MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

by M. G. Cole

  Garrick pointed at the TV and spoke to Chib, but his words were lost. She shook her head and yelled back but was barely audible.

  “What did you say?”

  Garrick stabbed the power button, killing the TV. “How could he hear the glass being broken when the intruder came in?”

  “Maybe he was in the room or the kitchen? And just saw him?”

  Garrick moved into the kitchen. It was dark, but after two attempts at finding the light switches, he turned them on. As he had glimpsed, it was a beautifully laid out kitchen with a central island, over which a rack of copper pans hung. A granite worktop ran around the edge. A large American-style fridge-freezer stood in the corner. An impressive gas-range cooker ran along one wall. The oven and microwave were discreetly blended amongst the cupboards. There was another patio door that looked across the dark rear garden. Garrick ran his fingers over the granite work surface, then looked back into the living room. It offered a partial line of sight to the extension.

  “If the time of death was after five, he would have probably had the lights on rather than stand here in the dark.” It was March, and the daylight hours still felt far too short. “And it doesn’t look like the thief searched in here either, unless we’re dealing with a particularly tidy criminal.”

  He moved back into the living room and frowned. “And if Fraser was in here, then he would have seen the bloke break the window. Double glazing is tough. It doesn’t always break first time. He should’ve had enough time to dial 999.”

  “Assuming he had a mobile. I can’t see a landline.” Chib frowned. “Then he must have been elsewhere in the house and walked in on him.” Garrick nodded. “But there were no other lights on. Not in the hall or upstairs.” She pointed to the door Garrick had entered through. “There’s another reception room through there with a pool table and a running machine. The lights were off.”

  “He could have turned them off as he was passing through, before seeing the intruder. And if the TV was on loud, he may have been trying to listen to it from another room.”

  “If the killer was already inside as Fraser entered, then he would have caught him by surprise because the TV would have drowned out any warnings he may have shouted. Our intruder would have turned,” Chib mimed the movements of the killer, raising her hand as if wielding a hammer, “and struck him in the face.” She smiled, satisfied with her reasoning. “They struggled.” She moved around the room, closer to the body. “And he fell here. Then he was shot.”

  Garrick chewed his lip thoughtfully.

  “Why break the window?”

  “How else was he going to get in?”

  “I know it’s a quiet area, and the driveway is a way back from the road, even so, wouldn’t the back garden be a more secluded point of entry than the front? And if it was the only room in the house lit up, then our burglar would know there was somebody in, especially if he could hear the TV. So why break-in here?”

  Chib opened her mouth to answer but couldn’t think of anything logical to say. She shrugged.

  “What about his car?”

  “There’s a Mercedes S-Class Coupé in the garage. But as you said, a petty crook wouldn’t take that, would he?”

  Garrick circled his finger around the room. “This isn’t gelling for me. It feels more deliberate.”

  “Like a hit?”

  Garrick met her gaze and raised his eyebrows as if to say, why not? He turned to the victim on the floor. “We need to find out everything about our Mr Fraser. Who is he exactly?”

  4

  Kent’s Serious Crimes Department was in a pokey austere building in Maidstone, a hangover from hasty post-war rebuilding. It was a far cry from the spacious old Sutton Road HQ, which was sold off due to budget cuts. With a seemingly constant chill blowing through ill-fitting windows and suffering from intermittent heating, it wasn’t the most pleasant place to work. Although Garrick’s team were universally relieved not to have been moved to Northfleet, but they feared it was just a matter of time.

  The overnight rain had swelled the banks of the River Medway as it churned a brown soup through the city, but the sun had come out this morning, bringing with it the first real hint of spring. A new start. But not for Derek Fraser.

  PC Fanta Liu pinned a photograph of the victim on the evidence wall, standing on tiptoes as far as her petite five-five frame would allow, and provoking sniggers from PC Harry Lord, who was a couple of years older than Garrick. A sharp look from PC Sean Wilkes silenced him. Fanta ignored the heckles. After their last major incident, she was riding high after being congratulated on her input and was feeling bulletproof. She addressed the team.

