Free Murder in Adland by Bruce Beckham Page B

surely ought to be renamed Letsby Avenue.)  Their chaperone, DS Cameron Findlay, now a deskbound
administrator, is an old acquaintance that Skelgill will never forget.  A
decade and a half before, they worked together on a joint-forces operation to
crack an organised poaching syndicate that parasitised the great border-country
salmon rivers.  A matter close to both their anglers’ hearts – it
was almost literally so in DS Findlay’s case in the unwanted form of the
contents of a 12-bore cartridge.  Only a brave if somewhat reckless
intervention by one rookie DC of the name Daniel Skelgill saved the day. 
Henceforth, in these circles, he became affectionately known as Dan Dare. 
Skelgill’s memory of the incident reflects the bizarre dry humour of his
Scottish ally, who, whilst Skelgill was wrestling with a shotgun-wielding
poacher, waist deep in the River Tweed, called out ‘Yer spookin’ the fish,
Danny’.
    Now he stands
by awkwardly while DS Findlay recounts the tale of that stormy night.  To his
relief, however, they are interrupted by a secretary, who informs them that if
they get their skates on they can make the six p.m. flight for Heathrow.
    ‘Leave your
wheels here.’  DS Findlay is insistent.  ‘I’ll drive you out to
Turnhouse in a marked car so we can use the bus lanes – otherwise this
time of night you’d be quicker to walk.’
    Ten minutes
later they are forcing their way across the homebound traffic choking the
Queensferry Road.  Edinburgh motorists are polite but stubborn (it is a
Scottish trait, and good reason never to invade).  Unwilling to give way
at the best of times, they seem reluctant even to let the police through. 
Finally, a belligerent squawk of the squad car’s siren confirms its occupants are
still on duty.
    ‘That’s the
Goldsmith’s place back there, isn’t it?
    This
observation comes from DS Jones, who suddenly seems to get her bearings as the
giant shape of Murrayfield stadium comes into view.
    ‘Aye, that’d
be it.’  DS Findlay produces a rueful grin.  ‘How the other half
live, eh?’
    ‘You should
see their new bathroom.’
    Skelgill,
sounds in good spirits; perhaps he is buoyed by DS Findlay’s earlier tribute.
    ‘It’s not
funny, Guv.’  DS Jones protests.  ‘While you were out I got the
full-blown kitchen tour.  Le Creuset, Sabatier, Dualit, Gaggia -
you name it, they’ve got it.  And then they tell you about it, every last
product detail.’
    ‘Poor devil
Tregilgis.  No wonder he avoided the place.’
    DS Jones
nods, her brow furrowed.
    ‘You’d
never have guessed she was Scottish, would you?  I’d have said Home Counties
from her accent.’
    ‘Ach, there’s
a thing.’  This intervention comes from the taciturn DS Findlay.  ‘Ye
see, we pretend tae hate the English – but in fact we know you’re mostly
just like us – and, after all, ye cannae help being English.  But
those Scots that act like they’re English – that’s what really
gets us.’
    Skelgill
chuckles.
    ‘Cammy,
just a thought, mate.  Any chance you could do a bit of digging on this
lot up here?’
    ‘Aye. 
Dare say I owe you one.’
    ‘Just
background stuff.  You know – the Goldsmiths, anything on the
company, employees, suppliers – that sort of thing.’
    DS Findlay
nods economically.
    ‘I’ve got a
pal over at The Scotsman .  Works on the business desk.  I’ll
see what a couple of pints of Eighty Bob will turn up.’
    In due
course, with a few deft manoeuvres and judicious use of the blues and twos, DS
Findlay delivers his charges to the drop-off at Edinburgh airport with time to
spare.  A lively dash and some pulling of rank will see them make their
flight.
    ‘Much
appreciated Cammy.’  Skelgill reaches to shake hands across the roof of
the car.  ‘See you in a day or two.  No joyriding in my motor, now.’
    DS Findlay
grins.
    ‘You mind
to look both ways when you’re crossing the road down there.  I’ve heard they
dinnae stop