MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

by M. G. Cole

  “David Garrick, you’re a terrible liar.” She put the umbrella up and hooked his arm, pulling him close so they could both benefit from the shelter as they walked to the multi-story car park on Station Road West.

  “Okay, it wasn’t as bad as I thought. That bloke from the telly was a surprisingly good singer.”

  “He’s a comedian. Quite famous too.”

  “I don’t watch a lot of television.”

  “And was the killer obvious to your police detection powers?”

  “Actually no, because I’m off duty.” In fact, he had been completely wrong in the rather simplistic whodunnit. He was about to comment further when he did a double take at the young Asian woman walking towards them. “Fanta?”

  Fanta Liu froze mid-stride, alarm plastered across her face. She was linking the arm of Sean Wilkes, both under a sensible large red golfing umbrella.

  “David… um, DCI… sir,” she stuttered, immediately shucking off Wilkes’s arm. He looked as if he’d seen a ghost.

  “Evening, sir,” Wilkes managed.

  Garrick felt a sudden pressure to relieve the tension. He looked at Wendy and gestured to his two juniors.

  “This is Sean Wilkes and Fanta Liu. Two of my team. Fancy seeing you here.”

  “Pleased to meet you,” beamed Wendy, enjoying every moment of their combined awkwardness.

  Fanta and Wilkes exchanged a look. “Funny, because we bumped into each other too.”

  “Really?” said Garrick in a tone made it clear the world knew that was a lie.

  “We went to see a magician,” said Wilkes, his cheeks flushing.

  Fanta nodded. “He was very good.” She waved one hand, then opened the other. “You really didn’t know where to look.” She winced under Garrick’s gaze. “I didn’t peg you for a musical fan, sir.”

  Garrick frowned and then realised that Wendy was clutching a programme from the show.

  “Ordinarily, no. But me and my friend decided… why not?”

  Fanta smiled. “Uh-huh. You’re friends.” She didn’t believe him.

  “Well, don’t let me keep you two from enjoying the evening.”

  Fanta’s eyes widened. “I’m going straight home. To bed. Alone,” she instantly regretted saying that. She quickly added, “I’m on surveillance early.”

  They quickly parted with a round of goodnights. Wendy gripped Garrick’s arm harder as she burst out laughing. It was then Garrick noticed he hadn’t let go of her.

  “They are so terrified of you! What kind of monster are you in work?”

  “The very best kind.”

  He drove Wendy home in Lenham, and they chatted about the musical and other distractions, finally circling back on the promise to go rambling on Sunday. If she promised to go easy on him, then it was a date.

  Outside her house, she kissed him gently on the lips and smiled. He looked into her dark brown eyes and suddenly wanted the night to extend a little longer.

  “Goodnight, detective.” Her smile broadened as she got out of the car and hurried to her door. After hunting for her keys, she opened it, gave a little wave, and disappeared inside.

  Their dates had been a slow progression from the first disaster, each steadily improving. They had kissed a little, but nothing wildly passionate. There had been no hint that she wanted to jump into bed with him just yet, and Garrick was relieved by that. She was three years younger than him, and he fretted that the scars of the last few months, combined with his general lack of activity on the dating scene, had made him rusty, to say the least. He was quite content with the slow pace.

  The tortured screech of the windscreen wipers jarred him from his reverie. He turned on the radio. As some nineties love ballads crooned from Radio 2, he pulled away. For the first time, he was looking forward to the weekend. He marvelled that life could still be full of surprises.

  14

  The excessive blood looked almost unnaturally vivid against the spotless white linoleum floor. It was like an art exhibit unto itself, even with the battered skull of Mark Kline-Watson sprawled in the wide crimson pool.

  Garrick looked down on him with sorrow. He may have been a suspect, but the young man certainly didn’t deserve the brutal blow against his temple with a piece of his own artwork. The Mobius stone snake sculpture had been tossed aside as the assailant fled.

  He stepped aside as the white-suited SOCOs moved around him. He saw PC Liu was standing in the corner. She still looked ashen. He crossed to her, but her gaze never left the corpse.

