asking for money – ten thousand pounds.’

  ‘But why – what are they getting at? What will the cops find out?’

  Elspeth Goldsmith rocks to and fro in her chair and makes a face of bewilderment.

  ‘Your guess is as good as mine, Inspector. I certainly haven’t done anything wrong. Being successful isn’t a crime, is it?’

  Skelgill shakes his head patiently.

  ‘Of course not, Mrs Goldsmith. But perhaps you know something – for instance about the company – that would be embarrassing if it became public?’

  ‘I really can’t think what that might be.’

  ‘How about, for instance, the proposed sale to the Americans?’

  Elspeth Goldsmith shakes her head, her expression blank.

  ‘You see madam, we have it on good authority that the company was due to be sold last week – surely your husband would have mentioned that to you?’

  Again there is the shake of the head. Perhaps now, however, there is the faintest narrowing of her small brown eyes.

  ‘I’m completely in the dark on that one, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Not even an inkling? If I recall, you described yourself as your husband’s sounding board.’

  Elspeth Goldsmith affects to clear her throat, perhaps to buy a moment or two in which to form a response.

  ‘Well, something as significant as selling the company – it would be kept on a need-to-know basis, Directors only. Ivan could be quite touchy about confidentiality.’

  Skelgill does not seem entirely convinced by this explanation. However, plainly he does not wish to alarm her. He leans back in his seat and assumes a relaxed posture.

  ‘You mentioned you’re a bit of an amateur sleuth yourself, Mrs Goldsmith.’ (She nods, eagerly now, as if this line of questioning is more to her taste.) ‘Have you formed any theories?’

  Elspeth Goldsmith draws herself up and inhales, a little wheezily.

  ‘Well – of course – I’ve been trying to work out the murderer’s modus operandi – and, well, naturally when I arrived and there was Miriam all covered in blood and screaming, I thought she’d finally snapped and stabbed Ivan – but you would have arrested her by now?’ (Skelgill nods for her to continue.) ‘So I wondered if perhaps you are getting close to the real killer and he or she has written this to throw you off the scent? I did actually consider not mentioning it – in case it became a distraction.’

  Skelgill shakes his head decisively.

  ‘No – you did the right thing in coming to us, madam.’

  There is a silence; Skelgill seems to be waiting to see if Elspeth Goldsmith has anything to add, and in due course he is proved correct.

  ‘And, er... Inspector – does it fit with anything you have found out?’

  Skelgill begins to nod slowly, although this reaction is at odds with his rather oblique response.

  ‘I really can’t say, madam.’

  Elspeth Goldsmith looks a little crestfallen.

  ‘What should I do, Inspector?’

  ‘I’d like you to work closely with us on this one, Mrs Goldsmith.’ Skelgill scoops together the plastic wallet with his own papers, and makes as if to rise. ‘I suggest we try not to put whoever sent it on their guard. So I would prefer if you didn’t mention it to anyone – including your husband. And then we just wait. The minute you hear anything, get in touch – my colleague will give you our mobile numbers. And whatever you do, don’t try to act alone – you could place yourself in serious danger.’

  *

  ‘What do you reckon then, bonny lass?’

  Skelgill and DS Jones have returned to the canteen. DS Jones is studying the blackmail demand, still inside its protective wallet.

  ‘Whoever wrote this didn’t pay attention in English class.’

  ‘Why not?’

  She reads aloud from the letter.

  ‘Here, Guv – it says, “One week to get the cash in” – that’s not ideal.’

  ‘How come?’

  DS Jones glances at Skelgill with the exaggerated look of a schoolmarm.

  ‘Never end a sentence with a preposition, Guv.’

  ‘And what’s one of them when it’s at home?’

  DS Jones opens her palms in a gesture of explanation.

  ‘You know, Guv – with, by, at, on, from... and in.’

  Skelgill purses his lips thoughtfully.

  ‘So are you telling me I shouldn’t say, “This is the rod I caught a twenty pound pike on?”’

  ‘Technically, Guv.’

  Skelgill scowls.

  ‘On this rod, I caught a twenty pound pike?’

  ‘I suppose that’s more like it, Guv.’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘Me mates would think I’ve lost the plot.’

  DS Jones grins.

  ‘Still, Guv – it might help us to narrow down the identity of the blackmailer.’

  Skelgill nods reluctantly. DS Jones continues.

  ‘Who do you think is most likely, Guv?’

  Skelgill appears unwilling to provide an answer. DS Jones persists.

  ‘I was thinking Smith’s the obvious candidate, Guv – we know he’s after money – and I bet he’s still got access to the London office – he could easily have slipped the envelope into the mail system – say on Thursday night.’

  Skelgill blinks and widens his eyes at this suggestion.

  ‘So what does Smith know about Elspeth Goldsmith that would make her cough up ten grand?’

