MURDER IS SKIN DEEP Page 4

  “Good question. When he found out about her affair, he was the one that snapped. She was delighted. I think it was just the excuse she was looking for.”

  Garrick held up his hand to interrupt. “He knew she was having an affair, and that bothered him, but when she knew about you, she didn’t care? And that bothered him more?”

  “For a bit. Then he suddenly had an about-face then denied the baby was his.”

  “What made him doubt it?” asked Chib.

  “No reason. And when Ethan was born, Derek even took a paternity test, but he didn’t want to see the results. He just cut me off.”

  “Did he ever talk about his life before you met?”

  “You mean about prison?” She nodded. “Said he was stitched up.”

  “By whom?”

  She didn't want to answer at first. “By Oscar Benjamin.”

  “Did he say how or why?”

  She shook her head and stared at the sleeping baby, a silent indication that that line of questioning was over.

  “What was he doing for money when you were together?” asked Chib.

  “He talked about setting up an antique shop. We had a friend who had one in Islington. Derek started experimenting by selling things on eBay. He didn’t have a clue, really. It was all a bunch of old tat. That’s why he was at the fundraiser.”

  “Where you met?”

  “He was looking at getting into art. That’s what I studied in uni.”

  Garrick cocked his head. “Paintings?”

  “That’s where the real money is.”

  “Was Fraser a good artist?”

  Terri snorted. “He was terrible. Fancied himself as one. Kept talking about doing a course, but he was talentless.”

  “What do you know about an artist named Hoy?”

  Terri laughed and rose to check on the baby. “That was after he dumped me. We used to go to art fairs and exhibitions. He was always on the lookout for new talent. Never found it.”

  “We need to get in touch with Hoy,” said Chib.

  Terri tightened the blanket around the baby. “Good luck. But I don’t have a clue. I’ll be honest with you. I don’t care that he’s dead. The bastard had it coming to him. Don’t think for a second that I’m the only one he has ever kicked in the teeth and walked away from. My only interest is what he left us.” She looked at the two officers. “Which I’m guessing is nothing.” She gestured around. “He left us in squaller. I can’t afford childcare. I can’t go back to work. And he didn’t care.”

  Garrick stood, his knees cracking from the effort. He felt sorry for Terri. She was one of the ignored victims of such crimes. A loose end that could never be tied up. Given nothing and left with less.

  “That’s a matter for the solicitors to sort out, I’m afraid.” He moved to her side and looked at the sleeping baby. “Did he never attempt to see him?”

  “He never tried. Never asked. He stopped responding to all my messages. Just blocked me from his life entirely. I’m one of these people that is never given an explanation. I’m just expected to let life trample over me and be happy about it.”

  7

  “Detective Garrick, can you comment further on the murder of Derek Fraser?”

  Garrick wasn’t expecting the double flash from the SLR to burst so close to his face. The sudden white light felt like needles in his eyeballs, provoking a migraine like Vesuvius erupting in his skull.

  “Is it true he was shot?” The young reporter thrust her phone closer, recording very word. She had bobbed red hair and a swatch of freckles across her cheeks and nose, and the most intense green eyes he had seen. Another three men flanked her. One was a reporter he recognised, the other was his cameraman.

  “No comment,” Garrick said automatically, favouring the camera.

  “What about tortured?” pressed the well-informed redhead.

  Garrick’s hesitation made her smile knowingly. This wasn’t how he had expected his lunchtime run to Pret to develop. He had simply wanted a break from the cloying atmosphere in the evidence room, and a chance to exchange a few messages with Wendy.

  “The pathologist hasn’t yet released his report.” It was an evasive ‘yes,’ and they both knew it.

  “His death is rocking the local art world. Do you think it is linked to the rise of Hoy’s success?”

  Rocking the art world? That was news to Garrick.

  “We’re exploring all options,” Garrick replied, stepping around the reporter and into the station. Before he could make it to the office, Drury blocked his path.

