MURDER IS SKIN DEEP Read online

  MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

  M.G. COLE

  MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

  A DCI Garrick mystery - Book 2

  Copyright © 2021 by MG Cole

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.

  Cover art: Shutterstock

  Contents

  Read the free prequel…

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Also by M.G. COLE

  Read the free prequel…

  SNOWBLIND

  Start the puzzle here…

  … and get inside DCI David Garrick’s head.

  1

  Anybody can commit a murder. Getting away with it, that’s what takes real skill.

  The crunch of broken glass underfoot would wake nobody this morning. A chill breeze through the broken double-glazed patio doors brought with it a smattering of rain that cast dark spots across the parchment-coloured Saxony carpet. Manoeuvring the body in the living room was more difficult than expected, especially when the limp foot caught on the leg of the coffee table and dragged it along, spilling several luxury lifestyle magazines to the floor.

  The body was positioned in front of the eighty-five-inch Samsung television. A quick search for the remote control, and the television came to life with a dreary reality show in which gormless bunch of talentless nobody’s complained about their privileged lifestyles. The volume inched upwards until one girl’s shrill regional accent became a banshee wail It was an appropriate harbinger of death. A moment was needed to make sure everything was in place.

  This is how it should be. Unhurried. Careful. This way, mistakes are not made.

  The faint rise and fall of the prone man’s snug-fitting Hugo Boss shirt verified he was still breathing.

  Just.

  That was something else a murder required: a victim.

  The gun felt almost like a toy; old and uncared for. Only its weight hinted at its lethal potential. The loud reports were almost deafening in the enclosed room. But the shots were on target, creating a pair of deep-red roses across the shirt, and causing the body to jerk as it absorbed the impact. It was almost hypnotic to watch the stains grow to fist size blotches. Then blood seeped from beneath the victim as it poured from the exit wound and oozed across the carpet.

  The execution was complete.

  There was little point in hanging around. The catch on the victim’s Rolex only came free on the third attempt, and it was removed from the swollen limp wrist. A quick riffle through the wallet on the dining room table confirmed there was no cash inside. Now it it was time to leave.

  They say murder is easy.

  This one would look like it was.

  2

  “And you’ve heard nothing for the last few weeks?”

  The top of Dr Amy Harman’s pen swayed to-and-fro over her pad in an almost hypnotic motion. Her blue eyes narrowed behind the red-framed glasses as she sized DCI David Garrick up.

  Garrick pulled his gaze away and fixed it on a potted plant sitting on the window ledge. The soil was dry, and the edges of the leaves were slightly crinkled and turning brown. He hoped the good doctor looked after her patients’ mental health better than she did the office flora.

  “It was just that one time. I’ve received a bunch of blank calls, but they hang up a couple of seconds after the answerphone kicks in. Typical cold callers,” he assured her.

  It had been several weeks since he received a phone call he had sworn was from his sister. His sister who was murdered on the other side of the Atlantic months earlier. At the time he had been under a considerable amount of pressure from a case he was leading, and a recent health diagnosis had compounded his worries.

  After taking compassionate leave over his sister’s death, Dr Harman had been assigned to him as a condition for his return to work. She was an angel and a curse. He didn’t have anybody to talk to about his inner turmoil. No family. No friends, well, not anymore. Having an attractive woman hang on his every word was a novelty for Garrick, even if she was being paid for it and analysing every syllable to gauge his mental health.

  Which is why he had regretted telling her about answering a call from his dead sister. His damage limitation strategy hadn’t been a great idea either. He had hurriedly placed the blame on the growth that had been found pressing on his brain. It must have been a side effect of the medication or a manifestation of his worry. He couldn’t stop himself from throwing half-arsed solutions at her. If he went on much longer, he would probably give her all the ammunition she needed to eject him off the force.

  Harman assured him she was there solely to assess his mental wellbeing; his physical was somebody else’s problem. She had been more than understanding and, prior to their next session, had taken the time to research similar cases. Coupled with the fact that the very evening of the alleged phone call, he had been warned by his consultant to avoid any head trauma, Garrick had an entire bookcase fall on him and had been laid unconscious from smoke inhalation. She assured him that would have been enough for anybody to hear voices.

  Garrick had downplayed the incident, but it had really shaken him. He’d even telephoned the police department in Flora, Illinois, to check if there had any further developments in the case. There had been none.

  The focus of Garrick’s stress had then shifted to the mischievous growth in his head. A biopsy would tell if it was malignant or not, but that that procedure had been postponed when his consultant had sought a second opinion and decided they should monitor its growth. Two MRI scans later, and the news was that it hadn’t grown at all.

  “Schrodinger’s cat,” Dr Harman said, picking up his train of thought.

