‘Just as well you prefer Indian to Italian.’
But Skelgill’s black humour does not allay her alarm. She checks to see DS Leyton is now preoccupied with placing their order. Wide-eyed she reaches across and presses her hand on Skelgill’s wrist.
‘I’m only seeing this now, Guv – since hearing Catriona Brodie’s account. Will Liddell’s got this way about him – insidiously reassuring – he makes you feel important.’
‘I must try it on the Chief.’
Again his flippant rejoinder is ineffectual. There is a rising note of desperation in DS Jones’s voice.
‘Guv – I was falling for it. It’s a kind of grooming.’
Skelgill stares at his subordinate.
‘Jones – Catriona Brodie’s a tough cookie – and she fell for it.’
Now DS Jones agonises.
‘Guv – what I’m saying – I doubt if she’s the only victim.’
15. LONDON
Friday, noon
‘I recognise this street, Leyton.’
DS Leyton chuckles.
‘I’m not surprised, Guv – it’s where you walloped that knifeman – that time you got your mugshot in the Evening Standard.’
Indeed, Skelgill is subsumed by a flashback – a blur of action and adrenaline – as they pass the vaguely familiar entrance to a restaurant that is guarded by a burly doorman, built like a rhino, incongruous in his pristine fur felt top hat and smart Crombie overcoat – and yet Skelgill overhears him greet in dulcet tones an uber-trendy young couple who make a dash from a taxi that has pulled up with a jolt at the kerbside.
‘Look at that, Guv!’
DS Leyton’s words are hissed, his voice awed.
‘What, Leyton?’
‘That was Jamie Knobble – you know – plays for Spurs?’
As the two detectives continue past, Skelgill cranes his neck – but all he gets is a glimpse of the girl’s long tanned legs beneath a micro-skirt as she totters on high heels after her famous companion – and a black look from the doorman who thinks he is ogling her.
‘Can’t say I do, Leyton.’
‘He’s just broken through into the England team, Guv – they reckon he’ll be our saviour – deadliest striker since Jimmy Greaves – scored a hat-trick on his debut in that World Cup qualifier against Gibraltar.’
Skelgill scowls. He supports the national side out of patriotic duty, but has little detailed knowledge of the goings on in football – or most popular sports, come to that. And certainly he has long given up any hopes of England ever again winning the World Cup.
‘What are we doing playing Gibraltar? I thought that was supposed to be part of Britain.’
DS Leyton flashes his superior a sideways glance, uncertain if he is taking the mickey.
‘Well – so’s Scotland part of Britain, Guv – but we still play ’em. In fact we’re in the same group as the Jocks an’ all.’ He shakes his head despondently. ‘I’m not happy about that – they always raise their game against England – it’s not fair competition. Our lot should have let them win more often, back in the day – not just that consolation Bannockburn malarkey – then maybe they wouldn’t be so desperate to beat us now.’
Skelgill does not respond. He experiences a moment of reflection. To a degree, there is merit in carrying something of the underdog in one’s soul – it does indeed enable the fighting spirit to draw upon some deep well of inner resilience. But it is a trait best kept to oneself. Allowed to manifest itself in public, it rapidly decays – like an apple cut in two that oxidises in the air – becomes bitter, a chip on the shoulder; it loses sympathy. It is a battle he fights in almost every unsolved case. Clearly, at the outset, the detective is the underdog – often there is little to go on – and all concerned appreciates this. But in his game patience quickly wears thin. The ‘powers that be’ are fickle, one day supportive, the next harbouring unreasonable expectations of progress – perhaps having made brash commitments to their own bosses, or the media and the public. At such a juncture Skelgill knows there is little point in pleading underdog – or bad luck or lack of resources – not least when he has promoted the case.
