MURDER IS SKIN DEEP Page 3

  “I’m DCI Garrick, this is Officer PC Liu,” he said their names with pointed emphasis and the man’s smug smile dropped. “Are you the proprietor?”

  “Yes, sir. Mark Kline-Watson. How may I help… officers?”

  “I believe you sell work for an art agent. Derek Fraser.”

  Mark nodded, but his shoulders were tense. A bead of perspiration was forming on his brow. Garrick was never one to jump to immediate conclusions, especially as people became nervous and tongue-tied around cops, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that their visit was expected.

  “Y-yes. I sell on his behalf.”

  Fanta crossed to two pictures hung either side of a monitor playing fading countryside scenes.

  “These two are by Hoy, right?”

  Mark nodded. “Yes. That’s the artist Derek is pushing hard. A wonderful talent.”

  Garrick looked at the paintings, both some two-foot long. One was a series of horizontal green lines, interspersed by the white of the canvas. Three circles were painted amongst them, two orange and the other blood red. The second painting had similar horizontal green lines intersected by jagged brown vertical scars.

  “What are they supposed to be?” Garrick asked.

  “The English countryside,” Fanta replied in a tone that suggested it was obvious.

  Garrick’s brow furrowed as he looked harder. “I don’t… what part of the countryside, exactly?”

  Mark joined them; his eyes riveted on the canvases. “This is the beating heart of what makes the British landscape so iconic.” He pointed to the first. “This is the Kent Downs. The spirit laid bare on the canvas. A spiritual ode of love and aspiration.”

  Garrick gestured to the rest of the paintings in the gallery. “Are these all Hoy’s?”

  Fanta scoffed. “No. Can’t you tell? The others don’t possess this energy!”

  Garrick looked at her, trying to work out if she was making fun of him or not. She was unreadable.

  “To appreciate art, you need to step back.” She took a physical step backwards. “Spin it around in your head.” She held out her hands, fingers forming a frame which she tilted one way then the other. “Look at it from a different point of view to challenge yourself. And check out that negative space!”

  Garrick looked at her as if she’d cracked. Then he turned to Mark. “People actually buy this stuff?”

  Mark looked shocked. “Of course! It’s art. The last Hoy sold for thirty thousand. I’ve earmarked these two for sixty.”

  It was Garrick’s turn to be shocked. “You expect somebody to pay sixty grand for two pictures that look as if they have been drawn in a nursery school?”

  “Each.” Despite his nerves, Mark looked indignant. “Beauty is in the beholder's eye. This is especially true for art. And Derek only provides Hoy’s work a couple at a time, which of course restricts the market…”

  “And bumps up the value,” Garrick finished.

  “He was doing a Banksy with Hoy!” exclaimed Fanta.

  Mark nodded. “Why not? A phantom artist captures the public’s imagination.”

  Fanta looked appreciatively at the other pieces on display. All abstract arrays of colours and shapes. “And what did Mr Fraser sell before he discovered this wunderkind?”

  “Mostly local artists. More traditional landscapes and such. Things you may approve of,” he added with a sharp look in Garrick’s direction.

  “But his sales only really kicked off with Hoy?”

  “Yes. Derek was quite savvy in the way he promotes him. And people respond.”

  Garrick gave up trying to find a deeper meaning in the smudges on the wall. If anything, the pictures were irritating him. “We need to speak to this Hoy. What’s the full name?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “What do you mean, you don’t know?”

  “Derek was his agent. I never met the artist. Nobody has. That’s part of the fun.”

  Garrick and Fanta swapped a look.

  “Fraser brings in the art. You pay him the money when it sells, and that’s it?”

  “He doesn’t even buy me dinner,” Mark quipped. “Of course, I’ve asked to meet Hoy, but Derek is very guarded. His golden goose, he said.”

  “But there was an interview…” Garrick looked to Fanta for help. He had zoned out on the drive when she had read out the Country Life article.

