Authors: Bruce Beckham
‘I can’t
believe half of that gear’s legal.’
‘They
mostly wear it for clubbing, down here, Guv.’
Skelgill
and DS Jones have paused momentarily at the window of a fetish accessories
emporium. Heading briskly for Miriam Tregilgis’s apartment, they are
cutting through Soho towards Cambridge Circus. Skelgill’s eyes have
widened at the mind-boggling array of accessories and wet-look PVC clothing.
‘Look there
– truncheons and handcuffs.’
DS Jones
smiles at her colleague.
‘Thinking
of taking back a souvenir, Guv?’
‘What?
– no fear.’
Skelgill
turns away and sets off at pace. It is eleven-forty a.m. and they have
been informed that Miriam Tregilgis is unexpectedly on a tight schedule.
DS Jones catches him and changes the subject.
‘I thought
you were kind on Krista Morocco, Guv.’
‘Aye, well
– maybe I’m going soft in my old age.’
Skelgill
glances hopefully at DS Jones – perhaps seeking a rebuttal of this notion
(regarding age rather than amenability). But she is more single-minded.
‘She still
doesn’t want to tell us the full story, Guv. I mean – what’s she
got to lose by being straight about her and Ivan Tregilgis? It just
creates suspicion.’
‘I suppose
she’s entitled to her privacy – and it’s up to us to make of it what we
will.’ He pulls a face that suggests concern. ‘We’ve given her a
bit of a rough ride – first the underwear and then the kukri –
she’d be excused for clamming up, and she hasn’t exactly done that. She
could have denied the affair with Tregilgis. Bear in mind her husband may
not know about that – nor Miriam – she’s taking the risk of it
coming out.’
DS Jones
nods; Skelgill is right about this.
‘I suppose
so, Guv.’
Skelgill
brightens.
‘One thing
does puzzle me, though, Jones.’
‘Guv?’
‘Why would
she take such sexy undies to the company party?’
DS Jones
grins. Now, paradoxically, she comes to the defence of Krista Morocco.’
‘Because,
Guv – when you’re wearing nice clothes you want to wear nice underwear
– it makes you feel... well, good.’
Skelgill
looks a touch disappointed.
‘Is that
all?’
DS Jones
narrows her eyes, and just a hint of coyness enters her tone.
‘Well
– I suppose you never know, Guv...’
‘What?
When you might get run over by a bus?’
Now she
chuckles.
‘Something
like that.’
Skelgill
nods, a little happier.
‘Anyway,
Guv – remember, on the night she wasn’t wearing
any
.’
‘That must
a be Swedish thing.’
*
It is an
uncharacteristically flustered Miriam Tregilgis that admits Skelgill and DS Jones
to her flat a few minutes later. The time is now eleven-fifty a.m.
Beside the door in the long hallway stand a pristine fawn-coloured designer
flight bag and a matching attaché case. Miriam Tregilgis wears a smart
lime-green two-piece outfit.
‘Do you
mind awfully if I don’t offer you coffee?’ She sounds genuinely
apologetic. ‘It’s just that I’m running late and there’s a taxi coming at
twelve.’
Her
pronunciation of the word taxi with
‘ach’
reminds the detectives that a
Welsh accent lurks beneath her careful enunciation.
She delves
distractedly into her handbag, but then seems to surprise them by taking the
initiative.
‘Any news,
Inspector?’
‘We’re
still hoping you might help us on that front, Mrs Tregilgis.’
‘Oh,
really?’
Now she is
rummaging in a drawer of a cabinet.
‘There has
been an attempt at blackmail – a note sent to a member of the company.’
She looks
up sharply, alarm in her eyes.
‘You don’t
think
I
sent it, Inspector?’
Skelgill
appears intrigued by her reaction.
‘It wasn’t
what I had in mind, madam – I was more wondering if you’ve received
something similar?’
She stares
at him blankly.
‘Nothing,
Inspector – unless it has been addressed to Ivan – there’s a lot of
mail for him that I haven’t even touched.’
Skelgill
pulls a doubting face.
