Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1)

by Bruce Beckham

  Skelgill appears intrigued by her reaction.

  ‘It wasn’t what I had in mind, madam – I was more wondering if you’ve received something similar?’

  She stares at him blankly.

  ‘Nothing, Inspector – unless it has been addressed to Ivan – there’s a lot of mail for him that I haven’t even touched.’

  Skelgill pulls a doubting face.

  ‘Doesn’t seem very likely, madam. And no strange phone calls – anything like that?’

  She shakes her expensive haircut.

  ‘Does this mean you’re any nearer to establishing the identity of the killer?’

  Now Skelgill draws breath.

  ‘It’s not as straightforward as that, I’m afraid.’

  Miriam Tregilgis nods reluctantly. But just then, all three of them turn their heads as the entry phone suddenly buzzes loudly. She looks imploringly at Skelgill.

  ‘Can I say I’ll be two minutes?’

  ‘Sure.’

  She communicates this information to the taxi driver and remains standing by the main door. Skelgill gestures at the luggage.

  ‘Going down to Wales?’

  As she replies, a deeper hue seems to infuse her meticulously applied blusher.

  ‘Well – er, actually, Lausanne.’

  ‘France?’

  Skelgill’s voice carries a note of unconcealed surprise.

  ‘Switzerland.’ Now she seems a little agitated. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t let you know yet, but I was going to ring the number you gave me when I got to the airport – when I get my details, you see?’

  ‘I’m not sure I do.’

  ‘What it is, Inspector – the chance to go only came up yesterday – a friend’s partner dropped out – and it’s just for two nights – then I go up to Edinburgh.’

  Skelgill appears disconcerted.

  ‘If it’s all the same I’d prefer if you could get me your flight numbers and address just now.’

  Miriam glances at the entry phone, as if she is expecting it to buzz again.

  ‘Okay – I’ll try, Inspector.’

  She fishes her mobile from her handbag and dials a number. It is answered promptly.

  ‘Hi it’s me – no, everything’s fine. Look, I need the flight and hotel details for the police.’ During the pause that follows she produces a small black designer organiser and opens it at a blank page. It has a pen attached by an elasticated loop. ‘Okay – okay – got it.’ Then she chuckles. ‘There’s lovely – see you in about forty-five minutes. Ciao.’ She drops the mobile into her bag and tears out the page and hands it to Skelgill.

  ‘Thanks.’ He frowns as he tries to read her slanting italic script. ‘Hotel du Lac. Sounds like my sort of place.’

  ‘It’s a health spa.’

  Skelgill affects shock.

  ‘Second thoughts, cancel that.’

  And now the buzzer does sound – a longer, insistent press from the no-doubt agitated cabbie. Miriam Tregilgis looks appealingly at the two detectives.

  ‘Okay – you’d better go – we’ll help you down.’

  As Miriam Tregilgis taps a code into the control panel of a burglar alarm, Skelgill reaches for her flight bag.

  ‘Whoa! It’s the kitchen sink!’

  Miriam Tregilgis looks amused.

  ‘The bathroom cabinet, actually, Inspector. They charge so much at these places for their own toiletries – I think that’s how they make all their money. And it’s amazing how many things you need, even for a couple of nights, you know?’

  Skelgill looks like he doesn’t, although DS Jones gives a more sympathetic nod.

  As they begin to descend the stairs, Skelgill calls back over his shoulder.

  ‘You said you were going to Edinburgh, madam – is that to do with the company?’

  ‘It is, Inspector. Elspeth phoned me last night. They’re organising a get-together – to rally the troops, I suppose. Apparently we’re doing a treasure hunt round the city on Saturday, then there’s a barbecue on an island in the Firth of Forth in the evening.’

  Skelgill looks perplexed, perhaps even a little shocked.

  ‘How do you feel about that – so soon?’

  She shakes her head, understanding his concern.

  ‘Actually, Inspector – I’m sure Ivan would have approved – it’s exactly the kind of thing he liked everyone to do.’

