Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1)

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘Well, now. I recall once that Ivan had asked me to come up to his office. He never closed his door – he said he detested the barriers of rank, you know?’ (Skelgill nods encouragingly.) ‘Well, he must have taken a phone call in the time it took me to get there – because I could hear his voice as I came along the corridor. Then just as I was putting my head round the door he exclaimed, “What do you mean baby?” She pauses, and stares expectantly at Skelgill.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Well, that’s it really. As soon as he realised I was there he ended the call.’

  ‘Who was he talking to?’

  She shakes her head, her great tresses recovering their body.

  ‘I don’t know – but the way he said it – it didn’t sound like he was calling a girlfriend baby.’

  ‘He didn’t comment to you about it?’

  ‘Not a word – but he seemed a bit ruffled. I’d only just started working here – and I didn’t know him so well then – but I never saw him like it again.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘Okay, that’s very interesting. How about Dermott Goldsmith – anything spring to mind?’

  ‘I do remember once – when we were on a night out – a bit of a celebration, after we’d got the ad in the can – I witnessed something of an awkward moment between him and Krista Morocco?’

  Her inflexion suggests she wonders if this is the sort of thing Skelgill seeks, and he nods for her to continue.

  ‘We were in a crowded bar – there was a lot of noise. I don’t quite know what had passed between them, but as I approached I heard Krista say something like, “I must be going deaf – I shan’t embarrass you by repeating what I thought I just heard you say.” She did it with a smile, but I could see Dermott’s face was all contorted, like a naughty schoolboy being told off.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows, and for an anxious second looks like he can identify with the circumstances. Marie O’Moore continues.

  ‘He turned round and went out – to the toilets, I suppose – and Krista leaned over to me and said, “Boys will be boys.” I think she thought I’d heard more than I had.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘And was there ever anything beyond that, between the two of them – that you were aware of?’

  The girl grins.

  ‘There was more chance of Dermott catching hold of a leprechaun than of Krista Morocco, Inspector – she was way out of his league. Not the kind of girl to be impressed by comments about her boobs. He offended most of the secretaries round here, if I remember.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘But he did end up marrying a woman he met in advertising – at the agency he worked for previously?’

  ‘That would be TW&TS, Inspector – they used to be based over in Berkeley Square.’

  ‘Did you ever meet her?’

  She shakes her head.

  ‘No – I can’t say I did – though now you mention it I do remember Dermott having a bit of a tirade about her – we were driving up to where they make the motorcycles – Hinckley is it?’

  Skelgill nods, as a Triumph owner himself, he is familiar with the name, if not the place.

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘Well – to the best of my memory – I think he was having second thoughts about getting engaged. He was worried she was having an affair – and other stuff, like whether he could trust her once they were married.’

  ‘About what?’

  The girl furrows her brow.

  ‘To be honest, Inspector, the only thing that sticks in my mind is he said he thought she would probably put on weight!’

  Skelgill glances at DS Jones, who has been diligently taking notes. She pretends not to notice and continues writing. At this point there is a knock on the door, and three junior members of staff arrive – apparently for a scheduled meeting. Marie O’Moore is on the point of sending them packing, but Skelgill seems content that this is a good moment to bring matters to a close. As they are making their farewells, he remembers something and digs into his jacket pocket. He holds out the crumpled halves of the parking ticket.

  ‘Marie – I think this belongs to you.’

  She has a twinkle in her eye.

  ‘Oops-a-daisy – how on earth did I mislay that, now?’

  32. LONDON BY NIGHT

  The two detectives retrieve their overnight bags from reception and – not being the esteemed guardians of heavyweight TV budgets – make an unchaperoned exit through the monogrammed swing doors of WNKR. Skelgill gasps – although it is hard to tell whether this is a reaction to the stifling reality of the London heat, or relief at their escape from the quixotic world of the advertising agency. The midsummer sun has burned off the blanket of cloud that greeted their arrival in the capital, and now just a hint of smoggy haze blurs its bright outline. Almost immediately he slips off his jacket and pulls at his shirt at the small of his back. DS Jones appears to have made a unilateral decision, and has walked to the edge of the pavement and is in the process of hailing a cab.

