MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

by M. G. Cole

  10

  The clinical white light erased almost every shadow from the morgue. The corpse, formerly known as Derek Fraser, lay on the slab. An elderly bespectacled coroner, who had the mannerisms of a timid priest, and gave every sign that he was unhappy with his job, spoke so softly that Garrick had to strain to hear. He pulled the white sheet from the face and upper body and carefully folded it across the chest, taking a little too long to ensure there wasn’t a single crease.

  Chib stiffened slightly, her expression mostly hidden behind her mask. Garrick wasn’t sure how many victims she had seen, but in the short time they’d been together, she had composed herself with cool aplomb. He put her reaction down to the smell that lingered around a several-day old corpse, which the room’s extractor fans were struggling to remove.

  “We should have a full DNA analysis from the lab in the morning,” the Coroner said reverently.

  The press was already asking questions about how the body could have been confused with Fraser from the very beginning. Despite their assumptions, testing a victim’s DNA was not an automatic response if other factors provided identification. There had been no reason to suspect the corpse was anybody else other than Derek Fraser.

  Garrick cleared his throat. “We are working on the assumption that the victim broke into the house dressed, for whatever reason, as Mr Fraser.”

  The Coroner raised an eyebrow. “That is an unusual assumption.”

  “Since lunchtime, this has been an unusual case. It’s possible he was deliberately wearing the clothes to pass himself off as Fraser…”

  As Garrick had feared, the request for the public to be on the lookout for Oscar Benjamin had been lost in the white noise of sensationalism. Garrick was still convinced that he had a hand in the murder of… whoever was lying on the slab.

  “I sent samples of the clothing to the lab as you requested,” said the Coroner reading the results from a printout. “The washing liquid matches the one found in the house. But then again, it’s a common brand. However, it didn’t erase all traces from the clothing. Mr Fraser’s DNA was found on the inside of the trousers and shirt.”

  “They were his clothes?” said Garrick in surprise. “The victim was wearing Fraser’s own clothing?”

  “Indeed,” the Coroner said, re-reading the results.

  “Weird, but it doesn’t help answer the question of why he was there though.”

  “Perhaps as a decoy?” said Chib. “If Fraser knew somebody was out for him. Maybe he paid a lookalike as bait?”

  “There is a little more to it than that,” said the Coroner. He used his little finger to indicate to the swollen face. “The damage here around the forehead, ocular orbits, and cheekbones was inflicted with a hammer, like this one.” He wheeled over a small table, on which were several items. He picked up a heavy claw hammer. He gently matched the round hammer head to a slight indentation in the cheekbone. It was a perfect fit. “It was used to disfigure the face at key points, such as the cheeks. And it was done with some precision.”

  “To deliberately make facial ID impossible?” asked Garrick.

  “That would be my thought. The victim has the same eye colour as Mr Fraser, but the hair. Look here, it has been dyed.”

  “Dyed?”

  “To match Mr Fraser’s.”

  Chib and Garrick exchanged a look.

  “Your bait idea may not be so mad after all,” said Garrick.

  “These wounds are twenty hours older than the gunshots. Give or take four hours.” He handed the hammer to Garrick and indicated to the claw. “That was used to intentionally damage several teeth, so a dental ID would be unreliable.”

  “There were no signs of torture in the house,” Chib pointed out.

  “He was tortured elsewhere. Then taken to the house. Then killed.”

  The Coroner consulted a chart. “I found substantial traces of gamma-Hydroxybutyric acid in his system.”

  Garrick frowned. “GHB?” He noticed Chib’s confusion. “It was a popular date-rape drug in the nineties.”

  “And with the concentrations in him, he would have been unconscious for some time. When, or if, he came around, his recollection would have been heavily impaired.”

  “Not the ideal state to question him. Maybe the attacker wasn’t fully aware of the side effects?”

