Murder in Adland (6 page)

Skelgill discovers
DS Jones in the street below; a hand pressed over one ear and her mobile to the
other.  The traffic is not heavy, but the cobbles of Frederick Street
amplify the sound of its passing.  Skelgill indicates they should enter
the brasserie.  They take seats at a table a couple of yards back from the
window, and he orders while she completes her call.

‘He thinks Goldsmith’s
a bit of a plonker, you know.’

DS Jones
nods, but it is clear she has more pressing matters on her mind.

‘That was
Forensics, Guv.  I called them back so I could come outside.  It’s
about Ivan Tregilgis’s briefcase.’

Skelgill eyes
her inquisitively.

‘The
combination was his wife’s date of birth.’

DS Jones
looks surprised, though she grins widely.

‘How did
you guess?’

‘Intuition.’
Skelgill smirks in an exaggerated manner.  ‘And inside it was a piece of
lead pipe and a passport belonging to Colonel Mustard.’

DS Jones
giggles, but quickly controls her mirth – for he is not so far from the
truth.

‘Actually,
Guv, there
was
a passport – Ivan Tregilgis’s – plus a return
ticket to New York, due to fly out this morning from Manchester.’

Skelgill
tilts his head to one side.

‘So that’s
where he was off to.  Any indication why?’

‘Not as
yet, Guv – there are some papers – but nothing that’s categorical
– apparently there’s a presentation about the agency – the sort of
thing they might give to a potential new client.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘He is
supposed to be the sales guy.  Maybe that’s it.’

‘One
interesting thing, Guv – there are no fingerprints whatsoever on the
outside of the case.’

Skelgill stirs
chocolate flakes into his cappuccino.  In trying to suck the excess froth
from the spoon, he gets it jammed in his palate, and for a comic moment he looks
like a fish on a hook, his eyes bulging in surprise.  With a jerk he frees
the recalcitrant item of cutlery, and shakes his head in relief.

‘Why would
anyone do that?’

‘Someone
must have tampered with it, Guv – someone who doesn’t want us to know.’

Now
Skelgill purses his lips.

‘What was
it in the statements – when they were overheard at the bar?’

‘Goldsmith
said he needed to see something that Ivan Tregilgis had.’

Skelgill is
silent for a moment.

‘Makes you
wonder if that had something to do with it.’

‘Do you
think he would know the combination, Guv?’

Skelgill
shrugs.

‘I guess
we’d better ask him.  There he is.’

‘What
–?’

Dermott
Goldsmith is just a few feet away, standing on the pavement outside the
brasserie.  Perhaps a combination of the bright day and the dark interior
makes it difficult to see through the glass.  Indeed, he surely cannot be
aware of their presence, for he begins to use the window as a mirror, first
checking his thinning hair, and then his clothing, including a look over his
shoulder at his well padded rear.  Then he wheels away, and apparently
disappears into the stair from which they recently emerged.

‘He must be
going to see the accountants, Guv.’

Skelgill
nods.

‘He won’t
be too chuffed that we beat him to it.  And, when the cat’s away...’

*

Having
insisted they despatch their coffees in double-quick time, a striding Skelgill
has his colleague skipping to keep up as they descend Queen Street Gardens West
to the car.  His cryptic reference to the cat being away signalled his
intention to visit the Edinburgh office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates
while its surviving principal is otherwise engaged.  However, as they
round the corner into Heriot Row, Skelgill lets out howl of dismay.  There
is a parking ticket on his windscreen.  DS Jones pretends not to notice
– she must figure that this is not a good time to remind him of her
earlier advice.  Skelgill stamps a foot and clenches his fists at his
side, but fortunately for all concerned, there is no trace of the warden. 
A workman in a white boiler suit is loading some tools into a plumber’s van a
few spaces along, and Skelgill approaches him.

‘Excuse me
– I just got a ticket along there – is that right?’

The man
seems surprised by the question, and blinks several times, before a reply comes
to him.

‘Aye
– ye cannae park there, ken?  Aw they meanies are right bastats,
ken?’

Then the
man’s mobile rings, and he takes the call without further reference to Skelgill,
closing up his van and wandering over to a house opposite.  Skelgill shrugs
and returns to DS Jones.

