MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

by M. G. Cole

  Hellberg looked expectantly at Garrick. “That is a good question.”

  Garrick shuffled back into the incident room. The short time he’d spent with Fraser had drained him. He spent another twenty minutes sitting on the toilet with his eyes closed, letting the effects of two aspirin ease the pain in his head, and hopefully take the edge of the hot flush he had experienced.

  Pictures of Mark Kline-Watson’s body hung on the evidence board, along with angles of the gallery from outside. Garrick groaned when he saw PC Fanta Liu was at her computer.

  “I thought I ordered you to go home?”

  “That was an order, sir? I thought it was a suggestion. I thought PC Wilkes could probably do with a hand going through the surveillance footage around the gallery, especially if we wanted to get it done quickly.”

  Garrick bit his tongue; it was no use arguing with her. He flinched when Chib appeared at his side, offering a mug of tea.

  “Are you okay, sir?” she said in a low voice, filled with concern.

  Garrick nodded and took the drink. “I haven’t been sleeping much. And the more time I spend with Derek Fraser, the worse it is for my blood pressure.”

  “It’s a matcha green tea.” She indicated to the cup. “Might help you unwind.”

  He took a sip. It was exactly what he’d been craving. DS Okon’s preternatural power of reading his mind had struck again.

  “Harry is still at the crime scene. I think East Sussex is relieved that we’re taking the lead. I don’t think they want to stretch resources fighting the media. The coroner’s initial cause of death is blunt-force trauma to the head. He was struck twice with the sculpture.”

  “That’s hardly an accident. Twice to ensure he’s dead.”

  “His phone is missing. Digital forensics are talking to the networks to see if it pings any masts. Other than that, nothing else was taken. As best we can tell. Time of death was probably between one and two. Nobody reported any banging of doors or shouting, so my guess is the visitor was expected. Harry showed Oscar Benjamin’s picture around. A few people recognised him from the telly, but nobody’s seen him in Rye.”

  Garrick moved closer to the photo of Fraser and Rebecca, grinning happily at the camera. “Other than him, she is our only suspect without an alibi.”

  “We haven’t had a chance to checkout her Airbnb.”

  “I’m sure she will pluck a witness from somewhere who’ll verify that she was there all night.”

  He sighed. Where had Rebecca Ellis been heading? It wasn’t back to her accommodation, and she had left as if to keep an appointment…

  “I want a sweep around Tonbridge and Tunbridge Wells. Look for Rebecca Ellis’s car. Put a call out. She’s not to be stopped, keep it all quiet. I just want to know where she is. Also, look at car parks. Any flags on ANPR.” She was driving far too carefully to be ensnared by any traffic cameras, but with bus lanes and CCTV you just never knew your luck.

  “What about protection for Fraser?”

  “We can’t have an armed bodyguard following him everywhere. Besides, something just doesn’t ring true. Let’s assume our lookalike-theory led to our first victim. Oscar Benjamin was using some hired thugs to find out Hoy’s identity. Fine. But would he repeat the same mistake at the gallery?”

  “We have Rebecca Ellis there. Arguing.”

  “Which makes more sense if they’re working together to get to Hoy…”

  “Or blackmailing Fraser.”

  “Mmmm….”

  “But why go back and kill him? And if it was somebody else… what’s the motive?”

  “Perhaps he agreed to help? Maybe he was offered a bigger commission if they got Fraser out of the way.”

  “Except he claimed he didn’t know Hoy’s identity. Fraser confirmed that.”

  “Which brings it all back to Derek Fraser. They finally realise he is the sole gatekeeper. If they kill him, it would be logical to assume Hoy would turn himself over to the police instead of submitting to blackmail. Which means Fraser’s on safe ground at the moment. The only option I can think of is that they would need to persuade Hoy that Fraser is a terrible agent. Poison his reputation.”

  “Convince him that Fraser is taking a larger cut than he should, that sort of thing?”

  Garrick nodded.

  “That’s as good a theory as any. But if Fraser winds up dead in his hotel, after requesting protection, then the optics will not look very good.”