  “Mmm?”

  “It’s a quantum physics thought experiment about a cat in a box. The cat’s being potentially poisoned, but you can only truly tell if it’s alive or dead by opening the box.”

  Garrick shifted position in the chair. He’d been there so long it felt as if it was moulding to his shape.

  “You’d hear it scratching.”

  “That’s not the point. It’s a soundproof box. You can’t hear or see the cat.”

  “Murders I can handle,” he said with a wry smile. “But hurt a cat, and it will take more than the law to save you.”

  Harman gave a good-natured chuckle. Or was she humouring him?

  “How people treat animals reveals a lot about them.” Garrick waited to hear if that was a good thing or not, but she tapped the tip of the pen gently against her lips and looked thoughtful. “What I meant with Schrodinger’s cat is, not wanting to know the truth is actually a prevalent attitude with most people. For example, not knowing how much debt you’re in means the debt can’t be so bad. Not knowing your fianc
é is cheating on you, means life continues as normal.”

  Garrick glanced at her. That was an unusual analogy to throw at him. Had it been a slip of the tongue? Dr Harman was looking at her plant, as if noticing the withering leaves for the first time. Her shoulder length wavy blonde hair was tied back today. Garrick hated himself for noticing. He hated finding her attractive. Flirting with one’s therapist was surely a textbook act of insanity.

  “I’m still not sure why you brought the cat into this.”

  She smiled and looked squarely at him. “The biopsy. You still don’t have a date for it, correct?” Garrick nodded. “Which could be something of a relief, because right now you’re in a state of not knowing. Ignorance is bliss.”

  “Not in my profession.”

  “No. But in life it’s a self-defence mechanism that keeps stress at bay. It allows you to focus on more pressing matters in hand. And that can be a good thing, as long as you don’t let ignorance become your reality.”

  Garrick let that sink in for a moment. Harman loved oblique associations, cryptic analogies, and tenuous allegories. “Are you fishing around about what happened with John?”

  John Howard had been a long-time friend. And, unbeknownst to him, a serial killer on the side. A difficult proposition to accept about the closest friend he had.

  “Well, you mentioned him, not me.”

  Garrick raised an eyebrow. “Dr Harman, if we were in court then you would be accused of leading the witness.”

  “Is that what you think?”

  “Now you’re venturing down the lane of quackery,” Garrick laughed. “I respect you too much for that.”

  He caught a flash of a smile as she noted something on the pad.

  “You’re too sharp for me, Detective.” She glanced at her Apple Watch. “And we’re almost out of time, which means you avoided the questions I was going to ask about whether your date made it to the next round.”

  He had managed two more rounds with Wendy after their disastrous first date. Incredibly, she had reached out to him after that, and the next two dates had gone well. Slow, but well. But he didn’t want to let Dr Harman know that. Not yet.

  “Too bad,” Garrick replied as he stood. “At least we have a subject for the next session.”

  Dr Harman sharply tapped the pen on her pad.

  “It’s so much easier when you set the agenda.”

  Garrick smiled, but couldn’t help thinking that she had just set him up. On the way to his aging beige Land Rover, he pulled the collar of his Barbour tighter against the rain and tried to remember whose turn was it to set the date. He was pretty sure it was Wendy’s.

  He checked his phone to see if she had messaged him as it had been on silent during his session. There were three missed calls and a voicemail from DS Okon. That could mean only one thing.

  3

  It was still raining heavily when Garrick pulled up outside the driveway of the detached house in Tenterden. He didn’t need to check the address. The police car at the entrance gate was enough to confirm this was the murder scene. He showed his ID card to the copper, who told him to park further up the street.

  It was difficult to find a parking spot on the narrow street, and by the time Garrick jogged back to the house and up the gravel driveway, his pants were soaked through.

  The house was an impressive size and had been heavily renovated from its Georgian origins. Even from just the lights from the police vans, he could see the front garden was fastidiously maintained. The twenty yards of gravel driveway was taken up by two marked incident vans and a police car. The forensic team was putting up a tent against an extended wing of the house. The front door was open, with a policewoman standing just inside. When he showed his ID, he was directed into a large living room, filled with more white suited forensics being watched by a young Nigerian detective, DS Chibarameze Okon.

  “Hi Chib, what have we got?”

  Chib frowned when she noticed Garrick’s coat was dripping on the plastic that had been laid to protect the floor. Somehow, it looked as if the rain had missed her completely. Taking the hint, Garrick removed his jacket and shoes, placing them on the plastic. Chib tossed him a rolled-up pair of blue plastic overshoes, which he dutifully placed over his socks. He noticed she was wearing hers over her sensible flat shoes. He took a pair of blue latex gloves from his pocket and put them on.

