Murder in Adland (13 page)

‘Lying
little toad.  I wanted to wring his scrawny neck.  But there was no
point wasting our breath on him.  Let’s hope he did take some backhanders
and the local boys pin that one on him.’

DS Jones
seems a little crestfallen.

‘What about
the bigger picture, Guv – the murder?’

Skelgill
shakes his head grimly.

‘I don’t
see it.’

‘Why not,
Guv – he’s obviously got a coke habit?’

Skelgill
flashes his partner a congratulatory sideways glance – that she has
worked this out from the evidence to date is impressive – whereas he has
had the benefit of his unbidden visit to Grendon Smith’s private rooms.

‘Because,
he might be a junkie, but he’s not thick – and he wouldn’t risk an alibi
like the one he’s given us – if it were false a murder squad would rip it
apart within twenty-four hours.’

DS Jones
frowns, and seems disappointed by his uncompromising perspective; but as they
pick up pace a look of determination soon returns to her dark brown eyes.

At King’s
Cross, the detectives collect a small hire car.  The idea is to drive
across London to interview Ron Bunce, Managing Director of BDL – the firm
that Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates is about to sue – and then
continue westwards to Heathrow airport, where the rental car can be reunited
with its owners.  Their first stop, however, is at their hotel in Covent
Garden, in order to collect their luggage.  They set off rather gingerly,
and at first Skelgill makes the same basic errors as any visiting
motorist.  He is hooted from behind for not running red lights or for failing
to pull out into oncoming traffic; he leaves too much space between himself and
the vehicle in front and is continually cut up by taxis and white vans; he
shows consideration to cyclists and motorbike couriers.  However, this
does not last for long; his patience soon wears thin and he throws caution to
the wind.  Now he can employ his full repertoire of swear words and
offensive gestures which, in combination with his police driver’s training,
makes him a formidable adversary, despite his lack of horsepower.

However,
nearing their hotel, he becomes trapped in a seemingly inescapable one-way
system as they try in vain to get from the Kingsway to Drury Lane, and despite
the best efforts of DS Jones to navigate with digital support, he is forced to
pull over to give them a moment to identify just where is the hidden
turning.  No sooner has he done so, than there is a tap on the
window.  He glances up to see a fresh-faced constable standing beside the
car.  So accustomed is he to the sight of a police uniform, that he
automatically assumes help is at hand.  He winds down the glass.

‘The
cavalry arrives.’

But his friendly
smile is not reciprocated.

‘Is this
your car, sir?’

‘It’s a
rental car, officer.’

The
constable clears his throat.

‘I’m sure
you’re aware, sir, that it’s against the law to drive without wearing a
seatbelt.’  Then he points back the way they have come.  ‘I’d also
estimate that you were travelling at well over 40 mph in a thirty zone, while
you overtook the car as you came around that bend.  You pulled across
without indicating and the vehicle behind you had to take evasive action to avoid
a collision.’  He steps back and looks beneath the car.  ‘And now you
are parked on a double yellow line – in a bus lane.’

For what
must seem like a long moment Skelgill can perhaps identify with the scores of
drivers he has stopped in similar situations.  If they have not responded
with an insult, they have simply driven off.  The urge to put down one’s
foot is almost irresistible – such is the potency of the human fight or
flight instinct.  But somehow, from somewhere, he finds a third way
– and it is not, as DS Jones might anticipate, the flourishing of his
warrant card and the pulling of rank on the unsuspecting junior officer.

‘I canna
argue constable – that wo’ a ladgeful bit o’ driving – I’m reet
sorry, marra.’

That
Skelgill has lapsed into his native Cumbrian brogue is only part of the
gambit.  But it does help to delay the PC’s reaction, giving Skelgill the
opportunity to press home his advantage.  However, he tones down the
vernacular, to make himself understood.

‘You see,
officer – we’re visiting from up North – and to be honest, I'm
having a job getting used to the speed everyone drives down here – every time
I look in my mirror all I can see are the whites of the eyes of the bloke behind. 
And now we’re lost and we’re going to be late picking up our daughter in Drury
Lane.  I’d appreciate if you could direct us.’