  Skelgill’s tone is sceptical, but DS Jones is not deterred.

  ‘Well – maybe he’s trying it on, Guv. She knows her husband is a suspect in the case. And she can’t be one hundred per cent sure he wasn’t involved. All the blackmailer has to do is pretend he knows something that will incriminate Dermott Goldsmith. So she pays up to silence him.’

  Skelgill is thirstily drinking down his mug of tea – it looks like the kind of operation that can’t be interrupted – but he raises his eyebrows to acknowledge her suggestion. He puts down the mug and wipes his mouth with his sleeve.

  ‘It’s a neat little scenario – but how about the really obvious candidate?’

  ‘You mean Julia Rubicon, Guv
? I know it would have been easiest for her to plant the envelope.’

  Skelgill is shaking his head.

  ‘Julia Rubicon, Krista Morocco, Melanie Stark – Dermott Goldsmith, even – it could have been any of them – or any of the other staff.’

  DS Jones seems perplexed.

  ‘So who’s the obvious one, Guv?’

  ‘Her Ladyship.’

  ‘Elspeth Goldsmith?’

  ‘Aye.’

  ‘But why, Guv? Why would she send a blackmail note to herself?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Maybe she told us that – what was it she said? Throw us off the scent.’

  DS Jones nods. Skelgill rises and picks up the wallet file.

  ‘I’ll take this along to forensics – there’s a couple of things I want to check with them. Catch up with you in my office – around four.’

  ‘Sure, Guv.’

  Skelgill departs the canteen. His route takes him through reception, where he holds open a door for an attractive young WPC. As his gaze follows her departure, a voice barks a reprimand. It is George, the desk sergeant.

  ‘Behave yourself, Skelly.’

  Skelgill feigns innocence and begins to cross the foyer.

  ‘Skelly, lad – I’m gannin’ fishing on the Eden, Wednesday night – if you fancy coming with?’

  As Skelgill is passing through the opposite doors, he turns back and gives a qualified thumbs up.

  ‘George.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Never end a sentence with a preposition.’

  *

  DS Jones arrives on time for their four p.m. catch-up to find Skelgill listening intently on the telephone. He signals for her to enter and take a seat. He ends the call with the words, ‘Okay then, mate, send it through and we’ll have a look at it.’

  Then he folds his hands on the desk and regards his colleague with a perplexed expression.

  ‘We have a coincidence.’

  ‘Guv, that’s just what I was thinking.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘As I came past reception – George called me over – he’s the second person today to ask me what a preposition is.’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘But mine is more serious, Jones. Krista Morocco just walked into Charing Cross police station with a blackmail note just like Lady Goldsmith’s. They’re scanning it now. Same wording except they asked for five thousand instead of ten.’

  DS Jones looks keenly at Skelgill.

  ‘In a way, Guv, I’m surprised they only asked Elspeth Goldsmith for ten. That watch she was wearing would more than cover it on its own.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows – perhaps he did not notice, for such statements of rank are wasted upon him.

  ‘Guv – it supports your opportunist theory. Some chancer just trying it on.’

  ‘Aye maybe – but it also opens up an interesting avenue.’

  ‘You mean Krista Morocco, Guv?’

  ‘Well – not necessarily her – but who else got a little letter but has decided not to tell us?’

  DS Jones nods eagerly.

  ‘Why stop at two?’

  ‘Who would you send notes to?’

  DS Jones pushes back in her seat and crosses her legs. The weather is warm again and she wears just a sleeveless top and a short skirt. The skirt rides up but she does not appear to be self conscious as Skelgill’s gaze rests briefly her thighs.

  ‘Well – Dermott Goldsmith, for a start, Guv. And Miriam Tregilgis. They’re the most obvious ones. After that Julia Rubicon and Krista Morocco. I’m not sure about any of the others.’

  Skelgill nods. He stares at her fixedly, as though he does not trust his eyes to be allowed to wander elsewhere.

  ‘Then if you were on the receiving end of a blackmail letter, what would you do?’

  DS Jones ponders for a moment – she seems a little intrigued by his attention.

  ‘It would depend, Guv. I mean – if I had nothing to hide I’d just come forward. I think.’

  ‘You think?’

  DS Jones nods slowly.

  ‘I suppose some people might believe there’s a risk of incriminating themselves – knowing the police are looking to pin the crime somewhere.’

  Skelgill affects injury.

  ‘As if.’

  ‘If I had done it, Guv – depending upon what I thought the blackmailer knew – I might try to get rid of them.’

  Skelgill seems rather alarmed by this prospect.

  30. WNKR ADVERTISING

  To many people Penrith might seem an out-of-the-way place. However, you can hop on a train in this small Cumbrian town and, not much over three-and-a-half hours later, find yourself in the centre of London without having left your seat. Thus Skelgill and DS Jones have opted for the iron road to the capital, rather than suffer the delays and monotony of the motorway, with its attendant frustration of having to watch helplessly the acts of blind stupidity and blatant law-breaking taking place on all sides.