  The Coroner diligently slid the sheet lower, positioning it just above the man’s groin. The revealed hairy stomach could have been politely described as a muffin top. He indicated to a red welt cutting around the body.

  “This was caused by his trousers being too tight. I haven’t been given Mr Fraser’s measurements, but they were not the same size. The trousers were too small by an inch at least, and when I removed them, this man is at least an inch-and-a-half taller than Mr Fraser.” He moved to the corpse’s left side and used his pinkie to indicate to the watch strap indentation still moulded into the dead skin. “He was wearing a watch so tightly that it would have cut off his circulation.”

  Garrick’s head was now pounding. The brilliant lighting was stirring a migraine. “There were no bloodstains on his clothing, other than the gunshot wounds?”

  “Correct.”

  “Then he put the clothes on after the initial assault.”

  “In the condition he was in, somebody dressed him. He couldn’t have done it himself. He was alive, but I doubt he was conscious. And he certainly wasn’t conscious when he was shot.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Certain. There are no defensive wounds on his hands or arms. No sign that he was restrained during any of the attacks.”

  “You’re saying that everything was inflicted on him when he was unconscious?”

  “I would say that is highly likely. This wasn’t torture. At least, not as we consider it.”

  The mortuary car park was poorly illuminated, and the rain had stopped as a hazy fog formed. Garrick and Chib walked back to their separate vehicles, dragging their feet as they worked through possible outcomes.

  “Fraser must have known he was being targeted, and this poor bloke was dragged in at the last moment to take the fall,” said Garrick.

  “If he was passing himself off as Fraser, then he was abducted and tortured for information? Information he obviously wouldn’t know about.”

  “Such as the identity of a valuable artist.”

  Chib looked at him in surprise. “You think this was about Hoy?”

  “Nobody knows who he is. Fraser conveniently disappears on a retreat the same day this fella turns up dead in his house, dressed in his clothes.”

  “And the killer tried to set up the scene like a burglary gone wrong.”

  “Yeah…” it sounded weak to Garrick, but the evidence was stacking.

  “What use is it torturing him if the victim is unconscious?”

  “We need to look into the movements of the gallery owner, Kline-Watson. He’s a lot to gain from knowing Hoy’s identity.”

  “Fanta said his rent was in arrears. If his business was struggling, I could see Hoy would be a perfect solution.”

  Garrick nodded. “And after spending a few minutes in Fraser’s company, I can see he isn’t the sort of person who likes to share. I can also see why somebody would want to bump him off.” He looked sharply at Chib. “I didn’t say that of course.”

  Chib blinked in surprise. “Didn’t hear a thing, sir.” She noticed he was acting more uptight than usual. “Are you okay?”

  “Rattled, Chib. I’m rattled.”

  Chib glanced through an email on her phone. “It turns out Fraser’s alibi checks out. He was in Wales two days before the murder. The hotel owner remembers he was quite reserved until it came to paying the bill.”

  “Fancy him kicking up a stink. What was this ‘retreat’, anyway?”

  “Oh, you’ll love it. It was a spiritual art getaway. According to the website, it was a chance for participants to expand their own artistic skills with the group, or to find contemplation within the country
side to open up one’s connection with a higher power.”

  “I didn’t realise our Mr Fraser was so spiritual.”

  “It was out near Hay-on-Wye. Powys police asked the participants about him. Seems he chose the countryside reflections as he didn’t socialise. Kept himself to himself. When he checked out he was effing and blinding, as the hotel manager recalls.”

  They neared their cars parked side-by-side. Chib’s Nissan Leaf was the epitome of modernism and the future; Garrick’s dirty old Land Rover… he didn’t need to finish that mental analogy. He was feeling it each day.

  The Nissan lit up and unlocked as Chib approached. Garrick had to jiggle the key in his door several times before the central locking allowed him entrance. He paused.

  “How did he get there?”

  “A taxi picked him up when he left. So, I assume by train.”

