Murder in Adland (27 page)

‘Hold on,
lass – thirty seconds is all it takes.’

These words,
spoken rather than shouted, seem to be more of an instruction to himself than
to the terrified girl, and indeed he must be wary of panicking her – as
flakes of stone and mortar shower down upon him – no helmet, of course
– each time her foothold is lost.  The chimney is relatively
straightforward a climb, though generations’ worth of pigeon guano impedes his
progress and threatens to make him slip – forcing him to take greater care
than he would wish at each move.

Sensing his
approach, Julia Rubicon seems to become more not less agitated.  Perhaps
there is something about the end coming into sight that allows her instincts to
fail her – her guard is dropped and her consciousness recognises her
extreme fatigue – and while, without Skelgill’s approach, she might have clung
on for many minutes more, now there are only seconds of stamina in reserve. 
Her cries become whimpers, her tone helpless, as if the inevitable is upon her.

Skelgill is
just a few feet away – and in no mood to hang about, acutely aware that a
plummeting Julia Rubicon will take him with her.  The last section of the
chimney widens out, making further ascent more difficult – and he
realises he is not going to be able to get alongside her.  Instead he climbs
as close as he can manage, and makes a bridge, lurching back across the
chimney, so that he is braced directly beneath her.  It is a strong
stance, but not one from which he can easily escape.  If he allows himself
a considered thought at this moment, it must be that it is the soles of
training shoes that are within touching distance, and not the stiletto heels of
their last encounter.

‘Okay, lass
– now let go.’

Skelgill
says this softly, trying to convey a sense of calm.  But Julian Rubicon
and calm are on opposite continents, and her whimpers intensify and become
mingled with hysterical pleas for salvation.  Skelgill must now wonder
what he can do.  He needs the girl to let go of her handhold – she
will slide down, her feet guided by his grip, and they will both be
secure.  But she cannot let go.  She cannot take the leap of faith. 
Until her nails give way.

With a
sudden rush her body drops – Skelgill is unprepared for the unscheduled fall
– but with all his strength he braces through his feet, legs and hips, and
at the same time wraps his arms around her.  By good fortune her feet pass
on either side of his thighs – soaked and slippery as she is, she would
have been impossible to hold on to.  He shudders with the impact –
but his bridge holds firm – and they remain – two bodies, fifty
feet up, jammed in the crevice, she straddling his hips, her cape and skirt
rucked around her waist, her upper body pressed against him, her breasts against
his rib cage, her hair splayed across his face.  There could be worse ways
to go.

And now she
begins to cry.  Great heaving sobs rack her body, she wraps her arms
tightly round Skelgill’s neck, tears and saliva and mucous smear her face as
she blubbers and splutters and tosses her mane of hair in a growing delirium,
kissing him, sucking at his mouth and neck and eyes and ears, and all the time
trying to utter some words that he cannot discern.

Skelgill
pulls his head to one side.  He knows they are not out of the woods
yet.  Taking a deep breath he calls out, as loudly as he can.

‘Cameron!’

It must take
all of five seconds for the startled face of DS Findlay to appear over the
parapet.  And not too much more than that for him to disappear and dash to
his car, parked only yards away, and retrieve from the boot a length of towrope. 
It snakes down the stonework and Skelgill grabs its loose end.  He ties a
bowline around Julia Rubicon’s waist and yells again.  The rope tightens
and the girl, reluctant at first to let go of him, begins to rise – she
is not so heavy, and it appears that DS Findlay alone is able to haul her
weight.  Skelgill watches anxiously as she flails about, scrambling at the
slippery stone walls, and finally disappearing over the parapet in a jumble of
limbs and the flash of scarlet underwear.

As he
relaxes to the extent that he may, he hears again her voice – more
clearly now – and he can discern the words she was imploring him with.

‘She let go
of me... she let go of me... she let go of me...’