  “Owner of the house.” She nodded to the body on the floor. “Derek Fraser.”

  He was sprawled out in front of the television, with two large pools of dried blood extending from his shoulders and back like macabre angel wings. A large brickwork fireplace stood next to the TV and blackened logs and fragments of burnt papers showed it was still in use. The rest of the furnishings were all sleek and modern. A pale brown leather sofa, the end of which curved to sit five people, dominated the wall opposite the television. A large silver reading lamp hung over the corner. The metallic domed lampshade looked more at home in a science fiction film. The coffee table was handcrafted and modern, with multiple issues of magazines on it: Luxury Life, Country Life, Kent Life, Boat Owner, Flying Magazine, and Conde Nast Traveller.

  The television was huge and kitted out with a Sky Q box and a surround sound bar. A pair of paintings hung on the wall. Garrick was no art connoisseur, and these looked amateurish, so he assumed they were collectibles, the sort coveted by people with no taste and lots of money.

  Across the room was a solid oak dining table large enough to seat ten, with uncomfortable-looking narrow backed chairs neatly tucked all around. Beyond that was an open double-doorway into a kitchen that looked expensively appointed. At the opposite end of the living room an extension had been added, looking onto the front garden where Garrick had arrived. The glass from one of the smashed patio doors littered the floor with thousands of fragments.

  “Burglary?” said Garrick as they moved closer to the body. Derek Fraser wore red trousers, a white shirt, and still had a pair of tan loafers on.

  Chib read through the notes on her pad, all written in precise, neat script. “Maybe. Derek Frasier, 52, divorcee.” Frasier’s hair was a lush premature white, and his skin looked tanned as if from a recent holiday. Beyond that, his face was a mess of swelling and contusions. “Looks like somebody beat the heck out of him before shooting him.” Two broken teeth showed behind his death rictus.

  “That looks like frenzied work.” Garrick glanced around but couldn’t see any photographs of the man himself. He wondered if the victim’s own mother would struggle to ID him. The blood had dried and solidified on the carpet fibres. “He’s been here for a fair bit.”

  “Over twenty-four hours, they reckon,” Chib glanced at the forensic team.

  “Who found him?”

  “An Amazon delivery driver.” She indicated to a small package on the dining table. “Said he rang the bell before he noticed the patio was smashed open. The TV was on really loud. That’s what drew his attention. He came in through there,” Chib indicated to the broken door. “Found him dead. He muted the TV and rang 999.”

  “SOCO found anything useful yet?”

  Chib shook her head. “Forensics say It looks like the glass was broken with a hammer, we don’t know yet. Then it was used to bludgeon him too near-death. Then our killer shot him twice for good measure.”

  Garrick knelt to get a closer look at the body. The left shirt sleeve was inched up, revealing deep indentations of watch strap. “Maybe his watch was stolen.”

  Chib moved to the table and gestured to an open wallet. “This was left. No cash inside, but the credit cards are still there.”

  “Maybe our killer took whatever cash there was and left the plastic. That's pretty common, as it makes little sense to be caught using a dead man’s credit card.”

  “But why leave the TV?”

  “That’s a two-man job to get it out of here. Nothing looks ransacked. It’s not as if he were searching for anything in particular. He would not hang around after killing him. He takes wh
at he can and legs it.” Even as he spoke the words, Garrick felt there was something missing.

  “There’s no sign of a struggle.”

  “Mmm. What about a phone? Computer? Tablet?”

  “Nothing yet, but we haven’t searched the kitchen or upstairs.” Chib crossed to the patio, careful not to disturb the broken glass. “So, our burglar breaks in here. Maybe Fraser heard nothing because of the TV’s volume. He crosses to here,” she took ten steps to the coffee table. “They have an altercation. Mr Fraser gets struck in the face with whatever the thief used to break the glass and is killed.” She cocked the fingers of the right hand to imitate a gun. “Then he’s shot twice for good measure.” She gingerly stepped around the bloodstains on the carpet. “Our killer dashes to the table where he sees the wallet. Takes what he can. Then, worried that the gunshots may have alerted somebody, he makes his way out the same way he got in.”

  Garrick stood up and scratched the bristles of two days’ worth of growth as he looked around the room, picturing the moves Chib had suggested.

  “If the intruder came with a gun, that sounds premeditated. If it was Fraser’s, then it sounds like an act of desperation.” He crossed to the Amazon package on the table. It was still taped closed. He left it for forensics to open. “Okay. The driver said the TV was on loud? How loud?” He spotted the TV remote on the floor, under the coffee table. He retrieved it and thumbed the standby button. The Samsung came to life with a raucous US crime show. It was so loud that the forensic team all jolted in surprise.