Murder in Adland (22 page)

‘I liked
that, Guv.’

Skelgill
glances at her in surprise – this is not the response he is aiming to
elicit.  He continues, regardless.

‘I felt
– gut feel – that I actually had it in my grasp – something
that I’d picked up, perhaps subconsciously – and that is was just a
matter of time before the penny dropped.’  Now his shoulders slump
dejectedly.  ‘Since then – aye, we’ve found out some interesting
things about a number of people – reasons why they might be wrapped up in
it – but none of them is walking around with a smoking gun.’

DS Jones,
however, continues to remain positive.

‘Maybe it’s
just one of those cases, Guv – where it’s going to take patient, detailed,
persistent police work – until we unearth something that makes the
difference?’

Skelgill
acknowledges her efforts with a wan smile.

‘Aye
– but what worries me is that it’s not over yet.’

‘What, Guv
– you mean the killer might try to strike again?’

Skelgill
nods gravely.

‘We have to
consider that possibility.’

Now they
are silent for a few moments.  DS Jones absently begins to tidy the
wrappers and cups that mingle with their admin on the surface of the
table.  Then she notices the quartered
Daily Telegraph
.

‘Guv
– you finished it!’

Skelgill
sits back and folds his arms.

‘Aye, well
– never underestimate the Mighty Skel.’

Ten a.m. on
Thursday finds Skelgill attached to the telephone at his desk – at this particular
juncture in conversation with Edinburgh accountant Ronald Macdonald.

‘So it’s
still in the melting pot?’

‘In a
manner of speaking, Inspector – the insurance company is keeping its head
firmly buried in the sand while your investigation is still active.’

‘Any
inkling whether they’ll pay out if it’s murder?’

‘Och
– they say so – but... I guess that would depend on who was charged
with the crime.’

‘Aye, I get
your drift.’

There is an
intake of breath at Ronald Macdonald’s end.

‘I don’t
suppose, Inspector – you’re any further?’

Skelgill,
too, pauses to inhale.

‘Maybe a
little – but, I wanted to ask you, sir – your man with the big
magnifying glass.’

‘Woman,
actually.’

‘Sorry,
woman – anything to report?’

‘Yes
– there is one thing, so far, that is – and it may turn out to be
entirely in order, of course?’

‘Fire away,
please, sir.’

‘Have you
heard of
Pictorial
, Inspector?’

‘I don’t
think so, sir.’

‘It’s a
local magazine – och, a kind of poor man’s
Hello!’

The
description strikes a chord with Skelgill.

‘Now you
mention it – one of my Edinburgh colleagues brought it to my attention
– there’s a Goldsmith connection, I believe?’

‘Well,
Inspector – I don’t know if your information concerns the same point, but
we were running a check on the National Insurance calculations for Goldsmith-Tregilgis
& Associates, and our lady auditor – who happens to subscribe to the
magazine – noticed that the Editor is actually on the
GT&A
payroll.’

‘What
– so are you saying that the agency is subsiding the magazine?’

‘It looks
that way, Inspector.  The publication hasn’t filed any accounts yet
– however, we’ve made a couple of discreet inquiries and the word on the
street is that they’re not selling a lot of advertising space.’

‘Is this an
unusual arrangement?’

‘I should
say so, Inspector.’

‘Who decides
who gets put on the payroll, sir?’

‘We’d only
take that instruction from a Director.’

‘Was that
something Ivan Tregilgis ever got involved in?’

‘Not that
I’m aware of, Inspector – I don’t think he had much time for company
admin.’

Skelgill is
nodding to himself.

‘Okay
– well, thanks for letting me know that, sir.’

Skelgill
– himself a sparse note-taker at the best of times – jots a few untidy
words on his pad.  Another question for Dermott Goldsmith, perhaps.

*

‘Aye, right
– aye – well, thanks for that Cam – aye – maybe see you
next week.  Cheers.’  Skelgill replaces the receiver and looks across
his desk at DS Jones, who has joined him in his office.  ‘Cameron sends
his regards.’

DS Jones
nods gracefully.

‘Suits you,
sir.’