  “There were quotes,” Mark corrected. “Which Derek sourced directly from Hoy. You’ll have to ask him. Sorry, Detective, but what exactly is this all about?”

  “Mr Fraser was murdered in his home yesterday.”

  Garrick studied Mark carefully. There was a widening of the eyes; a small backward jolt of the head, as if physically struck. Shock. Then, an unexpected chuckle of relief, which was quickly blocked when Mark covered his mouth with the back of the hand clutching the phone.

  “Sorry. That must have sounded weird. That’s terrible, of course. But I was worried… I thought…” he vaguely indicated to the Hoy artwork.

  “Why would you think it was linked to the paintings?”

  Mark scratched the back of his neck in a deliberate sign of hesitation. “Because, well. They’re becoming valuable.”

  “And who do you think would have a grudge against Mr Fraser?”

  “A grudge? No one. He was garnering quite a reputation.”

  “And how can we get in touch with Hoy?”

  Mark shrugged. “That’s the question.” His face suddenly dropped as something occurred to him. Garrick read his mind.

  “You’ve just realised he’s your golden goose too. Without Fraser, how are you going to get more art to sell?”

  “There is that…” he replied quietly.

  Fanta spoke up. “At least you have these two here. He’ll be in touch. Especially if he’s expecting to sell these for over a hundred thousand pounds.” Mark nodded. “And you will put him in touch with us.”

  “Of course,” Mark mumbled.

  “I want a list of every customer you have sold work to for Mr Fraser.”

  “That may be difficult…” he coughed when Garrick shifted position, subtly straightening to loom over the younger man. “I mean, data protection laws and all that…”

  “I understand. In that case, I will come back with a warrant and formally search every nook and cranny to get them.”

  Mark cleared his throat. “But of course, as you are the police, I am sure I won’t have any such problems if I gave them to you.”

  They waited a further fifteen minutes for Mark to print hard copies of each order, by which time Garrick’s bad mood was deepening. When they left the gallery, he walked at such a pace that Fanta had to double-time it to keep up.

  “What’s the matter, sir?” Her slide back to formality indicated a worry that she’d crossed the line with her boss.

  “You really admired that crap back there? A kid could have painted them!”

  “No. I thought they were awful.” Garrick stopped so suddenly that she almost bumped into him. “I recognised them from the magazine article,” she explained quietly. “I thought it would help if I made him think we had some knowledge…”

  “PC Liu… that was good thinking,” he admitted. They glanced back at the shop in time to see Mark switch the door sign over to ‘closed’. “Tell me what you got from that little show.”

  “He is worried about something, but I don’t think it’s the murder. And that was before he realised he may lose his bestselling artist. Some of those other pieces were dire, and that’s compared to the rubbish that sells. When he was printing out the invoices, I caught an email on his screen from his letting agent. It was only a glimpse, but I think he’s in arrears on the shop. I suspect he’s not cash fluid. Did you see his phone?”

  “An iPhone. I am a Detective,” he reminded her. “I get paid to spot these things.”

  “A two-year-old model.” She chuckled when he frowned. “His skin and hair regime must take up a substantial part of his evening. A man like t
hat is all image, Mr Metrosexual. He can’t function in the social circles he orbits with a phone that is two years out of date.”

  “Money problems.” Despite his irritation, he was impressed with her eye for detail. “That still doesn’t explain what he was worried about when he realised we were police.”

  “Well, he deals with art, so the natural worry there would be forgery.”

  “But why forge an artist who is only just on the rise, and frankly, could be copied by me when I’m drunk?”

  “Perhaps he owed money to Fraser or Hoy, or both.”

  “I want more background on our little art friend. And a list of Fraser’s next of kin. Get somebody to comb through his house for all his contacts. He must have Hoy’s details copied down somewhere.”

  “I would keep it on my phone.”

  “Which we assume was stolen…” Garrick finished.

  “Could that be what the thief wanted? Tortured him to reveal Hoy’s identity?”

