Murder in Adland
Authors: Bruce Beckham
Bruce Beckham
__________
Murder in
Adland
A detective
novel
LUCiUS
Text copyright 2015
Bruce Beckham
All rights
reserved. Bruce Beckham asserts his right always to be identified as the
author of this work. No part may be copied or transmitted without written
permission from the publisher.
This is a work of
fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product
of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to
actual persons, living or dead, events and locales is entirely coincidental.
Kindle edition first
published by Lucius 2012
Second edition
published by Lucius 2015
CreateSpace edition
first published by Lucius 2015
For more details and
Rights enquiries contact:
EDITOR’S NOTE
Murder in Adland
is a stand-alone
whodunit, the first in the series ‘Detective Inspector Skelgill
Investigates’. It is set in the English Lake District, London and the
Scottish capital, Edinburgh. This second edition has been significantly
updated and revised, and is now contemporary with the subsequent novels in the
series.
BY THE SAME AUTHOR
Murder in School
Murder on the Edge
Murder on the Lake
(Above: Detective
Inspector Skelgill Investigates)
Murder Mystery
Collection
The Dune
The Sexopaths
MAIN CHARACTERS IN
ORDER OF APPEARANCE
DI Daniel
Skelgill
Detective
Inspector, Cumbria Police
DS Emma
Jones
Detective
Sergeant, Cumbria Police
Mrs Groteneus
Proprietor
of Bewaldeth Hall
Dermott
Lord Goldsmith
Joint-principal
of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates
Miriam
Tregilgis
Widow of
the murdered Ivan Tregilgis
Julia
Rubicon
Head of
Edinburgh office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates
Elspeth
Goldsmith
Wife of
Dermott Goldsmith
Krista
Morocco
Head of
London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates
Melanie Stark
Employee in
London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates
Grendon
Smith
Sacked
employee of London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates
Ron Bunce
Media
supplier to London office of Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates
CONTENTS
LAKE
Wakey wakey,
Skelly - 4 a.m. alarm call.’
‘George
– I’m in the middle of Bass Lake. It’s Sunday. Tell me you're
just bored.’
‘Sorry,
lad.’ The Desk Sergeant’s disembodied voice softens: as a fellow
fisherman, there is a note of compassion in his tone. ‘You’ve got a murder
on your patch. Body’s still warm by all accounts.’
‘You’re
pulling my leg, George.’
‘Fraid not,
lad.’
‘Where?’
‘Know
Bewaldeth Hall – the hotel?’
‘Aye, it’s
nearby. Look – I’ll call you from the motor. I need to get
these lines in. Then I’m a ten-minute row from Peel Wyke, and I’ll have
to chain the boat up. I’ll be there in half an hour max.’
‘Okay, I’ll
pass it on. Caught owt?’
‘Nah.
Just got bloody started. It’s a cracking morning though.’
‘Ah well,
bigger fish to fry now, lad.’
*
Daniel
Skelgill, 37, dedicated pike-angler and Inspector, Cumbria CID, reels in his
last dead-bait with practised aplomb. He unhooks the slender sprat and
lets its lifeless form slip through the mirrored surface of Bassenthwaite Lake,
“The only
lake
in the Lake District,” as he enjoys telling bemused
visitors.
The A66
trunk road bordering the wooded western bank is empty and silent, though the
ponderous chug of a distant tractor drifts across the still water, a contrast
to the soft rhythmical swish and splash of Skelgill’s oars. In his wake
the imposing bulk of Skiddaw seems pumped up like a body builder, as the late
May sun’s first rays raise into relief the sculpted musculature of its upper
slopes. Another of Skelgill’s nuggets of information, cheerfully
dispensed to groaning stretcher-borne casualties in his voluntary role in the
North Fells Mountain Rescue, it is England’s fourth-highest mountain. Its
perfect reflection, slowly receding, begins to ripple as the boat’s wash creeps
towards the opposite shore.
HALL
‘
Jones
?’
Having
slewed his car to an extravagant halt that has carved his signature into
Bewaldeth Hall’s neat gravel drive, from the open driver’s window he regards
the girl with some uncertainty. At first sight her informal and scanty outfit
would suggest a hotel guest, eager to intercept him – but now he identifies
her as Detective Sergeant Emma Jones. A twenty-six-year-old product of
the graduate programme, she is a local girl with a degree from London. Competent
and confident, she is quickly making a name for herself, and is referred to by
some as ‘Fast-track’ – while others covet her affections. However,
perhaps Skelgill’s gun-slinging reputation precedes him, for she seems a little
star struck beneath his icy glare.
‘Yes, Sir
– that’s correct, Sir.’
‘Didn’t
recognise you, Jones.’
‘No, Sir
– there’s a rave in a hangar over near Cockermouth.’ She gestures
with a downward sweep of the hand, indicating her party wear. ‘I was on
duty – undercover, Sir.’
