Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1)

by Bruce Beckham

  ‘What about evidence, Guv?’

  ‘It’s in my head.’ He compresses his lips and narrows his eyes. Both hands grip the steering wheel, his arms straight out in front. ‘At the moment.’

  DS Jones is silent for a minute or so.

  ‘So, what are we doing, Guv?’

  ‘Joining the party.’

  ‘The GT&A gathering?’

  ‘Aye.’

  She is perplexed.

  ‘How, Guv? What will we do?’

  ‘We’ll cross that bridge when we reach it.’ He grins wryly. ‘If I’m right, Jones – tonight the curry’s on me.’

  As they skim above the Esk at Metal Bridge Skelgill, out of habit, cranes to check the tide and glean a tantalising glimpse of the distant Solway. Another minute or so and they cross the border, sweeping past Gretna, shrouded in its memories.

  ‘Here it comes, Guv.’

  DS Jones refers to the plump drops of rain that begin to spatter the windscreen, exploding like Chinese water bomblets. The warm front has made its landfall, and is rapidly overhauling their flight to the Scottish capital.

  *

  ‘You brought the weather, Danny.’ DS Findlay’s greeting is of his regular sardonic genre. ‘Usually it comes fae Glasgae.’

  ‘You’ll be calling me Jonah, next – and that’s all we need.’

  ‘I’d better drive then.’

  This brief conversation has been conducted through car windows, and now Skelgill and DS Jones scramble to keep dry, as they make a dash for DS Findlay’s vehicle. They have rendezvoused at a sprawling shopping centre beside the city bypass. Families are already arriving; ill equipped for the weather they march huddled and hunched in their hoodies for the entrance. Small boys break away to stamp in puddles, and then have their ears clipped before they dodge into the mall where they can skylark and shoplift unsupervised.

  ‘You guys nae got any waterproofs?’

  ‘I’m hoping we shan’t need them, Cam.’

  DS Findlay nods.

  ‘Aye, well – we can park right outside their hotel – it’s down in the New Town, Great King Street.’

  DS Findlay’s chosen route takes them first through a new business park of burgeoning brick and glass structures, the developers’ contribution to the green belt. Next come housing estates of unkempt privet hedges and rendered post-war tenements. Parked cars are thin on the ground, and those present reflect the air of austerity that pervades the district.

  Soon they join the main Glasgow road, turning east for Edinburgh city centre. At Roseburn, a narrow canyon of traditional Victorian tenements with small shops at ground level, Skelgill asks DS Findlay to pull over. DS Jones gazes through the rain-streaked glass – there is a nail bar, a Greggs, a sauna. As Skelgill clambers out she might wonder if he intends to make a purchase – Greggs, most likely? But he dashes back some fifty or so yards to the bridge, and leans over the parapet. Beneath, the Water of Leith is beginning to run swift and dark. He returns, apparently unperturbed by the wetting of his shirt.

  ‘What was it, Guv?’

  ‘Just wanted a look at the river.’

  DS Findlay gives him a questioning glance, but asks no questions.

  ‘Looks like it’s rising, Cam.’

  ‘The only flood plain’s back at Murrayfield – after that it cuts through a gorge – it comes up quick, Danny – all this tarmac, all these rooftops – there’s nowhere else fae the water to go.’

  Skelgill nods pensively.

  Another five minutes and they are rumbling across the rain-washed cobbles of the New Town. As the intensity of the downpour grows, water begins literally to wash in waves down the hill towards the river at Stockbridge. The drains are simply overwhelmed by the volume, and themselves become boiling springs that add to the flow tide. DS Findlay casts an arm to his left.

  ‘Guy who discovered chloroform lived just along there. Simpson.’

  ‘You make it sound like you knew him, Cam.’

  DS Findlay chuckles.

  ‘And Robert Louis Stevenson used to play in these gardens as a boy.’

  Skelgill grins.

  ‘You should get a Saturday job, Cam – tour guide.’

  Indeed, at this moment a tourist bus struggles up the hill on the opposite side of the road. The open top deck is bereft of passengers, while a few huddled figures crouch in the steamy shadows beneath.

  ‘Here we are.’