‘Doesn’t
seem very likely, madam. And no strange phone calls – anything like
that?’
She shakes
her expensive haircut.
‘Does this
mean you’re any nearer to establishing the identity of the killer?’
Now
Skelgill draws breath.
‘It’s not
as straightforward as that, I’m afraid.’
Miriam
Tregilgis nods reluctantly. But just then, all three of them turn their
heads as the entry phone suddenly buzzes loudly. She looks imploringly at
Skelgill.
‘Can I say
I’ll be two minutes?’
‘Sure.’
She
communicates this information to the taxi driver and remains standing by the
main door. Skelgill gestures at the luggage.
‘Going down
to Wales?’
As she
replies, a deeper hue seems to infuse her meticulously applied blusher.
‘Well
– er, actually, Lausanne.’
‘France?’
Skelgill’s
voice carries a note of unconcealed surprise.
‘Switzerland.’
Now she seems a little agitated. ‘I’m sorry I haven’t let you know yet,
but I was going to ring the number you gave me when I got to the airport
– when I get my details, you see?’
‘I’m not
sure I do.’
‘What it
is, Inspector – the chance to go only came up yesterday – a
friend’s partner dropped out – and it’s just for two nights – then
I go up to Edinburgh.’
Skelgill appears
disconcerted.
‘If it’s all
the same I’d prefer if you could get me your flight numbers and address just
now.’
Miriam
glances at the entry phone, as if she is expecting it to buzz again.
‘Okay
– I’ll try, Inspector.’
She fishes
her mobile from her handbag and dials a number. It is answered promptly.
‘Hi it’s me
– no, everything’s fine. Look, I need the flight and hotel details
for the police.’ During the pause that follows she produces a small black
designer organiser and opens it at a blank page. It has a pen attached by
an elasticated loop. ‘Okay – okay – got it.’ Then she
chuckles. ‘There’s lovely – see you in about forty-five
minutes. Ciao.’ She drops the mobile into her bag and tears out the
page and hands it to Skelgill.
‘Thanks.’
He frowns as he tries to read her slanting italic script. ‘
Hotel du
Lac.
Sounds like my sort of place.’
‘It’s a
health spa.’
Skelgill affects
shock.
‘Second
thoughts, cancel that.’
And now the
buzzer does sound – a longer, insistent press from the no-doubt agitated
cabbie. Miriam Tregilgis looks appealingly at the two detectives.
‘Okay
– you’d better go – we’ll help you down.’
As Miriam
Tregilgis taps a code into the control panel of a burglar alarm, Skelgill
reaches for her flight bag.
‘Whoa!
It’s the kitchen sink!’
Miriam
Tregilgis looks amused.
‘The
bathroom cabinet, actually, Inspector. They charge so much at these
places for their own toiletries – I think that’s how they make all their
money. And it’s amazing how many things you need, even for a couple of
nights, you know?’
Skelgill
looks like he doesn’t, although DS Jones gives a more sympathetic nod.
As they
begin to descend the stairs, Skelgill calls back over his shoulder.
‘You said
you were going to Edinburgh, madam – is that to do with the company?’
‘It is,
Inspector. Elspeth phoned me last night. They’re organising a
get-together – to rally the troops, I suppose. Apparently we’re
doing a treasure hunt round the city on Saturday, then there’s a barbecue on an
island in the Firth of Forth in the evening.’
Skelgill
looks perplexed, perhaps even a little shocked.
‘How do you
feel about that – so soon?’
She shakes
her head, understanding his concern.
‘Actually,
Inspector – I’m sure Ivan would have approved – it’s exactly the
kind of thing he liked everyone to do.’
As they
reach ground level they can see the taxi driver’s nose squashed against the
wired glass of the door. He is pressing the entry phone button,
apparently holding it down to create one long buzz. Skelgill
uncompromisingly jerks open the door, eliciting an aggressive
“Oi”
from
the shaven-headed cabbie.
Skelgill
stares coldly and holds out the flight bag.
‘Police.’