  “Nothing about this case is looking very good. Rebecca Ellis. That’s who we need to focus on.” Her arrogance irked him. She took delight in messing people around. Again, he felt an unexpected twinge of sympathy towards Fraser.

  He was sure she knew where Oscar Benjamin was. They just needed to find him before the body count went any higher.

  17

  Yet again, PC Fanta Liu's intervention saved Garrick from a costly mistake. He had been in the middle of texting Wendy to cancel their ramble across the Kent Downs when Fanta had passed by and glanced at his phone. An action that annoyed Garrick as he was all too aware of her acute powers of observation.

  “Is that your friend I met last night?” she asked as innocently as possible, something she wasn’t particularly good at. Before Garrick could snap that she should mind her own business, Fanta quickly continued. “Only it’s bad form these days to let anybody down with a text message. I mean, it’s one step away from ghosting. Just saying…”

  She quickly walked away, fearing his grumpy wrath. She was right, of course. Garrick should have known that. It was the sort of advice his sister would’ve given him. Blindingly obvious advice. He called Wendy on his way home and was relieved to hear her sound sympathetic. He promised to make it up to her as soon as possible, and they had chitchatted aimlessly all the way back to his house.

  On reflection, it was a welcome change. Any work-related interventions had always been met with a frosty reaction in previous relationships. He appreciated Wendy’s relaxed attitude and began thinking about how he could make it up to her. Maybe another musical if she liked them so much? Perhaps that was a step too far…

  His empty house seemed to compound his loneliness tonight. Perhaps because the day had been so hectic, or maybe there was some deeper disappointment that he would not see Wendy tomorrow.

  A quick meal of microwaved beans on toast raised previously unasked questions about his poor diet. He had clearly sunk into bachelorhood so firmly than he realised. He picked up his half-cleaned ammonite from the dining table and inspected it. There was a still good few hours’ worth of cleaning still to be done, as well as the tidying of a large chunk of matrix that he had left the fossil sitting on. Still, to his eyes, he had carved a beauty from the rock. Some of his enthusiastic air scribing had accidentally pitted the ancient shell and, in his clumsiness, he had completely removed one of the spiralling ridges, but he prided himself that it was still recognisable. Some of the detail that he had uncovered beneath the rock was quite breathtaking. The echoes of his migraine persisted, so any further work on it would have to wait.

  He put the television on and sat on the sofa, with his feet on the coffee table. He hazarded that opening himself up to a little pop culture may give him more to talk about with Wendy. There was a few days’ worth of post to go through, mostly junk that had travelled across the country, been hand-delivered to his house, just so he could then carry it those last few yards to the kitchen bin and its final fate in a recycling centre. A thin bank statement and an increased Council Tax bill did nothing to lift his mood. The final item was a white envelope.

  Stamped from America.

  Garrick didn’t know anybody stateside, and he couldn’t believe that Flora PD would mail him anything. Baffled, he ripped the top of the letter open with his finger. It was empty. He inserted his forefinger and thumb to widen the envelope in case he had missed something.

  With shaking hands, Garrick placed the envelope on the coffee table.

  Blank phone calls, the whispering voice sou
nding like his sister, and now this. Physical proof that somebody was trying to mess with his head. The address was written in careful block capitals using blank ink. There was no legible postmark over the stamp to indicate where it had been posted from. He had ripped the top edge open, so turned the envelope around and checked the seal had firmly adhered; nothing had fallen out. Somebody had taken time and expense to mail him an empty envelope.

  A chill ran through him.

  He dashed into the kitchen and found a box of plastic sandwich bags under the sink. He returned and carefully placed the envelope into one and sealed the ziplock to make it airtight. He considered calling his contact at the Flora Police Department, who were dealing with his sister’s case, but what could he tell them that would be of use? The case had gathered headlines at the time, and America tended to have weirdos who regularly trolled high-profile cases. He decided to drop the envelope into forensics to see what they could glean from it.

  His fatigue had vanished. His heart was thumping in his chest and he felt uncomfortably hot. He opened the sleeping pills Dr Rajasekar had prescribed and took two.

