MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

by M. G. Cole

  “Can anybody confirm you were there all night?”

  “Of course not. Can anybody confirm where you were last night?” She raised a suggestive eyebrow and put the phone and purse back in her coat pocket.

  “What makes you think he knew the artist when you were married?”

  “Aside from the fact that he’s a serial liar?” She frowned when Garrick shook his head. “You must know about his affair. She had connections in the art world. That’s when his interest started up.”

  “It’s possible that he could have started representing Hoy afterwards.”

  She put the cup down and leaned across the table, her voice dropping in volume. “Derek is talentless. He doesn’t know one end of a paintbrush from another. When we were living together, he had no interest in art. And then suddenly, he is an expert? Please!”

  She leaned back as Garrick digested this.

  “And what does your boyfriend think of all this?”

  She angrily snatched her cup. It was the first genuine emotion she had displayed.

  “I wish I knew. I haven’t seen him if that’s what you want to know. He doesn’t have a house over here anymore, and what few friends he had haven’t seen him either. I don’t know where he is. And I’m worried.”

  “Why did he come over?”

  “Business. I respect him, so I never pry into what that means.”

  “He spent most of his time with you in Portugal.”

  She tilted her head coquettishly. “Do you blame him?” She sighed and waved a hand around. “After all, what is here for either of us? Terrible weather and suspicious people.” She looked pointedly at him. “Oscar has done nothing wrong. His brother is doing time, not him. Yet everybody thinks he is the criminal.”

  Garrick gently tapped his hand on the table. “He’s the one with the reputation.”

  “We all have reputations, don’t we, Mister Garrick? You have the unfortunate reputation of bringing my ex-husband back from the dead. That’s how the world regards you. I wonder how deserving is that? I’m sure you have done many good things in your life.”

  “Where is he, Rebecca?”

  She leaned back, her nose wrinkling. “I told you. I wish I knew. I really wish I knew.” A hint of vulnerability crossed her face. “He hasn’t answered his phone for over a week. Your manhunt seems to have terrified him.”

  Garrick leaned forward. “That surprises me. Considering how innocent you paint him. Why would a man with nothing to hide, suddenly disappear?”

  Rebecca breathed heavily through her nose and glowered at him. He’d touched a nerve.

  He softened his tone. “How were things between you both?”

  “Fine.”

  “You’ll forgive me for saying that it doesn’t sound very fine at all. In fact, it sounds like quite a tangled mess. Oscar claimed that your ex-husband owed him money. Then you both run off together. Some clarification over that would help.”

  Rebecca gave a dismissive gesture. “What is there to say, other than you are blowing it all out of proportion. Oscar and I fell in love. It’s as simple as that. Were we bonded by a mutual loathing of Derek? Perhaps. It’s always nice to have some common ground in a relationship. As for the money, you know Derek owned a scrapyard. He was struggling with cash flow. Oscar’s brother was somehow involved with it too and convinced Oscar to lend him the money. He did not know that they were up to their necks in anything illegal. Neither was I. Derek served his time, which was a blessing because that is when Oscar and I found one another. Although we didn’t start dating until much later.”

  “Such a romantic story,” said Garrick wryly. “And how much was owed?”

  “I believe it was about two-hundred grand.”

  “A not inconsequential amount. A tidy sum for Oscar to have down the back of the couch.”

  “He’s a businessman. And in that instance, his judgement was clearly off.” She glanced at her watch. “I’m afraid I must go. Time waits for nobody.”

  “What’s the rush?”

  “I’m returning home in a couple of days. I only came over to see for myself that Derek was still alive. Just in case it was all some horrible dream.” She stood, touching her pocket to confirm her purse and phone were still there. “Like you, I am eager to find Oscar.”

  “And you will let me know as soon as you do.”

  “Of course.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “The twenty-eighth. A return flight before you accuse me of fleeing the country.”

  “I will need to talk to you again before you go.” She cocked her head, annoyed, but she said nothing. “You need to be formally eliminated from our enquiries.”

  “Good luck, Detective.”

  Unsmiling, she hurried out, high-heeled black boots click-clacking on the smooth floor. Garrick watched her for a moment, his mind racing. Everything she had said amounted to a torrent of motivation for her to wanting to kill Derek. The problem being that he wasn’t the one who had died, otherwise this may have been an open and shut case. Her reaction to Oscar’s disappearance was the most genuine she had given, but he doubted the reason she had flown over from Portugal was to just to confirm that her ex-husband was alive. There was more to it than that. She was being less than truthful.

  The migraine had receded to a dull throb. He hadn’t taken the sleeping pills that Dr Rajasekar had prescribed as he was still concerned about using them, but now he was regretting it. He’d hoped for a lie-in today, especially as he hadn’t been able to sleep because he kept thinking about his date.

  Christ, Wendy… tomorrow’s rambling escapade would have to be postponed. She had been so insistent that he imagined she’d be gravely disappointed. Or he hoped she would be. At least she was experiencing the difficulties of dating a detective now rather than later. Better to end it early before anybody gets hurt, he thought despondently.