  DS Findlay pulls up outside the hotel where the Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates crowd are staying. The building forms part of an attractive Georgian terrace that runs the entire length of the street – perhaps half a mile in all, and is mirrored by identical buildings opposite.

  ‘Know anything about the place?’

  ‘Can’t say I do, Danny.’

  DS Jones leans forward between the seats.

  ‘Guv – I read about it – it’s owned by a celebrity chef, from Berlin – it’s one of these trendy boutique hotels.’

  ‘That figures.’

  DS Findlay switches off the engine. He has double-parked, and this is his private car – he will have to keep a sharp eye out for meanies – there is no respite on a Saturday for motorists.

  ‘Do they ken you’re coming, Danny?’

  Skelgill shakes his head.

  ‘Didn’t want to give them a head start.’

  *

  But head start they have got.

  From reception they are conducted to meet the manager – a young German-sounding man of barely above college age. He wears short-cropped blonde hair, a collarless black jacket above a black t-shirt and jeans, and invisible-framed spectacles in the latest mode. His cobalt-blue eyes dwell over-long on DS Jones – for Skelgill’s liking, at least – and he seats himself opposite her rather than Skelgill. His room is a minimalistic affair where two stark black leather sofas mirror each another across a low glass coffee table. Upon this rests the only apparent concession to the traditional office, a slim black laptop.

  ‘The Goldsmith party – they have left to go on their treasure hunt, Inspector.’

  Skelgill looks alarmed. He checks his watch – it is only just after ten-thirty. He had banked on a far more leisurely itinerary.

  ‘What time did they go?’

  ‘I believe you have just missed the last of them.’ He pulls a tiny mobile device from inside his jacket and presses a pre-set number. ‘Trudi – you organised the printing of the Goldsmith admin? Ja – could you please bring a copy – for the police.’

  DS Jones glances at Skelgill. He nods in acknowledgement. It has not escaped their notice that Tregilgis has been dropped from both references made to the company name.

  Trudi arrives in a matter of seconds. Slim, suntanned and sporting the same peroxide-and-black colour scheme as her superior officer, she also exudes the same Teutonic efficiency. She hands her boss a sheaf of papers; he passes them on to Skelgill. Evidently these details were emailed through last night and she has printed and collated them. They comprise a series of treasure hunt questions, and a separate sheet that details the teams (each comprising two people) and their starting times. They departed at three-minute intervals, starting at ten o’clock – the last of them leaving just a few minutes ago.

  It emerges also that Trudi acted as ‘neutral’ starter, and that she has their mobile phones safely in her possession – to prevent any enterprising cheating en route.

  Skelgill peruses the running order. It begins:

  10:00hrs Team 1 – Goldsmith/Rubicon

  10:03hrs Team 2 – Goldsmith/Stark

  10:06hrs Team 3 – Tregilgis/Morocco

  And so on, continuing up to Team 10, which departed at 10:27hrs.

  Skelgill’s features darken as he stares at the combination of names before him.

  *

  ‘Cameron!’

  Skelgill sounds a little breathless as he bangs his way into the car – he and DS Jones have sprinted from the manager’s office – much to the Germans’ surprise – and that of DS Jones, w
ho at least left them with a nonplussed gesture of farewell.

  ‘Get your tour-guide hat on.’

  ‘Aye, right – what’s the story?’

  ‘They’ve gone – we need to find them.’

  ‘What do they look like?’

  ‘They’re all wearing black rain ponchos – standard issue from the hotel.’

  ‘Which way?’

  ‘You tell us, Cam.’

  41. THE PRETTY CROSSING

  ‘Aye – it’s a treasure hunt.’ DS Findlay glances over the rim of his reading glasses at his two colleagues. ‘These are clues, see.’

  ‘We know that, Cam!’ Skelgill sounds uncharacteristically exasperated. ‘We need you to decipher them.’

  DS Findlay takes a second look, muttering under his breath as he reads. He pats the papers with the back of his hand.

  ‘This is gobbledegook, Danny.’

