Murder in Adland (2 page)

Skelgill taps
a knuckle beneath the Roman numeral
X
and gently pushes open the door.

‘Right
then, Herdwick – what have you got for us, yer miserable old cuddy?’

From his
left materialises a dark, slender woman of Mediterranean appearance. 
Skelgill evidently does not recognise her, nor does she him.  With a look
of alarm she tries to press shut the door, trapping him against the jamb.

‘No, no! 
You may not enter!’

‘We’re the
police!’

Skelgill
yanks his Cumbrian Water fishing permit from the breast pocket of his gilet and
flashes it briefly.  The woman’s started demeanour relaxes, and she steps
away, raising her hands in a flamboyant gesture, one that might owe something
to flamenco.

‘Ah –
perdone
– accept my apologies.  I did not recognise... I
mean, you English detectives you are so... eccentric in your dress.’

She peels
off a rubber glove and holds out a firm hand to each of them in turn.

‘You are
Inspector Skelgill –
y Signorita
...?’

‘DS Jones,
my Sergeant.  Doctor...?’

‘Maria
Garcia Gonzalez.  I am locum for Doctor ’erdwick.’

Skelgill might
wish to pull a disapproving face at his colleague, but the intelligent black
Spanish eyes never leave his own, even as the woman moves aside to reveal the double
bed against the left-hand wall.  There follows a few moments’ silence
while they gaze, not breathing, on the scene.  Frowning, Skelgill must be
reminded that one can never cease to be amazed by the amount of blood that fits
inside one person.  Ivan Tregilgis lies naked, quite peacefully; face
down, in a sea of crimson among waves of crisp white linen.

‘A matador,
it is you seek.’

The two
detectives exhale in tandem and turn abruptly to Dr Garcia Gonzalez as her
unintentionally melodramatic words break the spell.

‘What do
you mean?’

‘Inspector
– ’e was killed by a single violent blow to the back of the neck from a
knife or sword.  It severed the carotid artery and probably the spinal
cord.  It would cause paralysis and rapid loss of blood.  If it was
not the skill of an expert – it was, how you say –
la suerte del
diablo
?’

‘The luck
of the devil.’

It is DS
Jones who translates the adage.  Skelgill is scowling.

‘The
work
of the devil, more like.’

They all
nod in agreement.

‘So he was
stabbed where he lay?’

‘
Si
,
Inspector.  Almost all of the blood is close to ’is body.  Just a few
smears spread around the sheets, probably made by
la esposa
– and
stains on the lady’s nightdress.  ’E is there.’  She points to a
flimsy, bloodstained, beige garment that lies crumpled inside the small
bathroom.

Skelgill appears
to be warming to the Iberian medic’s efficiency.

‘When did
it happen, Doc?’

‘From ’is
body temperature – and the room temperature – with just a top sheet
on the bed... ’e died at very close to
las tres
.’

‘Three
a.m.’  DS Jones again does the honours.

‘No wonder his
wife thought he was alive.’

Skelgill’s
tone is flat – as if to allow in his mind for the retort that “Maybe he
was”.

He turns to
face the woman.  She is packing items into a small black Gladstone bag,
and for a moment he seems to appraise her figure.  She is of medium
height, like his colleague, though slim to the point of being skinny, with a
shock of raven hair and great dark eyes beneath curved brows.

‘Thank you
very much, Doctor.  I may need to meet up with you when you’ve filed your report.’

She snaps
shut her bag and stands upright.  There is a conspiratorial glint in her
eye as she glances as DS Jones.  Then she reaches again to shake hands
with Skelgill.

‘
Encantada
,
Inspector – you
old cuddy
.’  And with a friendly nod to DS Jones
she is gone.

Skelgill
shakes his head ruefully.

‘I'll swing
for that Arthur one of these days.  How am I supposed to know Herdwick’s
got a locum in?’

DS Jones perhaps
has to suppress a grin; being a local lass she knows that a
cuddy
is a
donkey.  But Skelgill quickly gathers his wits.

