Murder in Adland (4 page)

Skelgill
spends the best part of the next hour making a nuisance of himself.  He
wanders about the hotel and its grounds, generally getting under the feet of
the search team.  He requisitions some hotel stationery, and draws a plan
of the building, marking on all the possible exits.  Then he fills in the
names of the guests in their corresponding rooms.  He notes that only the
two company directors, Messrs Goldsmith and Tregilgis, had their partners with
them, while all the rest were in single-occupancy.  The more senior
employees’ rooms were on the ground floor, benefiting from access to the
terrace.

DS Jones
has been despatched to brief the DCs who are to conduct interviews. She is also
checking upon a variety of technical points such as job titles and
responsibilities in Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates.  Sitting in on
the first interview, with the aforementioned Lenny Edwards, she is rewarded
with an immediate revelation.  The reason for the absence of Grendon Smith
is that he was
dismissed
last week by Krista Morocco, head of the London
office.  While this was apparently no great surprise, the bad grace in
which he took the news rather was.  “Started smashing up his desk,” was
the description provided by his erstwhile workmate.  In due course, Ivan
Tregilgis was fetched from a nearby wine bar, and was obliged to escort Smith
off the premises and relieve him of his office keys and company credit
card.  No one witnessed what went on between the lift and the main door, but
when Tregilgis returned it was with a look of having given Smith “a bit of a
helping hand,” according to Edwards.  DS Jones is hurrying to convey this
information to Skelgill when an animated PC Dodd scoops her with the tidings
that the kukri has been found.

There is
now a rendezvous at the ladies’ toilet in the lobby.  The knife had been
hidden in the overhead cistern of the single-cubicle loo.  As Skelgill is
quick to point out, it has been submerged for perhaps seven hours in a weak
solution of bleach, and regularly flushed.  This is not ideal for forensic
purposes.  He stares at the weapon, held aloft in a transparent evidence
bag.

‘What chance
of prints?’  The forensic officer produces a well-practised expectation-lowering
facial expression.  ‘Okay – see what the boffins in the lab come up
with.’

The man
nods and shuffles away.  DS Jones draws alongside Skelgill.

‘Guv, could
I have a word – it’s about this Smith character?’

Skelgill glances
at her – somewhat disinterestedly, it must be said – when a second
scene-of-crime officer suddenly barges through the swing door from the bedroom
block.  Between finger and thumb of his gloved right hand he clutches a
worn brass key.

‘Sir
– down the back of the radiator outside Room 5.’

Mrs Groteneus
is summoned.  To her credit – for she is plainly humiliated –
she immediately identifies it as the master key belonging to the chambermaid
responsible for the ground floor.

‘But I do
not understand.’  She sounds most affronted.  ‘Why has Kasia not
reported this to me?  It is not correct procedure.  I shall speak
with her at once.  She is in the staffroom with the others.’

‘It’s okay,
Mrs Groteneus.’  Skelgill intervenes, in the process probably saving the
poor girl from a roasting.  ‘We must do this formally.’

The
hotelier reluctantly yields to his authority, and stalks rather bad temperedly
from their presence.  Skelgill turns to DS Jones, still eager to impart
her news about Grendon Smith.

‘You do
this one, have a quick word now – she might be intimidated if I’m there
– and I don’t speak Polish.’

He grins
mischievously, and disappears through the swing door.

*

Over yet
another pot of tea (in Skelgill’s case only), DS Jones insists on first recounting
the story of Grendon Smith’s ejection from the London office.

‘What do
you think, Guv?’

Skelgill
scowls.

‘I can’t
believe that someone’s been hiding all day in the shrubbery waiting for a
chance to have a pop at Tregilgis.’

‘But he
could
have done it, Guv.’

‘Jones
– if getting the sack – which by all accounts he was expecting
– is a reason for topping your employer, imagine what state the country
would be in.  When was he dismissed?’

‘Wednesday,
Guv.’

‘Well, it’s
hardly heat of the moment.’

DS Jones
compresses her lips.

‘Say he was
on the fiddle, Guv?  Ivan Tregilgis might have threatened to turn him in.’

Skelgill
shakes his head, and then gives a reluctant sigh.

‘Look. 
I agree – he could theoretically have done it.  How he crept in and
took the knife without being seen – that beats me.  But find out
where he lives and get his whereabouts checked for Saturday night.’

DS Jones gives
a satisfied nod.  She is clearly surprised that Skelgill is perhaps not as
pig-headed as his reputation might suggest.  However, she tries not to make
too much of her little triumph.

‘The
chambermaid, Guv?’

‘Aye.’

‘You were
right – she is Polish.’

‘I think
you guessed that before me, Jones.’

‘She speaks
fluent English, Guv.  But she’s terrified of Mrs G.’

‘Why does neither
of those things surprise me?’

DS Jones
grins.

