MURDER IS SKIN DEEP Read online

  “Why have you been holding these back from the market?”

  “It’s all about timing, detective. You build people’s expectations. Let them simmer. When these go on the market, can you imagine the response?” He laughed greedily.

  The broken patio had been boarded up with a plywood sheet and the glass shards removed.

  Garrick glanced at the bloodstain on the carpet. “I imagine it may motivate somebody else to kill you.” That wiped the smile from the man’s face. “And it’s my job to see that doesn’t happen,” he added, remembering that he was trying to win him over. “So, talk me through the day you left here.”

  “It was a normal day. Raining. Had some calls. I asked Mark, at the gallery, if there had been any interest in the two pieces down there. There was, but nobody was biting. I thought he had pushed the price way to high.”

  “The last one sold for thirty thousand.”

  Fraser bobbed his head, unimpressed. “Right. But maybe that was a fluke? We’d expected them to fly off the wall. We got a ton of interest but…” he shrugged.

  “Then they sold for a fortune after you died.”

  Fraser chuckled. “That’s good PR for you.” He became quiet as he recollected. Then I headed off to the retreat. Got the train.”

  Through the doorway to the hall, Garrick noticed a keypad on the wall. “Did you put the alarm on?”

  “Yes, I think so. I usually do.”

  “But it hadn’t gone off. Who else has the code?”

  Fraser shrugged. “I haven’t changed it. Rebecca knows it. And anybody she told.” He moved quickly to a fruit bowl and retrieved his car keys. “Looks like the moron left all the valuable stuff.”

  “Why did you leave your car and take the train?”

  “Because it was supposed to be a relaxing break. Time for me to re-evaluate my life and plan. I can think on a train.” He gestured to the paintings. “I was wondering if the art would finally come together. This was a real chance to turn my life around and get the success that was always being torn from my grasp.”

  “By who?”

  Fraser gave a sharp intake of breath. “Women usually.” He looked at the blood on the floor and became thoughtful. “Do you want my theory on who did this?”

  “I’d welcome it.”

  “Rebecca.”

  “She wasn’t in the country.”

  “No, but her boyfriend was.”

  “Ah, yes. Oscar Benjamin. You both had history. And he is our primary suspect.”

  “Becs is a conniving bitch, and I wouldn’t put anything past her. She would have hated seeing me be successful, and I was getting attention with Hoy. I wouldn’t put it past either of them to set up some dodgy deal on the side. They got somebody who looks a bit like me to pose for a buyer, in me own house, for authenticity. Probably trying to rip him off. It all goes wrong.”

  Garrick hated to admit that he was working on a similar assumption, but the paintings at Fraser’s feet were a problem.

  “If that was the case, why didn’t they take the paintings?”

  “Because if they surfaced anywhere else, questions would be instantly raised, wouldn’t they? I’m the only one who knows Hoy’s identity. So where would they come from apart from the dead man’s house?”

  “Good point.”

  “I do sometimes make them. If these ended up being the last two left and were stashed in some vault somewhere, then they’re effectively worthless. If nobody knows they exist, then they have no value.”

  “Why would your ex-wife go to all that trouble?”

  “I told you, because she’s a spiteful cow.”

  “I’m not sure that would hold up in a court of law, Mr Fraser.”

  They went upstairs so Fraser could select clean clothes, underwear, socks, several shirts, and another suit. Garrick noted every item he packed, but Fraser didn’t act furtively or suspiciously. He even asked Garrick which of the two seemingly identical Hugo Boss shirts he thought looked best. With every passing minute, Fraser was becoming friendlier and more at ease.

  “I’d like to speak with Hoy,” Garrick said as Fraser neatly folded his clothes into a small plastic wheeled cabin bag.

  “Would you now? He’s not exactly a witness, is he?”

  Garrick mentally noted the masculine tag. At least that ruled out half the population.

  “If his work proves to be central to the case, then he may have useful information.”

  Fraser smiled. “I’ll put in your request, Detective. You gotta remember, everybody wants to speak to him. His whole brand is based around anonymity.”

