Murder in Adland (14 page)

Skelgill
looks half sceptical and half amused.  His eager colleague has been quick
to join up the dots, and he does not wish to quash her enthusiasm.  He has
a burgeoning respect for her abilities, and she offers a lateral challenge that
is entirely at odds with his own way of thinking – not that he could ever
explain what that is.  Now he seems to struggle to find the right words to
reply – and with an unexpected spurt of energy, he sets off at a jog.

‘Race you
to the car.’

‘Jones,
it’s seven-thirty – I reckon we’ll get a taxi to Letsby Avenue.’

‘Guv
– look – no need – here’s DS Findlay.’

Indeed, no
sooner have the detectives passed through the arrivals door at Turnhouse than
they are intercepted by the familiar figure who dropped them off some
forty-eight hours earlier.

‘Cameron
– am I glad to see you – how did you know when we’d be back.’

‘Och
– we’re not as green as we’re cabbage looking.’  He permits himself
a satisfied grin.  ‘You’ll have had yer tea?’

‘Aye
– on the plane – not exactly cordon bleu.’

‘Aye
– well not tae worry – I’m under orders to take you home fae a
proper meal.’  He glances conspiratorially at DS Jones.  ‘When he
worked up here we used tae call him
Two Dinners
, ye ken?’

DS Jones
smiles and nods, and looks like she does
ken
– and that she is
beginning to get the hang of this little Edinburgh figure of speech.

‘Where’s
your hotel?’

‘It’s in an
area called Corstorphine.’

DS Findlay
grins at DS Jones’s pronunciation.

‘Aye
– that’s near where I stay, except it’s called Kus-
tor
-fin.’

DS Jones
giggles at her faux pas.

‘Thanks for
putting me right.’

‘Nae bother
– it’s over there.’  He points to the east, towards the city. 
‘See that big wooded lump?  That’s Corstorphine Hill.’

They round
a corner of the multi-storey to be greeted by the sight of a large marked
motorway patrol car sitting in a restricted zone.  Skelgill’s eyes light
up.

‘Nice one,
Cam.’

‘It was all
they had spare.  I need tae get it back in a hurry.’

‘Then I’m your
man.’

DS Findlay
shakes his head, but nonetheless hands the keys over to Skelgill, who leaps
into the driver’s seat and gets busy twiddling knobs and adjusting
levers.  But the incoming evening flights have clogged the airport with traffic,
which must merge with homebound commuters from Glasgow, so their initial
progress is slow.  DS Findlay begins to recount his findings to date.

‘Seems
these Goldsmiths are pretty high-profile characters – like to be seen
with the right people about town – appear in every edition of this
society magazine we have up here.’

Skelgill
nods, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and his various mirrors.

‘Who’s
driving that?  Goldsmith, or the wife?’

‘Apparently
he’s got some financial interest in it.  My pal at
The Scotsman
spoke tae the editor, but he was a bit cagey.’

‘If you’d
met them, Cam, you wouldn’t be surprised to hear they’ve got their own PR
machine.’

DS Findlay
nods grimly.

‘Goldsmith being
from down south – it’s harder to get information on him – but I
discovered more about her – pal of mine’s a retired Sheriff and there’s a
legal connection.’

‘Go on.’

‘Aye
– your Elspeth Goldsmith, she was adopted.  The MacClartys were both
lawyers, well heeled – old Edinburgh firm.  They were childless into
their forties – then after they’d taken in Elspeth an unexpected younger
sister came along.  But the wee lassie drowned in the Water of
Leith.  She was aged five and Elspeth about nine or ten.  They used
to go down and play unsupervised by the river – it runs right through the
city but ye cannae see it most of the time – it’s down in a gorge. 
It looks like a daft wee burn in places – but when there’s been a couple
of days rain on the hills –’  He tails off to indicate the
Pentlands, the range that protects the city’s southern reaches.  ‘It can
turn into a torrent before your eyes.’

‘What about
the parents?’

‘The old
man was killed about ten years ago in a car accident up north – fishing
trip – had been on the bottle.  The wife died in a nursing home a
couple of years later – by all accounts she’d never been right since the
wee one drowned.’