‘She
misplaced the key yesterday, she thinks about one o’clock.  The party had
arrived, but they hadn’t checked into their rooms.  She thought she must
have left it in the door – she often does – but there was no trace
of it.  She was putting in clean towels and had reached Room 4.  She
borrowed the other girl’s key to finish off, because she didn’t dare own
up.  She was hoping it would appear when she went over the place this
morning.’

‘What about
it being behind the radiator?  That’s outside Room 5.’

DS Jones
nods.

‘She agrees
it’s possible that she might have put it down, on the windowsill, or even on
top of the radiator.  But she doesn’t understand why she would open Room 4
and then walk along the corridor to Room 5.  She thinks someone must have
moved it, Guv.’

Skelgill
regards DS Jones pensively.  While a master key would be a useful asset to
a would-be murderer, last night the Tregilgis’s door was unlocked.  That
said, the murderer is unlikely to have been able to predict such a state of
affairs.  DS Jones waits for a few moments, but as he appears to have no
further questions, she moves on to the second aspect of her interview with the
girl, Kasia.

‘The bed in
the Tregilgis’s room was completely stripped and changed yesterday morning,
Guv.  The underwear could only have got there some time later.’

Skelgill
nods.  This is as expected.

‘Anything
else?’

‘Not from
the chambermaid, Guv – but I did check the menu.’

‘Enlighten
me.’

‘The sweet
was sticky toffee pudding.’

‘Hardly
original.’

‘I suppose
they’re all visitors, Guv – they wouldn’t know we have it every day.’

Skelgill
grins, amused by her sense of humour.

‘Come on,
Miss Marple – there’s more, I know.’

‘The plate
of cheesecake, Guv – that you noticed in the bedroom?  There’s a
good three-quarters of a full-sized round in one of the fridges.  Perhaps
he got peckish and went and helped himself.’

Skelgill
can no doubt identify with this behaviour, but he is suddenly overcome by an
immense yawn, which immediately infects DS Jones in the mysterious way that
yawns move.

‘You must
be bushed, Jones – you’ve been up all night.  I had a lie-in until
three.’

DS Jones shakes
her head determinedly, though in her eyes there is a look of relief.

‘I suppose am
a bit tired, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods and chews his bottom lip for a minute.

‘Okay
– here’s the plan.  Unless some devastating piece of evidence turns
up, or someone confesses, let the advertising crowd leave once they’ve been
interviewed.  Politely remind your DCs that I want typed statements on my
desk for seven a.m. sharp.  Get a decent kip and we’ll go through them
first thing.  And don’t forget your toothbrush.’

Despite his
best intentions to go home, get a hot bath, eat a late lunch and sleep for a
very long time, Skelgill was unable to drive past his mooring at Peel Wyke
without ‘just checking the boat’.  One thing led to another, and he spent
Sunday afternoon afloat on his beloved Bass Lake.  In turn, a late lunch
became an even later Chinese takeaway and a few bottles of local Cockermouth
ale, and a long hot bath became a hasty cold shower at six a.m. this morning. 
He arrives at his desk in Penrith an hour later to find a note from the
forensic department stating that there are no fingerprints on the kukri. 
To add insult to injury, his in-tray is bereft of statements.  He is just
picking up the phone to berate the person unfortunate enough to answer his
call, when DS Jones works her way backwards into his office.

‘No bloody
statements –’

‘Morning,
Guv.’

Cheerfully,
she turns and places before him police-canteen tray bearing two mugs, three
bacon rolls, and a stack of A4 papers.

‘How come you’ve
got them?’

‘Sorry they’re
a few minutes late, Guv – I’ve been marking-up your set.’

She
separates the bundle into two halves, and hands one to him.

Uninvited,
he picks up the nearest mug of tea and takes a mouthful.  He frowns
suspiciously at the top sheet.  The text is marked in places with
fluorescent yellow highlights.

‘What’s all
this?’

‘I had to
do the printouts this morning, Guv.  I took photocopies of the handwritten
statements before I left the hotel – then I went through them last
night.’

‘You’ve
read them?’

‘I thought
it would give us a head start, Guv.’

Skelgill’s
features are still severe, though his voice softens.

‘Jones,
you’re a star – but you need to get a boyfriend.’

She grins
bashfully.

‘I’ve got a
boyfriend.’

‘Aye
– but one that lives nearer than – where is it – Chelsea?’

He glances
away – perhaps he is thinking he should not have revealed that he knows
this aspect of her private life.

‘Clapham
– but it’s – kind of – near enough...’ Her voice tails off,
but then she rallies and grasps her share of the documents between both
hands.  ‘I was wired last night, Guv – I would never have slept
– the chance to work on a case like this.’

Skelgill
regards her again.

‘No wonder you’ve
got bags under your eyes, Jones.’

‘So do you,
Guv, if you don’t mind me saying.’

‘Aye, well
– I was up late myself – thinking about it all.’