Skelgill, though
unlikely ever to represent England at diplomacy, does understand how to address
a policeman who’s flagged you down.  You don’t argue.  You tell him
he’s right.  And you say you’re sorry.  He would also recommend that
you don’t make up pathetic excuses – although on this occasion he has
deviated from his own advice.  However, the tactic succeeds, and the
constable takes pity on them – and perhaps he is busy, and the idea of
booking someone for such a confusing array of offences seems just too mind-boggling. 
Kindly, he points out the escape from the one-way loop, and sends them on their
way with his good wishes and advice to take it steady.  (Although as
Skelgill lurches away with a screech of rubber, the poor lad can be seen
stepping out into the road shouting “Seatbelt!”)

‘What?’

Skelgill
glances at DS Jones, who has her arms folded and is shaking her head.

‘Guv
– our daughter?’

Skelgill
grins mischievously.

‘Aye, well
– it was the first thing that came into my head – I figured with
him seeing you, he’d think we’d got a young bairn and feel sorry for us.’

DS Jones succumbs
reluctantly to this flattery, and slumps back in her seat.  In due course,
though not entirely uneventfully, they reach Hammersmith.  They park in
the safety of a multi-storey and eat lunch in a stuffy, overcrowded sandwich bar
that is part of the tube station complex.  From here they go on foot; it must
seem a relief to get back into the London air.  The sun beats down from a
still-clear sky as they thread their way through preoccupied pedestrians and
hostile traffic.  In sudden contrast, however, following the route
recommended by DS Jones’s mobile, they find themselves turning into the
almost-tranquil suburban oasis of Brook Green.  Skelgill is drawn to walk
down the long central strip of grass and trees that divides the two parallel
strands of the street, like a sliver of pre-war greenbelt that has survived thanks
to a planning error.

‘You know
– it’s not so bad – London.  And they’re no smarter than us,
are they?’

DS Jones
shrugs, perhaps unsure of where he is leading them.

‘You could
do really well down here, Jones.’

‘The
streets paved with gold.’

Her tone is
wistful, but carries a hint of irony.  Skelgill’s eyes are fixed on the
grass as it passes beneath his feet.

‘You should
think about it.

Now she
casts him a surprised glance.

‘What
– get a transfer, Guv?’

‘Aye, well
– a promotion, at least.’  He grins ruefully.  ‘Then, one day
– Inspector Jones of The Yard.’

She nods,
in earnest.

‘I realise
it would probably advance my career – but I don’t think I could leave the
North for good.  I loved London while I was at college, and being here now
reminds me of the things I miss – the shops, the weather, the
nightlife...’

‘The
boyfriend?’

She seems
to pull a face at this suggestion, but turns away to gaze at the properties
lined up along her side of the road.  After a moment she continues, having
sidestepped his question.

‘But most
of my real mates are in Cumbria.  And Dad’s not so good lately – I
like to be around for Mum.’  There is a sombre note in her voice, and she
seems to realise this and to make a deliberate effort to brighten.  ‘Anyway,
Guv – where would I be without you to teach me how to do everything by
the book?’

Skelgill seems
buoyed by this backhanded compliment.

‘Well, keep
it in mind.  Don’t make my mistake and leave it too late.’

She glances
at him sharply, as if she disagrees.

‘You’re
still plenty young enough, yet, Guv.’

Skelgill
does not respond to this remark, though he checks his watch, perhaps by way of
distraction.  Within another minute they reach the premises of Bunce
Display Limited.  The company is housed in a peeling, run-down former cinema
encased in billboards of all sizes.  To their surprise, the gaudy exterior
belies a relatively tasteful lobby, equipped with comfortable modern furniture
and a pneumatic blonde receptionist.

‘Mr Bunce
is ready to see you now.  Through the double-doors, first on the right
after the statue.’

The “statue”
proves to be a hand-painted polystyrene bust of Lord Nelson, with his one good
eye melted out where somebody has stubbed a cigarette.  Signs of
subversion continue at the door of Ron Bunce’s office where, beneath a small plaque
of HMS Victory, the words ‘Captain Ron’ have been scrawled in biro and only
half-heartedly scrubbed away.  However, any expectation the two detectives
harbour of encountering a Nelson-like figure within is quickly dispelled. 
In fact known euphemistically by his associates as ‘Big Ron’ – the bigness
a function of girth rather than height – in appearance Ron Bunce is more
in the Churchillian mould.  From behind an ornate mahogany desk decked
with model barques and imitation seafaring instruments, he rises slowly to
greet them.  Overweight without being flabby, his turgid suntanned skin
seems oiled by an evenly distributed layer of fat beneath, ready to ooze from
his prominent pores at the slightest squeeze.