‘So she’s
not had such an easy time, Elspeth Goldsmith.’

There is a
note of sympathy in DS Jones’s voice as she makes this observation.  Though
Skelgill is more flippant.

‘Let’s hope
we don’t have to put Dermott away, then, to cap it all.’

There is a
moment’s silence as they each consider this eventuality.  They are
stationary at the roundabout that marks the intersection of the city bypass
with the main A8.  Then Skelgill suddenly chimes in.

‘Hey up
– what’s this?’

As he
speaks, a sporty hatchback breaks through the lights from the city direction
and swerves between vehicles taking their turn of the roundabout.  A few
of seconds later a small police squad car, its blue light flashing, follows in token
pursuit.

‘It’s the
Keystone cops!’  Skelgill’s eyes narrow.  ‘They’ll never catch it in
that thing.’

He switches
on the warning systems and joins the chase.  As ordinary drivers dive for
cover, the fugitives opt for the bypass; it is a dual carriageway and they
quickly begin to pull away from the first police car.  Skelgill, however,
has different ideas, and forces his way through, while DS Findlay gives a
rather sheepish wave to his bemused local colleagues.  Now, at the wheel
of a vastly superior machine, Skelgill has no difficulty in keeping up with the
crooks – DS Findlay establishes by radio that they have robbed at
knifepoint the service station at Drumbrae – but getting past them is
another matter.  The bypass is thick with traffic, and though motorists
move to the inside lane, all he can do is to tailgate the hatchback. 
There are two occupants, and the passenger, a leering gap-toothed youth, leans
out and gives them a one-fingered salute.

‘They’re
taking the A702 exit – heading south.’

DS Findlay
provides this commentary over the airwaves, as the two cars slew across the carriageway,
burst through the stream of vehicles in the inside lane to gain the off-slip,
and then ignore approaching motorists at the exit roundabout.

‘They’ve
turned up for the ski slope.  It’s a dead end.’

Indeed, as
signs approach for ‘Midlothian Snowsports Centre’, the car ahead veers right,
narrowly missing an oncoming grocer’s van – Skelgill’s route is blocked
by a line of cars, until an alert bus driver grinds to a halt.  The access
lane is steep and winding, and at intervals there are sleeping policemen. 
DS Jones leans forward from the rear of the car.

‘What is
this place?’

DS Findlay,
with his characteristic dry turn of phrase, turns to her.

‘Longest
artificial ski run in Europe.’

Indeed, the
slopes are coming into view, and skiers like tiny ants can be seen zigzagging
down the hillside – a curious sight on a pleasant early summer’s evening. 
By way of explanation, DS Findlay continues.

‘Ye cannae
ski in Scotland in winter – plenty of snow, but it’s all blizzards.’

Skelgill
chuckles at the untimeliness of this anecdote – but their minds turn to
serious matters as they reach the car park – from here vehicles can go no
further.  They spy the outlaws’ car – the doors are open and magically,
it seems, one of the offenders is being held over the bonnet by a couple of men
in ski outfits.  DS Findlay recognises them as off-duty police officers.

‘These are
our boys – someone must have known they were up here and tipped them
off.’

The three
new arrivals trot across to the scene of the action.  The men recognise DS
Findlay and one calls out.

‘Cameron
– the big yin’s away.’

He gestures
towards the chair lifts, where a tracksuit-clad figure, some two hundred yards off,
is running at some speed up the artificial slope.  Skelgill mutters under
his breath.

‘Big yin,
big mistake.’

And he sets
off at a steady trot.

‘Danny
– yer wasting yer time!’

