‘How did you get on with her?’
She seems surprised by this question; perhaps its unexpected informality.
‘We had a perfectly civil relationship.’
Skelgill picks up on what he senses is a rather euphemistic description.
‘But you wouldn’t say you were friends?’
‘Scarlett didn’t really socialise with the crowd.’
‘What – you mean with her colleagues?’
The girl nods.
‘There’s a bit of a tradition to go for a drink after work on the last Thursday of the month – you know, payday? People live in such disparate places – that’s how it works in the West End – decamp to a bar and get the last train home.’
‘But Scarlett Liddell didn’t do that?’
Now she shakes her head. Skelgill has a follow-up question.
‘Perhaps she had a boyfriend elsewhere?’
Leonora Cornock-Wilson looks doubtful.
‘She never spoke of anybody. My impression is that she would rather work late.’
‘And was she alone in doing that?’
‘Oh, no – it’s a hard-working culture – and the more senior one gets – there is something of an expectation – but Scarlett did it from the outset – and then as time went by she became quite obsessive.’ She pauses and reaches the long spread ringless fingers of both hands to adjust her hair, although to Skelgill’s eye it does not appear to need such attention. ‘I have seen her desk light on from the street when I have been heading for Covent Garden tube.’
Skelgill is pensive and silent for a moment. She has abandoned the conjunction ‘so’ – perhaps because he has moved her away from the stock questions she might anticipate. He casts an even more speculative line – like he would try an unpromising swim he has drifted past a couple of times, just in case he can draw an impulsive take. It is a variant on his earlier question.
‘What was she like?’
Perhaps predictably this also unsettles her. Clearly, there is a wide range of possible answers, from personality to appearance, from endearing character traits to irritating habits. Under scrutiny Leonora Cornock-Wilson bows to some felt obligation and rather blurts out her response.
‘She liked to be noticed.’
‘You mean by her bosses – for her quality of work?’
‘Actually – no – I mean that she dressed rather provocatively.’
‘Aye?’
The northern adverb carries sufficient inflexion for her to understand it is a request for more information.
‘Well – although she didn’t attend nights out – she always wore the sort of things one might get changed into for a special occasion – shorter skirts, silky tops, hair and make-up done – perfume – hah.’ She gives a little laugh – and then backtracks. ‘But – of course – at any time there were a dozen sample bottles on her desk.’
‘What about in the company, then – there must be plenty of single chaps wooing you young ladies?’
Leonora Cornock-Wilson folds her hands upon her lap and furrows her brow; it is the kind of body language that smacks of a schoolgirl caught writing rude words in a game of ‘Consequences’.
‘We have an unwritten rule – pro – er, discouraging staff relationships.’
Skelgill notes the modification of what might have been ‘prohibiting’.
‘Seems a bit draconian to me, Miss. What’s the harm – especially if you’re at the same level?’
His devil’s advocacy draws the return of the dreaded conjunction. It sounds like a well-versed rebuttal.
‘So – counter-intuitively it is a rather popular policy. Two people at the same level may not remain thus for very long. And once there is a disparity it brings scope for accusations of favouritism. I think everyone would rather work in an environment in which progress is based upon merit and it doesn’t feel like a perpetual speed-dating event.’
*
‘Scarlett Liddell must have been quite a loss, sir – when she got promoted to the job in Edinburgh?’
European Fragrances Marketing Manager Andrew Organ has something of the look of the proverbial rabbit in the headlights. Yet on the face of it, Skelgill’s question is perfectly reasonable – it is merely a restatement of facts they have gleaned in their discussions. Perhaps it is the man’s thick-lensed spectacles, which make his eyes appear to bulge, or the warmth of the afternoon sun on his back, this time of year sufficiently high in the sky to penetrate the west-facing office above surrounding buildings and spotlight Andrew Organ at his desk. However, Skelgill would not read too much into appearances – as he frequently reminds his colleagues, the sight of a police officer does strange things to some folk, guilty conscience or not. More salient to Skelgill is that the man seems to glance by reflex at a framed photograph on his desk – it faces away from the detectives, who have been invited to pull up chairs that are probably intended for junior staff when impromptu meetings are held. In his late thirties, Andrew Organ is of a birdlike appearance – probably he would be described as ‘geeky’ by uncharitable colleagues – he is tall and thin, with features that are all rather too large for his face, and protruding teeth too large for his mouth. His attire, though a new-looking ensemble of suit, shirt and tie, seems unhappy on his angular frame. He has rather unstylish lank black hair, and a pale though now flushed complexion.
‘Well – I, er – it is important for the organisation – that talent is allowed to develop.’ He wipes a hand across his brow. ‘It would be a bigger loss if someone in whom the company has invested felt their progress was thwarted and went instead to a competitor.’
He speaks quietly with a nondescript southern accent, his words clipped, perhaps out of anxiety.
‘Scarlett Liddell seemed to get promoted at record speed.’
‘I think you’ll find she held her own each time she moved up, Inspector.’
It is hard to tell from Skelgill’s expression whether or not he doubts this statement. However, he senses he should not discomfit the man more than is necessary – much as he seems a ripe candidate for bullying.