  “You watch too many movies.”

  A nest of motives was opening, but many centred around the one phantom artist who could disappear into the ether as quickly as they arrived. And there was something else bothering Garrick. Something he was struggling to put his finger on.

  By the time they returned to his Land Rover, he was furious to see a parking ticket on his windscreen. Fanta had forgotten to pay for the ticket on the phone as she was so excited to be doing some actual work out of the office.

  The rest of the trip back to the incident room was conducted mostly in silence.

  6

  Before they arrived back in the incident room, word came in that Fraser’s only identifiable next of kin was his ex-wife and he’d left a will disavowing her a single penny in the event of his death. That left his child as the next in line, and the news from Chib was that they had tracked the mistress down in London, and she was going to visit her in the morning for a statement.

  Back at home, Garrick showered, heated a dubious-tasting noodle meal in the microwave, then sat at his dining room table and removed the sheet from the fossil he had been diligently cleaning for the last month. He had found it a relaxing, meditative experience, but over the last couple of weeks he hadn’t touched the black spiralling snail shell. He had used an air scribe, a small pneumatic needle like a miniature jackhammer, to remove the surrounding rock material. Now mostly free of the matrix that had imprisoned the evidence for millions of years, the basic shape had been revealed. With a small stainless-steel set of tools, which he had purchased on eBay and looked more at home in a sadistic dentist’s surgery, he began to clean his prize. Angling a pole-mounted magnifier so he could get a better look, he gently scraped the tiny fragments loose.

  Almost two hours passed, only interrupted with thoughts on what type of creature once called this shell home. Ordinarily, he would turn to John Howard for such scholarly advice, but that was now another part of his life slammed closed.

  The lovely Dr Harman had once compared his fossil restoration, not as a hobby, but as an extension of his work. Effectively, he was finding a dead body on the shore, albeit one that was millions of years old. Then the process of chipping away the deceit and lies began until the truth was revealed. Garrick had tried to point out he had a love of fossils from his schooldays, but she had been set on her analogy.

  Sometimes people only see what they want to see.

  Just like Hoy’s paintings. All it took was one influencer to say they were groundbreaking, and the sheep would follow, paying astronomical sums of money for the privilege. Garrick was most definitely in the wrong profession.

  His headache returned, perhaps from straining his eyes through the magnifier. It was a more palatable excuse than thinking it was because of the growth in his head. His consultant had prescribed co-codamol to deal with the pain, but he had tried not to use it for fear of developing an addiction to the stuff. That was the last thing he needed. Yet the pain became unbearable, forcing him to abandon the ammonite, take the medication, and curl up in bed.

  He jolted awake at four in the morning. He could have sworn the landline had woken him. Running down the stairs he saw the answerphone didn’t have any message and dialling 1471 revealed the last call was three days ago from a freephone number. Shivering in his boxers and a t-shirt, Garrick was now wide awake and feeling unusually anxious. A text from Wendy had come in while he was asleep. She proposed they see a musical in Canterbury at the weekend. Garrick inwardly groaned, he couldn’t think of anything worse, but she had a friend in the orchestra who could get them cheap tickets. And he was enjoying Wendy’s company enough to endure two hours of somebody warbling on stage. He’ll reply later. He didn’t want to seem too keen.

  Now wide awake, he texted Chib and told her he’d come with her to London to interview Derek Fraser’s ex-mistress. He still had a few early morning hours to kill before breakfast, and his headache was still there. He didn’t know what to do with himself.

  London was the usual sprawling mass of lethargic traffic that Garrick didn’t miss. Since moving to Kent, he had spurned big cities, and winding through the snarl in Camden was a reminder of why. He was glad Chib had offered to drive. It had given him a chance to mock her Nissan Leaf electric car, and he took great delight when she informed him they will have to find a recharge station while they conduct the interview, otherwise they wouldn’t be able to make it back to Maidstone.

