politicking.’
Skelgill
raises an eyebrow – this small firm does not seem to be short of these
qualities.
‘So did it
come to anything?’
‘Well, it
was a strange sort of interview. When I thought about it afterwards I
realised he hadn’t asked about my own achievements – it was more how I
interacted with the principals – Ivan and Dermott – and the kind of
systems and procedures that we use. He finished off by saying thanks and
that he was coming over to London at the end of June, and would like to meet me
then, and would be in touch.’
‘So what
struck you as unusual?’
‘Frankly, I
felt he was more interested in the company than in me. And he asked me not
to mention our conversation to Ivan or Dermott. Now if you’re in the
middle of getting a new job with a competitor, the last person you tell is your
boss.’
Skelgill
nods.
‘So are you
saying you think this American firm is trying to buy Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates?’
‘It seems
that way – and we’re known as one of the best independents in the
country. There’s no Creative Director with more awards than Ivan.’
‘And would
the company be for sale?’
‘I don’t
know – it’s not something Ivan ever mentioned. But it is the normal
thing in advertising – you start your own shop – build it up, sell
it to a big company – and disappear into the sunset.’
Her eyes begin
to well up again, but she fights against whatever deep urge rises and retains
her composure.
‘Ms Morocco,
I take it you have this American’s details?’
‘Sure, the
number’s saved on my phone.’
She reaches
for her handset; it has been lying silenced on the table before them –
and locates the contact. She turns the screen so Skelgill can see it.
‘Ford
Zendik? Sounds like one of my old cars. Mind if I borrow your office
to give him a call?’
‘Not at
all, Inspector.’ At last there is a faint smile that threatens to trouble
the corners of her delicate mouth. ‘But right now in Manhattan it’s
four-thirty a.m.’
19. SEVEN DIALS
‘I guess we
can stop asking about the underwear.’
DS Jones
grins at her superior – his tone seems to carry a mixture of relief and
disappointment.
‘Presumably
forensics will be able to tell us they’re brand new, Guv?’
Skelgill
nods, though not with total conviction.
‘So who put
them in Tregilgis’s bed?’
They both
shake their heads.
‘Convenient
amnesia regarding events after midnight, Guv.’
Skelgill
chews his lower lip.
‘She didn’t
try to talk her way out of anything she couldn’t explain.’
DS Jones
nods, and then she gestures at Skelgill’s empty mug.
‘Another
cuppa, Guv?’
But
Skelgill rises to pre-empt her.
‘It’s my
round. You sit.’
They are in
a traditional West End sandwich-bar just a stone’s throw from Seven Dials.
Skelgill joins the assembly of waiting customers and contemplates the
cryptically labelled fillings on display. Somewhere behind the high
counter an indeterminate number of small Italians scuttle to and fro, every so
often pitching up a finished article for collection. While Skelgill waits
he perhaps contemplates an image that grabbed his attention a few moments
earlier. There are many photographs on the wall of Krista Morocco’s
private office – awards ceremonies, company nights out, outward-bound
activity days – and one of these is billed as ‘Client-Agency Cricket
Challenge’. It clearly dates from the period that Elspeth
Goldsmith had described – when Krista and Ivan Tregilgis worked for
separate firms and supposedly had a fling. The pair stand at the edge of
a large group; a happily smiling Krista resting her head against Ivan’s left
shoulder, her right hand clearly visible clutching the other side of his
waist. She looks puppy-like and positively radiant – a far cry from
the drawn and forlorn creature he has just encountered.
‘Guv.’
Skelgill is
sprung from the little cell in
Skelgill
raises an eyebrow – this small firm does not seem to be short of these
qualities.
‘So did it
come to anything?’
‘Well, it
was a strange sort of interview. When I thought about it afterwards I
realised he hadn’t asked about my own achievements – it was more how I
interacted with the principals – Ivan and Dermott – and the kind of
systems and procedures that we use. He finished off by saying thanks and
that he was coming over to London at the end of June, and would like to meet me
then, and would be in touch.’
‘So what
struck you as unusual?’
‘Frankly, I
felt he was more interested in the company than in me. And he asked me not
to mention our conversation to Ivan or Dermott. Now if you’re in the
middle of getting a new job with a competitor, the last person you tell is your
boss.’
Skelgill
nods.
‘So are you
saying you think this American firm is trying to buy Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates?’
‘It seems
that way – and we’re known as one of the best independents in the
country. There’s no Creative Director with more awards than Ivan.’
‘And would
the company be for sale?’
‘I don’t
know – it’s not something Ivan ever mentioned. But it is the normal
thing in advertising – you start your own shop – build it up, sell
it to a big company – and disappear into the sunset.’
Her eyes begin
to well up again, but she fights against whatever deep urge rises and retains
her composure.
‘Ms Morocco,
I take it you have this American’s details?’
‘Sure, the
number’s saved on my phone.’
She reaches
for her handset; it has been lying silenced on the table before them –
and locates the contact. She turns the screen so Skelgill can see it.
‘Ford
Zendik? Sounds like one of my old cars. Mind if I borrow your office
to give him a call?’
‘Not at
all, Inspector.’ At last there is a faint smile that threatens to trouble
the corners of her delicate mouth. ‘But right now in Manhattan it’s
four-thirty a.m.’
19. SEVEN DIALS
‘I guess we
can stop asking about the underwear.’
DS Jones
grins at her superior – his tone seems to carry a mixture of relief and
disappointment.
‘Presumably
forensics will be able to tell us they’re brand new, Guv?’
Skelgill
nods, though not with total conviction.
‘So who put
them in Tregilgis’s bed?’
They both
shake their heads.
‘Convenient
amnesia regarding events after midnight, Guv.’
Skelgill
chews his lower lip.
‘She didn’t
try to talk her way out of anything she couldn’t explain.’
DS Jones
nods, and then she gestures at Skelgill’s empty mug.
‘Another
cuppa, Guv?’
But
Skelgill rises to pre-empt her.
‘It’s my
round. You sit.’
They are in
a traditional West End sandwich-bar just a stone’s throw from Seven Dials.
Skelgill joins the assembly of waiting customers and contemplates the
cryptically labelled fillings on display. Somewhere behind the high
counter an indeterminate number of small Italians scuttle to and fro, every so
often pitching up a finished article for collection. While Skelgill waits
he perhaps contemplates an image that grabbed his attention a few moments
earlier. There are many photographs on the wall of Krista Morocco’s
private office – awards ceremonies, company nights out, outward-bound
activity days – and one of these is billed as ‘Client-Agency Cricket
Challenge’. It clearly dates from the period that Elspeth
Goldsmith had described – when Krista and Ivan Tregilgis worked for
separate firms and supposedly had a fling. The pair stand at the edge of
a large group; a happily smiling Krista resting her head against Ivan’s left
shoulder, her right hand clearly visible clutching the other side of his
waist. She looks puppy-like and positively radiant – a far cry from
the drawn and forlorn creature he has just encountered.
‘Guv.’
Skelgill is
sprung from the little cell in
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