  “I imagine it’s not the easiest place to get to, and he had a perfectly nice car in the garage. One that could have made the trip there and back on a single tank of petrol,” he added pointedly.

  “He’s been asking when he can return to his home.”

  “He’ll have to wait. It’s still a crime scene even if he is alive.”

  “His solicitor’s been demanding we allowed him to pick up some clothes and essentials at least.”

  Garrick thoughtfully drummed his fingers on the car roof. “Let’s get full coverage of where Mark Kline-Watson was over the last few days. I want a whole timeline of his association with Fraser and Hoy. We’re missing something…”

  “Probably, but what?”

  “A connection between our gallery owner and Oscar Benjamin.”

  “You still think he’s the killer?”

  “He’s in the mix somewhere. The possible affair. The debt. The fact he has gone missing.”

  “But he would have clearly known the difference between Fraser and somebody doubling as him.”

  “True. We’re talking about a man who let his brother take the fall for something people claim he was responsible for. He’s not the sort of man to get his hands dirty. Others do that for him. Others who wouldn’t know they have killed the wrong man if they’ve never met him before.”

  The drive home was hampered by thickening fog. The concentration needed to drive didn’t help Garrick’s throbbing head. The news on the radio led with the story of Fraser’s dramatic rise from the grave. Garrick switched it off before it cut to an interview with Derek Fraser. He knew that the canny Scotsman was milking his time in the spotlight.

  Several text messages from Wendy said how much she was looking forward to their theatre trip. That was a welcome distraction. But it didn’t last long. Garrick knew that the media fervour surrounding the case would only worsen if he couldn’t give the lions some meat. His team needed to find something that would break the case soon.

  He did not know that it was about to get a lot worse.

  11

  Garrick only became aware that Derek Fraser was in the lobby when the shouting began. He had been waiting for him in the lobby of the splendid Chilston Park Hotel, just outside Maidstone. The stately, red-bricked country house had put Garrick back in time to a more elegant Jeeves & Wooster era as he had driven up the driveway. Fraser was clearly sparing no expense for his temporary accommodation, and Garrick suspected his nasty solicitor was planning to bill the department for the extravagance.

  He had been engrossed in his phone, so hadn’t noticed Fraser skulk past on his way to the dining room. But somebody else had. There was a flash of scarlet, and a woman intercepted her prey.

  “You son of a bitch!” she screamed. “Why are you still alive?”

  He instantly recognised Fraser’s ex-wife, Rebecca Ellis. In person, she was even more impressive. Wearing a tight black top that emphasised her bosom, and skinny jeans, she sported a healthy tan and looked more radiant than the photograph gave her credit for. She wore a long bright scarlet long coat that matched her lipstick.

  Fraser looked horrified to see her. “Becs? What’re you doing here?”

  “I had to see it with my own eyes! My solicitor said you had cut me from your will! We had an agreement!”

  “Of course I bloody cut you out! You’ve already bled me dry in life, so you’re not getting a penny outta me when I pop me clogs!”

  “You’re so spiteful you even came back from the dead to rub it in!”

  Garrick considered intervening as a crowd formed at a discreet distance. In the dining room, heads were turning. The staff behind the desk exchanged nervous glances. Garrick decided it was a personal moment between them, so linked his fingers together and sat back to enjoy the show.

  “And I’d do it again!” Fraser screamed back.

  “I’m going to make you wish you’d stayed dead.”

  “I wish that every time I see you, you harpy!”

  Her voice dropped to a sibilant hiss. “I want it all, Derek. Everything.” With that, she spun around and marched from the lobby.

  Fraser glanced around, his face red with embarrassment. It was then he saw Garrick walking towards him with his hands in his pockets.

  “I see you and your ex still get on.”

  “What do you want?”

  “I wanted to ask you a few questions.” He tilted his head in Rebecca’s direction. “But I think I’ve just found somebody much more interesting to chat to. See you later.”

  Garrick hurried after Rebecca.

