Murder in Adland by Bruce Beckham Page B

reverie.
    ‘What?’ 
He is a little abashed, and waves a hand at the window.  ‘Just admiring
the view.  Tell me what’s down there.’
    DS Jones
leans across him.
    ‘Look
– Westminster Bridge – you can see Parliament – then follow
the road westwards – the first park is St James’s – there’s the
Palace – then Green Park – Hyde Park Corner with all the traffic
– see Park Lane running up from there – then Hyde Park to the left
of it – the Serpentine – and there’s Kensington Palace.’
    Her
commentary continues until they run out of obvious landmarks after Kew,
although Skelgill stares for some time at a distant Wembley stadium –
perhaps imagining its fabled twin towers and Bobby Moore, arm aloft, and wondering
if England will ever again win the World Cup.
    With hand
luggage only, they are soon on a train.  There is an air of despondency
and fatigue, and it infects the two detectives, who sit quietly rapt.  Skelgill
picks up a discarded copy of the Evening Standard .  He flicks absently
through the pages, pausing at the classifieds, and becomes engrossed by the
myriad of small ads seeking plasterers and plumbers, table dancers, meter-readers
and mystery shoppers (whatever they are); and there are one-bedroom flats to rent
at weekly rates you wouldn’t even pay for a month back up north.  Next he
seems to be counting down the stops, his head nodding as he reads along the Piccadilly
Line map displayed overhead.  The journey is largely overground to
Hammersmith, and they bisect rows of untidy houses with jumbled back-gardens
and Heath-Robinson extensions, ramshackle sheds and lines of washing. 
Occasionally there are glimpses of families sitting out on white plastic garden
furniture, seemingly oblivious to their dismal surroundings.
    Station by
station, the train fills up.  Skelgill scrutinises the growing
cross-section of humanity that begins to throng the carriage.  Initially,
new travellers are solitary, glum and mostly of foreign origin – maybe cleaners
and night porters on their way to work?  At Hammersmith there is an influx
of smarter, office workers.  South Kensington and Knightsbridge see them
joined by well-heeled shoppers, jet-setty middle-eastern women wearing
expensive western clothes.  As the train dives deeper under the West End,
there is an inrush of tourists and small groups of trendily dressed younger
people, and many of these leave with Skelgill and DS Jones at Covent Garden,
where they press as a body into a lift reminiscent of a scene from Quatermass .
    Skelgill looks
relieved to escape from the stale humidity of the underground.  This is
their first taste of fresh air since Edinburgh – if there can be such a
thing in central London.  However, there is a warm, almost continental, ambience,
with the aromas of cooked spices and the clink of raised glasses.  DS Jones
leads the way assuredly up Long Acre, with its designer boutiques and disorderly
beggars.  They dodge between taxis and cross into Endell Street, where
Bohemian sandwich-bars are mingled with outlandish clothing shops, open-fronted
cafe-bars that spill onto the pavement, and a “lesbian sex club” that prompts a
small debate as to where the missing hyphen should go, or whether it makes any
difference.
    They take
their hotel by surprise, DS Jones suddenly ducking in ahead from the sidewalk. 
The rooms are threadbare but adequate, although not for the money.  By agreement,
they simply deposit their bags and retrace their steps – they have settled
on DS Jones’s proposal of a quick Chinese, and as early a night as possible.
    ‘The
Tregilgis’s flat is down here.’  DS Jones takes them on a minor detour to
show Skelgill the location.
    ‘Doesn’t
look that smart.’
    ‘You should
clock the price tags, Guv.  And I bet it’s pretty cool inside.’
    ‘Sounds
like Miriam Tregilgis.’

18. KRISTA MOROCCO
     
    ‘Do you
recognise these briefs?’
    ‘I bought
an identical pair last