  “Reporters have been calling all morning. The BBC has been chasing your case. They wanted you down the studio for South East Today. I declined on your behalf.”

  Television interest was either a sign of a slow-news day, or the reporter outside hadn’t been exaggerating how the art world was responding.

  “We’re going to have to give then something soon,” Drury continued, “So I want a full debriefing on where you’re at by the end of the day.”

  Stepping into the incident room, Garrick was greeted by stressed looks from Fanta and PC Sean Wilkes. Wilkes was on a call; Fanta was surfing the internet. She caught Garrick’s look.

  “Before you ask, it’s work. He’s gone viral.” She angled the screen so he could see a Twitter page. Garrick avoided social media and, although he was a spritely young man when the internet had boomed, he’d actively avoided it as just another fad.

  “Why?” He dropped his paper sandwich bag on his desk and took his coat off. “And just how bad is that?”

  “It turns out Fraser was the only connection to Hoy. He - or she - is the one who has gone viral, really. A secret artist wrapped up in a murder, well, that’s just got everybody excited. People are already asking for more of his work. It’s going to drive the price up.”

  “Christ. Any luck searching the house for contact details?”

  Wilkes hung up the phone. “No, sir. I was with uniform at the house yesterday and we opened every book and piece of paper we could find. Nothing. No sign of a mobile or laptop either.”

  “And Fraser’s buyers?”

  “Just got off the phone from the last one. He’d sold about six Hoys before the last one flew off the shelf. Just for a couple of hundred. I tell you, Fraser must have had had a good PR spin to push the price up to thirty grand. Now the other owners are all rubbing their hands with glee. None of them met either Fraser or Hoy. Fraser was strictly a middleman. Art to gallery. Money to him.”

  “Bank details?”

  “That’s where it gets interesting,” Fanta chimed up. “All payments from Mark Kline-Watson were made to an account in Panama.”

  “Wonderful. Always naturally helpful, Panoramian bankers.”

  “Panoramian? Is that an actual thing?”

  “What else would they be?”

  “I’m sure it’s Panamanian. Are you thinking of Pomeranian? That’s a type of dog, I think.”

  “Whatever you call them, throw everything we can at them for details, but don’t hold your breath. What about former criminal liaisons?”

  “Harry is still doing the rounds. On the whole, they’re all delighted Fraser got what they thought he deserved. And they all have watertight alibis.”

  He looked up as Chib entered with a scowl. “What happened to you?”

  “I was ambushed outside. Have you seen the reporters?”

  “There were a couple.”

  “There’s more at the car park gate. They’re multiplying.”

  “Not enjoying the limelight, Chib?”

  She sat at her desk and pulled a face as she logged on to the computer.

  Ignoring them, Fanta continued. “Border Force came back with details on Oscar Benjamin. He’s been back and forth to Portugal every few months. He pops over here for a few days every now and again. He’s in the UK now. Arrived in Gatwick two weeks ago.”

  “Portugal? Same as the ex.” He saw the look on Chib’s face. She was thinking the same thing. “D
id Oscar run off with Mrs Fraser? Do we have an address for Oscar Benjamin?”

  “No. We’re looking out for him.”

  Garrick clasped his hands behind his head and stretched his shoulders back with a satisfying crack. He looked at the evidence board that was now filled with pictures of anybody linked to Fraser. Most were taken from social media.

  “To summarise, we currently have one dead body. An artist we can’t trace. An alleged criminal who might be sleeping with his ex, but who we can’t yet find, and whose brother is in prison. Which rules him out. The ex-wife in another country and the ex-girlfriend who is delighted to see him dead, but she has an alibi.”

  Everybody fell silent.

  “That leaves us with an art dealer who has everything to gain,” said Fanta. Everybody turned to look at her. “He called earlier. Those two Hoys sold this morning. A hundred grand each.”

  Garrick’s jaw slackened. “What’s his commission on that?”