  “How did you meet?”

  Fraser slowed his packing and ruminated thoughtfully. “It was at a small art fair. Brighton, I think. I thought the pieces had promise, so I asked if I could represent him. I’ll be honest, I had no idea what I was supposed to do. I had this vague idea about creating this enigmatic figure.”

  “A Banksy. Wasn’t that Terri Cordy’s idea?”

  “No, it weren’t!” he snapped angrily. He roughly closed the case and zipped it up. He breathed sharply in, then calmed. “She had some smart ideas about marketing, but the Banksy thing was my idea.”

  “Why did you break-up?”

  “Why d’you think?” Garrick shrugged, encouraging him to continue. “Because she started insisting that kid was mine.”

  “But you didn’t leave her when you first found out.”

  “Well, no. I had hoped that maybe it was mine. But then I realised she was just after my money.”

  “And it led to your divorce.”

  “Becs was cheating on me too. Our marriage had died years ago.”

  He lifted the case and headed downstairs. In the hallway, Fraser selected a pair of tan deck shoes and put them in his case. He left pairs of green wellies, blue trainers, and polished black brogues.

  “You have to admit all of this hasn’t done your reputation any harm.”

  Fraser grinned. “No. It’s the best thing Becs has ever done for me. Aside from the divorce.”

  “You’re convinced it’s her.”

  Fraser took the lather carry case containing the paintings. “She’s got everything to gain. You heard how mental she was about not getting the house. Made her come all the way over here.” He chuckled. He opened the front door and gestured for Garrick to step outside first.

  Garrick took in the house, which looked quite beautiful in the spring daylight, despite the SOCO tent on the wing. Garrick took the door keys and locked up.

  “Nice place. How much is it worth?”

  “About one-point-four million.”

  Garrick whistled appreciatively. “And who would benefit from it? Who’s your next of kin.”

  Fraser smirked and walked to the garage. “I don’t like anybody but me benefiting. I’ve been trod on all my life.”

  He opened the garage, revealing the black Mercedes inside.

  “I can see how you’ve suffered,” Garrick said under his breath.

  Fraser carefully laid the painting bag and suitcase in the boot.

  “How long are you planning to stay in Chilston Park?”

  “Until you let me back here. Besides, I won’t be going too far now I know Becs is around. You need to watch her, Detective. I feel unsafe.”

  Garrick watched gravel spray as the Mercedes sped away. Fraser had confirmed his own suspicions about Rebecca Ellis. The team had put together an extensive background check on her. She had trained to be a nurse but dropped out before graduation to travel the world with her boyfriend at the time. She returned alone as that relationship fell apart. Since then, she appeared to have sofa-surfed, and lived off the proceeds of a handcrafted jewellery website she ran. It turned over just enough to pay the bills. She found her feet with Derek Fraser. They’d been married for six years, during which it looked like she had spent a lot of his money, before ending up living just south of Lisbon with Oscar Benjamin. If she was working with Oscar Benjamin on anything illegal, why would she jeopardi
se everything by coming over?

  His phone buzzed. It was a message from Drury demanding another update by the end of the day. He noticed a dozen emails from various reporters and a missed call from Molly Meyers. He wondered how she had found his number.

  There was a text from Wendy with a few more details about their date. Well, that was some good news at least.

  12

  The evidence board was looking unusually sparse. Derek Fraser’s picture had been moved to the side, with the victim now in the centre. Social media images of Oscar Benjamin, Terri Cordy, Rebecca Ellis and Mark Kline-Watson had been placed prominently down the side. PC Fanta Liu had used a picture of Hoy’s artwork to represent the mysterious artist.

  The team sat quietly as Chib finished the update. Uncharacteristically Superintendent Margery Drury had not interrupted. Garrick waited for her to unleash her fury about the lack of progress, especially as media speculation was rising.

  “That’s all we have?” she said quietly. “Plenty of motivations to discredit Mr Fraser, but without a valid ID on the deceased, we can’t conjure up any motives.”