  ‘Good thinking, Jones – this is evil.’

  As a taxi lurches dangerously close and stops within an inch of the kerb, Skelgill makes to wrench open the nearside front door.

  ‘No, Guv – we get in here.’ DS Jones turns her head away to hide her grin.

  ‘I was just going to give him directions.’

  Skelgill sounds unconvincing as he clambers awkwardly into the back seat. DS Jones smiles reassuringly to the anxious-looking cabbie, lest he think this is some bungled hijack.

  ‘Drury Lane, please – Holburn end.’

  The cabbie nods and warily slides shut the interconnecting window.

  Skelgill wipes a bead of perspiration from his brow and looks about the dark interior.

  ‘Do these things have AC?’

  ‘Not even DC, Guv.’

  Skelgill shrugs and settles back in the seat.

  ‘It doesn’t ever get this hot up north, Jones.’

  DS Jones nods wistfully.

  ‘We used to sunbathe on the roof of our flat. It was really quite private.’

  Skelgill now looks out of the window, craning to see upwards, as though he is picturing a rooftop community, laying themselves bare for lucky helicopter pilots. If so, then perhaps this image brings him back to their conversation with Marie O’Moore.

  ‘Krista Morocco has no kids. Miriam Tregilgis has no kids.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘It could have been anybody, Guv – it could have been one of his pals telling him he and his wife were expecting.’

  Skelgill sighs.

  ‘Or it could be a skeleton in the closet.’

  They both become silent at this, for it is a figure of speech that has an uncomfortable corollary.

  ‘Guv – we do know that Ivan Tregilgis was engaged to Miriam by then – and by her own admission Krista Morocco had something going with him at roughly the same time.’

  Skelgill frowns.

  ‘But no bairn to show for it.’

  DS Jones compresses her lips. If she has something to add, for the time being she holds her peace. Skelgill moves on to Gary Railston-Fukes.

  ‘What did you reckon to the wide boy?’

  ‘Another one that never reached maturity, Guv.’

  Skelgill makes a sharp intake of breath.

  ‘That’s just blokes in general, isn’t it?’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that, Guv.’

  ‘No?’

  ‘No, Guv.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows – if this is intended as a small compliment, he banks it and moves on.

  ‘He’s a prat – but he’s a straight talker.’

  ‘He seemed to confirm what we know about Ivan Tregilgis and his romantic liaisons.’

  ‘Aye – it was interesting what he said – about jealousy – not easy for us to judge that, from the outside.’

  ‘It’s a big step to kill someone, Guv.’

  ‘Maybe it’s one small step.’

  Sk
elgill does not elaborate on this vaguely cryptic remark, and stares to his right as they pass Cavendish Square Gardens, where hordes sit cheek by jowl upon the lawns, as if this tiny green oasis is a refuelling stop for oxygen.

  ‘I could murder a cuppa.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘Actually, Guv – I was going to make a suggestion?’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Well – we could go for tea around Covent Garden – and the sales are on – you could get a real bargain on a trendy short-sleeved shirt – it’s what you need for this weather.’

  *

  Skelgill, leaning once more over the parapet of Waterloo Bridge, is perhaps reflecting that he should have listened more carefully to his colleague. When she slipped the word ‘trendy’ into her proposal, he might have guessed that it bore greater import than he realised at the time. Now he watches as the lightening eastern sky, threatening dawn, reflects off the sebaceous Thames and illuminates the pallid limestone dome of St Paul’s. A steady, cool breeze drifts up river, bringing with it the scent of the marshes. At his side, DS Jones shivers, and he – short-sleeved – does too.

  ‘We ought to get some sleep.’

  DS Jones nods, and they turn, and link arms. In similar fashion they have promenaded for an hour or more, distancing themselves from drunkenness and its devil-may-care deeds, discovering the dark corners of London’s deserted streets. From High Holborn to Kingsway and down to Aldwych, past never-sleeping traffic lights and slumbering beggars in their doorways of choice, they have gravitated to Waterloo Bridge, and all the time Skelgill fighting the realisation that he is even lonelier than on his last visit.