  “It sounds like such a nice area,” said Chib, looking at the grey metal spiked fences delimiting the south Tonbridge Station carpark.

  “You’re thinking of Tunbridge Wells. Sorry, Royal Tunbridge Wells. Tonbridge is like the poor half-brother.”

  Searching through the Automatic Numberplate Recognition Cameras revealed Rebecca Ellis had parked here, paying for it using a dedicated app. She’d only paid for an hour, so that had ruled her out catching the train.

  A line of drab terrace houses had the misfortune to overlook the car park, and a threadbare used car showroom adjacent. Garrick nodded towards it.

  “Does that ring any bells?”

  Chib shook her head. “Should it?”

  “Not now. But it used to be owned by one Derek Fraser.”

  Chib flashed a smile. “What a coincidence.”

  “Indeed. Of course, not now. Now it’s owned by Stanley Matthews. An acquittance of Oscar Benjamin.”

  “Perhaps she wanted to know if this Matthews had seen him?”

  “Let’s go find out.”

  Cars were crammed into every available space, even the road between the lot and the car park was used as an overspill. Most were compact Citroëns, Minis or Renaults. Sunday footfall comprised of a father and his excited son, wearing a tracksuit and baseball cap, determined to look like the sort of person who the police would pull over half an hour after the car was handed over to him.

  Careful, Garrick warned himself, profiling people is a slippy slope.

  Stanley Matthews was balding, overweight, and watched Garrick and Chib approach with the practised eye of somebody who could recognise the Old Bill a mile off. He was smoking a stunted roll-up as he leaned against the wall of the battered grey Portakabin he called an office. The dealership sign proudly declared: MATTY’S MOTORS.

  “Mr Matthews?” said Garrick, holding up his ID card.

  Matthews’ bushy grey eyebrows furrowed as he glanced between the police and his potential customers.

  “Uh-huh.”

  Garrick recognised the aurora of stubbornness the man was projecting, so got straight to the point and indicated for Chib to hold up the picture of Rebecca on her phone.

  “This woman came to visit you yesterday. Who is she?”

  Matthews went through the motions of looking, then shook his head.

  “We had a busy day yesterday. A lot of punters looking for a bargain.”

  “So I see,” said Garrick, casting his eyes at the two customers. There wasn’t a single space denoting a sold car. “I’m sure you’d remember a lady like her.”

  “I’m not a lech, ogling every bird who wants to buy a motor,” Matthews snapped indignantly.

  “I meant because she wore a bright red coat. Very noticeable.”

  “I’m colour blind.”

  “Look again.” Matthews did and shrugged. “She parked over there,” Garrick indicated to the car park. “And came straight over. We have her movements caught on the security cameras there.” He nodded towards the pole-mounted CCTV cameras dotted around the car park. The only problem was their range was confined to the car park itself. A more pedantic person might have pointed out that they didn’t show Rebecca Ellis entering the used car lot. From the smirk on Matthews’ face, he suspected the man knew just what they saw.

  “I see you have cameras yourself.” Garrick looked up at a pair of small security cameras on the Portakabin roof, pointing across the lot in a V-formation. “I’d like to look at yesterday’s footage.”

  Smoke shot from Matthews’ nose. “I’d be happy to oblige. If they worked. Buggers have been broken all week. Lucky for me this is a well-policed area.” He grinned and nodded to the houses. “She might’ve gone and visited her gran. How would I know?” He saw the father wave him over; his son was excitedly pawing over a dark green Ford Fiesta. Matthews threw the cigarette down and crushed it underfoot. “’Scuse me. Got a customer.” He walked away but couldn’t resist turning around and tracing a finger across his stock. “Feel free to have a gander. Could do you a nice deal. They even come with the legal papers.” He winked, then turned his back on them.

  Chib frowned at Garrick. She hadn’t seen the footage. By the time she had arrived, Garrick had been through it with Wilkes and Fanta. “Did we see who she was talking to?”

  “No. The cameras cover nothing beyond here,” he said as they walked back down the adjoining road between the car park and the lot. “But she headed in his direction for sure, then came back ten minutes later. Look.”