  Skelgill lets out a hiss of frustration – but DS Findlay cannot be blamed. He might have a good knowledge of Edinburgh, but he cannot be expected to understand the cryptic clues. The three of them now pore over the first page – DS Jones leaning forward from the back seat, and Skelgill and DS Findlay in the front. Rain drums on the roof of the car and streams down the windscreen. Inside, the glass is steamed up all around them. Skelgill wrings his hands.

  ‘We need to get ahead of the first group – then we can intercept the lot of them.’

  DS Jones points to the top of the page.

  ‘Look – it’s supposed to last about two hours – it says they start getting penalty points if they take longer – so they’re probably not even halfway yet.’

  ‘So where’s halfway?’

  DS Findlay turns the page. There are twenty clues in all. He jabs a sturdy index finger at item number eleven.

  ‘What about this?’ He reads aloud the clue:

  “At the pretty crossing below the weir, how many flags fly on the castle – my deer?”

  DS Jones is first to comment.

  ‘Think that’s a typo? Deer spelt with two e’s?’

  They shake their heads uncertainly. Now Skelgill pipes up.

  ‘The weir, Cam – how many rivers are there in Edinburgh?’

  ‘Just the Water of Leith – and it’s not far fae here – barely five minutes’ walk down to Stockbridge.’

  ‘What about a weir?’

  ‘There are several – all the city’s flour mills used to be water-powered – so they needed the weirs to build up a head of water – then that would feed into the lades that served the mills.’

  ‘Aye, aye – okay.’ Skelgill’s patience is tested. ‘We need the one upstream of the “pretty crossing” – what does that mean?’

  DS Findlay shakes his head.

  ‘Dinnae ken – I’ve never heard of it.’

  ‘I know that, Cam – it’s disguised – but it must ring some bell – come on Cam, think!’

  ‘Well – “crossing” must mean bridge – the most spectacular one’s the Dean Bridge. And you can probably see the castle fae there.’

  ‘Okay – let’s try that.’

  They fasten seatbelts and DS Findlay sets his jaw determinedly. He employs his local knowledge to avoid the shopper-traffic on Queen Street, and instead takes a winding, sliding route over the cobbles through Royal Circus, crossing the Water of Leith at India Place, giving them a glimpse of the rushing burn, stained brown by the flood, rippling urgently through the heart of the old city. At Dean Bridge, Telford’s great sandstone viaduct that soars twelve stories above the water, DS Findlay bumps the car halfway up onto the high kerb. DS Jones volunteers to jump out to perform a reconnaissance.

  ‘Under your seat – there’s an umbrella.’

  She heeds DS Findlay’s offer – it proves to be a sturdy golf umbrella with a tartan pattern. She peers over the parapet, and looks all around. Then she jogs a little way beyond the city end of the bridge, before returning to the car.

  ‘I can’t see anything, Guv – no sign of them – and nothing to fit with the clue – you can’t see the castle – even from beyond the bridge.’

  DS Findlay is knitting his brows.

  ‘There’s another bridge – much older.’ He gestures across in an upstream direction. ‘There’s a wee lane to it – Bell’s Brae – just past the end here. You might call it pretty.’

  Skelgill nods his assent.

  DS Findlay’s next couple of manoeuvres are not taken from the Police Driving Handbook, and earn him reproachful honks from affronted motorists whose path he illegally crosses.

  ‘Aye – up yer erse.’

  Skelgill grins, happy at least to see his colleague getting into the spirit of things. He knows that once DS Findlay is roused, he is a man you would want on your side. The route takes them bumping down more slippery cobbles, a steep and narrow causeway that leads into the Dean Village, the historic community improbably crammed into the gorge. This bridge, low and rugged, is of an altogether more rudimentary construction, and is only wide enough for one vehicle at a time to pass. They halt just before it.

  ‘Thing is, Danny – there’s no way of seeing the castle fae down here.’

  ‘What if it’s not the castle?’

  This suggestion comes from DS Jones. DS Findlay shakes his head doubtfully.

  ‘But there isnae another castle – we’ve only got the one.’

  Skelgill is looking at the buildings around them – more akin to the Old Town, their stones appear hand-hewn and irregular. The planked door of a seventeenth century portal swings open, and a young woman wearing a short fur coat and leather trousers makes a high-heeled dash for a silver 4X4 parked nearby.