Skelgill
grins self-consciously.

She refers
to his shirt, the second of his Covent Garden purchases.

‘Aye, well
– it’s the weather for it.’

More honest
an answer would have been expediency in the face of a lack of laundered
alternatives.  However, the early summer heatwave does persist.

‘They said
on the radio it might break at the weekend.’

Skelgill
scowls.

‘Not before
Saturday morning, I hope – I’ve got a dawn appointment with a pike.’

Skelgill
has not fished since his abortive trip on the morning of the murder, and now he
gazes longingly out across the landscape, luxuriant and vibrant in the bright
heat.

‘What news
from DS Findlay, Guv?’

Skelgill
nods.

‘I’d asked
him to have a word with Julia Rubicon – about Lady Goldsmith’s letter.’

‘Did he
tell her what it said?’

‘Nope
– but that didn’t prevent her being uncooperative.’

‘In what
way, Guv?’

‘Kept him
waiting the best part of an hour while she was on the phone – then just
ill-tempered and obstructive.’

‘And no
further forward?’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘So, I’m
going to give her a call – I’d be interested in your thoughts on a line
of attack.’

DS Jones
nods pensively.

‘If she did
have something to do with the letters, Guv – she’d probably know enough
to suspect that Krista Morocco and Ivan Tregilgis had some history, and
possibly she could have got wind of the sale of the company – reasons to
think Krista Morocco and Elspeth Goldsmith were worth targeting.’  She
stretches out her legs and runs her fingertips down onto her knees.  ‘Or
it could just be bloody-mindedness, Guv – opportunism with no real intent
to extort any money.’

Skelgill is
watching his colleague’s lithe movements.  He blinks and stretches
himself, bringing his hands down behind his head.

‘Then
again, Jones, if she has received a blackmail letter, I’d fully expect her to
keep quiet about it.’

‘Given that
she’d assume it was about her affair with Tregilgis?’

‘Or worse,
maybe.’

*

‘Why is
everyone hassling me?’

‘Are they?’

Silence.

‘Have you
had any threats made against you?  It would be sensible to tell us.’

‘No.’

‘Look,
Julia – I’m worried about you – if that’s hassling I’m sorry.’

Silence.

‘I don’t
doubt you feel isolated without Ivan to confide in.  You obviously had a
close working relationship with him.’

‘Huh.’ 
The dismissal is one of disdain.

‘Come on,
Julia – you’re successful – incredibly so for your age –
you’re attractive – you’ve got everything going for you.  It seems
to me like you’ve been dragged into a situation you didn’t ask for.’

‘Tell me
about it.’

‘Well, you
tell me.’

‘There’s
nothing
to
tell.’

‘Listen
– think about it – next week I’m going to be up in Edinburgh
– we need to do a round of more formal interviews – there must be
some things you’d be happier about if they were off your chest.’

He says it
as a matter of fact, rather than posing the question.  There is again a
silence – though more accommodating – and Skelgill makes small
circles on his desk with the thumb of his left hand, as though he is picturing
her winding a lock of hair anxiously between her own crimson-tipped talons.

‘When you say
formal – do you mean at the police station?’

‘That would
be the usual thing.  Or at your office if you preferred.’

‘Couldn’t
we go out somewhere – make it look like we were having a drink –
without everyone staring at me as if I’m some kind of criminal?’

‘I’m not
sure that’s why they stare.’

Julia
Rubicon makes a little sharp expiration of breath that hints at an appreciation
of the compliment, and Skelgill appears to yield.

‘Look, it’s
fine by me, Julia – but you could equally be seen by a friend – a
boyfriend?’

‘That’s not
one of my problems.’

‘Really
– I’m surprised to hear that.’

‘I’ve been
rather career-focused since I arrived in Edinburgh, Inspector.  When I set
out to do something I put my head down and go for it.’

‘You sound
like my sort of girl.’

Now there
is the semblance of a laugh, husky, from deep in her throat.

‘You never
know, Inspector.’