‘So what did Scarlett Liddell have that others didn’t?’
Andrew Organ leans his elbows on his desk and brings his hands together. There is a nervous flurry of fingertips – as if he is solving an imaginary Rubik’s Cube. His eyes acquire a glazed look, and he speaks while still wrestling with the invisible puzzle. It seems he does not dispute Skelgill’s assertion.
‘Well, er – she was certainly an achiever – she came here with uniform top grades.’ He pauses, and frowns – as though he is actually wondering himself – realising in hindsight that she did in fact progress with unseemly rapidity. ‘I suppose some people are innately more competitive than others – they have a will to win.’ He gazes at the detectives – he blinks behind the lenses, as if a little surprised to find them there. ‘They don’t just do a good job – they do it in a way that gets them noticed.’
Although Andrew Organ is the second person this afternoon to use the phrase, Skelgill does not appear happy with his analysis. In consequence, the man rather shrinks back – as though unwilling to fight his corner.
‘How did the move to Edinburgh come about, sir?’
Andrew Organ’s features become distressed; he looks perplexed, as though he is slightly panicked by his inability to recall basic detail.
‘I, er – we, er – we have a system of, er – ‘management by objectives’, we call it – everybody gets a monthly review from their line manager – so individual progress is monitored – and, er – at the same time there is a space on the company intranet that lists vacancies – we have hundreds of employees across many different subsidiaries.’ For a moment he resumes his work on the transparent Rubik’s Cube. ‘I moved from a market research role myself – I was previously in Fempro.’
‘Come again, sir?’
‘Oh, er – feminine protection – towels and tampons, you know?’ He looks inquiringly at the two detectives to see that
they clearly don’t – indeed now they are showing signs of distress. This seems to bolster his confidence. ‘It’s a very significant market – we estimate 40 billion dollars worldwide by the end of the decade – it grew by twice the global GDP rate last year – most, er – most men outside the industry are unaware of it. Combined with my research background – it meant I was able to bring an understanding of the female consumer – to my role in fragrances.’
He looks hopefully to Skelgill as if for his approbation – but Skelgill, unhappy in the pincer movement of ‘fempro’ and ‘fragrance’ is eager to get back on track.
‘You were saying, sir – how Scarlett Liddell moved to Edinburgh.’
Andrew Organ appears a little dejected.
‘Oh – yes – er, well – I can’t honestly remember which came first – you know, chicken or egg? But I recall speaking with Kevin Makepeace – at a departmental heads meeting – that she was in the running for a Senior Brand Manager’s job in his team. He was saying he doubted she’d have the experience necessary.’
Skelgill nods.
‘So, what – it was Scarlett Liddell that applied for the job – it wasn’t the company that moved her?’
‘Well – it was probably an element of each – I mean, er – obviously no one would be transferred if they didn’t want to go – especially when there’s a geographical upheaval involved.’ He glances again at the frame on his desk.
‘Did she have other choices?’
‘Oh – I dare say there were other vacancies. But I really can’t remember – it would have been about three years ago.’
‘And you were upset to see her leave, sir.’
Even Skelgill is a little surprised that his words come out lacking the inflection that would make the phrase a question. But if it is a subconscious insight it seems to strike its target.
‘Well – yes – I was.’ Andrew Organ appears defensive and at the same time flustered that Skelgill apparently knows this. ‘Not least – I, er – I was ready to promote her onto our flagship fragrance brand – but she decided quite reasonably that experience of a different market would stand her in good stead in the longer term.’
‘Did you try to get her to stay?’
With what is thus far uncharacteristic decisiveness the man shakes his head.
‘I could see her mind was made up.’
Skelgill is silent for a few moments.
‘How would you describe her – as regards being cooperative – say, on a scale of one to ten?’
Andrew Organ seems to react to this challenge – he produces an awkward smile that displays his piano-key array of teeth.
‘One would normally use a five-point scale for that sort of question, Inspector.’
If it is a diversionary tactic it is a curious one – and the man’s tone and demeanour are nothing if not ingenuous – as though he cannot let pass the professional discrepancy, no matter that he gainsays the uncompromising police inspector.
‘You see – a ten-point scale has no midpoint – and a significant proportion of respondents to a research questionnaire will wish to select what is effectively the ‘neither/nor’ option – viz. number three in the case of a five-point scale.’
Skelgill glances at DS Leyton, who appears to have tuned out and is mooning at the buildings on the opposite side of Bow Street. Meanwhile Andrew Organ is looking rather quizzically at Skelgill. Skelgill sighs and obliges with an appropriate prompt.
‘On a scale of one to five, then, sir?’
‘Actually, there is no single answer, Inspector – it would vary by occasion.’ He presses his fingertips together but this time there is no Rubik’s Cube, just a still void – perhaps a fortune-teller’s orb. He flashes a nervous grin at Skelgill ‘Mainly ones and fives.’
‘Why would that be, sir?’
‘Well – she, er – she was a charismatic young woman – just at times rather headstrong.’ He ponders for a moment, and shakes his head introspectively. ‘I suppose the two naturally go together in personalities that forge their way to the top – George Bernard Shaw’s ‘unreasonable man’, and all that.’