  ‘What’s on your mind, Danny?’

  Skelgill furrows his brow, his eyes narrowing.

  ‘High bridges – deep waters – I don’t like it, Cam.’

  DS Findlay nods.

  ‘Aye – we get the odd jumper.’ He shakes his head. ‘Mainly off the Dean Bridge.’

  Skelgill seems to gather himself.

  ‘Okay – they’re not here. Where’s the next bridge?’

  ‘Next one’s a wee footbridge – just by the old ford. Couple of hundred yards – you’ll see it if you get out here and look upstream. That was the way into the city before there were any bridges – you can see the cobbles disappearing intae the water and coming back out the other side.’

  ‘Cameron.’ DS Jones’s voice suddenly sounds a note of optimism. ‘You just said ford – what if crossing means ford?’

  ‘Aye – could be.’

  DS Jones persists, her crossword-solving skills coming to the fore.

  ‘Is there a pretty ford – a scenic ford – a beautiful ford – a belle ford?’

  ‘Aye – there’s Belford – that’s the name of the next main bridge. Aye – and now you mention it – it’s got these stone coats of arms with the castle on it. And there’s a weir just beyond it.’

  Skelgill is already tearing off his seatbelt and simultaneously wrenching open the door of the car.

  ‘How do I get there, Cam?’

  ‘Aye – well – ye can go along beside the river – or we can just drive round to the top – the road crosses by the old Dragonara – the hotel.’

  ‘I remember it – I did a gig there, once.’

  Skelgill slams shut the door, and DS Findlay has to lower the electric window to complete the conversation; Skelgill is itching to run.

  ‘D’ye want the brolly, Danny?’

  ‘It’ll slow me down – I’ll meet you there – if you see any of their crowd, round them up – keep them safe.’

  And Skelgill sprints away.

  *

  It takes Skelgill a minute to get his bearings. From Dean Path the riverside walkway is accessed either via the footbridge to which DS Findlay referred, or a small detour around an old Victorian school, now converted into apartments. Following his nose he takes the latter course, and finds himself sliding down to the water’s edge where the ancient cobbled ford submerges. As he swings r
ight to pass under the footbridge, he realises that the level has risen above the path – but he plunges in and wades until the ground rises. Starting to jog again, the route now brings him past a huge weir, ten feet high or more, its thunderous roar drowning out the hollow metallic ring of his footsteps as he runs up the angled pontoon that forms the walkway at this point. In the maelstrom beneath the fall a mass of objects bob and leap, trapped by the backwash – luminescent tennis balls, punctured footballs, branches, an Irn Bru can. Clumps of discoloured foam occasionally break away and sail downstream. He tops the weir and increases his pace – now the footpath is almost level, a thin ribbon of slick tarmac that winds beneath the stretched ashes and sycamores that inhabit this section of the gorge, ivy-clad and straining to the heavens for light. He rounds a bend and suddenly comes upon a woman in a Mackintosh walking some kind of doodle. The woman steps back to let him pass, but the unfortunate dog needs a haircut and its rain-soaked ringlets obscure its vision. Skelgill has to hurdle it – he mumbles an apology but does not break stride. What looks like a good ironing board sails past – as if to remind him of a much-postponed task that awaits him back home – and an unopened charity bag featuring a picture of a guy in a wheelchair, wearing a climbing helmet and being precariously raised up a rock face. For a second this image grabs his attention – perhaps it feels like a portent of things to come.

  And now he comes upon Belford Bridge. Though only half the height of the Dean Bridge, it towers a good sixty feet above him – high enough for its parapet to seem indistinct through the sheeting rain and the mist thrown up by the succession of weirs. Indeed, he can hear the roar of the next waterfall, obscured by the great pier on his bank. He slows to a walk, wiping with both hands the rain and perspiration from his eyes and forehead. Overhead, sure enough, one on either side of the centre, there is a stone crest – an heraldic representation of a castle, flanked by the figure of a woman and an animal of uncertain genus – the deer, it must be. On each of the three turrets of the castle flies a pendant. How many flags? Answer: three. He has found the site of the clue.