‘Anyway
– better have a quick shufti before SOCO kick us out.’

The room
itself is smart but unremarkable.  Only the half-glazed terrace-door might
strike one as unusual, though a pleasant facility, especially in this
weather.  All the curtains are still drawn, and they muffle the birdsong
that drifts in through the open window noted by PC Dodd.  More exceptional
are the expensive toiletries that crowd the ledges in the bathroom, and rows of
designer labels that grace the clothes rail.

‘Not short
of a bob or two.’  Skelgill grips his gilet, rather in the manner of a
dinner-jacketed announcer taking hold of his lapels.  ‘Must be alright, that
advertising lark, driving round London in a flash motor, top restaurants,
expense account.’

‘Wouldn’t
you miss the fishing, Guv?

‘Thames is
good for chub.’  His reply comes as he absently pokes his finger into a
half-eaten plate of what looks like cheesecake, left on top of the dresser. 
‘Not bad.  And still fresh.  Think he brought back his pudding to eat
in bed?’

‘Doesn’t
look like a sweet-eater.’  DS Jones is regarding the athletic figure on
the bed.

Skelgill
glances at her for a second, a furtive question in his eyes.  Then he
turns his attention to the drawers, and begins to poke about amongst some
underwear with the tip of his pen.

‘What do you
reckon, Jones?’

She peers
at the neatly folded ladies’ briefs.

‘Expensive,
Guv.  You might say
sensible
.’

Skelgill
nods and moves away.  A small polished writing desk stands beneath the
window.  Upon it rests a briefcase and a scrolled flip chart. 
Skelgill avoids the briefcase – presumably for fear of smearing fingerprints
– and instead he unrolls the chart.

‘Looks like
they’ve been doing pretty well.’  He scans through the headlines.  ‘New
clients... record turnover... won a load of awards...’

‘Guv.’

They might
be new to one another, but there is no mistaking the note of urgency in DS Jones’s
voice.  He swings around to find that she has carefully peeled back the
crumpled top-sheet.  There, at the foot of the bed, lies a flimsy sheer
black g-string.

‘Not his,
Guv.’

‘Nor hers.’

After
leaving Room 10 and ushering PC Dodd back to his post, DS Jones goes to find
the owner, Mrs Groteneus.  Skelgill, meanwhile, has optimistically taken
up residence in the empty dining room, harbouring the misguided hope that a
plate of lavishly buttered bacon sandwiches will be forthcoming.  However,
it is barely four-forty a.m. and the hotel is still bereft of staff.  He rises
and pushes through a swing-door.  It leads into the darkened kitchen,
silent but for the gurgle of an industrial dishwasher and the hum of a bank of
refrigerators.  There are some continental breakfasts made up. 
Skelgill rips open a packet of muesli and pours its contents into his upturned
mouth.  Then he hears voices from the dining room.  Hurriedly he
tries to swallow the grainy mixture.  Attempting to retrace his steps, he
finds himself trapped by the unfamiliar system of one-way doors.  An
anxious-looking, tall angular woman releases him; she has a prominent nose, and
is aged perhaps in her mid-fifties.

‘Ah, Mrs Groteneus. 
Just wondered if we could get a cuppa?’  He indicates over his shoulder
with a thumb.

‘Of
course.’  She nods and bustles past him.  ‘Please be seated and I
shall bring it to you.’

DS Jones lowers
her voice, as they wait for Mrs Groteneus to return.  ‘Seems a bit highly
strung.  She runs the place on her own – her husband left her ten
years ago.  She’s Dutch, Guv.’

Skelgill
scowls.  ‘What is this, bloody Eurovision?  It’ll be a French maid
next.’

‘Polish
most likely, Guv.’

Skelgill is
about to retort, but the woman reappears; having gathered assorted tea things
on a tray.  She takes a seat opposite the two detectives, and stares nervously
as Skelgill loads a cup with extra sugar and then holds it out for her to pour
the tea.  He looks up, and appears surprised by her expression of concern.