He continues to reflect upon this, ruefully it seems – perhaps that he is in life’s more reasonable camp – and that as such he harbours some regrets.
‘Was she a quitter?’
‘Oh, never, Inspector.’ The sharp question rouses him from his reverie. ‘Thwarted, she was more likely to come back at you twice as hard. That’s why it all seems so improbable.’
‘What does, sir?’
Andrew Organ looks at Skelgill almost impatiently, as though he considers he has not been paying proper attention.
‘That she committed suicide.’
Skelgill stares back severely.
‘When did you last see her, sir?’
The man lowers his eyes, somewhat submissively, as if the little outburst has exhausted his capacity to be combative.
‘To speak to – not since she left London. I saw her at a distance at the next annual conference – just over two years ago – but she was seated at the top table – she was working in Will Liddell’s corporate unit by then.’
‘So that’s a lot of water under the bridge, sir.’
The man twists his bony shoulders; his frame seems to writhe with discomfort, independent of the ill-fitting suit jacket. He shrugs despondently.
‘Who knows what demons a person conceals.’
But he offers no further explanation – and gazes once more at the picture on his desk; it seems to be the default for his woes. Skelgill rather impatiently stretches his arms behind his head – and in fact he rises and flexes his troublesome back – and then seems to notice something out of the window, where DS Leyton’s gaze has been preoccupied – he strides quite purposefully across, behind and a little to one side of Andrew Organ, and rests the heels of his hands on the sill – and looks out, down at the street level, for a moment or two before returning. However, he remains standing beside his chair. He glances at DS Leyton – before addressing Andrew Organ.
‘Happen we’d better get our skates on, sir – if we’re to get out of London before the rush hour. Looks lively down there already.’
The man’s expression seems to conflate relief with alarm.
‘Unfortunately rush hour is something of a misnomer, Inspector.’
Skelgill inclines his head towards DS Leyton, their designated driver.
‘Aye, well – we’ve got half of the M1 and most of the M6 to deal with after that.’
‘You might try the M40 to the Umberslade Interchange. Thence the M42 link runs directly onto the M6 Toll. With a fair wind you could be north of Birmingham by five-thirty.’
Skelgill looks at DS Leyton for corroboration. DS Leyton turns out a fleshy bottom lip and gives a non-committal shrug of his broad shoulders. It is an expression that speaks of ‘six-and-half-a-dozen’ – though he does not voice the sentiment. However he raises his bulk from the chair with an expiration of breath concomitant with the effort required. Skelgill does not compose any particular words of departure, or thanks, or future reference, but as he reaches for the door he turns to look at Andrew Organ – who has half-risen, appearing ungainly and gangly – and once again rather indecisive.
‘How did you get on with Scarlett Liddell – at a personal level, sir?’
The man seems to start – and his eyes dart about his desk, as though some answer might be gleaned from its contents. He looks up almost pleadingly at the detectives, as if he would rather not be asked.
‘I should have liked Scarlett to answer that question, Inspector – but now I shall never know.’
16. DETOUR
Friday, 5pm
‘Oh, no, my dear – I’m not a blood relative. We were neighbours of the Robertsons before they moved to France – when Scarlett was aged seven or eight. We had no children of our own and we used to take her out sometimes – and we had a little Pug of which she was rather fond. He was called Winston – after Winston Churchill – an
d she would insist on dressing him in her dolls’ clothes – which Winston never seemed to mind – although of course I don’t imagine the real Winston Churchill wore floral dresses.’
Skelgill nods amiably. The woman, Mrs Camelia Ivybridge, sole resident of a substantial and rambling half-timbered Buckinghamshire property constructed in mock Tudor style, perhaps in her late sixties, is the archetypal English elderly lady, a rather plump and fluffy concoction of grey hair and woollens moving slowly and serenely within an almost tangible cloud of rose water. Her voice possesses a soft West Country burr, and she has won his approval by insisting they partake of tea and cakes – the latter a tiered arrangement that would surely feed half of the Women’s Institute at this evening’s gathering – for which she insists she has baked a surplus. However, the rather worrying lack of irony in her tone – and, he senses, a propensity to waffle (of the non-cake variety) – has him skirting around the subject of cross-dressing prime ministers.
‘So what led to her coming back as an adult, madam?’
Before answering Mrs Ivybridge leans forward from her needlework-upholstered winged armchair and rotates the cake stand to indicate that having finished a Chelsea bun Skelgill should avail himself of a slice of her Bakewell pudding. He sees no reason to disoblige. DS Leyton makes his apologies, citing his ‘diet’ – and earning a reproachful glance from his superior.
‘Well – there was an open invitation for the family to stay if ever they visited the area – and when George – that’s my late husband – passed away and not long after there was mention that Scarlett had a job in London – her mother and I always exchanged Christmas cards, you see – I thought, wouldn’t it be nice if Scarlett came to live here – at least until she found her feet – because George had always worked in London and he found the commuting quite convenient. And I would have some company.’
Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 4 Page 17