  “Our deceased is Derek Alan Fraser. 46, killed in his home in Tenterden.” The photograph showed a strikingly handsome man with his arm around a woman, both against the backdrop of an azure sea. Even with a mane of thick white hair, he looked young. “This piccy is fourteen months old, sent by his ex-wife. Rebecca Ellis. She uses her maiden name and is living in Portugal. She didn’t sound to cut up when I spoke to her. She claimed they had an acrimonious divorce and seemed quite proud that she had taken him to the cleaners.”

  Garrick harrumphed. “Judging by his car and house, he was doing pretty well anyway. What did he do?”

  Chib spoke up, sitting on the edge of her desk as Fanta placed pins in a map of the area. “He was an art dealer. Mostly working with a gallery in Rye.” Fanta dutifully placed a pin in the small East Sussex coastal town. “But before that he had a chequered history.” She read from a printout. “He ran a scrapyard outside Tunbridge Wells and was nicked for fencing stolen cars, which he sold at a small dealership he had in Tonbridge. He did two years for that. After that, he was implicated in a marketing scam, extracting money from pensioners for new boiler systems that either never arrived or were installed so poorly that Harry here would look an expert.”

  Harry Lord held up his hands as if to say, what did I do?

  “I’m starting to dislike our poor deceased wretch,” said Garrick. He hated the moment in a case when he had to immerse himself into the victim’s life. It often brought up unfulfilled dreams and hopes that had been cancelled in a moment of barbarity. Such details turned a lifeless corpse into a fully rounded human being. It was the worst part of the job. Having a victim that he actively disliked would improve matters no end.

  “He wasn’t formally convicted of anything in that instance, but his company folded. We’re still looking into his work history, but it seems he started making an honest mark in the art world with some new up-and-comer. An artist only known as Hoy. The first few had only sold for a couple of hundred quid, but the last one reached thirty grand. It gained Fraser a bit of fame. He recently had a feature in Country Life magazine and Kent Life. We have digital copies on the article on HOLMES.”

  “Clocking up an honest reputation?” Garrick pulled a face. “Cause of death?”

  “Two gunshots to the chest.”

  Fanta put up a picture of the corpse, this time the SOCOs had placed small plastic number tags on the wound and at various points on the carpet. Then she pinned up a photograph of Fraser’s badly beaten face.

  Chib continued. “The attack was savage.”

  Garrick stared at the images, comparing them to the dashing man on the beach. He was unrecognisable. “Assuming his wife almost cleaned him out, he maintained a decent standard of living. Nice house, car, clothes. His watch was taken…”

  “Forensics say it’s match for a Rolex,” said Fanta, “Although they can’t be too sure.”

  “So, he had either kept money away from his ex, or was now making a good profit on the art.”

  “Or both,” said Harry, slowly rotating back-and-forth on his chair as he took in the wall.

  Chib glanced through her notes. “He kept the house after the divorce. She took the holiday villa and almost everything else.”

  Garrick stood for a closer look at the picture of Fraser’s ex-wife. She was a few years younger than him. Long bl
ack hair framed high cheekbones that gave her an austere yet beguiling quality. Her necklace, earrings and bangles looked expensive.

  “This was fourteen months ago? They looked happy enough. Why the sudden divorce?”

  “The deceased was having an affair, which came to a head when he got her pregnant.”

  “He’s a father?”

  “Apparently. We’re still trying to get in touch with the mistress. She lives in London. What are you thinking?”

  Garrick was silent for a moment as he studied the picture of the smiling couple, imagining their perfect life together suddenly thrown into upheaval because of Fraser’s infidelity.

  “It feels too light to be a simple breaking and entering gone wrong. The owner is dead on the floor, yet the burglar didn’t search the house. He took a Rolex, but never went upstairs to see if there were any more watches or jewellery. Or even money. He’s a known art dealer, but the prints were left untouched on the walls. His Mercedes was left in the garage.”