  “Maybe you should get a drink. Let SOCO do what they need to.”

  Fanta shook her head. Her hands were stuffed in the pockets of her puffer jacket, but he could see they were shaking. She was wearing a biscuit-shade hoodie top underneath, blue jeans and trainers, a perfect non-uniform for surveillance.

  “Alright then. Talk me through it.”

  Fanta cleared her throat. “I turned up at seven-fifty-three and parked over there.” She indicated to a street outside. “I had a thermos, with some coffee. I poured one and sat until about five past nine. That’s when I thought something was off. He opens at nine,” she said by way of explanation. “And the boys,” as she referred to Wilkes and Lord who were alternating shifts with her, “all kept pointing out how anal, um, precise his timekeeping was. I crossed over and peered in. And saw his shoe poking out there.”

  From their vantage point near the door, they could just see his legs sprawling from behind a display cabinet. From outside, it was difficult to see much more than his loafers.

  “I pushed the door. It was unlocked. I came in… then called it in.” She couldn’t stop her voice from quivering.

  Garrick tactfully stood between her and the body. She had seen corpses before, but there was something much more personal about making the discovery yourself, alone. Garrick remembered the first time it had happened to him as a young officer. It was an OAP who had fallen and died in his flat. It had taken the neighbours four days to report it, by which time the smell had become unbearable in the summer heat. That had lingered with him for a long time, and it wasn’t as graphic as Mark Kline-Watson’s fate. The side of his face had caved in from the blow, breaking bones and exposing gore that shouldn’t be seen outside an operating theatre.

  The murder had occurred some point between midnight, when Harry Lord had finished his shift, and before Fanta’s arrival. Perfectly in the dead zone they had between surveillance shifts. Had the assailant known the gallery was being watched? Or had the victim suspected?

  “What’s your gut telling you?” He was trying to get Fanta to think rather than dwell on the body. She was also naturally intuitive, that he hoped that some part of her subconscious was piecing together clues she had so far ignored.

  She sucked in a halting breath and composed herself. “He knew his attacker. There is no signed of forced entry and it didn’t look like much of a scuffle. Not to me. He’s lying face down, so I reckon he had his back to the killer.”

  Garrick noted three security cameras positioned around the gallery space, and an alarm keypad on the door behind Fanta. As far as he could tell, nothing had been taken. Sculptures sat equidistant from each other. There were no obvious spaces amongst the artwork on the walls and, most surprisingly, the two Hoys from Fraser’s house were still on the wall. Fanta followed his gaze.

  “They’re the two new Hoys. I watched him show them off. Strange they weren’t nicked. They’re probably worth more than the building now.”

  Theft of the paintings would be an obvious motive. The fact they were still here indicated that this was a more personal vendetta.

  Fanta continued. “He has a nice watch, a Tudor. That’s still on him. As is his earring. And I bet that’s a real diamond.”

  “What about upstairs?”

  “I had a quick look to make sure nobody was there. But it didn’t look like anybody had been through it. Something is missing though.”

  Garrick looked around but couldn’t notice anything obvious.
“Did he have a cash register?”

  “A cashbox. That’s still there,” she pointed to a small red tin sitting amongst bubble wrap and brown paper on a shelf under a display cabinet, just out of sight from regular punters. “His phone has gone. Remember when we first came? He clung onto it as if his life depended on it. Every time I saw him, he had it in his hand. I had a quick shufty around and can’t see it anywhere.”

  Garrick swept his gaze around the room. “The attacker comes in, expected. After midnight. They probably argue. He gets whacked over the head. Nothing is taken other than his phone. Not even the valuable paintings that have been splashed all over the press.” He looked quizzically at her. “Would you agree that’s odd?”

  “I suppose.”

  Garrick moved to the broad windows. A few paintings hung there, but the space was minimalist, offering passers-by a glimpse into the gallery.

  “It would have been dark. The streetlights are over there and there,” he pointed to either end of the street. “They don’t shine straight in. He probably would have had some lights on. Probably some low-key mood lighting knowing him.”