  “That’s where we’re up to, ma’am,” said Garrick, swapping places with Chib in front of the board. If anybody was going to take the verbal assault, it was his duty. “At this moment we’re increasing efforts to track down Oscar Benjamin. We’re talking to Border Force and liaising with the police in Lisbon. None of his associates want to talk openly about him, but they’re all happy to bad mouth Fraser. When he lived here, Oscar used to make regular visits to his brother, Noel. But he’s only made one since he arrived back. And that was a fortnight ago.”

  “He’s gone to ground.”

  “We had an interesting comment,” said Sean Wilkes, speaking up for the first time. Drury’s unblinking gaze caused him to stop talking.

  “Speak up, Sean,” prompted Garrick.

  Wilkes cleared his throat. “I was told that Oscar had been boasting about a big score coming up and he was looking for people. But everybody agrees he avoids doing anything illegal himself. He’d even sacrificed his brother to stay clean. That’s why we could never arrest him. That’s the issue. People don’t want to work with him no more, but everybody is too afraid to speak out.”

  “Still, that sounds promising.” Drury removed her glasses and rubbed her tired eyes. “The storm is still rumbling, and until we have something solid, I don’t want anybody speaking to the press.”

  “Suits me fine,” said Garrick.

  “But in the meantime, Mr Fraser is milking every opportunity. I hear he’s even had an invitation onto the Graham Norton show.”

  “Wow, I wonder if he can get me an autograph,” Fanta said, instantly regretting it. She spoke quickly, hoping to defuse Drury’s anger. “Um, it also seems Mark K-W, uh, Kline-Watson has become something of a name too. Well, within the art world, if that counts.”

  Drury nodded. “Now he has a lot to gain from all of this too.”

  Fanta looked doubtful. “I had a good talk with him. He seemed nice, and it looks like him and Fraser both got on. Mark was telling me he had always fancied himself as a pilot. It turns out Fraser had been taking a few lessons in a private strip at Bridle Farm. They’d even discussed doing lessons together when the owners get back from their second home.”

  Drury nodded thoughtfully. “Regular rich boys’ club.”

  “Mark definitely sees this as a turning point in his career.”

  “Could he be trying to blackmail Mr Fraser?”

  “I don’t know how. He told me he’d paid Fraser what he owed him and seemed very happy with his commission.”

  Garrick looked up. “I thought we’d told him not to make that transaction?”

  “Since he was alive, he couldn’t think of a good reason not to pay him.” Garrick harrumphed, but didn’t have a good comeback. “And he is very excited about the two more pieces of work that are coming through. Like I said, he thinks they’re going to be game changers.”

  “I’ve seen them,” mutter Garrick. “They’re game changers alright. Testing how much suckers will pay for crap.”

  “This is feeling more like an extortion case with every passing minute,” Drury mused.

  Chib tapped Mark’s picture. “If he had direct access to Hoy, then he wouldn’t need Fraser, and that’d increase his profit margin. He already takes thirty per cent. Fraser takes twenty. That’s a lot of money.”

  “Speaking of money,” said Garrick, sitting on the corner of a desk as he studied the board. “His ex-wife stands to gain one-point-four million if she gets the house.”

  “I thought you said she wasn’t in the will?” said Drury.

  “Well, no, but she didn’t know that before the murder.”

  “Who gets the house?” asked Chib.

  “He wouldn’t say. And we can hardly demand he turns over his own will as evidence into the death of a stranger. Even so, before Rebecca Willis was aware of that, she thought she stood to gain a lot.”

  “Let’s put her to the side,” Chib said thoughtfully. “She was out of the country–”

  “But not her boyfriend.”

  “True, but the only one who has anything to potentially gain by impersonating Fraser, is the gallery owner.”

  “Fraser and Hoy have met. So, the only reason to impersonate Fraser was if it was to somebody outside of that circle. Maybe somebody who was representing Hoy and threatening Fraser.”

  “For what reason?” said Drury.

  “Maybe to demand that Fraser took a smaller commission?”