  As they reach ground level they can see the taxi driver’s nose squashed against the wired glass of the door. He is pressing the entry phone button, apparently holding it down to create one long buzz. Skelgill uncompromisingly jerks open the door, eliciting an aggressive “Oi” from the shaven-headed cabbie.

  Skelgill stares coldly and holds out the flight bag.

  ‘Police.’

  This is all he says, but it sounds convincing. The cabbie hesitates before taking the bag, wincing as Skelgill releases its full weight into his possession. He retreats muttering into the refuge of his cab. Skelgill turns to Miriam Tregilgis.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve upset your driver.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry, Inspector – I’m sure he’ll be fine – he’ll still want his tip.’

  Skelgill holds open the door of the vehicle.

  ‘Mrs Tregilgis – just one question?’

  ‘Aha?’

  She pauses, half in and half out.

  ‘Have you ever been pregnant?’

  A shadow seems to cloud her features, and she turns away and climbs into her seat before facing him.

  ‘I don’t think I can have children, Inspector.’

  35. THE UP-TRAIN

  Half an hour since he watched Miriam Tregilgis’s taxi disappear into Upper St Martin’s Lane, Skelgill – no doubt wishing the window were cleaner – squints into the sun as Euston station recedes around a curve of track and their homebound train begins steadily to pick up pace. In one of those seemingly rare sequences of good fortune – like when all the traffic lights turn green in just the right order – there had been a tube train waiting to receive himself and DS Jones at Leicester Square, and a Glasgow-bound express standing just five minutes from its departure time at Euston. Now all it requires is an announcement that the buffet car is open.

  ‘Seems a bit fishy, Guv – this trip of Miriam Tregilgis’s.’

  Skelgill nods.

  ‘It is on the lake.’

  DS Jones grins.

  ‘But you know what I mean, Guv.’

  Skelgill now shrugs; he does not seem too fazed by the idea of Miriam Tregilgis’s impromptu jaunt to Switzerland.

  ‘I think she was hiding something from us, Guv.’

  Skelgill now shifts his squint to his sergeant.

  ‘Okay, Miss Marple – what’s the latest theory?’

  DS Jones pretends to be offended.

  ‘Well, Guv – firstly, I noticed that she wasn’t forthcoming with the name of the friend – or even the gender.’

  ‘I think she just assumed we’d think it was a female – and she was in a rush, Jones.’

  ‘The rush could have been manufactured, Guv – I checked the flight number and it doesn’t go until nearly four – she had loads of time.’

  ‘Aye – but what about all those shops they’ve got at Heathrow?’

  DS Jones ignores this comment.

  ‘Also, Guv – you thought her flight bag was heavy.’

  ‘Aye it was. The taxi driver nearly dropped it.’

  ‘But I carried her attaché case, Guv – while she was setting the alarm. It felt like it was full of bricks.’

  ‘More make up?’

  ‘What if she’s got a Swiss bank account, Guv?’

  Skelgill closes one eye and leans back in his seat.

  ‘Wouldn’t she be bringing money into the country?’

  ‘Not if someone’s paid her.’

  ‘What – she’s the blackmailer?’

  ‘Why not, Guv – she’s as likely as anyone to know something incriminating – you said it yourself – what if she witnessed the
murderer escaping?’

  ‘But why send the notes to everyone – we know Elspeth Goldsmith and Krista Morocco haven’t paid.’

  ‘So that narrows it down, then, Guv.’

  DS Jones folds her arms and sits back, as though she rests her case. Skelgill does not appear to be taking this idea too seriously, and keeps glancing out of the window at passing sights. After a minute – perhaps to mollify DS Jones – he leans forward and taps his hands on the table across which they face one another.

  ‘Okay, look – keep it in the mix – let’s see what develops.’ He rubs his eyes – he is clearly tired after last night’s inadequate sleep. ‘Switzerland always makes me think of Julie Andrews prancing about on that mountain.’

  DS Jones looks perplexed.

  ‘That was Austria, wasn’t it Guv – didn’t they escape to Switzerland?’

  ‘Aye, happen they did – now you mention it.’

  *

  Skelgill has taken it upon himself to visit the buffet car, and by the time he returns laden with wrapped rolls and polystyrene cups, DS Jones has settled down to the Daily Telegraph cryptic crossword.

