MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

by M. G. Cole

  The man’s demeanour was friendly, but the timing of the request raised Garrick’s hackles. He gestured around.

  “You can see I am a tad busy with a press conference.”

  “I just have a few questions.”

  “Questions that couldn’t be emailed or discussed at a convenient time on the phone? Instead, you came all the way from London to ask me a ‘few’?”

  DCI Kane bared his teeth in a loud laugh that echoed in the hall. “Well, that would be too convenient, wouldn’t it? I was in the area and knew exactly where to pin you down. Lucky for me, because I’m guessing that you are running here, there and everywhere with this murder investigation.”

  “Yes. I’m quite strapped for time…”

  “How long had you known Mr Howard?”

  “Since I moved to Kent. Twelve years. He always had that bookshop in Wye, which is how I got to know him. I believe that was in my report.”

  “And you were close friends?”

  “Friends. As to how close, well I suppose the answer would be quite telling in the fact he concealed his homicidal tendencies from me.” He gave a laugh, almost mimicking Kane’s own jollity.

  “Indeed. I have to say, I am most impressed with the fact you exposed him at all. And all the other things you uncovered. I’d tip my hat if I wore one. But just so I understand, how close did you think you were? Personally. From your point of view.”

  “It’s not closeness. He was intelligent. Useful. You’re talking about a man who had a broad expanse of knowledge. In several previous cases he had proved to be a good sounding board. He had a natural way of illuminating points we’d overlooked.”

  “You regularly discussed active cases with him?”

  “He was very much more a consultant, I suppose.”

  “And expert on the criminal mind, so it turned out,” Kane laughed again. “And in your case, he was a purveyor of misinformation.”

  “Very much so.” Garrick was distracted by one of the backing boards behind the table toppling noisily over. What he didn’t need was the set crumbling before the eyes of the national news.

  “What makes you think he hasn’t done that before?”

  “Done what?”

  “You said that you’ve consulted with him over many cases–”

  “Consulted wasn’t the right word–”

  “I just wonder how many of those cases he could have seeded with misinformation.”

  “None. He wasn’t personally involved with those. We closed many of them.”

  “Many. Not all.”

  “DCI Kane, I’d tip my cap to you and your hundred per cent track record… if either of us had one.”

  Kane was officially pissing him off now, and Garrick wasn’t in the mood to be toyed with.

  “You said you were in the area? Why? He lived above his shop and it all burned down, save the shed. And forensics went over that multiple times. What is there left to look at.”

  “It turns out he may have had a lockup that you didn’t know about.”

  “Where?”

  Kane tilted his head and raised his eyebrows. “It’s an active investigation. You understand. And to confirm, you didn’t know about this, or any other property that Mr Howard may have had?”

  “No.”

  “Regular acquittances? Family?”

  “He mentioned a brother once. But I think he passed away. His parents too.”

  “And relationships…?”

  “I sometimes thought he was gay, possibly. But every now and again he would produce a girlfriend he’d date for a short while. Nothing ever serious.”

  “Do you remember any of them? Have any pictures?”

  “We were not the type of friends who holidayed together. Going out to lunch was enough.”

  “And did you every introduce him to your family, friends, or work colleagues?”

  “My social circle is best defined as a dot. And he was it. He never came out to any police booze-ups, you know how wild they can get,” he added with pointed irony. “Although he met my DS a few times when we quizzed him for advice. Other than that, no.”

  “DS Eric Wilson?”

  Garrick nodded. He and Eric Wilson had always got on and had stayed in touch when he’d taken compassionate leave over his sister’s murder. Over that period, Wilson had been seconded to Staffordshire. He’d meant to call him, and had even emailed him, but Wilson hadn’t replied. That was the nature of the job. Often it sucked your personal life away into a vacuum.

  “And your sister?”

  “Pardon?” Garrick was aware he’d zoned out for a moment, lost in his own thoughts.

  “Are you okay?” Kane studied him with concern.

