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

Blank phone calls, the whispering voice sounding like his sister, and now this. Physical proof that somebody was trying to mess with his head. The address was written in careful block capitals using blank ink. There was no legible postmark over the stamp to indicate where it had been posted from. He had ripped the top edge open, so turned the envelope around and checked the seal had firmly adhered; nothing had fallen out. Somebody had taken time and expense to mail him an empty envelope.

A chill ran through him.

He dashed into the kitchen and found a box of plastic sandwich bags under the sink. He returned and carefully placed the envelope into one and sealed the ziplock to make it airtight. He considered calling his contact at the Flora Police Department, who were dealing with his sister’s case, but what could he tell them that would be of use? The case had gathered headlines at the time, and America tended to have weirdos who regularly trolled high-profile cases. He decided to drop the envelope into forensics to see what they could glean from it.

His fatigue had vanished. His heart was thumping in his chest and he felt uncomfortably hot. He opened the sleeping pills Dr Rajasekar had prescribed and took two.

“It sounds like such a nice area,” said Chib, looking at the grey metal spiked fences delimiting the south Tonbridge Station carpark.

“You’re thinking of Tunbridge Wells. Sorry, Royal Tunbridge Wells. Tonbridge is like the poor half-brother.”

Searching through the Automatic Numberplate Recognition Cameras revealed Rebecca Ellis had parked here, paying for it using a dedicated app. She’d only paid for an hour, so that had ruled her out catching the train.

A line of drab terrace houses had the misfortune to overlook the car park, and a threadbare used car showroom adjacent. Garrick nodded towards it.

“Does that ring any bells?”

Chib shook her head. “Should it?”

“Not now. But it used to be owned by one Derek Fraser.”

Chib flashed a smile. “What a coincidence.”

“Indeed. Of course, not now. Now it’s owned by Stanley Matthews. An acquittance of Oscar Benjamin.”

“Perhaps she wanted to know if this Matthews had seen him?”

“Let’s go find out.”

Cars were crammed into every available space, even the road between the lot and the car park was used as an overspill. Most were compact Citroëns, Minis or Renaults. Sunday footfall comprised of a father and his excited son, wearing a tracksuit and baseball cap, determined to look like the sort of person who the police would pull over half an hour after the car was handed over to him.

Careful, Garrick warned himself, profiling people is a slippy slope.

Stanley Matthews was balding, overweight, and watched Garrick and Chib approach with the practised eye of somebody who could recognise the Old Bill a mile off. He was smoking a stunted roll-up as he leaned against the wall of the battered grey Portakabin he called an office. The dealership sign proudly declared: MATTY’S MOTORS.

“Mr Matthews?” said Garrick, holding up his ID card.

Matthews’ bushy grey eyebrows furrowed as he glanced between the police and his potential customers.

“Uh-huh.”

Garrick recognised the aurora of stubbornness the man was projecting, so got straight to the point and indicated for Chib to hold up the picture of Rebecca on her phone.

“This woman came to visit you yesterday. Who is she?”

Matthews went through the motions of looking, then shook his head.

“We had a busy day yesterday. A lot of punters looking for a bargain.”

“So I see,” said Garrick, casting his eyes at the two customers. There wasn’t a single space denoting a sold car. “I’m sure you’d remember a lady like her.”

“I’m not a lech, ogling every bird who wants to buy a motor,” Matthews snapped indignantly.

“I meant because she wore a bright red coat. Very noticeable.”

“I’m colour blind.”

“Look again.” Matthews did and shrugged. “She parked over there,” Garrick indicated to the car park. “And came straight over. We have her movements caught on the security cameras there.” He nodded towards the pole-mounted CCTV cameras dotted around the car park. The only problem was their range was confined to the car park itself. A more pedantic person might have pointed out that they didn’t show Rebecca Ellis entering the used car lot. From the smirk on Matthews’ face, he suspected the man knew just what they saw.

“I see you have cameras yourself.” Garrick looked up at a pair of small security cameras on the Portakabin roof, pointing across the lot in a V-formation. “I’d like to look at yesterday’s footage.”

Smoke shot from Matthews’ nose. “I’d be happy to oblige. If they worked. Buggers have been broken all week. Lucky for me this is a well-policed area.” He grinned and nodded to the houses. “She might’ve gone and visited her gran. How would I know?” He saw the father wave him over; his son was excitedly pawing over a dark green Ford Fiesta. Matthews threw the cigarette down and crushed it underfoot. “’Scuse me. Got a customer.” He walked away but couldn’t resist turning around and tracing a finger across his stock. “Feel free to have a gander. Could do you a nice deal. They even come with the legal papers.” He winked, then turned his back on them.

Chib frowned at Garrick. She hadn’t seen the footage. By the time she had arrived, Garrick had been through it with Wilkes and Fanta. “Did we see who she was talking to?”

“No. The cameras cover nothing beyond here,” he said as they walked back down the adjoining road between the car park and the lot. “But she headed in his direction for sure, then came back ten minutes later. Look.”

He scrolled through several videos that had been downloaded to his phone until he found the right one. He pressed play and handed it to Chib. Rebecca Ellis, wearing her distinctive coat, appeared from the direction of the dealership and marched back to her car. She was carrying a large sports holdall, and was accompanied by a