Authors: Bruce Beckham
Time came
to pay their bill and leave – indeed the place was emptying with
surprising speed – a feature of Central London, where few diners live,
and must dash like Cinderella for their carriages to the suburbs. As they
wandered rather aimlessly, Skelgill had suggested they find a “nice quiet pub”,
but DS Jones’s rather uncharacteristically racy retort had been that the only
way to get a late drink in that part of town was to “mug a bum”.
In search
of such refreshment, their subsequent wanderings had brought them to pass by
the sunken entrance of a basement club, tucked away in a back street off High
Holborn. The queue had snaked around a corner, and when they reached its
end DS Jones had turned and leaned against the wall, posing like a rock chick.
‘Let’s give
it a try, Guv,’ had been her only words.
Skelgill
had begun to protest, subtly drawing to her attention the peaceable if
outlandish types before them – and trying to suggest he was mildly out of
place. She had shaken her head and tugged on the hem of his new shirt, as
if to say he looked fine. While they waited, mainly in silence, he had
eyed up his fellow clubbers; he had seemed relived to note that a good few were
at least as old as he – albeit somewhat more stylish in their garb.
When their turn came to be vetted by the hefty doorman, Skelgill seemed to
appreciate he needed to appear both sober and unthreatening – but his
best efforts proved unnecessary, as DS Jones smoothed their passage by
‘coincidentally’ slipping off her thin black cardigan to reveal a glittering
bustier top that left little to the imagination. The bouncer barely
glanced at Skelgill, and they were inside.
It had
immediately struck Skelgill that there would be no conversation
hereafter. The beat was deafening, with no gaps between tracks.
They’d eased their way to the bar amidst twisting torsos; most it seemed to him
attired only in underwear and fake tan. After a frustrating delay
Skelgill ordered a double round, which paradoxically helped to numb the shock
of the bill. They edged away, finding a spot by a brick column that
afforded some protection. There appeared to be no dance floor as such:
people were breaking into motion all around them, although a couple of raised
podia served for serious showing off. The emphasis seemed to be upon
hands, arms and the lower abdomen.
Skelgill’s
conundrum became one of where to look. He could hardly stare his
colleague, but wherever his gaze fell there seemed to be bare flesh. DS
Jones, meanwhile, seemed entirely relaxed, half closing her eyes and rhythmically
shaking her head. After a while she had tapped him on the shoulder and
beckoned him to bend towards her. She’d suggested they dance. His
response was a look of trepidation, but she simply smiled and began to move her
hips in time with the beat. Skelgill shuffled his feet and rolled his
head from side to side, trying not to look self-conscious.
In the heat,
and absence of conversation, it did not take either of them long to drain their
drinks, and DS Jones had insisted upon going for refills, leaving him guarding
their space beside the pillar. He could see her at the bar – she
was laughing with a guy of about her age, good looking, with a stylish haircut
and a tight-fitting t-shirt that showcased his physique. DS Jones already
had their drinks – four bottles, two clasped between the fingers of each
hand. She held them aloft as she mirrored his offered dance for maybe ten
or fifteen seconds. But then, to Skelgill’s relief, she had gradually
backed away through the writhing crowd, until she had returned to his side.
Skelgill
had made short work of his next few drinks, and the tide of battle that had
been raging amongst his sensibilities, flight versus fight, began to turn in
favour of the latter. The urge to escape was subsiding, and he began to
relax into the vibe and the silent company of his colleague. At some
point he’d glanced at his watch and been surprised to find it was after two
a.m. Despite the hour, the club seemed to be filling up, and gradually gently
gyrating, glistening bodies hemmed them in. In time, there became a choice
between being separated and standing to face one another; they dispensed with
their empties (Skelgill could reach a ledge on the pillar) and became as
one. It seemed the sensual presence of his colleague pressing against him
became too much for Skelgill, and, anonymous in the seething crowd, he reached
out. Their kiss became part of the dance, slow and rhythmical, unending, fingertips
exploring hair and skin and muscle and sinew.
A solitary
Skelgill, bleary-eyed and balanced awkwardly upon an aluminium barstool, sips
absently on his beaker of unsatisfactory tea. He has taken up position in
the window of a deli on a busy corner in St Martin’s Lane. His view
should give him advance notice of DS Jones’s anticipated approach. Outside
is another glorious Wednesday morning ruined by not being on Bass Lake.
He seeks reparation
in watching the goings-on of this very different world. Porters pass with
trolleys stacked with cardboard boxes. An old guy, scruffy, a large
rucksack on his back and a laptop under one arm, hails a cab. Two young men,
peroxide crew cuts, tight sleeveless vests, mirrored sunglasses, glide by, arm
in arm. A dapper business-suited female gnaws at a great flapping wedge
of breakfast pizza. Directly below him at a pavement table two geezers
pore over a newspaper that announces, “Police Raid Smashes Heroin Gang”.