  On impulse, he quickly stood and walked out of the service station. Across the car park he could see Rebecca Ellis getting into her rented Panda. He trotted to Chib’s Nissan Leaf and sat inside – before remembering it was still connected to the electrical charger. By the time he got back out and unplugged the vehicle, Rebecca was following the one-way flow out of the car park.

  The Nissan’s electric engine started immediately, although Garrick had to check as it was utterly silent. In seconds he was speeding far too quickly in pursuit. He kept a discreet distance as they passed the petrol station and looped to the roundabout. A delivery van inserted itself between them, offering another degree of anonymity. He followed Rebecca onto the westbound M20. He kept two cars between them. She diligently stayed to the speed limit. Garrick had assumed she was heading back to her rented accommodation and wondered about the wisdom of following her, but when she turned off onto the A228, he became intrigued. This would be a much longer route home. Soon they were on the A26 and heading to Tonbridge. He was curious to what was drawing her here.

  Then a chime from the dash. A warning that he had little battery charge left.

  “What?” he thumped the wheel. Why hadn’t it recharged? A map appeared on-screen with the closest charging station being at a BP garage half a mile ahead. If he didn’t stop there, then he would just roll to a halt in minutes. Frustrated, he turned off and watched Rebecca’s car disappear around the bend.

  16

  DS Chibarameze Okon had been thinking ahead with the textbook diligence Garrick was coming to expect. After taking the two Hoy paintings from the gallery to secure them in the station’s evidence locker, she had contacted the London-based art expert, Jasmine Slater, who had appeared in the Country Life article with Derek Fraser. She lived in Surrey, and the prospect of driving down to Maidstone to view the new Hoys first-hand was one she couldn’t pass by.

  The two pieces of artwork sat on a dust sheet to protect the frame from the floor and had been unceremoniously propped against a steel evidence rack in the small secure room at the police station. To Garrick’s eye they looked just as he re
membered them in Fraser’s living room: awful. Jasmine Slater crouched reverently in front of each and took them in. Every so often she would sigh with delight.

  “They certainly look like originals.” She used her little finger to indicate the brush strokes. “See the paint is layered in the horizontal? Quite thick at times.”

  “Like a child slashing at the canvas,” said Garrick.

  Jasmine was too engrossed to pick up on his sarcasm. “Almost. Yes. The verticals are not as heavy, which is in line with the previous work. And the juxtaposition of the primary colours and primitive shapes…” Words failed her as she stood, her eyes never leaving the canvases. “The issue is that there are only a few other works to compare the artist’s technique. On the other hand, that makes it more difficult for a forger because so little is known.”

  “But your best guess is that they’re genuine?” Chib prompted.

  “Indeed. Although the real expert is Mr Fraser.”

  “He confirmed they were real.” Only thirty minutes earlier he had stood in the very room and almost wept when he saw his precious paintings were intact. “We just needed a second opinion.”

  Since she had made the journey to see them, they allowed her another ten minutes of breathless appreciation, listening to her extract meaning from the abstract. They escorted her out and then made their way to the interview room.

  “Since when did you become a luvvie, Chib?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Nodding and gasping at all the bollocks she was touting. Were you like that in public school?”

  “When an expert explains things to you, it’s easier to see hidden meaning and digest it. Didn’t you feel something when she explained the emotions on display? How the colours were in direct conflict with the meaning?”

  “All I heard was a bunch of arty-farty bull. If art has to be explained, then it’s not working. I still can’t see how that junk is better than anything drawn in a nursery. Proper art should look like, whatever it’s supposed to be. When I see a picture of fruit, I know what it is.”

  “What about the emotional trigger?”

  “Yeah. I see fruit, it makes me hungry. My point is I know what I’m looking at.”

  Chib chewed her lip for a moment, then said, “A little girl draws a picture of a horse. Her teacher says, ‘You drew the horse wrong!’. The girl looks at him and asks, ‘How?’ The teacher points and says, ‘You drew wings on it. It isn’t a horse if it has wings!’. The little girl replies, ‘Then why did you call it a horse?’”

  They stopped outside the interview room. Garrick blinked at her.

  “Is that supposed to be a joke?”

  “Maybe it’s an allegory.”

  “Because jokes are also not funny if you need to explain them. That kinda proves my point.”

  Inside, Fraser was seated with his solicitor, Rosamund Hellberg. She had a legal pad open on the desk and had made a page of notes. She carefully closed it so Garrick couldn’t see what was written.

  Chib started the recording and introduced the participants. Garrick leaned on the table and looked Fraser squarely in the eyes.

  “I hope you are satisfied that your artwork is safe.”

  “Aye, but you just better make sure you’re insured too. Just in case.”

  “Always thinking of the important things, Mr Fraser. I commend you. After all, the paintings were the first thing you asked about when I told you Mr Kline-Watson had been murdered.”

  Hellberg rolled her eyes but said nothing.

  Fraser pulled a face, as if the answer was obvious. “Of course. You told me he’d been murdered, so there was little point in asking if he’d gotten any better, was there? Don’t mean I wasn’t sorry for the lad. He’d done well selling me paintings. I couldn’t fault him.”

