Authors: Bruce Beckham
Skelgill
remarks that Pentonville Road is exactly what he had expected of a ‘pale-blue’
on the
Monopoly
board. While he is no fan of the urban environment,
he has confessed to DS Jones a certain admiration for the flowing harmony of
the architecture in London’s tightly packed West End. But now, as the two
detectives stride uphill from King’s Cross, all before them is disunity and
strife. Buildings of different sizes, shapes, styles – in varying
degrees of repair and disrepair – jostle for space as they line up in
disorderly fashion along each side of the road. Some are set forward,
others set back. Some have cars crammed into improbably small courtyards;
others are temporary construction sites. There are small office buildings;
headquarters of obscure institutes; and blocks of flats with grimy net-curtains
and tiny balconies choked by washing and satellite dishes and neglected
houseplants. There are bin-liners bursting with rubbish stacked against
lampposts and blackened tree trunks; dumpsters overflowing with a cornucopia of
banana skins, chip wrappers and drinks cans; and few shops to speak of –
just a cluster of narrow cafés, bookmakers and heavily shuttered sex emporia
nearer to King’s Cross. Not even the dazzling morning sunshine and
brilliant azure sky can make it seem agreeable.
They are
shortly to meet Grendon Smith – although he does not know it. And
they are forearmed with information that DS Jones’s team has unearthed
concerning his past – chequered, as it turns out. There are several
juvenile cautions and convictions: for taking pot shots at neighbours’ pets
with an air rifle, four counts of shoplifting, possession of stolen goods (top-shelf
magazines and videos); and one adult offence of fraud – the falsification
of a stolen tax disc. His address proves to be one of the net-curtained
flats, located in a small block down a side road about half way to The Angel,
Islington (another ‘pale-blue’, Skelgill notes). The time is eight a.m.
on this Wednesday morning.
Despite his
relative youth – he is twenty-three – Grendon Smith seems aged and
arthritic as he pokes his sharp, bony face around his door, blinking in the
brightness and scowling like an angry weasel roused from its lair after an
unsuccessful night’s foraging.
‘Yeah?’
‘Police
– we’d like to talk to you.’
‘Not
again.’
‘Just a few
questions, Mr Smith. Then we should be able to leave you in peace.’
Grudgingly
he turns and, leaving them to fasten the door, leads the officers into a
sparsely furnished lounge that has a kitchenette on one side.
‘I was just
in the toilet – I’ll be back in a minute.’
Without
offering a seat, or waiting for a reply, he leaves the room.
‘Mind if we
make ourselves a cuppa?’
There is no
reply to Skelgill’s entreaty, just the click of the bathroom door. He
looks hopefully at DS Jones, who shrugs resignedly and sets about locating the
necessary ingredients beneath the empty food packets and crumpled takeaway
wrappers that litter the worktops. Skelgill, meanwhile, busies himself in
nosing about the room. Perhaps surprisingly, the tide of seediness that
has stranded the district does not flow into the apartment, and the furnishings
and carpets are new and clean, and the decor simple and actually quite
stylish. What does win his attention, however, are several prominent gaps
on shelves, and a corresponding lack of electrical goods – with only a
small portable television opposite the sofa, beached upon a unit capable of
accommodating a much larger set. There are two possible explanations for
this dearth of equipment, and these must run through Skelgill’s mind: either the
gear is hot and he has hidden it, or he is skint and – as the old Cockney
nursery rhyme goes – he has
popped
it. Skelgill is stooping
down examining a loose fibre optic cable when Smith re-enters the room.
He glances over his shoulder.
‘Not had a
burglary, have we sir?’
‘Pressing
debts, I’m afraid, Inspector. I had to sell a few possessions –
it’s a harsh old world.’
Skelgill
stands up, a sceptical expression creasing his features. While Smith has
provided a plausible answer to the obvious conundrum, it is his manner that elicits
Skelgill’s reaction. It is as though a refreshed and charming persona has
supplanted the cantankerous
Steptoe
-like creature that admitted them to
the flat. And the transformation extends to his appearance. He
wears a newly pressed collared shirt, neatly knotted tie, suit trousers and
polished black shoes. His hair is trendily gelled, and he has shaved
– indeed there is the elegant waft of expensive cologne.
‘You have
drinks, officers? Sorry I left you to it – you caught me rather
indisposed – is there anything else I can give you? And –
please – do have a seat.’
This is
evidently the Grendon Smith that, in Krista Morocco’s words, “interviewed
well.”
‘We’re
alright, thanks.’ Skelgill gestures with an open palm to DS Jones.
‘My colleague would like to ask you a few questions.’
‘Whatever I
can do to help, Inspector.’
DS Jones picks
up her notebook.
‘Mr Smith, presumably
you know why we want to talk to you?’
‘You’re
investigating Ivan Tregilgis’s death.’
‘That and
other related matters.’
A hint of anxiety
is revealed in Smith’s sunken eyes. He nods silently.
‘We’d like
to confirm your whereabouts last Saturday night – between ten p.m. and
eight a.m. the following morning.’
‘Am I a
suspect or something? I told all this to the policewoman who came on
Monday.’
‘We just
need a few more details, Mr Smith. It’s a routine elimination process we
have to go through.’
Smith
shrugs, though now with no real sign of irritation.
‘Well, as I
said before, I was in Norfolk from about nine-thirty on Saturday night –
and I got back here about midday on Sunday.’
‘What were
you doing in Norfolk?’
‘I’m a
birder, you know – birdwatcher? And there was a Collared Pratincole
at Holme Bird Observatory - it was a
Life Tick
for me.’
‘How did
you find out about this –’
‘Pratincole.’
Smith grins affably. ‘I just rang
Birdline
on Saturday afternoon
– it tells you about any unusual species that have been reported.’