  The train, though, is not without its human irritations. While Skelgill has insisted their budget will stretch to the relative privacy of first class, now they have crossed the Cheshire plain, their carriage has filled with anxious businessmen, perspiring uncomfortably in their already-crumpled dark suits, wrestling ostentatiously with large newspapers and barking loudly into their mobiles (unnecessarily, if Skelgill’s irritated reaction is anything to go by, overusing the expression ‘Alright Cock’).

  It is Tuesday of the second week. The detectives have taken the window of opportunity this journey affords to review the documents surrounding the investigation – although in Skelgill’s case this has mainly taken the form of gazing out of the window of the train at the passing countryside. Although the blackmail letters have introduced a thought-provoking new dimension for the pair, as yet they sense no further enlightenment. In the absence of a murder weapon and an obvious fugitive, they appear to be faced with a cluster of imperfect suspects who may have had their own reasons to precipitate Ivan Tregilgis’s death, or at least to benefit from it. However, the danger with the matter of motive is that it is highly subjective – what might to the beholder seem like an irresistible and burning desire, to the person in question it may be an issue of no concern whatsoever.

  And thus, in the absence of any distinguishing forensic or circumstantial evidence, Skelgill has little option but to drive the investigation forward along speculative lines. It is rather like taking pot luck with the map of the London Underground, randomly hopping off at a station, and hoping there is somebody hanging around with nothing better to do than provide useful directions.

  As if in fulfilment of this metaphor, the two detectives arrive at noon at the Euston terminus. They do, however, have another destination in mind – an advertising agency headquartered in Baker Street, of all places. Skelgill has delegated the job of navigation to DS Jones, and now as they alight upon the platform he sniffs the air, rather like an animal emerging from hibernation (the aroma of fresh doughnuts perhaps has something to do with this). They pass the great reptilian locomotive, its malevolent headlamp-eyes glowing a brooding red, and cross the main concourse where a silent multitude stares perplexed at the departures board, as a skilfully muffled announcer contributes additional disinformation.

  ‘Where are we going?’

  ‘Euston Square, Guv – it’s a different tube station – further up the road – confusing isn’t it?’

  ‘Why don’t they call it something else?’

  ‘That’s the sort of common-sense thing only the Americans would do.’

  They pass out of the station into a seventies-style open-air precinct surrounded by office buildings, where a scattering of modern-art pieces and solitary people on mobiles frozen in various listening poses form a surprisingly congruous exhibition. Reaching the broad pavement on the north side of Euston Road, Skelgill is clearly struck by the sheer volume of traffic jamming what is in places an eight-lane urban highway, a clogged artery relentlessly
exchanging precious oxygen for unseen fumes. He marvels at the plane trees, which seem to thrive in this pollution-rich environment. An ambulance, its plaintive siren appealing for cooperation, is hopelessly stuck somewhere among the vehicles that have nowhere to go.

  Just ahead of them a stream of pedestrians is vacuumed into an entrance beneath a red Underground sign. As he and DS Jones join the press, he glances about, conscious that the predominantly Manc accents of the train journey have been replaced by the more bellicose London brogue. ‘I ain’t got no manny,’ complains a harsh female voice just behind him. Two stops on a waiting train, standing and swaying, find them clip-clopping through the echoing Victorian labyrinth that is Baker Street station. Skelgill gazes around, as though these august surroundings will bring him inspiration – if only he can detect the essential clue that hovers so tantalisingly within his grasp.

  Baker Street itself is alternately deafeningly busy and uncannily silent, as pulses of its one-way traffic are released by successive sets of lights. It is during one of the noisier intervals that they come upon a large and rotund traffic warden mid-confrontation with a small, slim, fair-skinned girl attached to a great mass of frizzy flame-coloured hair that would threaten to lift her in a moderate breeze. Though their voices are drowned out by the roar of engines and the rumble of tyres, hostilities are evidently quite well advanced, and the girl appears to be winding up for a punch. Skelgill and DS Jones make a precautionary detour towards the ill-matched pair, but to their evident relief the girl settles for tearing the ticket in half in front of the dumbfounded warden’s face, throwing the pieces on the ground, stamping upon them, and marching belligerently away.

  The detectives watch as she crosses the wide pavement and bangs through a pair of smoked-glass doors of a nearby building. Skelgill pats the perspiring warden on the shoulder and stoops to collect the scuffed remnants of the ticket. Then he and DS Jones follow in the girl’s tracks – for she has entered the magnificent premises of WNKR Advertising.

  ‘What is it with all these initials?’

  Skelgill hisses his question as they cross the airy and minimally furnished reception hall.

  ‘Apparently the advertising boys all like to have their names over the door – initials is the only way they’ll fit.’