  “Yes.” Garrick spat the word a little too harshly. His medical files were kept even from his superior officer, so there was no reason to defend himself from a Met detective who obviously felt he was superior to his colleagues working out in the sticks.

  “I asked if he ever met your sister.”

  “A few times. What’s that got to do with anything? I barely saw my sister. We didn’t exactly hit it off. When she came to visit, I think once we swung by his shop to pick something up. Another time he took us out for lunch. But that was early last year. No, longer than that. The year before. It was a wholly unremarkable event.”

  DCI Kane watched as the stage backing board was fixed upright. He glanced at his watch. “I suppose I best leave you to it. I always get nervous before these things.”

  Garrick felt relieved to see Chib enter, bone dry as she shook an umbrella in the doorway. He hadn’t been feeling nervous, but the encounter with DCI Kane had thrown him off-kilter.

  “Be seeing you,” Kane said with a smile as he walked away.

  “Of course. And Oliver,” Garrick took some satisfaction to see the first-name cause a flicker of annoyance across Kane’s face as he turned. “Any time you have questions, day or night, please don’t hesitate to email me.”

  Kane gave a small smile and turned away, pointedly ignoring Chib as he passed her.

  Chib sized Garrick up with a frown. “You okay, sir? You look as if you haven’t slept all night.”

  Garrick and Chib stood in a side room as the main hall filled with reporters. He counted nine television cameras, complete with assorted reporters. Microphones with BBC, SKY and ITV logos were flashed like status badges. He was surprised to see CNN, ABC, France 24 and an Al Jazeera logo amongst them too. An army of at least another thirty reporters and photographers swelled the ranks. He’d asked PC Harry Lord if there was a collective noun for reporters. Harry suggested it had to be a Bastard of Press.

  “Bloody hell. It looks like the entire world is out there,” he said to Chib.

  For once, her confident demeanour was shaken, and she looked ready to throw up.

  “Are you sure you need me out there, sir?” she said in a weak voice.

  “Pull yourself together, Chib. You’ll be fine. They want a story. We want them to find Oscar Benjamin. As long as our I.T. doesn’t crash, this is nothing more than a dog and pony show. Follow my lead, you’ll be fine.” His smile provoked one in response, although inside, he was feeling just as nervous.

  The door opened and a young woman from the communications team popped her head around.

  “Everybody’s ready if you are?”

  Garrick pulled a piece of paper from his suit pocket and unfolded it. It was a series of bullet points the team had agreed on the night before. He noticed Fanta had kindly labelled the list ‘Idiot Points’.

  His mouth felt dry, but Garrick nodded. He’d done dozens of conferences in the past and cursed DCI Kane for getting him worked up. They entered the hall and walked the few yards to the table that now had a sheet draped over it with the Kent Police logo hanging in the centre: a white Kent horse rampant in a red circle, surrounded by a blue ring. The same logo was on the television that the technician had finally got working.

  Silence descended on the room, broken only by a constant wave of c
licks from the flanks of SLRs. Lights erected to help the cameras, made Garrick squint and he could feel the heat from them. The glare niggled his headache, which until then, had remained mercifully subdued. He noticed Molly Meyers at the front of the pack and spotted DCI Kane lurking at the back of the hall. Apparently, he wasn’t in such a hurry to leave after all.

  He and Chib took their seats. He glanced at the communications woman who stood at the side and she held up a small remote clicker, ready to advance the presentation. Garrick angled the gooseneck microphone on the table as Chib poured them both a glass of water, which sounded overly loud so close to the mic. He placed the idiot notes in front of him and swept his gaze across the reporters, trying not to linger on any one television camera.

  “Thank you all for coming,” Garrick began.

  He didn’t need the notes. He worked on autopilot as he outlined the general condition they had found Derek Fraser in. As agreed, he played up his big loss to the art world and stressed that the mysterious Hoy must get in touch with the police as soon as possible. He added that the artist’s last two works had just sold for one hundred and twenty pounds, reasoning that if Hoy didn’t know about the sale, then the sum of money owed to him would certainly give him cause to pick up the phone.