After
Skelgill has replaced the receiver, he stands up and walks to his window. 
He declined DS Jones’s suggestion that she listen-in on the call, and now there
is an impression of relief about his demeanour.  He is breathing heavily,
as if Julia Rubicon’s heady musk inhabits the stifling air of his office,
depleting the oxygen.  He separates the venetian blind with two fingers at
eye level and lets out a sigh.  Beyond the glass it is still sunny and
cloudless.  By evening Bass Lake will be a boiling cauldron of feeding
fish, just asking for the fly.  But he has been roped in to play in the
annual cricket match against deadly police rivals from Carlisle.  He lets
the slats snap shut like the jaws of a hungry jack pike.  As he turns back
to face the room, DS Jones enters – her expression at first a little alarmed
– as if she reads in his face the conflicting emotions that wrestle with
his conscience.

‘How did it
go, Guv?’

‘She claims
not to have received a letter – as per her little chat with DS Findlay.’

‘Perhaps
she’ll cough up when we stick her in an interview room for a couple of hours,
Guv.’

DS Jones
has a note of professional efficiency in her voice, though it might just be
overlaid by the merest hint of glee.

‘Aye.’

There is
obviously something about Skelgill’s reply that does not satisfy her, and she
glances at him questioningly.  However, in the absence of anything being
forthcoming, she holds out a sheaf of papers she has brought with her.

‘The report
for the Chief for you to check, Guv – I was waiting for you to finish on
the phone.’

‘When does
she need it?’

‘About
twenty minutes ago – she’s got lunch with a couple of journos.’

Skelgill groans,
and takes the document to his seat.  DS Jones seems reluctant to
leave.  She notices a folded copy of the
Westmorland Gazette
lying
upon his desk.

‘Been doing
the crossword, Guv?’

‘What?
– er, no – I was reading the cricket scores.’

‘Oh –
I heard you’re playing tonight, Guv.’

Skelgill
shakes his head ruefully.

‘I don’t
know why I agreed.  The fish’ll be jumping into the boat tonight.’

‘Word is
you’re a bit of a demon bowler, Guv.’

Skelgill
now affects modesty, and pretends to study the first page of the report.

‘George
reckons Carlisle have been trying to find out if you’re in the team.  I
thought I might come down and watch, Guv – I’ve got to do my Dad’s
medicine tonight because my Mum’s over at her sister’s – but not until
ten.’

Now
Skelgill glances up anxiously.

‘Don’t get
your hopes up – I haven’t bowled since I did my back in rescuing an
overweight tourist in flip-flops off Striding Edge last July.’

‘I take it
you weren’t the one in flip-flops, Guv?’

‘No –
but I might have to wear them tonight if I can’t find some boots.’

DS Jones
grins.

‘Apparently
there’s a bit of a knees-up in
The Keys
afterwards.  According to
the jungle drums the Chief’s going to put in an appearance – apparently
she wants the Blencathra Shield back – at all costs.’

Skelgill
shakes his head.

‘Aye
– to claim all the credit for it, more like.’

‘George
says Carlisle are taking it really seriously, Guv – he reckons they’ve
got a couple of ringers who are up on assignments from other forces.’

Skelgill
makes a disparaging scoffing sound.

‘You’d
think we were playing for the
Ashes
.’

‘By all
accounts it’s more important than that, Guv.’

*

‘Skelgill.’

He sounds a
little out of breath as he answers the call.  This is because he has been
practising his delivery stride in the limited space available in his office,
door firmly closed.  Now he flexes his back – it appears to be okay,
for his grimaces seem precautionary rather than actual.

‘International
call, sir.  Sounded like
Foyd
.  He said you’d know who it is?’

‘Aye, put
him on.’

There is a
click, and heavy breathing also at the waiting caller’s end of the line.

‘Mr Zendik?’

‘Call me
Ford, Officer.’  The Bronx accent explains the operator’s dilemma. 
The American gets straight into his stride.  ‘Any further?’

Skelgill
inhales, by way of lowering expectations.

‘Not as far
as I’d like, I’m afraid – though I have my suspicions, naturally.’

‘Sure. 
Listen Officer – you asked me to let you know if Dermott contacted me
– with anything out of the ordinary.’  He sounds Dermott as
Doymott
.