  ‘I’m getting there.’ He takes a couple of lateral steps to accommodate a sudden sideways surge in the train’s motion.

  ‘Here, let me take them – yow!’ DS Jones instantly regrets accepting the piping-hot drinks. ‘You must have asbestos hands, Guv.’

  ‘Aye, well – it comes from years of manhandling a Kelly Kettle.’ He slides into his seat opposite her, and begins to deal out the food. ‘I got two cheeseburgers and two bacon-and-tomato rolls.’

  ‘Guv – one’s fine for me.’

  ‘Ah – you never know.’

  ‘I know it won’t go to waste.’

  Skelgill smirks.

  ‘Got to keep my creative energy up.’

  DS Jones raises her eyebrows and affects to busy herself with the crossword. But after a moment she remembers there is something she wants to tell him.

  ‘Guv – I phoned Krista Morocco – about this weekend in Edinburgh.’

  ‘Aye?’

  ‘Well, it suddenly struck me that she hadn’t mentioned it to us – but it turns out she didn’t know – she only got a call from Dermott Goldsmith after we’d left her.’

  ‘What did she reckon to it?’

  ‘Actually, Guv, she said she thought it was a good idea – that they’d all left the Lakes in a state of shock and not really said goodbye to one another. She’s happy that the two offices can get back together and share commiserations.’

  Skelgill does not reply. He is munching industriously, gazing out of the window with a rather glazed expression in his eyes. It could just be the restorative effect of the beefburger, although there is something about the slow nodding of his head that suggests a more profound contemplation of some matter that has taken hold of his consciousness. After a while he draws a deep breath, and looks back at DS Jones. She has evidently been waiting for him to return to her company.

  ‘Guv, I was thinking – what with the timing of this event – when does the blackmailer intend the deadline to expire?’

  ‘What’s tomorrow?’

  ‘Thursday, Guv.’

  ‘Could be anywhere between then and Monday – depends on how you interpret the instruction – when it might have been written, or when they received it.’

  DS Jones nods.

  ‘I suppose we just have to wait and see, Guv.’

  ‘Aye.’

  They descend into silence while Skelgill eats some more and DS Jones nibbles at her own sandwich. She returns to her crossword, and after a few minutes pipes up with a question.

  ‘Guv – is there a fish called a Vendace?’

  ‘Aye – they’re like hen’s teeth – but I’ve had a few out of Bass Lake – put ‘em back like.’

  ‘Excellent.’

  She writes in the solution. Skelgill, however, is perplexed.

  ‘How come you know the name, but you’ve never heard of it?’

  DS Jones glances up, surprised.

  ‘Oh – it’s just the way these clues work, Guv – “Sell star for uncommon swimmer” – seven letters.’

  ‘What?’

  Now Skelgill’s expression becomes one of bafflement, and his face contorts amusingly. DS Jones is unable to suppress a giggle.

  ‘You see, Guv – I think “sell” means “vend” and “star” means “ace” – and together they make an “uncommon swimmer” – a fish.’

  Skelgill raises his eyebrows, perhaps half-comprehending.

  ‘Give us another one, then.’

  ‘Okay.’ She peruses the list of clues, and selects one she has not yet filled in. It appears, however, that she solves it even as she considers it. ‘This one should be right up your street, Guv. “Untidy bins even up top” – two words, three and five letters. Now, the hidden clue here is –’

  ‘No, no.’ Skelgill interrupts her. ‘Don’t tell me – I want to work it out. Pass it over. And the pen – I can’t think without a pen.’

  He sets to, chewing the biro vigorously. However, going by his knitted brows, he does not seem to be making great progress, and DS Jones, first becoming rather subdued as she watches the scenery flashing mesmerisingly by, gradually nods off to sleep.