  He decided not to mention the luxurious amount of leg space he had in a car with no mechanical engine. Nor the near-silent ride that was a blessing to his pounding head. He brought his DS up to date with the Rye gallery incident, and she told him about the progress they were making talking with Fraser’s known criminal affiliates. PC Lord and Wilkes had been tracking them down in person and discovered a trail of bad blood.

  “Although Fraser did the time for fixing up stolen cars and reselling ones that had been written off, there were rumours he had plea-bargained.”

  “Had he?”

  Chib shrugged. “Not as far as we can tell. But some of his ex-thugs-in-arms think he spilled the beans about a group who were stealing catalytic convertors from cars, mostly while parked in driveways or public carparks. The rare elements in them sell for a fortune, and Fraser was one such trader.”

  “Arrests were made?”

  “A few. Including Noel Benjamin.”

  “The name rings a bell.”

  “He was arrested three times in violent robberies. They only made the last one stick and tagged the thefts on the end of his sentence too.”

  “But he’s still banged up?”

  “In Whitemoor.”

  “So it couldn’t be him.”

  “But his brother, Oscar, he was the alleged brains behind those armed robberies. Nothing was ever proven, and Oscar Benjamin has no criminal record. But it’s generally thought his brother took the rap for him.”

  “What a family. Where is Oscar Benjamin now?”

  “Six months ago, he sold his home in Faversham and left the country. We’re trying to trace him.”

  Garrick never trusted coincidences. But lately, he also didn’t trust neat solutions. “Keep it quiet. Let’s not draw too much attention to him. I don’t want him spooked.”

  To Garrick’s chagrin, Chib found a parking space at an electric charging point, just four-hundred-yards from their destination.

  Terri Cordy lived above a betting shop on Camden High Street. She was 38, fresh-faced, despite the dark circles under her eyes, with long mousy hair cascading down her shoulders. She answered the door wearing grey jogging slacks and a baggy black t-shirt that had seen better days. Her five-month-old son was cradled against her chest, having just gone to sleep.

  The apartment was threadbare, with a battered couch that looked as if it had been retrieved from a skip, and a stained coffee table filled with the detritus of baby care. There was no television, and she owned a pre-smartphone era mobile.

  Chib had spoken to her on the phone, but again confirmed Fraser’
s death in soft tones. She was very good at delivering grim news.

  Terri was unperturbed. “If I tell you I don’t care, does that make me look guilty?”

  “Did you have much contact with him?”

  Terri gave a derisive snort. “Look at his mobile and tell me. He said he was going to block my calls. Then I think he did.”

  “Do you want child support from him?” Chib glanced at the infant now slumbering in a cot, the only new piece of furniture in the flat.

  “That would have been nice. Any acknowledgement that Ethan existed would have been welcome. He cut me off the moment his wife found out.”

  “How long were you two seeing one another?”

  “Eight months. We met at a fundraiser. I was doing some charity work, and he was all Scottish charm. It was about four months into it that the penny dropped, and I realised he was broke.”

  Garrick looked up. “Broke? I thought he was doing well before the divorce.”

  “His wife spent everything, and he was just playing catch-up to stay afloat. He said he hated her and wanted out. And me, I was already in love. The age difference didn’t bother me. I thought he’d divorce his wife and started dreaming we’d actually have a future.” She drifted into an introspective silence.

  Chib gave her a little time to compose her thoughts. “Then you became pregnant?”

  “He was happy at first. That’s what convinced me he’d divorce her. I mean, all this time he was convinced she was shagging somebody else behind his back.”

  Garrick and Chib swapped a curious look. “His wife was having an affair?”

  Terri nodded. “Yeah. Well, he was pretty sure. She spent more time in their villa than here. Suited us, as we could spend more time together.”

  “If he wasn’t concerned about staying married, and he was broke because of her, what changed between the two of you? Why would he want to go back to her?” Garrick was mentally trying to understand the nature of their relationship but was drawing a blank.