MURDER IS SKIN DEEP by M.G. Cole (read dune .txt) 📕

“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 report 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?”

The man’s demeanour was friendly, but the timing of the request raised Garrick’s hackles. He gestured around.

“You can see I am a tad busy with a press conference.”

“I just have a few questions.”

“Questions that couldn’t be emailed or discussed at a convenient time on the phone? Instead, you came all the way from London to ask me a ‘few’?”

DCI Kane bared his teeth in a loud laugh that echoed in the hall. “Well, that would be too convenient, wouldn’t it? I was in the area and knew exactly where to pin you down. Lucky for me, because I’m guessing that you are running here, there