Skelgill
knows he has a few seconds to wait until the rope reappears.  He is
uncomfortable, but evidently decides not to try to change his stance, just to
be on the safe side.  He glances below – it’s curious how fifty feet
up always looks like one hundred feet down.  And then a movement catches
his eye.  Some distance off, padding along the walkway having presumably
gained access via the car park of the pub adjacent to the hotel, is the
unmistakable figure of Elspeth Goldsmith.  Skelgill watches as she creeps
cautiously, checking that no one is behind her, nor watching her from any window
of the hotel.  She approaches until she is almost beneath him, scanning
the ground where the building and the bridge make an angle – and then
– apparently not finding what she is seeking – she looks up. 
In an instant her features change from those of the sly hunter to that of the harried
prey – with astonishment putting in a fleeting appearance between the
two.  There is a silent standoff as the two regard one another.

And then a
second movement attracts Skelgill’s attention.  Coming towards them at a
jog, having taken the same route as Elspeth Goldsmith, is DS Jones.  She
notices the woman first and slows to a walk – but then she stops dead in
her tracks when she spots Skelgill, incongruously wedged near the top of the
chimney.  His hair is plastered wildly across his brow; algal slime and
guano coat his shirt and trousers, water drips from his craggy features. 
He raises an arm – and, like some menacing Tolkienesque necromancer about
to call down a lightning strike, he points a crooked finger at Elspeth Goldsmith. 
Then, calmly, under the circumstances, he utters the words he has longed to
hear himself say.

‘Arrest
her.’

*

When Skelgill leaps down from the parapet and unties the
rope from around his waist, he finds Julia Rubicon slumped against the bridge
wall.  Though bedraggled and undoubtedly in shock, she has recovered some
degree of composure, and her eyes warm to his presence.  As DS Findlay
indicates he will go and assist DS Jones with her captive, Skelgill lowers
himself down beside the shivering girl.  She is huddled beneath a tartan
blanket from DS Findlay’s car.  Skelgill casts about – at the moment
there are no pedestrians, the rain has seen to that – but they must look
like a pair of unkempt beggars, hopeful that passing hotel guests might spare
them a few coppers.

As DS
Findlay strides purposefully away down the access road that leads to the back
of the hotel, his phone pressed to his ear as he summons back-up, Skelgill
turns to look at Julia Rubicon.  And now, for the second time in as many
minutes, she pitches across and hugs him, burying her head against his
shoulder.  And again she sobs – though this time the emotion is more
controlled, and after a minute or so she is able to speak more coherently.

‘She let go
of me – she said she’d hold on while I leaned out and counted the flags
on the crest – and then she let go.’

Skelgill is
nodding.

‘I know
what happened.’  His tone is soothing.  ‘You’re safe now, lass.’

There is
more silence.  Despite the rain she seems content to rest in his protective
care.  Skelgill inhales – and then he speaks quietly, a statement
rather than a question.

‘You took
Krista Morocco’s underwear and hid it in Ivan Tregilgis’s bed.’

She pulls
her head away – a look of anguish in her eyes.  Her words come in
short gasps.

‘I’m so
sorry – I’m so sorry – I never meant Miriam to kill Ivan – I
just wanted her to know Ivan had a lover – so that I could be with him
– oh, God – the last time I saw him – we fought – I’ll
never be able to say sorry – never.’

She buries
her head once more, now it seems in shame at what she has done.  But
Skelgill lifts her gently away from him, so that she is forced to meet his
eyes.

‘Julia
– Miriam didn’t kill Ivan.  What you did – it was just a
coincidence – it had no bearing whatsoever on his death.’  Skelgill
reaches out and brushes hair from her face.  ‘And – take it from me
– he loved you.’

*

During the
next few minutes there is a pronounced change of scene.  When one moment
there is just Skelgill and Julia Rubicon in their little bubble, the next it
seems the entire world converges upon Belford Bridge.  As emergency
vehicles arrive with their usual lack of decorum, DS Jones and DS Findlay
appear from behind the hotel, a protesting Elspeth Goldsmith chattering twenty
to the dozen between them.  (Skelgill catches a fragment to the effect of,
“I warned Julia not to lean out, but she wouldn’t listen.”)   The
sound of sirens brings porters and guests spilling from the hotel lobby, and
– from the direction of the centre of town – along the pavement
wanders a bedraggled-looking Dermott Goldsmith and his treasure hunt partner, a
bemused though intrigued Melanie Stark.