But DS
Findlay’s entreaty is in vain.  Skelgill raises a hand in acknowledgement,
but carries on regardless.  His blood is up.  And did the youth only
know it; he
has
made a big mistake.  The policeman pursuing him
might be twenty years his senior, but he happens to be one of Cumbria’s leading
fell-runners, only a month before having completed his second unassisted
‘Bob
Graham’
(a punishing seventy-two mile circuit of forty-two Lakeland peaks
that must be completed non-stop in under twenty-four hours).  So, when the
cocky lout has the temerity to pause and shout an obscene taunt, believing it
is just a matter of time before the chase is given up, he has another think
coming.  Slowly but surely Skelgill with his long, loping stride makes
ground.  When the gap is down to about twenty yards, he can hear his
quarry panting, the breaths starting to come in desperate gasps.  And when
the villain realises he is going to be overhauled and spins around, brandishing
a carpet knife and screaming unintelligible threats – his final
exclamation
‘oof-yabastat!’
reflects the moment Skelgill’s size tens
thud into his chest and take him down.  In the stramash that follows
Skelgill quickly gains the upper hand, dispensing a couple of judicious kidney
punches to subdue his opponent; then, holding him down with a knee in the small
of the back, he wrestles to free his belt, intent upon using this to secure his
captive.

‘Danny
– I can see the pub fae here!’

Skelgill
glances up.  Almost directly overhead, borne in a double chair of the ski lift,
DS Findlay and DS Jones swing past.  The chair behind brings the two
constables from the squad car that was originally in pursuit.  They are
deposited just a short distance further up the slope, and DS Jones clatters pell-mell
with panic in her eyes.

‘Guv, Guv
– are you okay?’  She falls on her knees beside him and frantically
pats his back and chest, as if she is determined to check he has no
punctures.  ‘They said he’d got a knife!’

Skelgill,
grimacing as he holds the squirming yob in place, indicates with a toss of his
head.  The carpet knife lies safely out of range, dislodged by his
unorthodox mode of self-defence.  DS Jones now glances up the slope,
reinforcements are scrambling towards them, and the two young constables
overtake the more ponderous DS Findlay to relieve Skelgill of his prisoner.

Skelgill is
dusting himself down as DS Findlay picks his way over the last few yards of the
fibrous matting.  At the foot of the slopes a swarm of blue lights is
gathering, as nearby units respond to the emergency call.  The felon is
led away in handcuffs by the two uniformed officers, leaving the three detectives
to their own devices.  DS Findlay has a twinkle in his eye.

‘Nothing
like making an unobtrusive arrival in Edinburgh, Dan Dare.’

Skelgill
grins rather uneasily.

‘Cam
– will your missus’s dinner keep for half an hour?’

‘Aye
– it’s haggis ‘n’ neeps ‘n’ tatties.’

Skelgill
nods with satisfaction.

‘I believe
you mentioned you could see the pub from here.’

‘What’s he
doing?’

Skelgill’s
voice is lowered.  DS Jones is squinting through a peephole in the
interview room door.

‘Fiddling
with some sort of gadget, Guv – it looks like a pocket calculator. 
He keeps looking this way.’

‘Come on,
let’s go in.’  Skelgill flips four paracetamol tablets into his mouth and
swills them down with the last of his machine tea.  He drops the plastic
cup into a bin and rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers.  ‘No
hangover my backside.’

This latter
remark is a reference to the events of last night.  His post-chase thirst
for a swift half soon proved to be more of a drought, and it was fortunate that
the traditional Scottish dish of haggis, potatoes and swede is one that keeps
well in a low oven.  As a peace offering for Mrs Findlay they had
collected some flowers (and some claret), and the ensuing bonhomie had
ultimately led to her usually thrifty spouse breaking out a precious bottle of
twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie.  Insisting he had never yet suffered
any morning-after complaints from ‘the water of life’, DS Findlay had set about
schooling them in the correct modes of both tasting and pronunciation (“I tell
yer, it’s
Orangey
, Danny”).

Thus it is
an in-less-than-fine-fettle Skelgill that approaches the interview room. 
This is a state of affairs not improved by the news that the follow-up search of
the grounds of Bewaldeth Hall has drawn a blank.  Now, as they enter,
Dermott Goldsmith, with apparently impeccable timing, pricks his finger and
squeezes out a droplet of blood.  Slowly, he looks up, as though it is a
less pressing matter that interrupts him.

‘I won’t
shake hands – I’m just testing my blood sugars.’  He gives a
condescending smile and returns his attention to his task.  ‘One of life’s
little burdens.’

There is no
response from the two detectives as they take their seats opposite him.  After
a few seconds he tries a different tack.