In the first hours of the death of Scarlett Liddell becoming a police matter, he felt strongly there was something awry. It was not a sentiment he could quantify – but he carried with him some echo of the young woman’s vitality when she called out to him from their pleasure boat – having no idea who he was, or that forty-eight hours later he would be investigating her apparent suicide. And this initial discord – characterised by consensus with DS Jones as an all-pervasive sibilance – it kept him going. Further, when some intuition drew him to Catriona Brodie (did he experience subliminally some inexplicable incarnation of Scarlett Liddell?) – there ensued prima facie a vital breakthrough. But it is a breakthrough only of sorts.
Will Liddell has perhaps been exposed – and this unmasking might account for some fraction of Skelgill’s unease: in particular the guardedness of Will Liddell’s coterie. It would be natural to close ranks – even if they did not really know themselves for what purpose. But Catriona Brodie’s revelation – now a statement signed and sealed that sees Will Liddell confined in custody while matters proceed – has merely opened up an entirely new front on Scottish soil – under the jurisdiction of the Scottish police, a charge of sexual assault, which Will Liddell flatly denies. It has shed no new light whatsoever on the death of Scarlett Liddell. Skelgill and his team are no closer to disproving suicide, to which the circumstantial evidence overwhelmingly points. And thus the rapidly growing burden of intolerance that Skelgill feels heaped upon him from above.
Hence, today’s arrangement. While DS Jones is delegated to desk research on various unspecified aspects of the Greenmire case (reluctantly accepting her superior’s decision that she is best equipped for such), Skelgill and DS Leyton have travelled to London to see what they can unearth. Although Skelgill’s optimism is roughly on a par with his hopes for the national football team, Jamie Knobble or not, DS Leyton is by comparison chipper. Back on home turf, he swaggers through Covent Garden, specifically the irregular maze of narrow streets between Charing Cross Road and – ironically, it seems to Skelgill – their destination of Bow Street, where the London branch of Liddell Acorns Incorporated is domiciled.
*
‘So is this in fact the head office, madam?’
Marina Vanity, Director of Human Resources – an exceptionally well-groomed suntanned blonde in her mid-fifties – casually tilts her head to one side. Beneath a composed exterior (which may not be entirely natural) Skelgill detects caution in brown eyes that are watchful and shrewd. This is despite that the detectives have made it clear they are investigating the death of Scarlett Liddell – and that they have no connection to the separate inquiry occurring north of the border, which has seen Chairman and Chief Executive Will Liddell detained by the Scottish force.
‘The holding company is registered in Edinburgh, Inspector – however, many of the senior functions are based here in London. There are significant economies of scale when it comes to sourcing external resources, such as finance and advertising, for which London is an international hub.’ Her vocabulary and clear enunciation tells she is an intelligent and educated woman. ‘And then, if an organisation is to retain the top talent, there are personal factors that cannot be ignored.’
‘What would they be, madam?’
She appears to suspect Skelgill of being disingenuous; however her reply is delivered in a matter-of-fact tone.
‘For higher earners there are significant tax disadvantages of moving to Scotland, especially if one intends to own property.’ She reaches out, immaculately manicured fingers seem to hover above an electronic tablet that lies upon the coffee table between them; she squints at the display. ‘And today it is 18 degrees in London, 4 degrees in Edinburgh.’
These are not the answers Skelgill has anticipated – and any mention of the climate is likely to lure him off track, not least the
uselessness of the compressed Celsius scale if one is an angler, when a degree or two of water temperature can mean the difference between success and failure. However, he refrains from responding along such lines, or even mentally converting the figures to his favoured Fahrenheit.
‘That didn’t put off Scarlett Liddell from transferring to Edinburgh.’
The woman regales him with a look of what might be mild annoyance, mostly but not entirely concealed.
‘Paradoxically, for a more junior employee the cost of living would be significantly less than London.’ She flashes a half-smile that seems constrained by the taut skin of her cheeks. ‘Regardless, when ambitious young people are building their careers they will set aside personal considerations.’
‘And you would describe Scarlett Liddell as ambitious.’
Skelgill’s tone is insistent; however on this point she does not demur.
‘Certainly, Inspector – but we would expect nothing less – it is a key criterion of our selection process. There is little like ambition to drive superior performance.’
