Murder in Adland by Bruce Beckham

for anybody.’
    ‘I’ll be
fine – this lass lived there for three years.  She’s one-quarter
Cockney.’
    ‘Aye well,
anything beats being a Geordie.’
    ‘Very
witty, Cam.’

17. EVENING
FLIGHT
     
    ‘You’re not
a Geordie, Guv?’
    DS Jones
sounds puzzled, as they ride the escalator up to the departures gate.
    ‘Certainly
not.’
    ‘So what was
that all about?’
    ‘It’s one
of his little jokes.  Besides, could you tell the difference between an
Aberdonian and an Invernesian?’
    ‘I guess
not, Guv.’
    ‘Same
principle – as far as they’re concerned, we’re Geordies.’
     
    *
     
    The
Edinburgh-Heathrow flight is barely half-full, so Skelgill turns his charms to
the task of getting them moved to an empty row, where they can discuss police
matters free of eavesdroppers.
    ‘Are you
sure you don’t want the window seat?’
    ‘Guv
– it says on that instructions card – when a male and female are
travelling together, the man must always have the window seat.
    ‘Where?’
    Then
Skelgill sees his colleague is smirking.
    ‘And the
stewardesses must wear high heels and suspenders.’
    ‘Point taken,
sergeant.’
    ‘Guv
– you have it, really.’
    Skelgill
needs no further encouragement, and slides across to the window.
    ‘Very
generous of you – you can have it on the way back.’
    ‘I’ll
probably fall asleep anyway.  The view’s wasted on me.’
    Skelgill struggles
until he gets comfortable with the seat belt.  At five-eleven he is not
overly tall, but there is something lanky about his rangy form, and it takes
him a minute or two to settle.  He takes a deep breath, and then clears
his throat, though it is in hushed tones that he begins to speak.
    ‘Talking of
underwear, I’m guessing we’ve narrowed the g-string down to Krista Morocco.’
    DS Jones
nods.
    ‘If the
statements are correct, Guv – it sounds like she and Ivan Tregilgis were
getting along fine on Saturday night – and they did disappear out onto
the terrace.  If his bedroom door was unlocked...’
    Skelgill nods,
though he clearly has reservations about developing the scenario beyond the
facts.
    ‘We have to
remember it was only midnight – whatever they did, it could be entirely
unconnected to the murder.’
    ‘Maybe they
went into her room, Guv?’
    ‘What
– and he nicked her undies as a souvenir?’
    DS Jones
chuckles.
    ‘I believe
it’s not unknown, Guv – although usually it’s from a washing line they’re
taken.’
    Skelgill raises
his eyebrows, as if to say not guilty.  He folds his arms and pushes back
against his seat.  The space is cramped and reclining is not yet allowed.
    ‘Remind me
what was in Tregilgis’s briefcase.’
    DS Jones
closes her eyes momentarily, and then begins to recite as if she is picturing a
collection of items travelling along a conveyor.
    ‘A travel
voucher for two nights at the Plaza – it’s a hotel on Fifth Avenue. 
A couple of climbing magazines.  Passport.  Toothbrush. 
Radio.  Condoms.  And that presentation with examples of their work.’
    Skelgill seems
dissatisfied.
    ‘Something’s
not right, is it?  You wouldn’t go on business to New York without taking
some reference to whatever meeting you were attending.’
    ‘Maybe it
was the new client thing, Guv – to get a brief.’
    ‘How does
that work?’
    ‘Well, the
first stage in advertising is normally that the client gives a brief to the ad
agency, and they go away, conduct market research, come up with the ideas, then
go back and present them.’
    ‘When did
you become the oracle on advertising procedure?’
    ‘Bloke I
went out with for a while when I lived in London – he was a copywriter
with an ad agency.  Bit of a psycho.  Hardly ever turned up for work. 
I dumped him when I found he’d been sleeping with my flatmate.’
    ‘Sorry
about that.’
    ‘Don’t be. 
My flatmate was a guy.’
     
    *
     
    Once
airborne, Skelgill becomes silent, and distracted, as he watches the world