Detective Inspector Skelgill Boxset 1, page 12
part #1 of Detective Inspector Skelgill Series
‘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.’
Skelgill looks half sceptical and half amused. His eager colleague has been quick to join up the dots, and he does not wish to quash her enthusiasm. He has a burgeoning respect for her abilities, and she offers a lateral challenge that is entirely at odds with his own way of thinking – not that he could ever explain what that is. Now he seems to struggle to find the right words to reply – and with an unexpected spurt of energy, he sets off at a jog.
‘Race you to the car.’
25. HILLEND
‘Jones, it’s seven-thirty – I reckon we’ll get a taxi to Letsby Avenue.’
‘Guv – look – no need – here’s DS Findlay.’
Indeed, no sooner have the detectives passed through the arrivals door at Turnhouse than they are intercepted by the familiar figure who dropped them off some forty-eight hours earlier.
‘Cameron – am I glad to see you – how did you know when we’d be back.’
‘Och – we’re not as green as we’re cabbage looking.’ He permits himself a satisfied grin. ‘You’ll have had yer tea?’
‘Aye – on the plane – not exactly cordon bleu.’
‘Aye – well not tae worry – I’m under orders to take you home fae a proper meal.’ He glances conspiratorially at DS Jones. ‘When he worked up here we used tae call him Two Dinners, ye ken?’
DS Jones smiles and nods, and looks like she does ken – and that she is beginning to get the hang of this little Edinburgh figure of speech.
‘Where’s your hotel?’
‘It’s in an area called Corstorphine.’
DS Findlay grins at DS Jones’s pronunciation.
‘Aye – that’s near where I stay, except it’s called Kus-tor-fin.’
DS Jones giggles at her faux pas.
‘Thanks for putting me right.’
‘Nae bother – it’s over there.’ He points to the east, towards the city. ‘See that big wooded lump? That’s Corstorphine Hill.’
They round a corner of the multi-storey to be greeted by the sight of a large marked motorway patrol car sitting in a restricted zone. Skelgill’s eyes light up.
‘Nice one, Cam.’
‘It was all they had spare. I need tae get it back in a hurry.’
‘Then I’m your man.’
DS Findlay shakes his head, but nonetheless hands the keys over to Skelgill, who leaps into the driver’s seat and gets busy twiddling knobs and adjusting levers. But the incoming evening flights have clogged the airport with traffic, which must merge with homebound commuters from Glasgow, so their initial progress is slow. DS Findlay begins to recount his findings to date.
‘Seems these Goldsmiths are pretty high-profile characters – like to be seen with the right people about town – appear in every edition of this society magazine we have up here.’
Skelgill nods, his eyes flicking between the road ahead and his various mirrors.
‘Who’s driving that? Goldsmith, or the wife?’
‘Apparently he’s got some financial interest in it. My pal at The Scotsman spoke tae the editor, but he was a bit cagey.’
‘If you’d met them, Cam, you wouldn’t be surprised to hear they’ve got their own PR machine.’
DS Findlay nods grimly.
‘Goldsmith being from down south – it’s harder to get information on him – but I discovered more about her – pal of mine’s a retired Sheriff and there’s a legal connection.’
‘Go on.’
‘Aye – your Elspeth Goldsmith, she was adopted. The MacClartys were both lawyers, well heeled – old Edinburgh firm. They were childless into their forties – then after they’d taken in Elspeth an unexpected younger sister came along. But the wee lassie drowned in the Water of Leith. She was aged five and Elspeth about nine or ten. They used to go down and play unsupervised by the river – it runs right through the city but ye cannae see it most of the time – it’s down in a gorge. It looks like a daft wee burn in places – but when there’s been a couple of days rain on the hills –’ He tails off to indicate the Pentlands, the range that protects the city’s southern reaches. ‘It can turn into a torrent before your eyes.’
‘What about the parents?’
‘The old man was killed about ten years ago in a car accident up north – fishing trip – had been on the bottle. The wife died in a nursing home a couple of years later – by all accounts she’d never been right since the wee one drowned.’
‘So she’s not had such an easy time, Elspeth Goldsmith.’
There is a note of sympathy in DS Jones’s voice as she makes this observation. Though Skelgill is more flippant.
‘Let’s hope we don’t have to put Dermott away, then, to cap it all.’
There is a moment’s silence as they each consider this eventuality. They are stationary at the roundabout that marks the intersection of the city bypass with the main A8. Then Skelgill suddenly chimes in.
‘Hey up – what’s this?’
As he speaks, a sporty hatchback breaks through the lights from the city direction and swerves between vehicles taking their turn of the roundabout. A few of seconds later a small police squad car, its blue light flashing, follows in token pursuit.