Skelgill perhaps inadvertently glances at DS Leyton, who sits hunched at an angle to him – and who looks decidedly on the defensive.
‘And what was the background to Scarlett Liddell joining the company?’
The woman now raises the tablet and manipulates the screen – she gazes at it for a moment, and then lowers it, as though she has sufficiently refreshed her memory.
‘She was Scarlett Robertson, then of course – as indeed she was during her entire employ.’ She looks inquiringly at the detectives. They know this fact from their records, but it has not been a matter of conversation – although at this juncture Skelgill wonders if a different name casts her in a different light, and speaks of a life independent of Will Liddell. Meanwhile Marina Vanity is continuing. ‘She obtained a First in French from St Andrews and an MBA with Distinction from INSEAD-Sorbonne. She joined our graduate scheme four years ago, aged twenty-four. It was her first job from university.’
Skelgill ponders this information.
‘Mr Liddell studied at St Andrews University.’
Marina Vanity’s resolute gaze seems to flicker. Will Liddell is probably the one person who does not have a CV on the company system.
‘So I believe, Inspector – though of course they would not have overlapped, by any stretch of the imagination.’
There is perhaps the faintest note of irritation in the woman’s tone – could it be that a reminder of the age gap between Will and Scarlett Liddell irks her? Or something along such lines? But rather than explore this notion, Skelgill simply nods.
‘Happen Scarlett Liddell would have known what she was letting herself in for.’ Skelgill says this rather absently, and indeed he seems to be trying to read a certificate mounted on the wall behind Marina Vanity, so he does not see the fleeting look of alarm that crosses her features. He turns his sights back upon her. ‘Weather wise.’
‘Ah – I see what you mean, Inspector.’
The woman is once again composed. Unblinking, she awaits the next question. Skelgill duly obliges.
‘How about her employment record, madam?’
Asked of a head of HR this is a somewhat open-ended inquiry. But her answer is succinct.
‘In a word, impressive, Inspector.’
Skelgill does not respond, other than after a few moments he gives a nod of encouragement. She proceeds without referring to the tablet.
‘She completed our induction programme in half the normal time. She was promoted twice in a year while based here in London – and again when she got the move to the spirits division in Edinburgh. The subsequent assignment to Will’s acquisition unit also involved an upgrade. She was by all measures a high-flyer.’
Skelgill is looking pensive. He wonders if beneath the professional exterior he detects once again a hint of resentment.
‘How would a person get all these promotions?’
He poses the question in a rather self-deprecating manner, indeed almost forlornly – and yet Marina Vanity seems to read some innuendo into his words, for her countenance stiffens.
‘Good old-fashioned hard work, Inspector – the secret weapon of many a successful executive.’
Indeed her tone is a mite disparaging – a subtle antipathy that may be aimed at the two men who sit before her; in their late thirties, they cannot in her estimation have excelled in their chosen careers – and by the standards of their conversation their progress up the corporate ladder has been excessively laboured. Skelgill, however, does not let her manner derail him.
‘Could you elaborate on that, madam?’
That Skelgill persists perhaps obliges her to moderate her attitude.
‘Of course – I did not have day-to-day contact with Scarlett.’ She straightens in her chair, a little self-importantly. ‘But she established a reputation for delivering projects ahead of schedule to an impeccable standard – working long hours – whatever it took. She was single – so she had the luxury of choice in that regard.’
‘But she was a commuter, was she?’
‘She lodged with a relative – an aunt – at Beaconsfield, I believe.’
Skelgill racks his brains for rivers that might help him get his bearings – he has in mind that Beaconsfield is within striking distance of the Thames – which would place it somewhere west of the capital. DS Leyton clears his throat to attract his superior’s notice.
‘M40, Guv. A good hour or more in a motor – could be double on a bad day. Best bet’s the train to Marylebone. Then Bakerloo and Piccadilly lines to Covent Garden – or Shanks’s pony from Piccadilly Circus.’
Thus enlightened, Skelgill turns back to Marina Vanity; she is watching DS Leyton through narrowed eyes, as though she may hitherto have underestimated the inspector’s largely silent and brooding companion.