Certainly,
they have exchanged their ‘eccentric’ attire for normal wear, and they have
gained the look of those who have burned the midnight oil, but it seems at
least that their efforts have been positive.  Skelgill – though
plainly secretly feeling guilty about his subordinate’s unpaid overtime –
whilst afloat did indeed mull over matters at Bewaldeth Hall.  He has
determined that, before he interviews any of the key players more thoroughly,
there is something he must know.  While his brief meetings with Dermott
Goldsmith and Miriam Tregilgis could not have been more like chalk and cheese,
what they held in common was a curious ignorance of the fate of the company.

Now DS Jones
lifts a handwritten list from the top of her pile.

‘In
chronological order, Guv – I think there’s about a dozen significant
points.

‘Hit me.’

Skelgill
leans back and jams a bacon roll into his mouth.  DS Jones takes a quick
sip of her tea, and then begins.

‘Everyone
was due to meet in the bar at seven-thirty p.m.  Ivan Tregilgis and Dermott
Goldsmith were there already.  The first employee to arrive overheard the
end of a conversation.  Apparently Goldsmith said, “Well, I need to see
it,” and Tregilgis replied, “Sure.”  Then they immediately changed the
subject.  Goldsmith was apparently looking quite exasperated.

‘Make a
note to ask Goldsmith what “it” was.’

Skelgill is
proficient at talking whilst eating – he claims it is an essential
quality for efficiency in police work.  DS Jones turns her pad towards him
to show the question already written down.  He winks for her to continue.

‘At
midnight they opened champagne.  It’s the company’s seventh
anniversary.  Ivan Tregilgis was seen to dance “intimately” with Krista
Morocco, the girl who runs the London office.  The pair of them may then
have gone out on to the terrace to smoke.  Apparently that door from the
Great Hall was unlocked the whole time, and people were wandering in and
out.  Not long after, Tregilgis came back, and had a bit of an altercation
with Julia Rubicon – she’s head of their Edinburgh office.  It’s not
known what was said – the music was pretty deafening – but she
stormed off leaving him standing in the middle of the dance floor.’

‘Who told
us this?’

‘It’s from just
one statement – a Melanie Stark, who works in the London office.  And
neither Krista Morocco nor Julia Rubicon mention these things.’

Skelgill taps
on air with his half-eaten roll.

‘Why would
you
notice something like that?’

DS Jones
grins.

‘She probably
fancied him, Guv.’

Skelgill
seems surprised by her directness.

‘You mean
Tregilgis?’

DS Jones
nods.

‘Next
thing, Guv – at about a quarter to one Goldsmith quite conspicuously
signalled to his wife that he was going off to inject himself – he’s a diabetic. 
Though he never mentions it in his statement.’

‘Do we know
how long he was gone?’

‘It
couldn’t have been many minutes, Guv – he was back by about one
a.m.  Someone came onto the dance floor with one of the voodoo masks from
the lobby.  In next to no time they were all hopping about with spears and
drums and whatnot.  One of the girls says Goldsmith asked her what his
Zulu club reminded her of.’

Skelgill
raises his eyebrows, but choses not to comment.  DS Jones continues.

‘They eventually
returned all the paraphernalia – Tregilgis made sure they did it
properly.  Then the next notable event was – as we know from his
wife – that he went to bed at about two a.m.  He didn’t make a great
fuss of going – most people said they hadn’t noticed.  Interestingly,
Miriam says he was leaving early in the morning and would be away for two
nights – but she didn’t know where.’

‘Odd.’

‘You’d
think so, Guv.’  DS Jones waits to see if he has more to add, but he
remains pensive, and she continues.  ‘After that, Guv, if I had to
paraphrase the statements, I’d say it’s all a bit of a blank.  No one is
admitting to going anywhere near Tregilgis’s bedroom – basically you just
get a picture of twenty people milling around the public areas, getting
increasingly drunk.  Nothing happens until Miriam’s screams are heard and
they all descend on Room 10.’

Skelgill
picks up the pile of statements from his desk and casually flicks through
them.  There are a good hundred pages, and he scowls at the sheer mass of
information.

‘Glad you couldn’t
sleep, lass.’

DS Jones
shrugs modestly, and reaches for the plate with the single remaining bacon
roll.

‘It doesn’t
really help us in narrowing down the possibilities, though, Guv.’

Skelgill
sighs wistfully, though it is equally probable that he has been hoping she
would not be hungry.

‘Oh, I
don’t know, Jones.  What was it Miriam said about him falling in
love?  Sounds like there’s a few likely lasses in that mix.’

DS Jones
nods.

‘However,
Guv – more than half the company is female – there are only five
males, excluding Ivan Tregilgis.’

‘Three to
one ratio – don’t know if I dare set foot in their offices.’

DS Jones smirks
knowingly.

‘Don’t
worry, Guv – I’ll ride shotgun.’