‘It’s the Keystone cops!’ Skelgill’s eyes narrow. ‘They’ll never catch it in that thing.’
He switches on the warning systems and joins the chase. As ordinary drivers dive for cover, the fugitives opt for the bypass; it is a dual carriageway and they quickly begin to pull away from the first police car. Skelgill, however, has different ideas, and forces his way through, while DS Findlay gives a rather sheepish wave to his bemused local colleagues. Now, at the wheel of a vastly superior machine, Skelgill has no difficulty in keeping up with the crooks – DS Findlay establishes by radio that they have robbed at knifepoint the service station at Drumbrae – but getting past them is another matter. The bypass is thick with traffic, and though motorists move to the inside lane, all he can do is to tailgate the hatchback. There are two occupants, and the passenger, a leering gap-toothed youth, leans out and gives them a one-fingered salute.
‘They’re taking the A702 exit – heading south.’
DS Findlay provides this commentary over the airwaves, as the two cars slew across the carriageway, burst through the stream of vehicles in the inside lane to gain the off-slip, and then ignore approaching motorists at the exit roundabout.
‘They’ve turned up for the ski slope. It’s a dead end.’
Indeed, as signs approach for ‘Midlothian Snowsports Centre’, the car ahead veers right, narrowly missing an oncoming grocer’s van – Skelgill’s route is blocked by a line of cars, until an alert bus driver grinds to a halt. The access lane is steep and winding, and at intervals there are sleeping policemen. DS Jones leans forward from the rear of the car.
‘What is this place?’
DS Findlay, with his characteristic dry turn of phrase, turns to her.
‘Longest artificial ski run in Europe.’
Indeed, the slopes are coming into view, and skiers like tiny ants can be seen zigzagging down the hillside – a curious sight on a pleasant early summer’s evening. By way of explanation, DS Findlay continues.
‘Ye cannae ski in Scotland in winter – plenty of snow, but it’s all blizzards.’
Skelgill chuckles at the untimeliness of this anecdote – but their minds turn to serious matters as they reach the car park – from here vehicles can go no further. They spy the outlaws’ car – the doors are open and magically, it seems, one of the offenders is being held over the bonnet by a couple of men in ski outfits. DS Findlay recognises them as off-duty police officers.
‘These are our boys – someone must have known they were up here and tipped them off.’
The three new arrivals trot across to the scene of the action. The men recognise DS Findlay and one calls out.
‘Cameron – the big yin’s away.’
He gestures towards the chair lifts, where a tracksuit-clad figure, some two hundred yards off, is running at some speed up the artificial slope. Skelgill mutters under his breath.
‘Big yin, big mistake.’
And he sets off at a steady trot.
‘Danny – yer wasting yer time!’
But DS Findlay’s entreaty is in vain. Skelgill raises a hand in acknowledgement, but carries on regardless. His blood is up. And did the youth only know it; he has made a big mistake. The policeman pursuing him might be twenty years his senior, but he happens to be one of Cumbria’s leading fell-runners, only a month before having completed his second unassisted ‘Bob Graham’ (a punishing seventy-two mile circuit of forty-two Lakeland peaks that must be completed non-stop in under twenty-four hours). So, when the cocky lout has the temerity to pause and shout an obscene taunt, believing it is just a matter of time before the chase is given up, he has another think coming. Slowly but surely Skelgill with his long, loping stride makes ground. When the gap is down to about twenty yards, he can hear his quarry panting, the breaths starting to come in desperate gasps. And when the villain realises he is going to be overhauled, and spins around, brandishing a carpet knife and screaming unintelligible threats – his final exclamation ‘oof-yabastat!’ reflects the moment Skelgill’s size tens thud into his chest and take him down. In the stramash that follows Skelgill quickly gains the upper hand, dispensing a couple of judicious kidney punches to subdue his opponent; then, holding him down with a knee in the small of the back, he wrestles to free his belt, intent upon using this to secure his captive.
‘Danny – I can see the pub fae here!’
Skelgill glances up. Almost directly overhead, borne in a double chair of the ski lift, DS Findlay and DS Jones swing past. The chair behind brings the two constables from the squad car that was originally in pursuit. They are deposited just a short distance further up the slope, and DS Jones clatters pell-mell with panic in her eyes.
‘Guv, Guv – are you okay?’ She falls on her knees beside him and frantically pats his back and chest, as if she is determined to check he has no punctures. ‘They said he’d got a knife!’
Skelgill, grimacing as he holds the squirming yob in place, indicates with a toss of his head. The carpet knife lies safely out of range, dislodged by his unorthodox mode of self-defence. DS Jones now glances up the slope, reinforcements are scrambling towards them, and the two young constables overtake the more ponderous DS Findlay to relieve Skelgill of his prisoner.