  “Thirty per cent.” She saw Garrick’s lips moved as he calculated. “Sixty thousand British Pounds,” she clarified.

  “I wonder how much of that Fraser gets to pocket?”

  “Still waiting on his bank records,” said Chib. “Then we’ll know.”

  The rest of the afternoon resulted in a quick message exchange with Wendy, confirming Saturday was going to be a splendid night at the theatre, with a few drinks beforehand. Their previous dates had been slow but fun, and he had taken them one at a time with no expectations. This was the first time he was looking forward to one, despite the fact they were seeing a musical called ‘Curtains’.

  The end-of-day deadline for Drury’s update was looming when the final forensics report from the house came in. Chib read it in silence for several minutes, thoughtfully tapping her lips with her index finger before Garrick prompted her.

  “Is that the next Dan Brown you have there?”

  Fanta threw him a look. “Who’s he?”

  Chib pointed to the report. “They only found Fraser’s prints around the house. They’re all logged on IDENT1 from when he did time.” The UK’s national fingerprint database housed everybody’s biometrics data if they had had a brush with the law. “Nobody else’s.”

  “So the killer was very careful. This sounds more premeditated than a spur-of-the-moment B&E.”

  “There’s a lot of DNA evidence in the living room. Well, hair.”

  “Do we have a match?”

  “Nothing on record. But isn’t that strange? The killer probably wore gloves, but not a hat. It’s the most obvious DNA to leave behind, so it seems odd to me.”

  Garrick sighed. “So far, we are telling the press that we are looking for a man without a hat. Well, that certainly limits the scope of the investigation.”

  PC Harry Lord’s return to the office confirmed more dead ends.

  “Nobody was unhappy to hear that Derek Fraser is dead. Everybody has alibis. The only thing I could confirm was that he owed Oscar Benjamin money. A quarter of a million was mentioned a few times.”

  “That’s a lot of money.”

  Harry nodded. “As far as I can work out, it was lent to him for the car dealership, which is why Fraser moved into petty crime after he did his time, so that he could pay him back. There was talk that they had met up a few times to work out the debt, but again, nobody is sure.”

  Garrick was thoughtful. “It would be handy to have a link between Oscar Benjamin and that account in Panama.”

  “Panama?” Lord looked around the room. “Have I missed something?”

  “Nothing gets past your radar, does it Harry. Although, I wouldn’t mind a brew.”

  Harry sighed. He hadn’t even got his jacket off before being demoted to tea boy.

  It was six o’clock on the dot when Superintendent Margery Drury entered the incident room and demanded an update. The very short presentation was greeted with crossed arms and a deepening vertical furrow between her brows.

  “I have to say,” she finally said, “in my whole career that has to be about the briefest briefing I have ever heard. No witnesses. No strong suspects. No motive.”

  “We have hair follicles at the crime scene, which I bet match Oscar Benjamin. I would say that’s very compelling. And if we track him down by the end of the evening–” she added hopefully.

  Garrick halted her unrealistic expectations. “If he is the killer, then he’s smart enough to go to ground.”

  “Although it is rather convenient,” muttered Chib.

  Garrick threw her a look. “Chib–”

  “DS Okon, why is that?”

  Chib shifted uncomfortably in her seat as Drury focused her impatient wrath on her. She glanced at Garrick, who rubbed his temple and shook his head. The pain from lunchtime’s migraine was still wearing him down.

  “The follicles were only in the living room, around the body. Nowhere else.”

  “Because they struggled,” said Garrick. “Which is why he was shot.”

  “But why didn’t he look around the house?”

  Garrick held up his hands; he didn’t know. “There was no time. After the gunshots, he ran. Or his hat got knocked off in the struggle, then he put it back on.”

  “Ah, so we’re now looking for a man with a hat,” said Fanta with a grin – which vanished when Drury fixed her with a looked that sucked any joy from the room. She raised a finger, as if addressing a higher power.