‘Mrs Groteneus,
I realise this is not good for business, and must be very upsetting, but it’s
essential that I ask you some questions about last night.’

She twitches,
perhaps by way of acknowledgement.

‘I gather
this was a company booking – they took all your rooms?’

She nods.

‘Can you
tell me about the sequence of events as they took place last night?’

‘Oh,
ja
– of course.’  She licks her thin lips and looks as if she could do
with a drink herself.  ‘But first I should tell you there was one person
who did not arrive – I have a list of guests and the room allocation at
reception.’

‘Excellent
– very efficient.  We’ll take note of that.’  He glances at DS
Jones, who is already writing in her pocket book.  He nods for the
hotelier to continue.

‘They met
for cocktails in the bar at seven-thirty and came in here for dinner at eight-thirty.
The meal was over by just after ten, and then they went either to the bar or to
the Great Hall – they brought a music system which was set up so they
could dance in there.’

‘How long
did you stay with them?’

‘I served
the wine during the meal, and I was at the bar before and after.  I went
to bed just after midnight as I was due to get up at six o’clock to prepare the
breakfasts.’

‘Do you
have a night porter?’

She shakes
her head.  ‘They could help themselves to drinks after I had gone. 
We usually have an honesty-bar, but with this company I agreed a price per head
– it was a generous deal they made with me.’

‘What about
your staff – when did they leave?’

‘Chef,
about ten p.m. – I heard his motorcycle – he lives at
Keswick.  The three waitresses and two kitchen staff all left together at
their usual time, just after eleven.  They share a car – they live at
Cockermouth or nearby.’

‘We’ll need
their details.  Do any of them have keys?’

‘No. 
I am the only keyholder for external doors.  My two chambermaids, they
each have a master key for the bedrooms, but do not take them out of the hotel.’

‘Was the
place locked up last night?’

‘Er –
ja
en nee
.  You see, Inspector, I set the latch on the main entrance
when I left, and locked the door from the storeroom – it is through the kitchen. 
And also I locked the bar door, which leads to a small patio.  But I am at
the mercy of my guests.  If they did not lock their bedroom doors that
lead on to the West Terrace – or they could have gone out on to the
terrace by the door from the Great Hall and left it unlocked.’

Skelgill
looks pointedly at DS Jones as she diligently writes.  When he gains her
attention he signals with a toss of the head that she should go and
check.  While she is away, he makes small talk with Mrs Groteneus about the
weather.  When she returns, he abruptly switches back to business.

‘Jones?’

‘Store room
and bar doors bolted from the inside.  Terrace door from the Great Hall
unlocked, as Mrs Groteneus suspected.’

The woman
wrings her hands but does not speak.

‘Don’t fret,
madam – there’s no law that says you must imprison your guests.’  He
pushes back his chair.  ‘Perhaps we could get that list?’

Mrs
Groteneus is quick to lead the way, evidently relieved to escape the
interrogation.  She disappears behind the counter in the lobby, leaving
the detectives to peruse the artefacts on display.  Meanwhile she bustles
about, muttering in Dutch and shuffling papers.  Then suddenly she exclaims.

‘
Mevrouw
Goldsmith... Ja
– here is the letter!’

She hurries
around to where Skelgill stands facing a wall.  Insinuating herself between
the two, she jabs at the list with a bony finger.

‘This one –
Mr Grendon Smith – he did not come.’

But
Skelgill isn’t looking.  He inclines his head towards a curved knife held
in an odd-shaped wire fixture.

‘Mrs Groteneus.’ 
His voice is calm and measured.  ‘This knife – it’s a kukri isn’t
it?’

She flaps
the paper, apparently determined to get him to look at her list.

‘
Ja
,
my husband brought them back from Nepal, many years ago.’

‘Mrs Groteneus.’ 
Skelgill persists.  ‘You just said
them
?’

‘Mijn God!
’  She
jerks around to stare at the kukri.  ‘There should be a pair!’