Murder in Adland (Detective Inspector Skelgill Investigates Book 1)

by Bruce Beckham

  DS Findlay is shaking his head.

  ‘I cannae believe we didn’t get the knife.’

  ‘Aye – but remember, Cam – there’s a kukri goes missing and next thing it’s found hidden in a cistern – why would we think it was one of the hotel’s kitchen knives when they’ve all been neatly returned to their place in the rack – perfectly sterilised, I should add. Nothing reported missing – so it was easily overlooked.’

  DS Jones looks suddenly a little anxious.

  ‘What about the hotel’s knives now, Guv – hadn’t we better get someone over there – get them under lock and key?’

  Skelgill smirks knowingly.

  ‘Don’t worry, Jones they’re in the back of my car.’

  Now both the sergeants shake their heads at the incorrigible Skelgill. It seems his first port of call upon disembarking at Peel Wyke had been a clandestine visit to Bewaldeth Hall. He drains his glass and, as he does so, a new round of drinks is placed upon their table. Evidently the eagle-eyed and rather eccentric barman, an elderly chap in Buddy Holly spectacles and a maroon jacket that matches the décor, has been monitoring their progress. DS Findlay and he are acquainted, and have already been communicating in vernacular terms at the limits of their English guests’ comprehension. He hands over a twenty-pound note to the bartender.

  ‘Have one yersel’, Gus.’

  ‘Chu’ pal.’

  DS Findlay regards his fresh pint, and then casts about the interior of the pub.

  ‘Aye, well Danny – you came up on a whim – but yer saved the life of that lassie, Julia Rubicon.’

  Skelgill is reluctant to agree.

  ‘Cam – I reckon self-preservation saved the life of Julia Rubicon. How she hung on in that chimney I’ll never know. We just tidied up the loose ends. Or you did – with your rope – without that we’d have been lost.’

  DS Findlay grins ruefully.

  ‘I’ve had that in the boot for a guid ten years – can ye believe that’s the first time I’ve used it.’

  Skelgill nods, though his thoughts have drifted. In the hours between Elspeth Goldsmith’s incarceration and their arrival here for a recuperative beverage, he briefly interviewed the various actors in the past fortnight’s events. This included Julia Rubicon, who had been taken to the Accident and Emergency unit at the nearby Western General. Remarkably, she suffered only minor cuts and bruises, and – having been given a shower and a hospital dressing gown – was able to converse in surprisingly calm terms. Indeed, Skelgill was struck, both by the lack of tension in her demeanour, and the fact of the inadequate gown leaving little to the imagination. Having shared such a life-threatening and intimate ordeal only an hour or so earlier, it had been a peculiar meeting – and perhaps each of them, in its privacy, had felt a bond that was hard to put into words. As Skelgill had been about to depart, she had offered beguilingly to enlighten him further – if he happened to be staying in Edinburgh tonight?

  ‘So, Danny –’ DS Findlay rouses Skelgill from his reverie. ‘What about the murder itself – how did she do it?’

  Skelgill inhales, and looks around, blinking.

  ‘Aye, well – I bet the whole thing took no more than a couple of minutes. All she had to do was wander into the kitchen – pick a knife from the dishwasher – go out through the storeroom – and into Tregilgis’s room through the French door. Assuming it was her that had the master key – she’d have been able to unlock it earlier in the evening. That way, she completely avoided the corridor and any risk of being seen entering or leaving Room 10. She returns by the same route – locks the storeroom – puts the knife back in the dishwasher and re-sets it. In the morning, it’s going to look exactly as the kitchen staff had left it. She goes to the fridge – and comes out under cover of cheesecake. Joins Stark at the bar, and waits for the hue and cry to go up.’

  DS Jones is nodding.

  ‘Guv, do you think the kukri was planned or spur of the moment?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Dunno – she’d obviously done a recce on the place – she organises all their events – but it might only have occurred to her when she noticed Krista Morocco messing with it – except she picked the wrong one. Though it certainly put us off the scent for a while.’

  ‘So did the underwear, Guv.’

  ‘Aye – and that was a red herring.’ He shakes his head. ‘You were right about Julia Rubicon, Jones. Remember you said she was hiding something? As though she was expecting the questions about it?’

  DS Findlay interjects.

  ‘Why do you think the lassie kept quiet?’

  Skelgill purses his lips.