  *

  It is not just DS Jones who is feeling the effects of their night on the tiles, for when she wakes shortly after they cross the Ship Canal, Skelgill, having dozed off around Nuneaton, is also asleep. However, they are both roused by the ringing of her mobile, which at some point during their slumbers has found its way onto the floor beneath their table. Instinctively Skelgill leans down sideways to retrieve it, only to find himself staring at the stockingless DS Jones’s bronzed thighs, and the smooth white triangle of her tight silky underwear. Hurriedly he gropes for the phone and sits up with a jolt, cracking his head off the metal rim of the table.

  ‘Aargh ya –’

  He just manages to avoid uttering a profanity – in such circumstances his regular default is an anagram of a tenth-century Anglo-Danish king, he of the incoming tide – so it is as well that he shows restraint; there are elderly passengers seated within earshot. He sits upright, vigorously rubbing his crown, and passes the handset to his unsuspecting colleague.

  DS Jones puts the mobile to her ear.

  ‘Hello – oh, hi – yes, we’re on the train.’ It appears that Skelgill has inadvertently answered the call. ‘What – oh, it was the Guv’nor – he banged his head – my phone fell on the floor.’

  There is a pause while she listens – and then makes occasional sounds of agreement – the constable is giving her an update of progress. At one point she laughs, somewhat throatily – and this attracts Skelgill’s attention – he watches a little suspiciously, as if he is seeking signs of over-familiarity.

  Now she is asked a question, which she repeats.

  ‘Where are we?’

  She glances inquiringly at Skelgill. In turn he stares knowledgeably at the passing countryside.

  ‘Staffordshire.’

  Disoriented by a combination of sleep and lack of, he is out by a factor of two counties.

  ‘Did you get that? Aha – well, we’re due back about five, anyway – okay – take care.’

  DS Jones ends the call.

  ‘You won’t be surprised to hear the Chief would like an update in the morning.’

  Skelgill tuts. But then he bows to the inevitable and sits upright, folding his long fisherman’s fingers before him on the table.

  ‘In a nutshell, then – how much the wiser are we?’

  DS Jones contrives a hopeful expression.

  ‘At the London end, Guv?’ (Skelgill nods.) ‘Ivan Tregilgis was popular with his colleagues and the ladies. Dermott Goldsmith wasn’t. The latter was immature and probably jealous of the former. Tregilgis had a relationship with Krista Morocco at the same time as he was engaged to Miriam – likely as not of a sexual nature. Somebody got pregnant. Both of these females continue to b
e economical with information.’ It is not a lot, and she grins reluctantly. And then, as if in mitigation, she adds an unexpected postscript. ‘And you’re not a bad dancer.’

  Caught of guard, all Skelgill can do is scoff.

  ‘That proves conclusively you can’t remember anything about last night.’

  However, he seems to be warmed by the compliment, and it perhaps insulates him from the cold reality that they are not making the requisite progress. In due course, he comes around to an acceptance of this situation.

  ‘I can hardly go swanning in and tell her we’ve cracked it, though.’

  On behalf of both of them, DS Jones becomes defensive in her tone.

  ‘I don’t see what more we could be doing, Guv?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘I’ve been wondering if I should have taken a leaf out of Smart’s book?’

  DS Jones looks alarmed. Skelgill refers to a fellow Inspector, DI Alec Smart – his bitter rival for plum cases and their attendant accolades, and a character with whom he has little in common and even less respect for. Smart, on the other hand, seems to make it his business to be as antagonistic towards Skelgill as any opportunity allows – a singularity that Skelgill suspects extends to snitching on him to the Chief.

  ‘But what good would that do, Guv?’

  Skelgill shrugs. They both know that DI Smart would, on the very first morning, have had the whole Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates crowd put through as near third-degree interrogation as he could have got away with.

  ‘Maybe someone would have cracked – under the stress of the situation.’

  DS Jones seems determined that this would not be the case.

  ‘Perhaps if it were a crime of passion, Guv – but not if it were premeditated – they’d have had their excuses at the ready. I think we’ve done the only sensible thing – and that’s to look into the possible motives.’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘You know, Jones, I think – I feel – it’s even simpler than that. Remember when we sat down beside Bass Lake – having breakfast?’

  ‘I liked that, Guv.’

  Skelgill glances at her in surprise – this is not the response he is aiming to elicit. He continues, regardless.