This is all
he says, but it sounds convincing. The cabbie hesitates before taking the
bag, wincing as Skelgill releases its full weight into his possession. He
retreats muttering into the refuge of his cab. Skelgill turns to Miriam
Tregilgis.
‘Sorry,
I’ve upset your driver.’
‘Oh, don’t
worry, Inspector – I’m sure he’ll be fine – he’ll still want his
tip.’
Skelgill
holds open the door of the vehicle.
‘Mrs
Tregilgis – just one question?’
‘Aha?’
She pauses,
half in and half out.
‘Have you
ever been pregnant?’
A shadow
seems to cloud her features, and she turns away and climbs into her seat before
facing him.
‘I don’t
think I can have children, Inspector.’
Half an hour
since he watched Miriam Tregilgis’s taxi disappear into Upper St Martin’s Lane,
Skelgill – no doubt wishing the window were cleaner – squints into
the sun as Euston station recedes around a curve of track and their homebound
train begins steadily to pick up pace. In one of those seemingly rare
sequences of good fortune – like when all the traffic lights turn green
in just the right order – there had been a tube train waiting to receive
himself and DS Jones at Leicester Square, and a Glasgow-bound express standing
just five minutes from its departure time at Euston. Now all it requires
is an announcement that the buffet car is open.
‘Seems a
bit fishy, Guv – this trip of Miriam Tregilgis’s.’
Skelgill
nods.
‘It is on
the lake.’
DS Jones
grins.
‘But you
know what I mean, Guv.’
Skelgill
now shrugs; he does not seem too fazed by the idea of Miriam Tregilgis’s
impromptu jaunt to Switzerland.
‘I think
she was hiding something from us, Guv.’
Skelgill
now shifts his squint to his sergeant.
‘Okay, Miss
Marple – what’s the latest theory?’
DS Jones
pretends to be offended.
‘Well, Guv
– firstly, I noticed that she wasn’t forthcoming with the name of the
friend – or even the gender.’
‘I think
she just assumed we’d think it was a female – and she was in a rush,
Jones.’
‘The rush
could have been manufactured, Guv – I checked the flight number and it
doesn’t go until nearly four – she had loads of time.’
‘Aye
– but what about all those shops they’ve got at Heathrow?’
DS Jones
ignores this comment.
‘Also, Guv
– you thought her flight bag was heavy.’
‘Aye it
was. The taxi driver nearly dropped it.’
‘But I carried
her attaché case, Guv – while she was setting the alarm. It felt
like it was full of bricks.’
‘More make
up?’
‘What if
she’s got a Swiss bank account, Guv?’
Skelgill
closes one eye and leans back in his seat.
‘Wouldn’t
she be bringing money
into
the country?’
‘Not if
someone’s paid her.’
‘What
– she’s the blackmailer?’
‘Why not,
Guv – she’s as likely as anyone to know something incriminating –
you said it yourself – what if she witnessed the murderer escaping?’
‘But why
send the notes to everyone – we know Elspeth Goldsmith and Krista Morocco
haven’t paid.’
‘So that
narrows it down, then, Guv.’
DS Jones
folds her arms and sits back, as though she rests her case. Skelgill does
not appear to be taking this idea too seriously, and keeps glancing out of the
window at passing sights. After a minute – perhaps to mollify DS
Jones – he leans forward and taps his hands on the table across which
they face one another.
‘Okay, look
– keep it in the mix – let’s see what develops.’ He rubs his
eyes – he is clearly tired after last night’s inadequate sleep.
‘Switzerland always makes me think of Julie Andrews prancing about on that
mountain.’
DS Jones
looks perplexed.
‘That was
Austria, wasn’t it Guv – didn’t they escape to Switzerland?’
‘Aye,
happen they did – now you mention it.’
*
Skelgill
has taken it upon himself to visit the buffet car, and by the time he returns
laden with wrapped rolls and polystyrene cups, DS Jones has settled down to the
Daily Telegraph
cryptic crossword.
‘I’m
getting there.’ He takes a couple of lateral steps to accommodate a
sudden sideways surge in the train’s motion.