‘Where do your executives stay when then come down from Edinburgh?’
She tilts back her head and regards Skelgill a little superciliously.
‘Will is a member of a club – The Dickman.’ She says it as though of course he must know it – but that she probably thinks he doesn’t, and it has the effect of a put-down. ‘Otherwise there is no shortage of local hotels.’
‘In the year she was here – who did Scarlett Liddell work for?’
Marina Vanity looks like she might be about to correct the errors in Skelgill’s grammar.
‘She – she was in the European marketing department in our fragrances division. That’s headed up by Andy Organ.’
‘And he’s still with you?’
‘Yes – he’s Marketing Manager.’
‘Perhaps if we could have a word with him.’
Skelgill’s response is more demand than question, and for the first time he sees a wrinkle in her smooth brow. But she picks up the tablet and begins to tap out some words. When she has finished she inhales through the narrow reptilian slits of her nostrils.
‘I have messaged him on our internal system.’ She glances again at the screen and swipes a couple of times. ‘I can see he is in a meeting with the advertising agency for another half an hour – but he should be free after that.’
Skelgill nods.
‘And what about someone at the same level as Scarlett Liddell – someone she worked alongside?’
Again Marina Vanity interrogates her tablet. It is half a minute before she finds a solution to her satisfaction.
‘Leonora Cornock-Wilson was on the same graduate intake – and she still works in Andy Organ’s team. Would you like me to see if she is available, Inspector?’
*
‘So – we have a pyramid organisation – one joins as a graduate trainee – that is called Junior Brand Manager – and then a series of potential promotions: Assistant Brand Manager, Brand Manager, Senior Brand Manager, Group Brand Manager. The next job above that is Marketing Manager. Since we have so many companies in the group, it is not a case of ‘dead man’s shoes’ – there is usually an opportunity as
soon as one is ready for the next level of responsibility.’
‘And you’re what, Miss?’
The young woman looks a little disconcerted, being called ‘Miss’ by Skelgill – perhaps it emphasises the gravity of the interview – that these are the police and a meeting with them can never really be a casual chat.
‘So – I joined as a graduate – I’m now a Brand Manager – I look after Male Grooming in the Eurozone countries.’
Skelgill is unable to suppress a scowl. That there can be two prominent explanations – personal and political – rather hides that it is most definitely in relation to the former – ‘male grooming’ being an oxymoron in Skelgill’s lexicon. He glances at DS Leyton, of whom it must be said also has a look of some trepidation going about his unmoisturised jowls.
‘You worked with Scarlett Liddell – Scarlett Robertson, as she was?’
‘So – we were on the same induction programme – subsequently we were both placed in fragrances – we had similar tasks and responsibilities – we just worked on different brands.’
Skelgill’s frown persists. It is dawning upon him that the young woman – aged 26, she has told them – has probably thought through the idea that she might be interviewed about Scarlett Liddell – perhaps even wished for it – for she seems eager with her replies. But he has also realised she has a most annoying trait – to preface each reply with a stressed ‘so’ – a modern affliction that has joined usage such as ‘absolutely’ when a person means ‘yes’ and ‘literally’ when they mean ‘almost’ (but not literally!) – and it further adds to the impression that her answers are rehearsed. While she explains exactly which brands of snake oil she and Scarlett Liddell purveyed, Skelgill half-listening assesses her appearance and deportment. She is well dressed – certainly in what he imagines would be called ‘trendy gear’ – and she has an expensive haircut and manicured nails – and she wears subtle make-up. But to his eye she is plain looking, rather thin and flat-chested, tall – indeed when she stood up to shake their hands in the meeting room assigned for their discussion she seemed stooping and self-conscious of her height. Moreover something in her manner betrays an underlying anxiety – she glances away each time to complete her answers. She is clearly bright and probably highly competent – but if the impression he is forming is correct she is probably the sort of competition that the ambitious Scarlett Liddell would have swatted aside fairly mercilessly.
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 16