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

together, Chib. You’ll be fine. They want a story. We want them to find Oscar Benjamin. As long as our I.T. doesn’t crash, this is nothing more than a dog and pony show. Follow my lead, you’ll be fine.” His smile provoked one in response, although inside, he was feeling just as nervous.

The door opened and a young woman from the communications team popped her head around.

“Everybody’s ready if you are?”

Garrick pulled a piece of paper from his suit pocket and unfolded it. It was a series of bullet points the team had agreed on the night before. He noticed Fanta had kindly labelled the list ‘Idiot Points’.

His mouth felt dry, but Garrick nodded. He’d done dozens of conferences in the past and cursed DCI Kane for getting him worked up. They entered the hall and walked the few yards to the table that now had a sheet draped over it with the Kent Police logo hanging in the centre: a white Kent horse rampant in a red circle, surrounded by a blue ring. The same logo was on the television that the technician had finally got working.

Silence descended on the room, broken only by a constant wave of clicks from the flanks of SLRs. Lights erected to help the cameras, made Garrick squint and he could feel the heat from them. The glare niggled his headache, which until then, had remained mercifully subdued. He noticed Molly Meyers at the front of the pack and spotted DCI Kane lurking at the back of the hall. Apparently, he wasn’t in such a hurry to leave after all.

He and Chib took their seats. He glanced at the communications woman who stood at the side and she held up a small remote clicker, ready to advance the presentation. Garrick angled the gooseneck microphone on the table as Chib poured them both a glass of water, which sounded overly loud so close to the mic. He placed the idiot notes in front of him and swept his gaze across the reporters, trying not to linger on any one television camera.

“Thank you all for coming,” Garrick began.

He didn’t need the notes. He worked on autopilot as he outlined the general condition they had found Derek Fraser in. As agreed, he played up his big loss to the art world and stressed that the mysterious Hoy must get in touch with the police as soon as possible. He added that the artist’s last two works had just sold for one hundred and twenty pounds, reasoning that if Hoy didn’t know about the sale, then the sum of money owed to him would certainly give him cause to pick up the phone.

The images of Derek Fraser, smiling with his ex-wife, and the ones taken for his Country Life article, appeared on cue on the TV. They had been especially chosen to show the friendly nature of the deceased to elicit sympathy. Finally, the images of Oscar Benjamin’s scowling face came up, taken from a time he had been brought in for questioning. They were chosen to make him look like the definitive bad guy. DS Okon took over, requesting that if the public see him, they should call 999 straight away. Garrick had convinced Chib that joe public would prefer to be told what to do from her, rather than a stuffy middle-aged white man.

Before he knew it, the briefing was rolling to an end. All they had to do was survive the inevitable barrage of questions. He pointed at Molly.

“We’ll take a few questions, and I believe the young lady there has the first.”

Molly beamed with pride, holding out her phone to capture the best audio recording she could.

“Thank you, DCI Garrick. Is there any evidence that connects Derek Fraser to–?”

“WHAT THE HELL IS GOING ON?” boomed an angry Scottish voice from the back of the room.

A murmur of consternation rose through the bank of reporters as a figure pushed his way around them and made his way to the tables. Garrick rose to confront the wet and bedraggled stranger – but the words failed him.

It was Derek Fraser.

“What’s all this I hear about being dead?” Fraser demanded in a stark Scottish brogue. He looked around the room in confusion.

Cameras went crazy as they recorded the spectacle – but the Bastard of Press were all too shocked to throw out a question. Only Molly Meyers managed it first.

“If you’re not dead… then who is?”

9

Garrick had hoped to gain extensive press coverage. But not like this. Within the hour, the department was swamped with calls and a growing platoon of journalists were milling outside.

The walk to the incident room with Derek Fraser turned into a scrum, with uniformed officers providing a protective entourage as questions were yelled from every direction. Fraser looked confused and kept shouting: “I’m very much alive, thank you!” He took refuge in an interview room and was given a milky tea as they waited for his solicitor to join them. When she finally arrived, Rosamund Hellberg, expressed shock at the swelling crowd outside. In her fifties, with neatly curled short grey hair, Hellberg was the image of elegance and expense.

“Mr Fraser, where have you been?” As an opening gambit, Garrick knew it was poor, but he was still coming to terms with events. Chib sat next to him, hands clasped together and staring at Fraser as if he was a ghost.

“In a retreat. And the first thing I bloody hear when I get out is that I’m dead! That’s a damn shocking thing to be told. And they told me after I paid me bill. Which feels kinda insulting. The damage all this will do to me reputation…” he shook his head in despair. “I can’t imagine putting a figure on it.”

“I dare say this is doing nothing but enhancing your reputation.”

Fraser pointed at Garrick. “You can’t go around telling the world somebody’s dead and not expect consequences.”

“Really? Worse ones than actually being dead?”

“Aye!” He pointed at Garrick and looked to his