‘Here, let
me take them – yow!’ DS Jones instantly regrets accepting the piping-hot
drinks. ‘You must have asbestos hands, Guv.’
‘Aye, well
– it comes from years of manhandling a
Kelly Kettle
.’ He
slides into his seat opposite her, and begins to deal out the food. ‘I
got two cheeseburgers and two bacon-and-tomato rolls.’
‘Guv
– one’s fine for me.’
‘Ah –
you never know.’
‘I know it
won’t go to waste.’
Skelgill
smirks.
‘Got to
keep my creative energy up.’
DS Jones
raises her eyebrows and affects to busy herself with the crossword. But
after a moment she remembers there is something she wants to tell him.
‘Guv
– I phoned Krista Morocco – about this weekend in Edinburgh.’
‘Aye?’
‘Well, it
suddenly struck me that she hadn’t mentioned it to us – but it turns out
she didn’t know – she only got a call from Dermott Goldsmith after we’d
left her.’
‘What did
she reckon to it?’
‘Actually,
Guv, she said she thought it was a good idea – that they’d all left the
Lakes in a state of shock and not really said goodbye to one another. She’s
happy that the two offices can get back together and share commiserations.’
Skelgill
does not reply. He is munching industriously, gazing out of the window
with a rather glazed expression in his eyes. It could just be the
restorative effect of the beefburger, although there is something about the
slow nodding of his head that suggests a more profound contemplation of some
matter that has taken hold of his consciousness. After a while he draws a
deep breath, and looks back at DS Jones. She has evidently been waiting
for him to return to her company.
‘Guv, I was
thinking – what with the timing of this event – when does the
blackmailer intend the deadline to expire?’
‘What’s
tomorrow?’
‘Thursday,
Guv.’
‘Could be
anywhere between then and Monday – depends on how you interpret the
instruction – when it might have been written, or when they received it.’
DS Jones
nods.
‘I suppose
we just have to wait and see, Guv.’
‘Aye.’
They
descend into silence while Skelgill eats some more and DS Jones nibbles at her
own sandwich. She returns to her crossword, and after a few minutes pipes
up with a question.
‘Guv
– is there a fish called a Vendace?’
‘Aye
– they’re like hen’s teeth – but I’ve had a few out of Bass Lake
– put ‘em back like.’
‘Excellent.’
She writes
in the solution. Skelgill, however, is perplexed.
‘How come
you know the name, but you’ve never heard of it?’
DS Jones
glances up, surprised.
‘Oh –
it’s just the way these clues work, Guv –
“Sell star for uncommon
swimmer”
– seven letters.’
‘What?’
Now Skelgill’s
expression becomes one of bafflement, and his face contorts amusingly. DS
Jones is unable to suppress a giggle.
‘You see,
Guv – I think “sell” means “vend” and “star” means “ace” – and
together they make an “uncommon swimmer” – a fish.’
Skelgill
raises his eyebrows, perhaps half-comprehending.
‘Give us
another one, then.’
‘Okay.’
She peruses the list of clues, and selects one she has not yet filled in.
It appears, however, that she solves it even as she considers it. ‘This
one should be right up your street, Guv.
“Untidy bins even up top”
– two words, three and five letters. Now, the hidden clue here is
–’
‘No,
no.’ Skelgill interrupts her. ‘Don’t tell me – I want to work
it out. Pass it over. And the pen – I can’t think without a
pen.’
He sets to,
chewing the biro vigorously. However, going by his knitted brows, he does
not seem to be making great progress, and DS Jones, first becoming rather
subdued as she watches the scenery flashing mesmerisingly by, gradually nods
off to sleep.
*
It is not
just DS Jones who is feeling the effects of their night on the tiles, for when
she wakes shortly after they cross the Ship Canal, Skelgill, having dozed off
around Nuneaton, is also asleep. However, they are both roused by the
ringing of her mobile, which at some point during their slumbers has found its
way onto the floor beneath their table. Instinctively Skelgill leans down
sideways to retrieve it, only to find himself staring at the stockingless DS
Jones’s bronzed thighs, and the smooth white triangle of her tight silky
underwear. Hurriedly he gropes for the phone and sits up with a jolt,
cracking his head off the metal rim of the table.