‘Looks like
we’ve paid to park.  Over the odds – but, hey – may as well
leave it here now.  Come on, we’ll walk – it’s only Charlotte
Square.’

A bemused
DS Jones falls in behind him – now he sets off along the back of the
gardens, heading west along Heriot Row.

‘Guv
– what was all that about “Ken”?  I thought they called you “Jimmy”
in Scotland?’

Skelgill
grins, and glances across his shoulder at her.

‘Aye, well
– we’re in the posh part now.’

‘Do you
recognise these briefs?’

‘They’re
not mine, if that’s what you mean.’

‘What type
were you wearing on Saturday night?’

‘Red,
lacy.’

‘What size
do you normally buy?’

‘Medium.’

‘Can I see
the label in the ones you’re wearing?’

*

This was an
impromptu examination that Skelgill had perhaps reluctantly delegated to his
female colleague, conducted in the privacy of Julia Rubicon’s office.  Now
that he enters, a few minutes later, he sees the almost imperceptible shake of
his sergeant’s head – a pre-arranged signal that tells him this is
unlikely to be their Cinderella.  No classic beauty, Julia Rubicon has an
allure in a bad-girl sort of way.  The first impression is an aura of
intense perfume and spectacular hair, full lips coloured scarlet, bare legs, and
outrageous shoes.  A bra appears to be an option not exercised
today.  If Skelgill were assessing her capability to find a weakness in
Ivan Tregilgis’s sensibilities, he would probably comment along the lines that
she could drive a coach and horses through them.  However, is this any way
to dress for a police interview?

DS Jones,
on the other hand, appears inured to such gothic distractions, and continues unperturbed.

‘You were
seen arguing with Mr Tregilgis on Saturday night, just after midnight. 
What was that about?’

‘I don’t
recall arguing with him.’  Julia Rubicon’s tone is flat; she sounds as
though she is suppressing a building anger.

‘In her
statement Mrs Stark says you strode off the dance floor leaving Mr Tregilgis
standing alone.’

‘She would.’ 
Julia Rubicon’s eyes narrow, like an alley cat that spies a mortal enemy.

‘So you
didn’t have a disagreement of any kind?’

Julia
Rubicon shakes her head, her features taut.

‘It’s been
mentioned to us that you and Mr Tregilgis were having an affair.  Is that
true, Miss Rubicon?’

‘No.’

Skelgill affects
distraction – gazing out of the mullioned window at the trees of
Charlotte Square Gardens – though he no doubt pays close attention. 
This is the first time he has witnessed DS Jones in action.

‘We’ll have
access to all of Mr Tregilgis’s credit card bills, telephone records, computers
and so on.  It will be a very easy thing for us to cross-check.’

There is no
reply.  Julia Rubicon sits obstinately, biting a cheek.  Eventually
she speaks.

‘Then I
think you’ll find we worked together, Sergeant.’

‘For work
reasons, then – did you go into Mr Tregilgis’s bedroom at any time prior
to the discovery of his body at three-fifteen a.m.?’

‘No.’

Julia
Rubicon is determined, but DS Jones is tenacious.  For Skelgill, it must
appear an intriguing standoff.

‘Miss
Rubicon, did you have anything to do with the death of Ivan Tregilgis?’

‘God, no.’

At last
there is a release of emotion.  She bows her head away from them, covering
her face with the veil of dark hair.  She is not as tough as she tries to
make out.  For a few moments she sobs.  DS Jones glances at Skelgill
– she wants permission to press home the advantage.  But Skelgill
shakes his head.  And now he intervenes more softly.  There is a
peculiar glint in his eye – perhaps it is the novelty of playing Good
Cop.

‘Julia?’ 
His use of her Christian name seems to have an immediate effect.  She
turns back to face the detectives, blinking, not wiping her eyes, allowing the
mascara to run.  ‘How would you describe your working relationship with
Ivan?’

She
breathes heavily, and her reply is somewhat oblique.

‘Mainly by
telephone.’

‘Could you
elaborate?’

‘Ivan was
only involved in one of my accounts – Caledonian Bank.  Their head office
is here in Edinburgh.  He came up for monthly creative review
meetings.  Other than that I would speak with him most days, often several
times, frequently late at night – there were production deadlines every
four weeks.’

Skelgill
nods broodingly.  After a few moments’ silence he speaks again.