He can see the pictures: cops with a battering ram, and another arresting a
skinny youth who seems more interested in giving the finger to the
camera. Skelgill appears intrigued by the idea of the Met allowing a
press photographer to be in on the act. The men rise and leave, and immediately
a slick feral pigeon moves in to scavenge their crumbs, artfully dodging the
boots that could end its Wednesday.
‘Penny for
your thoughts?’
Skelgill
starts.
‘Jones
– how did you get there?’
‘There’s
another entrance – over by the counter.’
‘Oh.’
Skelgill seems unprepared for conversation. ‘Look, Jones – about last
night, I think –’
‘Guv
– thanks for getting me back in one piece – I can’t remember a
thing after we left the restaurant – it must have been that red wine.’
‘Right
–’
DS Jones
steps away.
‘I’ll get
you a top up, Guv – back in a minute.’ Then she hesitates and holds
up a hand. ‘Oh, Guv – message from forensics – that blackmail
letter of Elspeth Goldsmith’s – the only prints they could get off it
were hers and yours.’
Skelgill
nods. Left marooned upon his stool as she drifts through the sea of foraging
sandwich buyers, he watches pensively the athletic form that has a new
familiarity.
*
‘So who do
you think might have sent it?’
Krista
Morocco’s ice-blue eyes switch from the letter on her desk to return Skelgill’s
inquiring gaze. Her body language is more relaxed than last time they
met, albeit her chiselled Scandinavian features are still a touch guarded.
‘I find the
whole thing impossible to believe, Inspector.’
‘But, if
you had to pick someone?’
‘Well, I
suppose – Grendon Smith would be my first thought.’
Skelgill
nods thoughtfully.
‘And what
would he know that you wouldn’t want the cops to find out?’
Krista Morocco
purses her lips and shakes her head.
‘That, I should
like to know, also.’
‘Nothing
comes to mind?’
‘Maybe
whoever sent it
thinks
I know something, when actually I don’t.’
‘When did
you receive it?’
‘It was in
my tray when I got in on Monday at about ten-thirty – I’d been at a
meeting first thing.’
‘Had it
been opened?’
‘No.
It was sealed in a plain white DL envelope, typed ‘Private & Confidential’
on the front. There was no stamp or postmark – I’m afraid I didn’t
keep it.’
‘How do you
think it was delivered?’
‘I’m not
sure. Geri who sorted my mail says she doesn’t remember seeing it.’
‘Is it
possible that Grendon Smith still has access to these offices?’
She pauses
to consider, and a frown precedes her reply.
‘As you may
recall – Ivan took his keys off him when he left. But I suppose he
could have had copies made before then. We work such irregular hours that
everyone has their own set of keys and can come and go as they need.’
‘What about
Julia Rubicon? Could she have done it?’
‘You mean
the letter?’
‘Aye
– what did you think I meant?’
‘Oh, I
thought for a moment – that you were asking me about the murder.’
‘Answer
both.’ Skelgill opens his palms invitingly.
Krista
Morocco keeps her eyes fixed on Skelgill, virtually unblinking. Then she
shakes her head doubtfully.
‘She’s
certainly the jealous sort – but murder Ivan – I can’t see it,
Inspector.’
‘And the
blackmail note?’
Again she
shakes her head, slowly, as if she is trying to find a possible explanation but
fails.
‘She might
be a little crazy at times – impetuous – but Julia’s a very
intelligent young woman. Why would she do something pointless like that?’
‘Maybe
– if she thought you were the murderer?’
A tinge of red
colours Krista Morocco’s prominent cheekbones. This time she chooses to
remain silent. Skelgill nods pensively.
‘How about
Saturday night at Bewaldeth Hall – has anything more come back to you?’
‘I’ve been racking
my brains, Inspector.’ She hesitates, and sighs. ‘There’s nothing
tangible, but – you know – I just have this lasting impression of
Ivan being really happy.’
Skelgill
makes a little cough.
‘And you’re
certain you and he didn’t spend time in bed together?’
Krista
Morocco’s full lips crease into a gentle smile.
‘That, I
think I would remember, Inspector.’
Skelgill
turns to DS Jones and indicates with a hand that she should take over.
‘Ms Morocco
– we’ve spoken with some of the people who worked with Ivan Tregilgis and
Dermott Goldsmith at the time they left
WNKR Advertising
to set up on
their own.’
Krista
Morocco leans forward, suddenly a little apprehensive.
