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

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 team 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.

Reading through the case notes, one fact puzzled Garrick. Fraser had booked the retreat in Hay under a false name: Ben Thornley. It was a discrepancy that nagged him until he picked up the phone and called Fraser. He was on the high-speed train to St Pancras.

“I’m not going to use me real name at an art retreat, am I?” said Fraser in a voice so low, Garrick had to turn his phone’s volume up. “They’re a bunch of wannabe artists, and if they got wind that there was a famous dealer amongst them, it’d hardly be a quiet getaway for me, would it?”

They were cut off as the train entered a tunnel, but the excuse was in line with Fraser’s ego. Garrick couldn’t imagine people would consider him famous, but then again, people were always looking to network.

That made him think back to Terri. She had studied art and had kindled Fraser’s own passion in the subject. Would she have tried to use his increasing fame in the art world to get her own foot on the ladder? But if her child wasn’t Fraser’s son, and the paternity test had proven that, what did he owe her? He couldn’t think of anything she could use to blackmail him.

By three o’clock, Garrick felt an unexpected wave of nausea hit him. He hadn’t slept very well for the last few nights and had been feeling a little lightheaded in the morning. He had put that down to stress, but now as he clutched the sink in the station washroom, he felt the room spin. Hunching over the sink, he splashed cold water on his face.

The thump of a cubicle door closing made him look sharply up. He was certain nobody had entered. He’d been concerned about anybody finding him looking like a junkie going cold turkey. The room was no longer spinning, but there were still the vestiges of motion with a slight