  ‘Because she thought she’d caused Miriam to kill Ivan Tregilgis – when it was just her clumsy way of trying to get them to break up. And then she was terrified that we’d find out she was in their room and try to pin it on her.’

  ‘So why was Elspeth Goldsmith trying to bump her off?’

  Skelgill nods pensively.

  ‘Combination of factors, I reckon, Cam. First, word of the underwear incident must have reached her. So now she starts to worry that someone might have seen her on the terrace, entering or leaving Room 10. Then Julia Rubicon starts acting all withdrawn – and next thing Elspeth receives a blackmail demand – in the mail brought to the office by Julia Rubicon. Time is running out – so she convinces Dermott Goldsmith that they should hold a second reunion – she sets up the treasure hunt, pretends the hotel have designed the questionnaire – and hatches a plot to make it look like Julia has committed suicide – confessing posthumously to Tregilgis’s murder.’

  ‘Who could have sent the notes, Guv?

  DS Jones’s question sounds rather apprehensive. Skelgill leans back against the wooden stall.

  ‘Don’t be surprised if that remains a mystery. But I don’t think anything more will come of it.’

  She raises her eyebrows, as if she can’t quite see his logic, but she continues nonetheless.

  ‘I still think Grendon Smith is the most likely candidate, Guv.’

  ‘Aye, well – we’ll leave that nasty piece of work to the boys in the Met.’

  ‘Krista Morocco will be relieved it’s all over, Guv.’

  Skelgill frowns and begins to nod.

  ‘I had an interesting chat with her earlier. It explained a thing or two. Between these four walls – I swore it wouldn’t need to come out – she had a miscarriage – Ivan Tregilgis the father. Apparently he was all for breaking off his engagement to Miriam. Then when she lost the baby, she insisted he go through with the wedding. She’s never told anyone, to avoid hurting Miriam or her husband.’

  DS Jones is nodding sympathetically.

  ‘She’s had a tough time, Guv – it didn’t look too good for her at one point – as far as the murder was concerned.’

  ‘Aye – ironic really – given Elspeth Goldsmith tried to position Miriam Tregilgis as the prime suspect – she had money to gain and the circumstantial evidence pointed to her. I actually wondered if it was going to be Miriam that took the fall along the river.’

  DS Findlay raises a finger.

  ‘Talk o’ the river, Danny. I had a word with the powers that be, while you were at the hospital. They’re going to take another look at the files on the death of Elspeth Goldsmith’s wee stepsister. And the death of both the MacClarty parents, come to that. We might be wanting her back when you’ve finished with her.’

  For a few moments they sit in silence but for the occasional sip of beer or water.

  ‘So it was down to greed in the end, Danny?’

  Skelgill shrugs.

  ‘Aye, well – mostly greed, I reckon, Cam. I don’t doubt she was jealous of Ivan Tregilgis – if only on her husband’s behalf. But getting Ivan out of the way before the sale could go through was worth a lot of money. They must have known he was heading for New York – so it was imperative she acted quickly.’

  ‘What about the briefcase, Guv – how are you so sure that was Dermott Goldsmith?’ />
  ‘Because this afternoon he told me yet more lies – that Ivan Tregilgis had left the document lying out in Room 10 for him to read – and that afterwards he put it back in Tregilgis’s open briefcase and scrambled the combination.’ Skelgill shakes his head. ‘So where did it go? Once Tregilgis was dead he probably realised there was a better deal to be done, and he spirited it away. We’ll have him bang to rights, don’t worry. Once he hears the words accessory to murder he’ll co-operate.’

  DS Jones is nodding thoughtfully.

  ‘Do you think they were in cahoots, Guv?’

  Now Skelgill shakes his head decisively.

  ‘Dermott Goldsmith’s a crook and a liar – but he’s not a killer – he’s not got the ruthless streak that she has. I’m certain she acted alone.’

  DS Findlay has finished his latest pint, and gestures to Skelgill’s almost-empty glass.

  ‘Same again, Danny?’

  Skelgill holds up an apologetic palm.

  ‘Much as I love your ale, Cam – I’d better call it a day – I’ve got an appointment at nine – I need to keep a clear head.’

  DS Jones glances up, while a grinning DS Findlay continues.

  ‘Oh, aye – and where’s that, Danny?’

  ‘Taj Mahal, Penrith.’

  ***