‘When we
last met – you mentioned that you’d had a brief relationship with Ivan
Tregilgis around that time. Can you recall exactly when that was?’
Krista
Morocco seems to deliberate before forming her reply. She glances at Skelgill,
to see that he is observing her closely.
‘It began
on Valentine’s Day. We got held up at a meeting in town – it got to
about eight p.m. and Ivan suggested we went for something to eat – and I
accepted.’
‘Did you know
he was engaged at the time?’
Krista
Morocco nods rather meekly.
‘So was I,
Sergeant.’
There is
just a fraction of a delay in DS Jones’s response as she absorbs this
information.
‘And for
how long did the relationship last?’
‘Just a
couple of months – but we only met on a handful of occasions. We
lived on opposite sides of London in those days.’
‘And was it
an intimate relationship?’
‘We were
very close.’
DS Jones becomes
more direct.
‘I meant
– did you sleep together?’
Now Krista
Morocco folds her hands on her lap and takes a few deep breaths. Her gaze
wanders aimlessly about the items upon her desk. While she could be excused
for constructing an appropriately vague response, her expression is more
suggestive of the recalling of a memory.
‘There are
some things that will always remain private between Ivan and me.’
DS Jones appears
as if she is about to press for clarity, but now Skelgill intervenes.
‘Krista
–’ He uses her Christian name for the first time. ‘You told us you
loved Ivan Tregilgis – can you explain what you meant by that in
chronological terms?’
Krista
Morocco lowers her eyes.
‘We fell in
love a long time ago – I know that we did, both of us – and I suppose
we never fell out of it.’
‘Yet you
got married – and still are?’
She nods
slowly.
‘I’ve been
very lucky with Marco – he’s a good man. My feelings for Ivan
seemed to happen in a parallel universe – like a dream I had no control
over, and couldn’t wake from.’
‘And down
the years?’
Krista
Morocco lets out another sigh.
‘I guess
you can’t stay properly in love with someone you can’t have – but
something special always remains.’
Skelgill
folds his arms.
‘It was
mentioned to us that you’d said Ivan had you on his conscience. What did
that mean?’
Krista Morocco
shakes her head.
‘I don’t
remember saying that to anyone.’
Skelgill
ponders for a moment before asking his next question.
‘Who ended
the relationship?’
‘I would
say that
events
ended the relationship, Inspector. Once Ivan left
WNKR
to set up with Dermott he was so busy – and I didn’t see him for a while
– our working relationship was ended. Then it was about a year
later that I joined them. By then our engagements had become marriages.’
‘When we spoke
about this previously you suggested you’d lost out – what did you mean by
that?’
‘I suppose
I was referring to Miriam, that’s all – there’s no shame in that,
Inspector.’
Skelgill is
forced to concur with a nod of the head.
‘So, how
did you feel about Ivan Tregilgis and Julia Rubicon?’
‘I was
hardly in a position to start casting any stones, Inspector. I’ve learned
that life is not perfect.’ Krista Morocco smiles generously. ‘And I
wouldn’t want to resent Ivan – if he was doing something that made him
feel good – he had to get his creative energy from somewhere.’
Skelgill’s
eyes seem to widen at this suggestion – although with a look of intrigue
rather than disapproval. His next question might suggest he attributes
such open-mindedness to her provenance.
‘You’re
from Sweden, right?’
‘That’s
correct, Stockholm.’
‘And did
you marry in England?’
‘Yes
– Marco is British, despite the unusual name. Although his paternal
line is originally from the USA.’
‘Where did
you get married?’
‘Just a
registry office in Streatham, Inspector – nothing so exotic as our
backgrounds.’
She smiles
endearingly.
Skelgill straightens
his jacket and pushes back his chair as if he is making ready to leave.
‘You don’t
have kids – we’ve asked you that?’
Krista
Morocco shakes her head, now perhaps a little sadly.
‘I’m still
hoping for that to happen.’
Skelgill
nods and regards her thoughtfully as he gets to his feet.
‘Oh, there
is one thing, Krista.’ Again he opts for her first name. His tone
is conciliatory. ‘The kukri on which we found your fingerprints –
it’s been ruled out as the murder weapon.’
‘Oh!’
Her reaction is of unrestrained delight. ‘I’m so glad – I spoke
with Melanie and she was mortified that she’d told you she’d seen me fooling
about with a knife.’
Skelgill
regards her with interest – even now, her reaction seems to be one of
unselfish concern for others – and this must make some impression on
him. And it is almost as an afterthought that she poses the question that
would be the burning one for most people in her situation.
‘Inspector
– so does this mean I’m no longer a suspect?’
‘It
certainly helps.’