  “It could be somebody who wants to represent Hoy and was threatening Fraser,” Fanta suggested. “Aren’t agents supposed to be ruthless?”

  “But killing to get a client seems harsh,” said Harry Lord.

  Everybody fell silent as they contemplated this. PC Fanta Liu looked embarrassed.

  “That’s not bad, Liu,” Drury finally said. “They could have brought in some hired muscle to put pressure on him, and it all went wrong.”

  “That would imply Fraser knew he was about to be blackmailed, and so far, he hasn’t indicated that was the case, or that he’d hired a lookalike. He kept telling me he’s afraid of Rebecca. And that brings us back to Oscar.”

  “Since Oscar Benjamin and Fraser know each other, it stands to reason Oscar would hire other people to do the thug work.”

  “The big score…” mused Wilkes.

  Chib nodded. “And maybe that’s why nobody recognised the double.”

  Garrick paced, a habit he always found helped him unravel problems. He was literally walking through the various strands. “Which again suggests Fraser planned the lookalike. Why wouldn’t he tell us about that?”

  “And if he admits that, he may risk losing Hoy to this rival.”

  Garrick was an old enough hand to know that cases shifted like sand. Half the skill of being a good copper was an active imagination. There was no point in blindly following the clues as they led over the horizon. Active, solid detection was all about thinking ahead and finding a way in front of the villain’s path; not running to catch up. Everything that had been mooted this evening sounded hollow and thin. Still, the meandering line of enquiry seemed to satisfy Drury. She stood and headed for the door.

  “I would like a set of bullet points five o’clock each day marking where we are on this. And remember, nobody is to talk to the press. A polite, no comment, this is an ongoing enquiry, is more than enough.” She nodded to herself, as if that answered an unspoken question. “Night everyone.”

  After an unenthusiastic chorus of “Night, ma’am,” everybody swapped relieved looks.

  “I thought we were in for some verbal there,” said Harry Lord, huffing out a pent-up breath.

  “I think PC Liu’s quick-thinking may have bought us more time,” said Chib.

  Fanta gave a mock bow in her seat. “You’re all welcome.”

  Garrick didn’t join in. The beginnings of a new migraine were revealing themselves. The rest of the tea
m were logging off computers and reaching for their coats as he stared intently at the evidence wall, willing it to offer answers.

  “We should put some surveillance on mister double-barrel,” he said, looking at an image of Mark Kline-Watson.

  Chib was fastening up her coat. “A request for a full surveillance team won’t happen overnight.”

  “Then we’ll do it. Harry?”

  He didn’t need to turn to see Harry Lord’s look of disappointment. “Um, sure, sir.”

  “I’ll help,” volunteered Fanta eagerly. She wasn’t shy about her desire to get out beyond the desk, which put Garrick in an awkward position, as she was much more useful in the incident room. He threw a cautious look at Harry Lord and nodded. Fanta punched the air with a barely audible, “yes!”

  Thursday passed slowly. Lacking the resources to watch the gallery twenty-four hours a day, PC Harry Lord devised a rota that would take him, Liu and Wilkes in eight-hours shifts, from the morning until near midnight. As Mark lived above the gallery and only left for coffee and lunch, it turned surveillance into tedium. By the end of her first shift, Fanta was already grousing about how dull their target was. The only thing of note they had to report was that the two new Hoys hanging in the gallery were attracting a constant stream of visitors, including reporters. That seemed to make Mark Kline-Watson increasingly happy. Every time they saw him through the wide gallery windows, he appeared to be on his phone.

  Garrick received word that Fraser was heading into London to recount his amazing ‘back from the dead’ story on the Graham Norton show, which would be broadcast the following evening. He was thankful that he would be out of the house and watching, he could hardly bring himself to acknowledge this, a musical, rather than see the Scotsman pontificating on national television.

  Chib trawled through the divorce records between Fraser and Rebecca. She called the solicitors on both sides and was surprised to hear them say that the proceedings had been amicable. The only bone of contention had been the property, but it was Rebecca who suggested that the surviving party would inherit the other’s home. With no children, it had seemed a sensible solution.