‘How’s the
murder hunt going – any nearer to catching the criminal?’

‘No thanks
to you, Mr Goldsmith.’

Skelgill’s
abrupt retort causes Dermott Goldsmith to glance up sharply.

‘I’m
sorry?’

‘I’ve a good
mind to charge you for obstructing the investigation.’

Dermott
Goldsmith’s eyes widen.

‘What on
earth do you mean, Inspector?’

Skelgill
does not answer immediately, but watches with distaste as Dermott Goldsmith
pushes aside his equipment and winds a tissue around his bleeding finger.

‘You didn’t
bring a solicitor?’

‘Why should
I, Inspector – I have nothing to hide?’

Skelgill’s
features are impassive.

‘In that
case perhaps you can tell me why you tried to hush-up the sale of your
company?’

‘I d-don’t
know what you mean.’

Skelgill
stares at him.

‘Are you
saying you
weren’t
about to sell the company, Mr Goldsmith?’

Dermott
Goldsmith is uncharacteristically tongue-tied.

‘Well... its,
er... we get scores of approaches – we’re in informal discussions on a
number of fronts – nothing concrete.’

‘Really,
sir?’

Dermott Goldsmith
seems unwilling to answer, though he gives what might be an abbreviated shake
of the head.

Skelgill
makes a play of consulting his notes.

‘Mr –
Ford – Zendik.  Now – he tells me he was expecting to seal a
sixteen million dollar deal with you this week.’  He pauses for
effect.  ‘That sounds pretty concrete, Mr Goldsmith?’

Dermott Goldsmith’s
prominent features become swathed in dark unease; he looks ugly, angry, cornered. 
But still he does not speak.

‘You do
know Mr Zendik?’

‘Yes,
but...’

‘But what,
Mr Goldsmith?’

Dermott
Goldsmith’s words are blurted.

‘Nothing
was agreed.’

‘So you
were
selling the company?’

‘Certainly
they were interested – but so are other firms.’

‘Mr
Goldsmith.’ Skelgill sounds weary.  ‘On Monday Mr Tregilgis was due to fly
out to New York to conclude the Heads of Terms.’

Dermott Goldsmith
stares blankly.

‘Then that’s
news to me, Inspector.’

Skelgill
folds his arms.

‘Come off
it, Mr Goldsmith – how could you possibly not know?’

Dermott
Goldsmith, though flustered, begins to offer some tremulous resistance.

‘Well
– I’m afraid you’ll have to take my word for it, Inspector.  I have
signed nothing as far as Ford Zendik is concerned.’

Skelgill shakes
his head and gives a pained look to DS Jones.  He sits back to allow her to
take over.

‘Mr
Goldsmith, on Saturday night at about seven-thirty you were in the hotel bar
with Mr Tregilgis?’

Dermott Goldsmith
nods grudgingly.

DS Jones refers
to her notes.

‘You were
overheard to say, “Well I need to see it”, to which Mr Tregilgis replied,
“Sure”.  What was it that you needed to see?’

Dermott Goldsmith,
for a fleeting second, has the appearance of the proverbial rabbit in the
headlights – but a sly look suddenly enters his eyes.

‘It was the
presentation – to all the employees – company update – we
always do one – while we were having cocktails.’  He wipes moisture
from his fleshy upper lip with the tissue.  ‘I asked Ivan about the charts.’

DS Jones
ponders for a moment, but she is not yet knocked out of her stride.

‘I thought
you were the Financial Director, Mr Goldsmith?’

‘That’s
correct.’

‘Surely it
would be for you to produce performance charts?’

Dermott
Goldsmith seems to have regained some confidence.

‘Ivan liked
to take centre stage – I agreed to let him do it this year.’

DS Jones
ignores his response and refers to her notes.

‘Perhaps if
I can take you on a few hours, Mr Goldsmith?  At a quarter to one you told
your wife that you were leaving the Great Hall to give yourself an insulin
injection.  Where did you go?’

‘I went to
our bedroom.  All my equipment was in there.’

He gestures
to the monitoring device and toiletries case on the table beside him.

‘Is that
not a bit of an unusual time to take insulin – perhaps risky, even?’

