Murder in Adland by Bruce Beckham Page A

his mind – this is DS Jones’s eureka! voice.
    ‘Jones?’
    She
brandishes a sheaf of papers – while she has been waiting for him to
queue she has been reading the autopsy report they picked up at Fettes
Avenue.  Her eyes are wide, though she speaks in hushed tones.
    ‘Tregilgis
wasn’t killed with the kukri.’
    ‘What are
you talking about?’
    Skelgill
sits down opposite her and leans over the table.  DS Jones runs a finger
along a line in the report.
    ‘It says
the entry wound is consistent with a straight-edged blade at least five inches
long and no thicker than an inch at its widest.  It’s nothing like the
shape of a kukri.’
    Skelgill
stares out of the window and across the road.  In another eatery, a
never-ending snake of sushi simultaneously circles and fattens its victims.
    ‘How did we
miss this?’
    DS Jones
looks alarmed, but she holds out her hands in an appeal to common sense.
    ‘We’ve been
dashing about like crazy, Guv – and it was a natural conclusion to jump
to – a stabbed victim and a knife stolen and hidden nearby.’
    Skelgill
nods reluctantly.
    ‘We’ll need
to get another search organised.  It can’t be too far away.’
    DS Jones is
already tapping instructions into her smartphone.
    Skelgill
raps his knuckles on the table.
    ‘What the
hell was that kukri doing in the cistern?’
    DS Jones
glances up.
    ‘It could
be a diversionary tactic, Guv – to throw us off the scent – we did
call off the search as soon as it was found.’
    Skelgill
shakes his head ruefully.
    ‘So, who
did it?’
    ‘A female?’
    ‘What?’
    ‘It was in
the ladies’ loo, Guv.’

20. MELANIE STARK
     
    It has not
escaped Skelgill’s eagle eye that both the Edinburgh and London offices of
Goldsmith-Tregilgis & Associates are predominantly staffed with attractive
females.  If this has been a deliberate recruitment criterion, Melanie Stark
has somehow slipped through the net.  It is not that she is ugly, but by
the average standard she is plain.  And there is something about her
pinched mouth and narrow eyes that give her a shrew-like appearance, as she
sits hunched across the desk, her gaze darting hungrily from one to the other
of the detectives.  DS Jones is conducting the interview.
    ‘And when
did you join the agency?’
    ‘Just over
six years ago.’
    ‘So that
makes you the second-longest-serving employee after Ms Morocco?’
    Melanie Stark
nods eagerly.
    ‘And are
these company do’s a regular thing?’
    ‘Oh yes,
every year – sometimes twice if we’ve done particularly well.’
    ‘And how
did this year’s compare to previous ones?’
    ‘Pretty
similar – high spirits, posh nosh, unlimited free booze.’
    ‘You
mentioned in your statement there was some friction surrounding Mr Tregilgis.’
    Melanie Stark
smirks primly.
    ‘Julia and
Krista fighting over Ivan.  Miriam pretending not to notice.  The usual
form.’
    ‘Could you
elaborate?’
    ‘Whenever
Krista gets drunk, she gets the devil in her – and winds up Julia –
by getting intimate with Ivan.  He couldn’t seem to resist her.  So
Julia would go crazy.’
    ‘Was she
drunk on Saturday night – Ms Morocco?’
    ‘Three
sheets to the wind – but who wasn’t?’
    ‘Do you
recollect people dancing with various of the tribal artefacts taken from the
lobby?’
    ‘Yes, that
was later on – a bit scary – all those masks and spears.  I
just had a set of tom-toms.’
    ‘How about Ms
Morocco?’
    Melanie Stark
thinks for a moment.
    ‘It was a
head-dress – with strings of Masai beads that covered her
face.  I remember she shouted to me something about Lowlife.’
    ‘ Lowlife ?’
    'It’s a pet
name for one of our un- favourite clients.  She was making stabbing
motions with a dagger.’
    DS Jones
pauses to glance casually at her superior, but he affects not to notice.
    ‘Did you
see anyone else with a similar knife?’
    Melanie Stark
shakes her head.
    ‘It was all
a bit of a blur – and we had the