Perhaps the
first item of note is DS Jones’s expression of alarm when she sees her boss
with his arms wrapped around Julia Rubicon – but the appearance of a pair
of paramedics to help the casualty into a waiting ambulance seems to take the
sting out of this unwelcome vision.  Next, the volume of Elspeth
Goldsmith’s complaints increases appreciably, as she is fed with some difficulty
into a waiting police car.  Seeing his wife manhandled in this manner,
Dermott Goldsmith strides up to confront Skelgill.

‘Inspector
– what the heck do you think you are doing?’

Skelgill
returns Dermott Goldsmith’s bluster with a glare of mountainous proportions.

‘What I’m
doing, Mr Goldsmith, is arresting your wife.’

‘What!’ 
Dermott Goldsmith’s face turns white with anger.  ‘This is
outrageous.  I’m calling our lawyer at once.’

‘I suggest
you do, Mr Goldsmith – as a common thief and liar, I can tell you you’re
going to need one.’

Skelgill
turns his back on the ugly little man.  He walks – with the semblance
of a limp – to where DS Jones stands beside the car that holds Elspeth
Goldsmith.

‘Jones
– go with her – watch her like a hawk.’

DS Jones
nods.

‘Guv
– what’s the charge?’

Skelgill
looks a little surprised by the question.

‘Attempted
murder of Julia Rubicon.  Murder of Ivan Tregilgis.’

*

When
Skelgill and DS Findlay arrive at police headquarters about ten minutes later,
they are barely inside the building before a commotion attracts their
attention.  The noise seems to be coming from the ladies’ toilets.  It
could be rival hockey teams having a bit of a shindig.  Just then a
constable comes running from the nearby desk to say that their colleague went
in with the suspect, who had asked to use the facilities.

Without
further ado, the two men abandon protocol and enter the hallowed ground. 
Immediately, the sight of DS Jones and Elspeth Goldsmith wrestling violently on
the tiled floor confronts them.  The latter’s underwear hangs around her
ankles, while the former appears to be trying to prise open her adversary’s
mouth.  Elspeth Goldsmith snorts and squeals through flared nostrils,
heaving her bulk in an effort to throw off the lighter woman.  But what DS
Jones lacks in pounds she makes up for in spirit, and – evidently losing
patience with the catfight – she lands a cracking short right to Elspeth
Goldsmith’s nose.  This seems to do the trick, for there is a sufficient
hiatus for the sergeant to cry out.

‘Guv
– in her mouth – there’s a note!’

Understanding,
Skelgill intervenes, prising open Elspeth Goldsmith’s jaws and – indeed
– extracting a thick wad of slightly soggy paper.

Now DS
Findlay joins the fray, and between them they subdue Elspeth Goldsmith
sufficiently, until reinforcements arrive with handcuffs and take her away,
blubbering snot and blood and screaming obscenities.  Skelgill is
carefully unpicking the note.

‘What is
it, Guv?  I realised she was going to flush it down the loo – then
when I stopped her she tried to swallow it.’

‘Bingo.’

Skelgill
holds out the creased paper for his colleagues to see.

‘What is
it, man?’

DS Findlay
can read the neatly typed words – but he can’t make immediate sense of
their meaning.  Skelgill enlightens him.

‘What it
is, Cam – is a suicide note – from Julia Rubicon – confessing
to Ivan Tregilgis’s murder.’

DS Findlay purses
his lips, beginning to understand Elspeth Goldsmith’s Machiavellian plan.

DS Jones
shakes her head in amazement.

‘How neat
is that, Guv?’

Skelgill
nods slowly.

‘She was on
her way to plant it when you caught up with her, behind the hotel –
except there was nobody there.’