  *

  Half a day earlier they had checked into their familiar, seedy hotel, and set out in search of a cuppa. DS Jones had encouraged Skelgill to try a handy local café, in Endell Street. An elderly hippy couple ran it along Bohemian lines: dimly lit and draped with eastern-style wall hangings. It had taken Skelgill some time to convince the waitress that he really did want just plain English Breakfast – and yes, milk and sugar. She had less of a problem, however, with his request for “One of those large currant buns, please love.”

  Suitably revived they had stumbled blinking into the bright afternoon sun, to wander the fan of narrow streets that radiate from Seven Dials. Skelgill had marvelled at London’s ability to support shops that sold only cheese, or brushes, or beads – and had been positively ecstatic when they stumbled upon a ship’s chandler. Eventually they moved on to peruse the designer-label chain stores that have colonised Long Acre. Here DS Jones had bagged several modest bargains, although it appeared to Skelgill that the prices she paid were hardly of the basement variety, deeply slashed though they claimed to be. Inside one Italian-sounding emporium Skelgill had called her attention to a suit he’d casually examined.

  ‘Jones, look – back home I could get a decent motor with twelve months’ tax and MOT for less than this.’

  ‘It’s gorgeous though, isn’t it?’ had been her response. ‘Pure silk, I bet.’

  Skelgill had shaken his head incredulously.

  ‘If anyone sold me this, I’d arrest them for daylight robbery.’

  DS Jones had grinned, and then led him by the cuff to view a shirt she had found, marked down by 80% – to reach a just-about-palatable price in Skelgill’s book. In the event, he had bought two – claiming grounds of convenience – but perhaps surreptitiously taking advantage of DS Jones’s superior dress sense and knowledge of what was in vogue. Like most shoppers, he had of course suffered from that uncomfortable feeling of post-purchase dissonance – the anticipation of which puts many people off buying in the first place. In Skelgill’s case it was probably when he began to imagine scenarios in which he turned up in his new attire, in his local pub.

  ‘Thee paid ‘ow much?’

  ‘They saw thee comin, lad.’

  ‘Yer turnin’ into a soft southern ponce, Skelgill.’

  In the same store DS Jones had bought herself a belt. As they stood together at the till Skelgill, feeling mildly euphoric, had clumsily tried to pay on her behalf – in return for her good advice on the shirt front. It was an offer that she had graciously declined – with the somewhat less-than-convincing excuse that it was a gift for a girlfriend – but not without a little embarrassment for both parties. Afterwards, they had padded reflectively through the quiet cobbled lanes behind Long Acre, each wrapped in their own thoughts.

  They had been rescued from their reverie by their accidental coming upon the Lamb and Flag, one of London’s most ancient and noble hostelries. An oasis of beery aromas and convivial laughter, it already played host to a sizeable post-work crowd enjoying alfresco the warm air and tepid ale. Empty pint-glasses were stacked high on windowsills and against railings, and animated groups of shirt-sleeved executives neighed and brayed, blithely sloshing bitter and smudging cigarette ash upon one another’s clothes. Skelgill had been first to suggest a pit stop.

  ‘The Milky Bars are on me.’

  *

  The next thing Skelgill could properly remember had been an insistent voice calling, ‘Guv – Guv – are you alright – Guv?’