‘Wouldn’t
it have been more practical for Mr Goldsmith to attend these meetings?’

Perhaps
Skelgill is angling at the idea of a convenient monthly liaison, but Julia
Rubicon scotches this notion with her reply.

‘Their CEO insisted
Ivan worked on the account.’

‘What’s
wrong with Mr Goldsmith?’

‘Ivan is an
award-winning Creative Director.’

They must
all note the present tense, but nobody is about to correct this slip.

‘And what
does Mr Goldsmith do?’

She sighs,
and after a moment’s consideration, pulls a face of dark disapproval.

‘Tries to
make us run with mediocre ideas we suspect his wife of dreaming up.’

Skelgill
nods diplomatically.

‘I take it
you don’t always see eye to eye?’

‘You know
what they say about the corporate ladder, Inspector.’

Skelgill
permits himself a restricted grin.  But he does not let this quip draw him
off track.

‘And you’ve
been in charge of this office for about a year, I understand?’

‘I was
promoted last summer.  I was in the London office for nearly four years.’

‘And you
worked with Mr Tregilgis then?’

‘Some of
the time.  My line manager was Krista Morocco, but Ivan preferred to work
directly with me on my accounts.’

‘Why was
that?’

Julia
Rubicon looks at him as though this is a rather pointless question.

‘Perhaps he
thought we did a better job that way.’

‘And more
recently – Mr Tregilgis worked mostly with Ms Morocco?’

She shrugs
indifferently.

‘I imagine
so.’

‘And how
did she get on with Mr Tregilgis?’

‘She seems to
get what she wants.’

‘Why would
that be?’

Again comes
the shrug.  ‘I suggest you ask her.’  The hostility is creeping back
into her manner.

‘Don’t
worry, Miss Rubicon.  We shall.’

*

‘Thought
you gave her a bit of a hard time, Jones – given we’ve not yet got so much
as a stray hair on Tregilgis’s pillow.’

They are back
inside Skelgill’s illegally parked car, lunching on healthy vegetarian rolls
purchased by DS Jones, in Skelgill’s case supplemented by potato crisps and a
chocolate bar.

‘I think she’s
got a guilty conscience, Guv.’

Skelgill might
wonder if Julia Rubicon’s somewhat exotic appearance had brought out the
fighting spirit in his sergeant.  Certainly the pair are well matched,
being of a similar age, and equally attractive in their different ways. 
His decision to let DS Jones lead the interview was probably wise; he perhaps
could not guarantee himself immunity from Julia’s charms.

‘When you say
guilty
?

‘I remember
when I was about thirteen; we’d played a game of consequences in class that
turned a bit blue.  The Deputy Head found the screwed-up notes in a waste-paper
basket and interrogated us one at a time, trying to extract confessions. 
I hadn’t even written anything bad.  But that feeling of answering
questions, knowing you were covering up – for yourself and your
friends.  You just don’t act natural.  You don’t question the
questions.  That was how Julia Rubicon behaved.’

Skelgill
nods – perhaps she has listened more closely than he.

‘I mean,
Guv – if you were completely innocent, how would you react if a copper
asked you to drop your skirt?’

‘You didn’t
do that?’

‘No, Guv
– I just checked the label at the back.’  DS Jones grins, amused by
his widening eyes.  ‘But you can see she’s not a
small
anyway.’ 
Now she pauses and glances at Skelgill, perhaps recognising her lapse.  ‘But
why not tell me to get lost, Guv?  Or at least ask what it’s all
about.  And she wasn’t affronted at being accused of having an
affair.  Nor did she want to know who told us.  That’s why I think she’s
hiding something.’

‘So why
would she lie about having an affair with Tregilgis?’

‘Perhaps
she thinks we can’t prove it.  If they were careful and didn’t leave any
incriminating messages – it’s her word against ours, Guv.’

‘I reckon most
folk would deny they were having an affair.  It’s human nature.  And
she’s scared.’

‘She didn’t
spare the rod when it came to her colleagues – so much for company
solidarity.’

‘You heard
what she said about the corporate ladder, Jones.’

‘Look down and
all you see is brains?’

Skelgill
glances sideways at his subordinate – she has not completed the aphorism
– but instead is grinning mischievously.

‘Aye, well
– the rest of it doesn’t apply in our case.’