‘Aargh ya
–’
He just manages
to avoid uttering a profanity – in such circumstances his regular default
is an anagram of a tenth-century Anglo-Danish king, he of the incoming tide
– so it is as well that he shows restraint; there are elderly passengers
seated within earshot. He sits upright, vigorously rubbing his crown, and
passes the handset to his unsuspecting colleague.
DS Jones
puts the mobile to her ear.
‘Hello
– oh, hi – yes, we’re on the train.’ It appears that Skelgill
has inadvertently answered the call. ‘What – oh, it was the Guv’nor
– he banged his head – my phone fell on the floor.’
There is a pause
while she listens – and then makes occasional sounds of agreement –
the constable is giving her an update of progress. At one point she
laughs, somewhat throatily – and this attracts Skelgill’s attention
– he watches a little suspiciously, as if he is seeking signs of
over-familiarity.
Now she is
asked a question, which she repeats.
‘Where
are
we?’
She glances
inquiringly at Skelgill. In turn he stares knowledgeably at the passing
countryside.
‘Staffordshire.’
Disoriented
by a combination of sleep and lack of, he is out by a factor of two counties.
‘Did you
get that? Aha – well, we’re due back about five, anyway – okay
– take care.’
DS Jones
ends the call.
‘You won’t
be surprised to hear the Chief would like an update in the morning.’
Skelgill
tuts. But then he bows to the inevitable and sits upright, folding his
long fisherman’s fingers before him on the table.
‘In a
nutshell, then – how much the wiser are we?’
DS Jones contrives
a hopeful expression.
‘At the
London end, Guv?’ (Skelgill nods.) ‘Ivan Tregilgis was popular with
his colleagues and the ladies. Dermott Goldsmith wasn’t. The latter
was immature and probably jealous of the former. Tregilgis had a
relationship with Krista Morocco at the same time as he was engaged to Miriam
– likely as not of a sexual nature. Somebody got pregnant.
Both of these females continue to be economical with information.’ It is
not a lot, and she grins reluctantly. And then, as if in mitigation, she
adds an unexpected postscript. ‘And you’re not a bad dancer.’
Caught of
guard, all Skelgill can do is scoff.
‘That
proves conclusively you can’t remember anything about last night.’
However, he
seems to be warmed by the compliment, and it perhaps insulates him from the
cold reality that they are not making the requisite progress. In due
course, he comes around to an acceptance of this situation.
‘I can
hardly go swanning in and tell her we’ve cracked it, though.’
On behalf
of both of them, DS Jones becomes defensive in her tone.
‘I don’t
see what more we could be doing, Guv?’
Skelgill
shakes his head.
‘I’ve been
wondering if I should have taken a leaf out of Smart’s book?’
DS Jones
looks alarmed. Skelgill refers to a fellow Inspector, DI Alec Smart
– his bitter rival for plum cases and their attendant accolades, and a character
with whom he has little in common and even less respect for. Smart, on
the other hand, seems to make it his business to be as antagonistic towards
Skelgill as any opportunity allows – a singularity that Skelgill suspects
extends to snitching on him to the Chief.
‘But what
good would that do, Guv?’
Skelgill shrugs.
They both know that DI Smart would, on the very first morning, have had the
whole Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates crowd put through as near
third-degree interrogation as he could have got away with.
‘Maybe
someone would have cracked – under the stress of the situation.’
DS Jones
seems determined that this would not be the case.
‘Perhaps if
it were a crime of passion, Guv – but not if it were premeditated –
they’d have had their excuses at the ready. I think we’ve done the only
sensible thing – and that’s to look into the possible motives.’
Skelgill
shakes his head.
‘You know,
Jones, I think – I
feel
– it’s even simpler than that.
Remember when we sat down beside Bass Lake – having breakfast?’