  The images of Derek Fraser, smiling with his ex-wife, and the ones taken for his Country Life article, appeared on cue on the TV. They had been especially chosen to show the friendly nature of the deceased to elicit sympathy. Finally, the images of Oscar Benjamin’s scowling face came up, taken from a time he had been brought in for questioning. They were chosen to make him look like the definitive bad guy. DS Okon took over, requesting that if the public see him, they should call 999 straight away. Garrick had convinced Chib that joe public would prefer to be told what to do from her, rather than a stuffy middle-aged white man.

  Before he knew it, the briefing was rolling to an end. All they had to do was survive the inevitable barrage of questions. He pointed at Molly.

  “We’ll take a few questions, and I believe the young lady there has the first.”

  Molly beamed with pride, holding out her phone to capture the best audio recording she could.

  “Thank you, DCI Garrick. Is there any evidence that connects Derek Fraser to–?”

  “WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” boomed an angry Scottish voice from the back of the room.

  A murmur of consternation rose through the bank of reporters as a figure pushed his way around them and made his way to the tables. Garrick rose to confront the wet and bedraggled stranger – but the words failed him.

  It was Derek Fraser.

  “What’s all this I hear about being dead?” Fraser demanded in a stark Scottish brogue. He looked around the room in confusion.

  Cameras went crazy as they recorded the spectacle – but the Bastard of Press were all too shocked to throw out a question. Only Molly Meyers managed it first.

  “If you’re not dead… then who is?”

  9

  Garrick had hoped to gain extensive press coverage. But not like this. Within the hour, the department was swamped with calls and a growing platoon of journalists were milling outside.

  The walk to the incident room with Derek Fraser turned into a scrum, with uniformed officers providing a protective entourage as questions were yelled from every direction. Fraser looked confused and kept shouting: “I’m very much alive, thank you!” He took refuge in an interview room and was given a milky tea as they waited for his solicitor to join them. When she finally arrived, Rosamund Hellberg, expressed shock at the swelling crowd outside. In her fifties, with neatly curled short grey hair, Hellberg was the image of elegance and expense.

  “Mr Fraser, where have you been?” As an opening gambit, Garrick knew it was poor, but he was still coming to terms with events. Chib sat next to him, hands clasped together and staring at Fraser as if he was a ghost.

  “In a retreat. And the first thing I bloody hear when I get out is that I’m dead! That’s a damn shocking thing to be told. And they told me after I paid me bill. Which feels kinda insulting. The damage all this will do to me reputation…” he shook his head in despair. “I can’t imagine putting a figure on it.”

  “I dare say this is doing nothing but enhancing your reputation.”

  Fraser pointed at Garrick. “You can’t go around telling the world somebody’s dead and not expect consequences.”

  “Really? Worse ones than actually being dead?”

  “Aye!” He pointed at Garrick and looked to his solicitor. “This is defamation of character, isn’t it?”

  Hellberg tactfully remained silent.

  “Well, I am delighted to see you are alive, and very vocal,” said Garrick with forced jollity. His inner voice was screaming for answers. “I must admit, we were struggling to find a credible suspect for the murder.”

  Fraser held his hands palm up. “Well, I’m here. Right in front of you.”

  “I can see. And was that an admission of guilt?”

  Fraser froze as his arrogant swagger hit pause.

  “What now?”

  Hellberg cut in. “My client is admitting nothing, Detective, as you well know. He was using a common expression to indicate he is alive and well. Which is something the police seem to struggle to establish.”

  “But somebody isn’t alive and well. Somebody was brutally murdered in your house. And if it’s not you, then who is it?”

  “How the bloody hell should I know?” He looked at Hellberg again. “Can you believe this crap? Somebody breaks into me house when I’m away and he’s pointing fingers!”

  “Mr Fraser, pointing fingers is a large part of my job.” He wagged a finger at Fraser. “See? It takes years of training.”