  “What does this feel like to you?” Garrick enjoyed pushing his DS. She was smart, but still didn’t have the confidence to voice her own opinions. He had never assumed that his own theories were right. Often hearing other people come up with the same ideas allowed him to see any obvious holes.

  Chib thought for a moment, before registering surprise. “A revenge attack?”

  “You mean the snubbed mistress?” said Wilkes in surprise.

  Garrick tapped the photograph of the ex-wife. “Or the spurned lover who didn’t want to see him get back on his feet.”

  “You said it felt like a hit,” said Chib quietly. “That’s still a possibility.”

  Garrick saw the flash of excitement between Fanta and Wilkes. As the two youngest members of the team, in their twenties, they were still innocent enough to get excited about some of the gruesome things people did to one another.

  “An assassination!” cried Fanta, with too much enthusiasm.

  Garrick held up a cautionary hand. “Let’s not get too far ahead of ourselves. But we need to consider it. What if he was getting roughed up for information and it got out of hand?”

  “The killer panics and shoots him. Runs from the house as quickly as possible,” said Chib.

  “Only pausing to nick whatever he could see to make it look like a robbery gone wrong.”

  Silence descended as everybody contemplated the idea. Garrick felt uplifted. He thrived on having a purpose and, with everything else going on in his life, this was a welcome distraction. Even more so because the victim was a known creep, so his empathy levels were low.

  “We need to find the ex-lover. Chib, London is your old stomping ground, isn’t it?” She nodded. “See what you can turn up.” He addressed the rest of the team. “I want to know when Rebecca was last in the country and if our man had been to see her since the divorce. And we need to speak to the gallery owner.”

  “On it,” said Harry Lord, rising from his seat.

  “No, Harry, I’m going to go. I want you to look into any criminal links he previously had and let’s see if any of them were feeling particularly disgruntled towards our man.”

  Harry looked disappointed as he sat back down, but he nodded.

  “Pepsi, you’re always complaining you don’t get out.” Fanta threw Garrick a withering look. While he claimed to keep forgetting her name, she knew it was just a wind-up. “You’re coming with me.”

  “You’re actually letting me out of here?” Her face lit up; all snarky asides forgotten.

  “Maybe you will see something in the crappy art he sells. You can educate me.”

  With an excited bounce in her step, Fanta snatched her jacket from the back of her seat. “I’m ready!”

  “David! A word.” Superintendent Margery Drury stood at the doorway and beckoned him over. Garrick wondered how long she had been there. He nodded and turned to Fanta.

  “Give me a few minutes and tell me everything about the gallery on the way.”

  He took a couple of steps, following Drury to her office, when Chib stood in his way. She looked concerned and kept her voice low.

  “One thing, sir. Pathology confirms that he was beaten up before he died, but there are no defensive marks on his hands or arms.” Garrick frowned. He was being assaulted, but hadn’t raised his arms to ward off the blows? “And there are indications some wounds were a few days old.”

  “He could have been restrained. Send Wilkes to Tenterden and find out when Fraser was last seen out and about.”

  Drury’s office was overly warm, enhanced by a rare showing of the sun directly blazing through the window. There were no blinds or curtains, so when she sat behind her desk she was forced to squint.

  “How’re you feeling, David?”

  “Absolutely fine.” He declined from sitting down. He was eager to get on the road.

  Drury angled away from the window, shielding her eyes from the glare, but she was stalling as she picked her words carefully. Something that was quite out of character in all the years Garrick had known his superior officer. She was a powerhouse who rode roughshod over people’s feelings if it got the job done.

  “Dr Harman seems pleased with your sessions.” Garrick nodded. He couldn’t think what the right response would be. “In fact, she has suggested that you would benefit from continuing them.”