  “As we speak, I believe the murder is the lead story on the Six O’clock News. Newsnight requested you,” she looked pointedly at Garrick. “It seems your reputation from the John Howard affair is carrying some notoriety. They even believe that you are a competent police detective.”

  PC Harry Lord chose the wrong time to snigger. He looked away when Drury swept her gaze across the room.

  “I want you to draft a statement with communications. Something that tells everybody about the great strides we’re making but gives no details because of operational purposes. Especially as we don’t have any.”

  “Why don’t we throw a press conference?” said Garrick as the idea struck him.

  “I’m not in the frame of mind for you to take the piss, David.”

  “I’m serious, ma’am.” He hopped to his feet and crossed to the evidence wall and tapped Oscar Benjamin’s photo. “He’s our prime suspect. He arrived in the country recently. He’s missing. We’ll be able to match his DNA to the scene. And there is plenty of animosity between the two men to work out a motive. Find Oscar Benjamin and we crack this case. That’s the whole pitch. If the media are this interested, then let’s use them to our advantage for a change. We’ll use the press to smoke him out.”

  8

  It was the worst idea Garrick could remember having, and made worse by Drury’s abundant enthusiasm, especially as Garrick would have to front it. During the drive home, he missed two calls from Wendy. He messaged her back with an excuse that he was busy with work. As the case was on his mind, it wasn’t an untruth.

  They had stayed late preparing the slides needed for the presentation, which was set for lunchtime the next day at Maidstone Town Hall. Garrick had secretly hoped some crucial piece of evidence would come through so they could cancel the event, but he wasn’t holding his breath.

  He tasked PC Liu to talking to Mark Kline-Watson again with the aim to dig into the details of his relationship with Fraser. The gallery owner was already under strict instructions not to move the money from the art sale. He was more than happy to keep it in his account for as long as possible. He had also lamented that demand for more Hoys were coming in thick and fast.

  While he couldn’t fault Chib’s case against Oscar Benjamin, Garrick felt that Mark Kline-Watson was involved too. It was the old police vibe of being nothing more than a hunch, so he decided not to share it with the rest of the team until something substantial emerged.

  Sure enough, Derek Fraser and the mysterious artist were the lead story on Newsnight. Garrick watched with morbid curiosity as the focus on the repor
t leaned towards the mysterious artist’s identity rather than the brutal murder. He was sure that this was a good sounding board for how the press conference would unfold tomorrow.

  Maidstone Town Hall was a neoclassical design, with a solid white Portland stone ground floor, the second was adorned with large, splendid windows set amongst the red brickwork. At the time it would have been an impressive construction in 1763. Now it looked as if somebody had dropped a stone ship between High Street and Bank Street. The Union Jack hoisted on a mast hung limp and wet in the current downpour.

  Inside, the old courtroom’s Rococo ceiling had been beautifully preserved, and was a hidden highlight, or indeed the only highlight, for the council meetings that usually occurred inside. A table was being set up by the police communications team, with Kent Police banners erected behind. Garrick watched them diligently assembling the set, while in the corner a technician was struggling to convince a large wheel-mounted television to talk to the laptop that would display the images needed during the conference.

  The activity was a shelter from the outside world. Not from the heavy downpour which looked set to remain for the day, but from the growing pool of reporters braving the elements outside the police HQ. The redhead had intercepted Garrick when he arrived, and he finally caught her name: Molly Meyers, from Kent Online. Hardly a national mover and shaker, but still an important liaison between the police and the good folk of the county. This time, Garrick wasn’t caught off guard and gave what he hoped was a charming smile, assuring her she would hear everything at the conference. Then he impulsively added that she could have the first question. He didn’t know what had made him say that.

  “Detective Garrick?”

  Garrick turned to see a man in a long black trench coat, dripping water all over the parquet floor. In his late fifties, with a greying beard and craggy face, he conveyed the air of a well-liked uncle.

  “Yes?”

  “DCI Oliver Kane. Met Police.” Garrick nodded. “Do you have a few minutes to talk about John Howard?”