Skelgill
makes a cursory nod. His features remain taciturn. A man’s man
– a touch chauvinistic, he would admit – he prefers male company
when it comes to the cut and thrust of police work. But his regular DS is
on annual leave, and his Chief’s rota has dealt him an unfamiliar hand.
This – allied with the annoying curtailment of his fishing trip –
is more likely the source of his dismay than what she wears. He pushes
open the door in a careless manner, causing her to take a sudden step backward.
‘Call me
Guv, will you? I’m more used to it from that Cockney layabout Leyton.’
‘Yes, Sir
– Guv.’
He shoots
her a sideways glance and sees that her gaze has been drawn to his
attire. He has revealed himself to be sporting threadbare brown corduroys,
a faded olive-green t-shirt, and a scale-spangled taupe gilet hanging with
jangling angling paraphernalia; these are lived-in favourites, owned for best
part of a decade and laundered only slightly more often.
‘What?’
‘Er... you
came in a bit of a hurry, too – Guv?’
Though her
tone is sympathetic, he remains defensive.
‘This is
professional fishing gear. Cost a packet.’
*
Bewaldeth
Hall is typical of the many small Victorian hotels scattered throughout the
Lake District. Neat grey granite, a modern bedroom-block added at the
back, lots of jutting eaves and mossy slates, and mature grounds where
rhododendrons strain like ravenous tethered goats, eager to gobble up what
remains of the gardens. A portly middle-aged constable stands yawning to
attention on the stone steps. He seems to salute the two detectives, but
in fact is just shielding his eyes from the early-morning sunlight, now slanting
over the eastern fells. He stares quizzically as he notices their
unconventional apparel.
‘Hey up, Arthur.’
Skelgill acknowledges the older man, the long-time local bobby for Bewaldeth
and Snittlegarth, then adds, pointing by way of explanation:
‘Me fishing
– her dancing. What’s the story here?’
‘Young Dodd’s
guarding Room 10, where the body is. The Doc’s in there, too. Just
arrived. Lot of blood. Knife-job, I reckon. The owner’s back
in her cottage behind the hotel. Advertising company’s taken over whole
place for the weekend. Dead lad’s one of the two business partners.’
He consults his notebook. ‘Name of Tregilgis, Ivan.
Thirty-three. His wife’s int’ bar with t’other partner – Lord Goldsmith
(also thirty-three), and his missus. WPC on the way. SOCO on the
way. I’ve told all the rest to stay int’ residents’ lounge. Most of
’em are still gattered.’ He makes a drinking motion, and then purses his
lips. ‘Some fit lasses, Skel.’
Skelgill steals
a sidelong glance in the direction of his assistant, but she has not reacted to
this latter remark.
‘Behave,
Arthur.’
Skelgill
nods his appreciation and leads the way into a square entrance hall, heavily
beamed and adorned with paintings of African battle-scenes with red-coated
soldiers; staring stuffed animals; antique rifles and various tribal artefacts,
feathered spears and great machete-like knives. DS Jones hesitates, as if
to comment on the frightening arsenal, but Skelgill instinctively bangs through
a swing door guarded by two suits of armour. It opens on a corridor with
windows on the right-hand side and a row of doors on the left. At the far
end the aforementioned PC Dodd jumps to attention from a sitting position at the
foot of a staircase. Then he sways, and drops back down with a thump.
‘Alright, lad?’
Skelgill approaches and puts a hand on his shoulder.
‘Sorry, Sir.
I’ll be fine.’
‘Tell me what
you know, then.’
The young
PC swallows.
‘Sir.
No sign of the weapon. Alarm was raised by Mrs Tregilgis about
three-fifteen a.m. – she’d got into bed in the dark, thinking he was asleep.
Felt the damp, thought he’d been sick and switched on the light. Saw it
was blood – then all hell broke loose – and the whole lot of them
came crowding into the room. It’s a private party and it was still going
strong. According to the wife he’d gone to bed first, maybe about two
a.m., taking the room key. He’d left this door to the corridor unlocked
so she could get in. No sign of a forced entry or a struggle, but the French
door onto the terrace was unlocked and the small top window was open.
Jewellery and a wallet lying in full view on the dresser. Couple of empty
beer bottles. I had a quick look round outside – nothing obvious
and nobody about. No thefts reported from other rooms, Sir.’
Skelgill,
listening intently, nods his approval.
‘Good work,
Dodd.’ He indicates back along the corridor. ‘Are these all the bedrooms?’
‘No, Sir.
There’s ten on this floor and ten more if you go up these stairs.’ He
gestures over his shoulder.
DS Jones is
pushing at an unyielding fire-escape door that faces the staircase.
‘How about
this, was it closed?’
‘Exactly as
you see it, Ma’am – at least, when we arrived at about three forty-five.’
DS Jones
tries to conceal her discomfort at being called
Ma’am
. PC Dodd and
she are erstwhile classmates.
‘Go and get
some fresh air. We’ll take over here.’
‘Yes
Ma’am.’