  Garrick tried not to react. The sessions had been in place since Christmas, just after he attended Sam McKinzie’s funeral, the man he had thought would become his brother-in-law. Sam was found murdered on a remote snowbound ranch in Illinois, with a few other victims and signs that Garrick’s sister, Emelie, had been abducted and later killed. Therapy wasn’t something he had requested or even considered, but he had found it useful. He also remembered it was only supposed to be for a couple of months.

  “I’m happy either way,” he said diplomatically. It would be a shame not to see Harman again, although preferably in a non-professional setting, but alarm bells were ringing. Did Drury really think she needed to keep an eye on him?

  “Good,” Drury said, suddenly a little more chipper. “Then let’s do that. It can only be a good thing.” She hesitated again, and Garrick sensed that wasn’t the only issue on the table. “Especially after the incident with John Howard.”

  Since wrapping the case of concerning murdered immigrants, several other agencies had stepped in to take control. From the National Crime Agency, who were unpicking the drug smuggling network Garrick had uncovered, through to the Military Police who were reopening John Howard’s old service records since he was dishonourably discharged while serving in the Falklands Conflict. Garrick’s friendship with him over the years had meant that, although he had solved the case, loose ends needed to be taken up by other detectives with no personal connection to the serial killer.

  “I’m dealing with that scumbag just fine,” he assured her.

  Drury steepled her fingers, once again searching for her words. “I’m sure you are. It’s just that you may be called upon to give evidence about him.”

  “Naturally.”

  “I mean beyond just this case.”

  “He’s suspected in something else?”

  “Early days, David. The movements of a man like him need to be thoroughly examined.”

  “A cold case?”

  “I’m not privileged to know any details. Other than I’ve been asked for your cooperation, should it be required.”

  The energy he had been feeling minutes earlier evaporated as he dragged his heels to his car with Fanta in tow. She was talking rapidly and with more enthusiasm than he could muster. It took over an hour to make the thirty-mile drive, by which time Garrick had already forgotten half the things she had said.

  5

  Rye was a picturesque historical village, set a couple of miles back from the Channel on the conflux of the rivers Brede and Rother. Often cited as one of the most photographed villages in the UK, Garrick began questioning its popularity as he struggled to find a parking spot i
n the cramped Lucknow Place car park. He could smell the refreshing scent of the sea from here, and hungry gulls swooped overhead. The ticket machine was broken, but Fanta assured him she would pay on her phone, if she was reimbursed before the end of the week.

  They walked down the narrow East Cliff Street as it curved onto the equally tight High Street where barely two cars could pass. Populated by several cafes, local souvenir shops, a traditional sweet shop and a couple of art galleries promoting local artists that all gave a distinct air of respectability to the town. Cinq Arts Gallery sat on the corner. A quaint whitewashed lower front was crowned by a distinctive crimson tiled upper story. Stepping inside dispelled any notion of old school antiquity.

  Monitors hung on the walls, displaying images of rolling artwork, while ever-changing LED lights cast pools of vibrant colours across the walls. Smooth and slow contemporary drum music played over a hidden speaker system. Twisted sculptures made from stone or metal were Interspersed between the monitors. Above them hung a dozen abstract paintings. Garrick recognised two in the same style as those in Fraser’s living room.

  A gangly pale thirty-something, in a black tight polo neck top and jeans far too tight to be comfortable, appeared from the back. Impeccably groomed, his black hair was shaved at the side, but shot straight up by several inches in a fashion that Garrick assumed was supposed to be stylish, but he suspected it was more ironic. A single diamond earring sparkled in the mood lighting.

  “Welcome!” he waved with one hand, his mobile gripped in the other. “Are you and your daughter looking for something specific?”

  Garrick heard Fanta’s snigger from behind. She had left her hat in the car and was wearing her police jacket, but the Police insignia was blocked by Garrick. He was only 41, and although PC Liu looked younger than her mid-twenties, he still couldn’t pass as her adopted father. Bloody millennials. He held up his card.