  Fanta thought, then shook her head. “There were no lights on when I came in. It was all ambient.” She indicated to the lights that were now on. “The officers on duty must have done that.”

  As she was in plainclothes and had left her police ID at home, it had taken some explaining to convince the uniformed officers turning up at the scene that she was undercover. It hadn’t been until Garrick had turned up, that she had been allowed out of a police car.

  “Then the killer turned off the lights and shut the door,” Garrick said. He eyed the parade of shops up and down the street. “There must be a few security cameras along here.”

  “I’ll get onto it.”

  “You’re heading home.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Your role as surveillance was overtime.”

  “That’s bollocks… sir.”

  “No, that’s a fact that Drury will be very keen on pointing out. I need your head clear and hanging around this place will not help.” She opened her mouth to argue, but he ploughed on. “Tomorrow we’ll need all hands to piece this together.”

  They exited the building. The street immediately outside had been cordoned off to prevent people from looking into the crime scene. Patrol cars with their flashing blue lights guarded either end of the street.

  Garrick walked her to her car. He only got a few yards when his name was called from behind. It was Molly Meyers, wearing a green jacket with the hood up, framing her freckled face. Garrick quietly told Fanta to go, he didn’t want any of his team bombarded with questions.

  “Ms Meyers. News travels fast.”

  “All part of the service,” she beamed, then nodded at the gallery. “How about an exclusive?”

  “I’m not sure how exclusive this really is. The victim is Mark Kline-Watson, the gallery owner, but I’m sure you know that.”

  “How did he die?”

  “Gruesomely. Look, Ms Meyers–”

  “Molly.”

  “Molly. It’s too early to say anything for sure.”

  “What was stolen?” She stared at him with a half-smile, anticipating the answer.

  “As far as we can tell, nothing at this stage.”

  Her smile faltered, and she jerked a thumb towards the gallery, which was only now being obscured by a damp white forensic tent. “But there are a pair of Hoys in there. They’re only going up in price.”

  Garrick shrugged. “What can I tell you?”

  “So, it’s not a robbery.”

  “It’s a murder.”

  Molly’s brow knitted together. For a moment all they could hear was the rain pelting the fabric of her hood.

  “Are you sure the paintings are genuine?”

  Now it was Garrick’s turn to hesitate. The thought hadn’t occurred to him. He recovered quickly.

  “It’s too early to say anything.” He was relieved when he saw Chib pull up in her Nissan Leaf. “Now excuse me. It looks like I will have to do some work to answer your questions.”

  He ducked under the police tape barrier and hurried across to DS Okon as she locked her car.

  “Morning, sir. I came as soon as I heard.”

  “PC Liu found him. I’ve sent her home.” He glanced across at Molly, who was taking pictures on her phone. “I want you to bring the Hoys in as evidence.”

  “They weren’t stolen?” she sounded as surprised as everybody else.

  “We need to bring Fraser in for questioning, and Rebecca Willis too.”

  After a few hurried calls, Derek Fraser agreed to come in later in the afternoon, claiming he was suffering from shock after hearing the news. Rebecca Ellis was far more evasive and told Garrick that she didn’t have time to waste today but could meet him in the Costa Coffee at Maidstone Services.

  Evidently, a murder would not interfere with her social life.

  15

  Garrick’s Land Rover refused to start, so he was forced to ask Chib for the loan of her car. She handed him the keys with great reluctance. Five minutes later, Garrick was easing out of Rye in her toy car, although he was rapidly reassessing his opinion as he enjoyed the blistering acceleration. By the time he had made the twenty-eight-mile journey to the Maidstone service station on the M20, the fancy dashboard screen alert him for the needed to recharge. He found an empty charging bay in the car park. Wasted several minutes trying to work out where to connect the lead before calling Chib to talk him through it. Leaving the vehicle charging, and deciding they were far too much of a faff to be practical, he met up with Rebecca inside the service station.