  “I want to get back to me house!” Fraser roared after him. “I don’t want to be cooped up in this sty much longer!”

  A five-star luxury sty, Garrick thought as he followed Rebecca across the drive to her parked hire car.

  “Miss Ellis. DCI Garrick,” she didn’t look at his ID card, but her eyes flickered in recognition. “May I have a word?”

  “I recognise you from the television. Some detective you are if you can’t even ensure my ex-husband is dead.”

  “You came all the way over from Portugal just to shout at him?”

  “I came because he is trying to screw me out of what is mine.”

  “I thought everything had been decided in the divorce.”

  “Not everything. Some things were best left aside. The house, for instance. To move things along, we had agreed that I get it if he dies before me, he gets the villa if I croak before him. I thought it was an amicable agreement. That way we could both hope the other would die soon.”

  “It must be disappointing to think you were getting a nice house, then he spoils it all by not dying.”

  Rebecca’s smile didn’t reach her eyes. There was no hint of sorrow there. “You understand my position.”

  “But surely his remaining assets should go to his son?”

  Rebecca’s eyes narrowed. “The boy isn’t even his. He’s as much a failure in the bedroom as he is elsewhere in life.”

  “But she was the reason for your divorce. The paternity test–”

  “The test showed nothing. We divorced because of the affair. Plain and simple.”

  Garrick nodded sympathetically. “I understand. Do you mean his affair, or yours?”

  A perfect eyebrow rose questioningly.

  “Oscar Benjamin. The very man we are looking for. You have been living with him in Portugal. Mr Fraser cites him as the cause for your divorce.”

  “Derek claims many things, doesn’t he? As for where Oscar is, I would like to know that for myself. I haven’t seen him since he came over here three weeks ago on business.”

  “What business is that?”

  “His own.”

  “When did you last hear from him?”

  She thought for a moment. “Perhaps two weeks ago. When he travels, we don’t often talk. That’s not uncommon when he’s busy.”

  Garrick looked at the Hertz hire car. A small white Fiat Panda City Life. “How long are you planning to stay?”

  “Not long. A short as possible.”

  “And if we need to contact you?”

  “You can call the sa
me mobile you people have been using when I was home. Not that I can imagine we’ll have anything to say to one another.”

  She opened the car to indicate the impromptu interview was over.

  “One last thing, Miss Ellis. Is there anybody who would have a grudge against your husband?”

  She laughed. “That is a long list. It would no doubt include you, too. You’ve met him. What do you think?”

  She slammed the door closed and drove quickly away. Garrick turned back to the hotel and saw Fraser hurrying away from the doorway.

  No matter how he angled his head, David Garrick was bewildered by the combination of shapes and colours on the painting. Any artistry or deeper meaning was so well hidden that he couldn’t see it. He’d thought that he’d been too harsh in his initial opinion about Hoy’s work, as people were obviously keen to throw money at it, but now looking at the two framed pieces on the wall, he was more convinced than ever that the artist must be a child.

  “Not everyone gets good art,” Fraser growled as he took them down from his living room wall.

  Garrick tried to bring Fraser onside by being magnanimous and allowed him to visit his home to retrieve a change of clothes and gather the few personal items he required. He warned Fraser that it was still a crime scene, so he would have to catalogue everything in and out. The first thing Fraser had done was to take the two valuable pieces of art from the wall.

  “I just can’t see it,” Garrick admitted. “I suppose it’s a question of taste.”

  Fraser held up one picture, alive with purple and green diagonal lines, and peppered with random yellow flecks.

  “It’s a question of emotion,” he corrected Garrick. “Art isn’t about what’s easy on the eyes, it’s about how it stirs you. If this doesn’t elicit joy when you look it at, the taste of a Tuscan summer, the maybe you’re dead inside.”

  Garrick couldn’t rule that out. He watched Fraser carefully place the paintings in a large battered brown leather carry case. These works were twice the size of the previous Hoys sold.”