  “Would you categorise your relationship as a friendly one?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Garrick nodded. “And, because of course I have to ask, can you confirm where you were last night, between eleven and nine this morning?”

  “In the hotel. Had a few snifters at the bar before going to bed. Then had breakfast there this morning. I have a question for you. He had a buyer lined up for those paintings. More than one, at least that’s what he hinted at. He never told me their details. Did he leave any records, notes, emails about them? I have a duty of care to my client, you understand.”

  “We can look into that, but at the moment any information is held as part of a murder enquiry.”

  “They’re my customers!” snapped Fraser. “That’s my information you’re withholding!”

  For the first time since they’d met, Garrick saw Fraser was genuinely concerned. He understood why. The art was rapidly making his career, and the new amounts offered defied common sense. As much as he disliked the man, Garrick felt sympathetic.

  “I wouldn’t worry. If people are willing to pay so much for them, they’ll reach out directly to you.”

  Fraser took a sip of water as he thought about that. His expression suddenly brightened, and he nodded.

  “Of course… I wasn’t thinking straight.”

  No, thought Garrick, although now you’ve just realised you don’t have to pay the commission to the gallery either. Another death following the mysterious artist’s work had all the hallmarks of more than bad luck.

  “Who did he have issues with?” said Chib.

  “You mean, who’d kill him?” Fraser shook his head and thought. “Nobody I know.”

  Garrick and Chib swapped a look. She had made door-to-door enquiries, and the initial response painted Mark Kline-Watson as an affable member of the community. His brief spike in popularity had a beneficial knock-on effect in the town as more visitors came to the gallery. She had copied footage from several doorstep cameras, which PC Wilkes was currently sifting through. His own cameras hadn’t been switched on the night of the murder.

  “Of course, we now really need to contact Mr Hoy.”

  Fraser leaned back in his seat as Rosamund Hellberg took over, opening her legal pad. Garrick suddenly had an inkling about what they had been discussing while alone.

  “That is privileged commercial information.”

  “Hoy is a suspect.”

  “Really? How? He’s just a name. Nobody has identified him. You don’t have his fingerprints on the murder weapon. Mr Kline-Watson didn’t know him or have any contact with him, and vice versa. It was all channelled through my client.”

  Garrick snorted in disbelief. “Are you refusing to hand over details of a person of interest?”

  Fraser said nothing. He wouldn’t even look at Garrick.

  Hellberg smiled. “Just so we are clear, Detective. My client is not refusing any formal request whatsoever. In fact, after you publicly declared he was dead, he has been cooperating with you to the best of his ability. He has even refrained from making any legal claims against you and the force that may have damaged his professional reputation–”

  Garrick couldn’t hold back a derisive laugh. “Of course not! That mix-up made his name go international!”

  Hellberg continued talking over him. “Instead, a man, whose identity still foxes you, was murdered in my client’s house. A business associate he heavily depends on, was murdered by an assailant unknown to you. And now you insist on knowing the identity of a third person you know nothing about! Ha!” she shook her head in disbelief. “Does the phrase chasing after the wind, mean anything to you? Or the word, incompetence?”

  Garrick was furious. He felt his cheeks and forehead burn and suspected that was because of his migraine. He was also speechless because she was partially correct.

  Point firmly made, Hellberg softened her tone. “However, because he believes in helping you as much as possible, Mr Fraser will put whatever questions you have to the artist.”

  “That’s not good enough.”

  Hellberg shrugged. “Just to be clear. I mean, crystal clear. Are you charging my client with anything? Anything at all?”
/>   “No.”

  “And he is helping as best he can. So that is just the way things are.” She closed her pad and turned to Fraser. “I think we are finished here.” She stood, but Fraser made no motion to leave. His hands were now clasped together, and he wore a haunted look.

  “Why do you think Mark was killed?” he asked quietly.

  “We’re trying to put that picture together,” said Chib, flinching at the inadvertent pun.

  “They didn’t nick the paintings because there would be nowhere to sell them on to, really. They still have to be sold to justify their worth.” Fraser was internally working through the conundrum. “And the bloke killed in my house was dressed like me. Looked a bit like me.”

  Garrick nodded.

  “So, this is all about me.” Fraser cupped both hands over his mouth. “I think they want to get to Hoy.”

  “Which raises the questions,” Garrick held up a finger. “Who is Hoy?” Then another finger curled upwards. “Who are ‘they’?”

  Fraser looked between Garrick and Chib. “I think that’s obvious, isn’t it? That harpy ex-wife of mine, and Oscar Benjamin. He always said he’d get his own back on me. Kept claiming I owed him money, which I don’t. Blamed me for his brother being behind bars when he was a crook anyway!”

  “We’re still looking for Oscar Benjamin,” Garrick admitted.

  “Rebecca knows where he is.”

  “She’s denying that.”

  Fraser sniggered. “She’s a chronic liar, that woman. Why is she here? To shout at me for being alive? I haven’t heard jack from her since, so it can’t be that. I think they’re in cahoots trying to find out who Hoy is. And if they can’t do it through the people they killed, then it stands to reason they’ll come after me next.” He shifted nervously in his seat and looked at his solicitor. “Shouldn’t I have police protection?”