  Rebecca Ellis sat at a corner table in the Costa Coffee, instantly recognisable in her bright red coat. She spotted Garrick and waved him over. Unblinking, she held his gaze as he sat down. Garrick couldn’t shake the image of a venomous snake poised to strike her prey.

  “Sorry for not being flexible, Detective, but my time here is limited. And after all, it wasn’t as if it was a formal request,” she added with a thin smile.

  Garrick was already annoyed with her power play attempts, and it was all he could do to proceed civilly. He certainly wasn’t in the mood for subtlety.

  “Mark Kline-Watson was murdered in the early hours of this morning.”

  Her perfectly tanned brow wrinkled slightly. “Who?”

  “The owner of Cinq Arts Gallery in Rye.” He watched as she sipped her coffee without betraying a flicker of recognition. “You must remember him. You were there the other day, arguing.”

  She calmly put the cup down and nodded thoughtfully. “I remember him. The arrogant young man working with Derek.”

  “Why were you there?”

  She didn’t answer immediately. Her eyes flicked around the service station. It was busy with travellers rushing in to use the toilets or snatching snacks for their journey ahead.

  “Derek may not have been entirely forthcoming about his financial holdings. Ones that were supposed to be declared at the divorce hearing.”

  “Such as…?”

  “Such as offshore accounts that he and Mr Kline-Watson used. Which also made me think that perhaps he, and this mysterious artist of his, were working together when we were still married. In which case that is a vested business interest left undeclared too.”

  “You believe you are entitled to half of his income from Hoy?”

  “Bingo.” She shrugged and sipped her cappuccino. “Derek is duplicitous man, Detective. He tells you what you want to hear, unless that is the truth, of course.”

  “But Hoy’s art has only just started selling recently. I mean, after your divorce.”

  “So? Perhaps I would have like to take a stake in upcoming talent?” Garrick doubted that very much. Her dark eyes peered at him from over the grande-sized cup. The bitter smell was already making his stomach churn. His doctor had warned him not to drink coffee, and now he had recently developed a penchant for herbal teas. His migraine
flared up with a sudden blinding pain across his temples. Surely it couldn’t be triggered by a smell. Or was Rebecca Willis proving to be more stressful than he expected? He closed his eyes and rubbed his right temple, only focusing back on Rebecca as she put the cup down against the saucer with a loud clatter.

  “Are you okay, Detective?”

  “Yes, fine,” he managed. “Just had something that’s not agreeing with me.”

  “My ex-husband has that effect on me.”

  “tell me what you and Mr Kline-Watson discussed.”

  “He denied having any link to Derek’s off-shore account, other than paying money into it. He refused to give me the account number, so I shouted. I consider that a quite reasonable reaction to somebody who is trying to swindle me. To add insult to injury, he had another two paintings that Derek had given him. He was boasting about receiving ludicrous offers for them.”

  “Did he say how much?”

  “Two-hundred thousand. Each. A Middle Eastern buyer, apparently. Well, if they have been stolen now, that would be some good news to irritate Derek.” She lifted her cup in silent cheers, before taking a sip.

  “They haven’t been stolen.”

  He watched as an eyebrow raised in surprise. Was it genuine? Her reactions all seemed too controlled, too slow.

  “Where were you yesterday evening?”

  “I was having a drink at the Oak Tavern in Sevenoaks with an old friend.”

  “He can confirm this?”

  “She can. Yes,” she snapped tartly.

  Garrick opened the notepad app on his phone and slid it across to her.

  “I will need details to confirm that.”

  She treated him to a poisonous look, then typed in a name and mobile number. Garrick glanced at it.

  “Maria?”

  “And old friend who lives there. I was there until eleven thirty. Then I went back to my Airbnb.”

  “What times where you there?” He handed the phone back. “And I will need your address.”

  Rebecca didn’t know the address by heart, so copied it from a booking email on her phone. “If I left her at eleven thirty, then I was probably there fifteen minutes later until about nine this morning when I went to McDonald’s for breakfast.” She reached into her coat and retrieved her purse. Sliding through a wad of carefully organised receipts, she pulled out one from the fast-food outlet and indicated to the time and date. “See?”