  He scrolled through several videos that had been downloaded to his phone until he found the right one. He pressed play and handed it to Chib. Rebecca Ellis, wearing her distinctive coat, appeared from the direction of the dealership and marched back to her car. She was carrying a large sports holdall, and was accompanied by a shorter person, who was also lugging a similar black bag. This new addition was wearing a puffer jacket and baseball cap that obscured the face.

  “Who is this?”

  “No idea. But if you go to the next file…”

  Chib did so and watched them stuff the bags into the back of Rebecca’s rented Panda. Then they both climbed in and drove away.

  “What’s your instinct about this new body?”

  “Could be anybody. Average build. Man or woman. Same height as Ellis.”

  “She is about this tall, in heels.” Garrick indicated a couple of inches shorter than he was. “And it looks like the newbie is wearing trainers. Which means they’re this tall.” He fractionally raised his hand.

  “Oscar Benjamin is about my height. And really well-built.”

  She walked with Garrick up Priory Road towards the busier main road. “So it’s not him. It’s a safe assumption that she met somebody at the dealership, but Stanley Matthews won’t tell us anything.”

  They reached the junction and looked around. On the corner stood a large modern block of public toilets. Opposite the road was a Lidl and a bus stop; diagonally further over lay the train station. Everything was the same 1960s architecture that once held the promise of a modern vibrant town but now looked bleak and desperate.

  “She left me on time. Came straight here to pick up this person.”

  “Do we know where she went next?”

  “Unfortunately not. Her plate didn’t flag up anywhere else. We’re sifting through footage from traffic cameras to see if they can spot our mystery person arriving. But I’m not holding my breath.”

  Garrick had slept like a log after taking the pills, but from the moment he had awoke, he couldn’t shake the fog mussing his brain. He was supposed to be leading the investigation, making insightful decisions, but instead he felt rudderless.

  “Isn’t she staying near Sevenoaks?” said Chib. “That’s not far. Why don’t we just ask her?”

  Rebecca Ellis’s Airbnb was a rather impressive new architectural build that reminded
Chib of something from the TV show Grand Designs. With a sweeping ash and tinted glass frontage, and a grass-insulated roof. It lay at the end of a curved private driveway, just across a quiet road from Deer Park. There was no sign of the rented Panda, although Garrick noticed fresh tyre tracks in the gravel driveway. Chib found the property on her own Airbnb app.

  “Two hundred quid a night,” she reported. “Has its own cinema room and hot tub.”

  Garrick gave out a low whistle. “I thought that app was just for cheap accommodation.”

  “Not at all. When we got engaged, I found a castle in Scotland to stay at. It was amazing.”

  Garrick gave a sidelong glance at Chib. They hadn’t been working together for very long, but he knew next to nothing about her.

  “What’s your fella’s name?”

  She paused for a second, as if deciding how much to say. “Michael.”

  That was all he was getting. “You should bring him out one night. I heard Harry was trying to organise a quiz night.” Quiz nights, like most social functions, sounded like hell to him, but he had already decided he should make an effort with the team.

  “Should I, though?”

  Her scepticism made him smile. She was far too like his old self. “With that attitude, you’re going to end up like me.”

  He didn’t know what to expect, but her aghast reaction wasn’t it. He slowly circled to the side of the property. A solid fence protected the rear garden. It was a pricey and isolated spot.

  “Thoughts, Chib?”

  She was clearly thinking along the same lines. “A hotel would have been cheaper, so she doesn’t want any attention or company.”

  “She has friends in town she didn’t want to stay with. Which indicates she has something to hide. If she came back with whoever she met in Tonbridge, they were carrying enough stuff to spend more than a couple of weeks here. Contact the owners. Find out when she booked it and if she’s been here before.”

  His mind was ticking over. Should he stretch resources and have somebody watch over Fraser? Or would it be better spent trailing Rebecca Ellis? She obviously knew more than she was letting on, and he was convinced she was protecting Oscar Benjamin… all he lacked was proof.