  He had related this a little later to DS Jones – for it had been a dream. He had been out on the fells. By order of the Chief his recent solo-completion of the Bob Graham Round had been disqualified (an act entirely outwith her jurisdiction, but nevertheless in dream-logic something Skelgill had unquestioningly accepted). So Skelgill had to do it again, all forty-two peaks and seventy-two miles. But unlike his real-life experience, this time there was an added problem. The landscape kept changing. On a clear day you could take a hooded Skelgill virtually anywhere in the Lakes, remove the blindfold, and he’d not only be able to tell you exactly where he was, but also name the surrounding hilltops and list their spot-heights. In his dream, however, he would toil his way to a summit, only to find an unrecognisable panorama lying before him. It looked like the Lakes, but it wasn’t quite right. Worse still, he relegated his doubts to the back of his mind and went on with his run. They’ve changed things around, he said to himself, as though he had read in the papers about the reorganised topography that now had him crossing directly (and bizarrely – he knew) from Helvellyn to Hopegill Head. The ‘New Lakes’, it was to be called. Atop Scafell Pike he paused at the enlarged cairn to take a drink, but his water bottle contained strong beer. He realised he was looking up at Great Gable’s screes, and that the Ordnance Survey had made a mistake about Scafell Pike being the highest mountain in England. He needed badly to urinate. There was nobody about so he just did it there and then in the open. Suddenly something cold touched him, at the back of one knee. He turned – it was the wet nose of a vaguely familiar chocolate Labrador, attracted no doubt by the tasty salt crystals on his skin. Just then, from behind the cairn appeared the shapely Midlands woman he had met briefly on Haystacks. She was straightening her white t-shirt as though it had been pulled up. He could see her hard nipples protruding beneath the tightly stretched cotton (he omitted this part in his explanation to DS Jones). He felt self-conscious in his skimpy running shorts and sleeveless vest. In fact, he suspected he had no shorts on at all, but dare not look directly. He stooped as if to stroke the dog, in an effort to cover up his modesty. Then, as the dog persisted in trying to lick him, in a voice of increasing urgency the woman began to repeat the word: ‘Guv – Guv!’ He realised it must be the dog’s name. Now the woman’s accent was no longer Midlands – in fact her voice reminded him of DS Jones. Then he woke up.

  In the disoriented daze that follows an ill-timed catnap, things had then started to come back to him. After three pints of best bitter (and three bottled concoctions in DS Jones’s case), they had retired to the hotel at about seven-thirty to shower and change, aiming to meet at nine to go for something to eat. Skelgill, having showered, had made the fatal mistake of lying (naked) on the bed and closing his eyes. In the heat of the room and under the equally soporific influence of the best bitter, he had fallen asl
eep. Thus it was DS Jones (herself half an hour late) – and not the buxom dog-owner – who was summoning him back from the Land of Nod.

  Their first port of call had been a bustling pizza restaurant on Bow Street, where they passed an undemanding hour or so. During the course of two carafes of house wine, they had discussed the case – though they both recognised the futility of talking themselves into ever-decreasing circles. Conversation, therefore, tended to jump about, matters domestic, the police force, Skelgill’s fishing – DS Jones’s London connections. Skelgill noted that on the couple of occasions he had tried subtly to draw her out on the subject of her boyfriend, she quickly engaged reverse gear, and diverted to some other vaguely related matter.

  Time came to pay their bill and leave – indeed the place was emptying with surprising speed – a feature of Central London, where few diners live, and must dash like Cinderella for their carriages to the suburbs. As they wandered rather aimlessly, Skelgill had suggested they find a “nice quiet pub”, but DS Jones’s rather uncharacteristically racy retort had been that the only way to get a late drink in that part of town was to “mug a bum”.

  In search of such refreshment, their subsequent wanderings had brought them to pass by the sunken entrance of a basement club, tucked away in a back street off High Holborn. The queue had snaked around a corner, and when they reached its end DS Jones had turned and leaned against the wall, posing like a rock chick.

  ‘Let’s give it a try, Guv,’ had been her only words.

  Skelgill had begun to protest, subtly drawing to her attention the peaceable if outlandish types before them – and trying to suggest he was mildly out of place. She had shaken her head and tugged on the hem of his new shirt, as if to say he looked fine. While they waited, mainly in silence, he had eyed up his fellow clubbers; he had seemed relived to note that a good few were at least as old as he – albeit somewhat more stylish in their garb. When their turn came to be vetted by the hefty doorman, Skelgill seemed to appreciate he needed to appear both sober and unthreatening – but his best efforts proved unnecessary, as DS Jones smoothed their passage by ‘coincidentally’ slipping off her thin black cardigan to reveal a glittering bustier top that left little to the imagination. The bouncer barely glanced at Skelgill, and they were inside.