‘Mr Bunce,
I assume you know why we’re here?’

‘No idea,
Inspector.  Please enlighten me.’

He leans
forward and places his hands on the desk; there is gold aplenty in the form of
a wrist chain, cufflinks, sovereign rings and a wristwatch.  His manner,
neither guarded nor friendly, betrays no sign of discomfort.

‘What does
the name Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates mean to you, sir?’

‘They’re an
advertising agency.’

Skelgill hesitates
– perhaps he was expecting Ron Bunce to refer to Ivan Tregilgis.

‘I
understand they’re about to sue your company.’

Without
taking his eyes off Skelgill, Bunce gives an indifferent shrug.

‘I doubt
it.’

Skelgill
has a copy of the solicitor’s letter to which Krista Morocco referred.  He
gestures to the page lying in front of him.

‘It doesn’t
look that way to me, sir.’

Ron Bunce
is impassive.

‘With the
greatest respect, Inspector, all a solicitor’s letter ever tells me is that the
sender has no grounds to sue.  Otherwise why not just slap a writ on me?’

Skelgill must
be aware he is skating on thin ice.  Ron Bunce probably knows as much
about corporate wrangling as he does about pike fishing.

‘Isn’t it
the adverse publicity you’d be concerned about?’

Ron Bunce
twists his upper lip in a semblance of a snarl.

‘If they’re
bad-mouthing me I’ll sue them for slander.  If they issue a writ and the
press get hold of it I’ll counterclaim for defamation.’

‘Mr Bunce,
there seems to be a lot of money at stake here – I can’t see Dermott
Goldsmith letting go once he’s got his teeth into it.’

‘I deal
with Ivan Tregilgis.  I’m sure he’ll be far more reasonable.’

‘I don’t
think so, Mr Bunce.  Ivan Tregilgis is dead.’

Ron Bunce’s
flabby eyes narrow to mere slits.  There is silence for a moment. But is
without emotion that he speaks.

‘I’m sorry
to hear that.  What happened?’

‘He was murdered,
Mr Bunce.  I’m rather surprised you haven’t heard.’

‘I’ve been
away for a week.’  Ron Bunce seems unperturbed by the news.  He
reaches forward and turns a framed photograph.  It shows him standing on a
Mediterranean quayside, a vaguely familiar bulging blonde on his arm and the
prow of a boat above his shoulder.  Just legible in tiny white letters is
the name,
Victory
.  ‘I’ve got a yacht at Puerto Banus.  Flew
back last night from Gib.’

‘Can anyone
confirm that?’

For the
first time Bunce permits himself a smile.  He gestures towards the
photograph.

‘Ask Sam
– you just met her at reception.’

Skelgill evidently
decides to draw the interview to a close.  There are battles to contest
and battles to avoid, and this is one of the latter – now he knows what
ammunition is required to fight again another day.

‘Thank you
for your time, sir – that was all we needed to know.’

Ron Bunce
shadows them to the double-doors, and through one of the porthole windows
watches them sign out at the desk, where Skelgill seems to exchange a few flirtatious
words with the receptionist.  When he strolls back to his office, he
pauses to stand to attention and salute the bust of Lord Nelson.  Then he
notices the loss of his hero’s good eye, and his expression suddenly becomes one
of intense anger.  He storms back to the double-doors and wrenches them
open, to bawl out a command to his girlfriend.

‘Sam! 
Here!  Now!’

*

‘I wouldn’t
fancy working for him, Guv – scary.  I doubt we’d have to search far
to find a disgruntled employee in there.’

Skelgill
nods pensively.

‘Aye, but
getting them to talk would be another matter.  He’s a hard case.’

‘Think we
should check with the Met to see whether they’ve got anything on him, Guv?’

‘No harm
asking the question, I suppose.’  Skelgill glances at her with the
semblance of a grin.  ‘You know I don’t subscribe to the outsider theory.’

‘But, Guv
– imagine if he were connected to Grendon Smith.  I’m thinking drugs
– the guy’s got a boat in the Med – he could be shifting stuff in
from North Africa.  Ivan Tregilgis might have stumbled across something in
the office that led him to the big cheese.’