  “You thought he was me. Did he look anything like me?”

  Chib slid several pictures from the crime scene across the desk. Fraser picked them up, closely examining each. He passed one to Hellberg, who gave the smallest of frowns.

  “Hardly an exact likeness.”

  “The victim’s face was badly smashed with a hammer. Then he was executed with two gunshots to the chest.”

  Fraser was shaken as he tossed the pictures back on the desk. “That carpet is buggered too.”

  Garrick watched him carefully. “You hardly seem concerned about the dead man.”

  “Concerned about somebody breaking into me home? No, not really.”

  “Do you live alone, Mr Fraser?”

  “Aye.”

  “When were you last at home?”

  “Three days ago. I left in the morning to go to Wales.”

  “The day of the killing.”

  “He wasn’t there when I left. I would’ve noticed.” Fraser crossed his arms, defiance seeping back.

  “It was actually the next day when an Amazon delivery driver found the body.”

  “I still wasn’t there.”

  “Then who killed him?”

  “Maybe the delivery driver did it? Ever think of that? Or… or another thief. What made you think it was me?”

  Chib tapped the photo. “He is wearing your clothes, isn’t he?”

  “Look similar.”

  “He was in your house.”

  “He broke in.”

  “Your DNA was all over him.”

  “I do live there. It is me house.”

  Chib nodded, but she had clearly exhausted her line of reasoning.

  “Mr Fraser, with all that evidence in hand, it does rather point the finger in your direction.” He mimicked Fraser’s earlier finger pointing.

  “That is ridiculous,” Hellberg cut in. “My client willingly entered your terrible excuse for a press conference to stop you from making a mistake. Not only was he in a retreat in Wales, and isolated from the news, you now throw unsubstantiated accusations at him with no evidence. His DNA was at the crime scene? In his own house? I am appalled you would even mention that.”

  Chib hung her head. Garrick was becoming increasingly annoyed.

&
nbsp; “Then you are overlooking the one piece of evidence we have.” He forcibly tapped a photograph. “The corpse down the morgue!”

  “And who is he?” Hellberg goaded him with a cocked eyebrow.

  “Obviously, that’s what we need to establish.”

  Hellberg gathered her case and stood up. “In that case, we are done here.”

  “You can’t go…”

  “I assure you, we can. And we are. Come on,” she nudged Fraser, who stood up, slightly bewildered.

  “I guess we are,” he said with a shrug.

  “I want to talk to you about Oscar Benjamin.”

  Fraser paused. “What’s to tell?”

  “You owed him money. And until an hour ago, I was about to accuse him of your murder.”

  “Well, I don’t owe him shit. And I don’t want to see him, ever. And I am sure the scum bag is responsible for somebody’s murder. Just not mine.”

  “When did you last see him?”

  “I can’t remember. Why don’t you ask Rebecca? She’s sleeping with him. Why do you think we got a divorce?”

  “Mr Fraser, you don’t have to answer any of this.” Hellberg gave Garrick a withering look. “I suggest you issue an apology to the press and stop hounding my client with false accusations.”

  “I’ll need full details of this retreat you were on.”

  “I shall send them to you,” Hellberg said. “Good day, Detectives.”

  She ushered a grinning Fraser from the room.

  “God, I felt like I was back in boarding school,” muttered Chib. “As much as I hate to say this, but what if he is telling the truth?”

  “Then somebody is trying to set him up.”

  “Who?”

  Garrick could think of only two people. Mark Kline-Watson and Oscar Benjamin. The man they still needed to find, but Garrick suspected that their plea to locate him will have been swamped by Fraser’s rise from the dead. He wasn’t wrong.

  By the time they returned to the incident room, Fanta confirmed that the footage of Derek Fraser crashing the conference had gone viral worldwide. It was also playing on every channel. A text from Wendy declared:

  I’ve just seen you on TV!

  And as Drury entered the room, he knew he and his team were in from the biggest bollocking of his career.