‘And you
say you slept in your car?’
‘I often do.
It’s the best way to be on the spot first thing in the morning. You never
know how long a bird will stay. I got fish and chips in Hunstanton on the
way, and then parked down on the reserve at Holme. I’d got the tick
before six a.m.’
‘Can anyone
vouch for your presence there?’
‘Well
– there were plenty of other birders – must have been close on a
hundred by the time I left.’
‘Any names
you could give us?’
Smith pulls
an apologetic face.
‘Not off
the top of my head – I mean, there were quite a few I recognised by sight
– regular twitchers – maybe some of them will have made entries in
the log book at the observatory?’
‘Did you
buy anything for which you have a receipt – fuel, for example?’
Smith shakes
his head.
‘I filled
up before I left London, but I just paid cash.’ He glances across at
Skelgill with a hangdog expression. ‘Card’s over the limit.’
‘So you
can’t actually prove you were in Norfolk?’
Smith opens
his palms in a helpless gesture. There is a glint in his eye that tells
he knows they can’t prove he wasn’t (and that it is their job, not his, to do
so).
‘I can show
you my Life List?’
Skelgill
obviously decides it is time for a change of tack. He sits forward to
indicate to his colleague he is about to speak.
‘Mr Smith,
you’ve mentioned a couple of times that you have some financial difficulties.’
Smith nods,
a worldly expression now occupying his face.
‘Then
presumably getting the sack doesn’t help?’
‘Oh, I
wasn’t sacked, Inspector – I left by mutual agreement.’
If the
question has taken Smith by surprise, he doesn’t show it. Skelgill
furrows his brow.
‘That’s
strange. I got the distinct impression from Ms Morocco that you were
dismissed.’
‘Certainly
not – it just wasn’t working out for either party – nobody’s fault
– we each gave it a good shot – but these things happen, you know?’
Skelgill
looks like he doesn’t.
‘Mr Smith,
we have several reports that you had to be escorted from the premises by Mr
Tregilgis on your last day.’
‘They must
have been mistaken, Inspector.’ Smith’s tone is soothing. ‘Sure, I
left with Ivan – but he wished me well – he offered to give me a
reference when I need one for a new job.’
‘And did he
say anything else?’
Smith
straightens the knot of his tie, and shakes his head unhappily.
‘Well
– between these four walls – he was rather disparaging about
Krista. He said she was prone to be emotional when she didn’t get her own
way, and that I was unlucky to have got the blame when actually the buck should
have stopped with her.’
Skelgill folds
his arms. That Ivan Tregilgis might have had the good heart to offer
Smith a reference is just feasible. But to have bad-mouthed a woman for
whom he obviously had great affection – had one time loved and perhaps continued
to until his untimely death – this is one lie too far. It is almost
as if the insult stings Skelgill as sharply as it might have Ivan
himself. Skelgill compresses his lips, and does not speak. Smith,
perhaps misreading this signal, simpers in return. If he only knew of the
maxim trotted out from time to time by Skelgill’s regular partner, DS Leyton
–
“When Skel stops talking, you start walking”
– he would
appreciate the dangerous path he is treading.
DS Jones,
of course, knows little of this – it being her first actual assignment
with Skelgill – but his unfamiliar manner tells her something is
amiss. Without further reference to her superior, she intervenes with a
stern warning of her own.
‘Look here,
Mr Smith – certain allegations have been made against you – and in
view of your criminal record we may be obliged to investigate them – it
would help if you were straight with us.’
Smith
spreads his palms wide in a gesture of supplication.
‘Sergeant
– I always believe in honesty as the best policy.’
‘It doesn’t
strike me as very honest to forge the registration number on a tax disc, Mr
Smith.’
‘Ah –
that was a very difficult situation for me.’ He shakes his head
despondently. You see – it was actually my father that had done it,
God rest his soul. I didn’t even know until the police turned up.
He’d gone without to help me get my first car on the road – his heart
wouldn’t have survived the stress of being in court. As it was he died
the following year.’
‘I’m sorry
to hear that, Mr Smith.’ DS Jones glances anxiously at Skelgill lest he
rise to Smith’s latest outrageous deception. ‘But you also have several juvenile
convictions, which don’t exactly mark you out as a paragon of virtue.’
Smith heroically
sucks in the air that will form his next inflated excuse.
‘I was a victim
of chronic bullying as a teenager. The gangs in this area – I was
forced to take the rap for quite a few things I didn’t do – the alternative
was to be even more severely ostracised – or worse.’
Skelgill rises
to his feet. DS Jones dare not look at him. But his response, when
it comes, is surprisingly controlled. Perhaps the red mist has dissolved.
‘We’ve more
or less finished for the moment, Mr Smith – but you’ll be hearing from us
again. Sergeant Jones will take some details about your car. I
shall just use your toilet and meet her downstairs. Let’s hope your road
tax is up to date.’
With that, he
departs the room, leaving his deputy to deal with a surprised and somewhat
injured-looking Smith.
*
A few
minutes later they rendezvous outside a small off-licence-cum-newsagent’s a
short distance from the entrance to the flats. Its roof is guarded by a
rusty array of horrible-looking curved spikes. Skelgill is munching
busily. He holds out a brown paper bag to DS Jones as she approaches.
‘Samosa?’
‘Er... no
thanks, Guv.’
‘They’re
alright, these – the shopkeeper makes them herself – four for a
quid.’
DS Jones
gives her boss a wide-eyed look – as if to say he seems remarkably laid
back considering what has just passed inside Grendon Smith’s property.
However, it is not long before Skelgill lets loose a string of invective
– though in a rather half-hearted fashion, it must be said. They
begin to retrace their steps towards King’s Cross.