Skelgill is dusting himself down as DS Findlay picks his way over the last few yards of the fibrous matting. At the foot of the slopes a swarm of blue lights is gathering, as nearby units respond to the emergency call. The felon is led away in handcuffs by the two uniformed officers, leaving the three detectives to their own devices. DS Findlay has a twinkle in his eye.
‘Nothing like making an unobtrusive arrival in Edinburgh, Dan Dare.’
Skelgill grins rather uneasily.
‘Cam – will your missus’s dinner keep for half an hour?’
‘Aye – it’s haggis ‘n’ neeps ‘n’ tatties.’
Skelgill nods with satisfaction.
‘I believe you mentioned you could see the pub from here.’
26. DERMOTT GOLDSMITH
‘What’s he doing?’
Skelgill’s voice is lowered. DS Jones is squinting through a peephole in the interview room door.
‘Fiddling with some sort of gadget, Guv – it looks like a pocket calculator. He keeps looking this way.’
‘Come on, let’s go in.’ Skelgill flips four paracetamol tablets into his mouth and swills them down with the last of his machine tea. He drops the plastic cup into a bin and rubs his temples with the tips of his fingers. ‘No hangover my backside.’
This latter remark is a reference to the events of last night. His post-chase thirst for a swift half soon proved to be more of a drought, and it was fortunate that the traditional Scottish dish of haggis, potatoes and swede is one that keeps well in a low oven. As a peace offering for Mrs Findlay they had collected some flowers (and some claret), and the ensuing bonhomie had ultimately led to her usually thrifty spouse breaking out a precious bottle of twenty-five-year-old Glenmorangie. Insisting he had never yet suffered any morning-after complaints from ‘the water of life’, DS Findlay had set about schooling them in the correct modes of both tasting and pronunciation (“I tell yer, it’s Orangey, Danny”).
Thus it is an in-less-than-fine-fettle Skelgill that approaches the interview room. This is a state of affairs not improved by the news that the follow-up search of the grounds of Bewaldeth Hall has drawn a blank. Now, as they enter, Dermott Goldsmith, with apparently impeccable timing, pricks his finger and squeezes out a droplet of blood. Slowly, he looks up, as though it is a less pressing matter that interrupts him.
‘I won’t shake hands – I’m just testing my blood sugars.’ He gives a condescending smile and returns his attention to his task. ‘One of life’s little burdens.’
There is no response from the two detectives as they take their seats opposite him. After a few seconds he tries a different tack.
‘How’s the murder hunt going – any nearer to catching the criminal?’
‘No thanks to you, Mr Goldsmith.’
Skelgill’s abrupt retort causes Dermott Goldsmith to glance up sharply.
‘I’m sorry?’
‘I’ve a good mind to charge you for obstructing the investigation.’
Dermott Goldsmith’s eyes widen.
‘What on earth do you mean, Inspector?’
Skelgill does not answer immediately, but watches with distaste as Dermott Goldsmith pushes aside his equipment and winds a tissue around his bleeding finger.
‘You didn’t bring a solicitor?’
‘Why should I, Inspector – I have nothing to hide?’
Skelgill’s features are impassive.
‘In that case perhaps you can tell me why you tried to hush-up the sale of your company?’
‘I d-don’t know what you mean.’
Skelgill stares at him.
‘Are you saying you weren’t about to sell the company, Mr Goldsmith?’
Dermott Goldsmith is uncharacteristically tongue-tied.
‘Well... its, er... we get scores of approaches – we’re in informal discussions on a number of fronts – nothing concrete.’
‘Really, sir?’
Dermott Goldsmith seems unwilling to answer, though he gives what might be an abbreviated shake of the head.
Skelgill makes a play of consulting his notes.
‘Mr – Ford – Zendik. Now – he tells me he was expecting to seal a sixteen million dollar deal with you this week.’ He pauses for effect. ‘That sounds pretty concrete, Mr Goldsmith?’
Dermott Goldsmith’s prominent features become swathed in dark unease; he looks ugly, angry, cornered. But still he does not speak.
‘You do know Mr Zendik?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘But what, Mr Goldsmith?’
Dermott Goldsmith’s words are blurted.
‘Nothing was agreed.’
‘So you were selling the company?’
‘Certainly they were interested – but so are other firms.’
‘Mr Goldsmith.’ Skelgill sounds weary. ‘On Monday Mr Tregilgis was due to fly out to New York to conclude the Heads of Terms.’
Dermott Goldsmith stares blankly.