Now Dermott
Goldsmith swallows a gulp of water from the polystyrene cup that has been
provided.

‘Well
– I, er – just went to do a test – I felt my blood sugars
were getting low and that I might need to eat something.’

‘I thought
you just agreed you went to give yourself an injection?’

‘I, er
– didn’t realise you were drawing the precise distinction.’

‘Which way
did you go to your room?’

‘Straight
along the corridor from the lobby.’

‘And you
were in Room 9, beside Mr and Mrs Tregilgis?’

Dermott
Goldsmith nods.

‘Did you go
into their room?’

‘Just later
on – after it had happened.’

At this
point Skelgill interjects.

‘Mr Goldsmith,
I don’t think you went to your room to inject yourself – I think you went
snooping in Room 10 – for a peek at the contract that Ford Zendik had
sent to Mr Tregilgis.’ (Dermott Goldsmith shakes his head)  ‘I think you
didn’t like what you saw.  I think you decided that with Mr Tregilgis out
of the way you could get his half of the company and then arrange a deal to
suit yourself.’

‘No!’

‘It wouldn’t
look very good for you if we found your fingerprints on Mr Tregilgis’s
briefcase.’

Dermott Goldsmith’s
features contort once again.

‘But, I
– I might have accidentally touched his case when we were all in the room
– I can’t remember – I was the one who ushered everyone out and
locked the door until the police came.’

‘Where was
the key?’

‘It was
lying on top of the dresser.’

‘But you
didn’t lock the terrace door?’

Dermott
Goldsmith looks perplexed.

‘It didn’t
occur to me that it might be open – but, anyway – Ivan’s briefcase
was probably locked.’

‘Why should
that be?’

‘I just
know he usually locked it – I’ve been at plenty of meetings with him over
the years.’

‘So you
know the combination?’

‘No.’

Skelgill
pauses.

‘Why didn’t
you mention in your statement that you went to your room?’

‘I’m not
sure – I, er – I think the policeman who took it just wanted to
know where I was after two a.m.’

‘Why didn’t
you explain about the cross-option agreement when I spoke with you on Sunday?’

‘Well
– I, er – it’s a very complicated document – I didn’t know if
it was relevant.’  Again he rubs a hand over his upper lip.  ‘The, er
– the insurance policy – it may not have been valid in the event of
murder – in which case it would have been irrelevant.’

‘And is it
valid?’

‘I’m still
waiting for confirmation – from our accountants.’

Skelgill
shakes his head and sighs.

‘But why
didn’t you just say, yes – there’s this instrument called a cross-option
agreement and you needed to check its validity?  We’re bound to think you
were trying to hide that information from us, Mr Goldsmith.’

Dermott
Goldsmith’s features contort into a wounded grimace.

‘Look here
–’  His voice is strained, whining almost.  ‘I haven’t done
anything – I never had anything to do with Ivan’s death.’

Skelgill sits
back in his chair and folds his arms.

‘Mr
Goldsmith, on Sunday you described yourself as the brains behind the business
Financial Director, Company Secretary – various other titles.  While
Mr Tregilgis was just the sales guy.  You remember?’

Dermott Goldsmith
gives a single reluctant nod.

‘So you can
probably appreciate that I find it more than a little implausible when you
claim not to know what’s been going on.’

Skelgill
collects up his papers and rises, indicating to DS Jones to do the same.

‘Mr
Goldsmith, I suggest you have a think for a few minutes, and when we come back,
let us know if there’s anything that might help.’

Dermott Goldsmith
sits unmoving.  From the door, Skelgill turns back.

‘By the way
– why didn’t you close your offices on Monday – as a mark of
respect to Mr Tregilgis?’

There is
surely a glint of avarice in Dermott Goldsmith’s dark eyes.

‘Ivan
wouldn’t have wanted that – there were deadlines to meet – we could
have lost a lot of business.’

Skelgill does
not deign to reply.  He holds the door for DS Jones and follows her out of
the room.  Then he strides across to a desk where a duty constable
presides.

‘Do us a
favour mate – the guy in there.  Give him an hour then tell him he
can go – say we got called away and we’ll be in touch.’