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

“Mark knew what buttons to press to get at me. There is only one person who could have told him that.”

“Rebecca.”

Fraser nodded. “I bet he reached out to her and she and that meathead boyfriend of hers concocted a scam to discredit me.” He gestured to the barman for the bill.

In the silence that followed, Garrick digested Fraser’s words. They echoed the very line of enquiry he was following. And yet…

“What made you get in touch with Mark in the first place? It’s a small gallery in Rye. And you said his tastes were dubious.”

Fraser signed the bill without checking it. “I’m not stupid, Detective. I approached some better names than him in London. They either didn’t think much of the work, or they didn’t think much of me. It’s a snooty world, the art world. A working-class kid from Glasgow doesn’t fit in. Then I remembered Terri had sold a few of her pieces to him. He sold them for twenty quid, which at the time was a fortune.”

“Terri is an artist? I thought she just studied it.”

“She thought she could do it. But she was wrong.” Fraser stood and swayed. “Now you have chased the skirt away, I might as well hit the sack alone.” He motioned for the exit.

“One thing still baffles me. Who gains by killing somebody doubling as you?”

“Probably the same person who gains for having me killed. Night.”

Fraser shuffled from the bar. Garrick glanced at the bill before the barman pulled the faux-leather wallet away. He’d had half a beer and the bottle of champagne and left no tip. Something the barman noted with a scowl.

It was raining heavily when Garrick left the hotel. He pinched the collar of his Barbour tight as he jogged to his Land Rover. His impulsive detour had left it too late to call Wendy, and he now regretted making it. He was halfway to his car when he noticed a white Volkswagen Beetle parked next to his. Molly Meyers was behind the wheel, looking tiny in the car’s spacious interior. Her face was illuminated by her mobile phone, on which she was rapidly typing. She smiled when she saw Garrick and lowered her window.

“Problem with the car?”

“No,” she turned the phone screen in his direction. “I was writing the bones of my piece while it was still fresh in my mind. Thanks for saving me back there. He’s a bit lecherous when drunk.”

“All part of the service,” he grinned.

“And I never thanked you for giving me the first question at the press conference. For what it was worth.” She laughed.

Two compliments in one evening, thought Garrick. He must be doing something right. He opened his mouth to reply – when he noticed a black Hyundai parked several yards behind his own car.

Then there came the crack of gunfire. Two shots, crystal clear despite the rain pelting the surrounding vehicles. Next came a smash of glass from the hotel – followed by screams.

19

People were rushing from the bar and dithering in the lobby as Garrick pushed through, closely followed by Molly, who held her phone up, capturing every moment on video. Garrick looked around for some hint about where the shots had come from. A young receptionist, her eyes wide in fear, recognised Garrick and pointed a trembling finger towards the staircase.

“Stay here!” he said to Molly and galloped up the steps two at a time.

The grand staircase in the centre of the room split in opposite directions, curving around bright pink walls before meeting at either end of the first-floor landing. Garrick was out of breath when he reached the top. Molly was right behind him when he suddenly stopped, and she cannoned into him.

“I thought I told you to stay?”

“I’m not a dog!” she snapped back – her gaze suddenly drawn to a man running towards them down a corridor. He was clutching a handgun as he came to an abrupt stop when he spotted Garrick and immediately turned around and sprinted back the way he came.

Garrick gave pursuit.

The man took a right down an adjoining corridor. Garrick’s lungs were burning, his knees complaining, and a detached part of his mind was appalled by how unfit he was. He would never have lasted fifteen minutes on the ramble with Wendy.

His target jinked into the open door of a room and before Garrick knew it, he found himself in Fraser’s large suite. Fraser was sprawled across the thick royal-blue carpet. He was moving and groaning, which was enough for Garrick.

The assailant was hunkered in the frame of an open window. The curtains billowed as rain gust in from outside. The only light came from a table lamp, showing the man was wearing all-black, with a hoodie top pulled tight. The handgun was slipped in the belt of his jeans. A black face mask covered everything from his eyes down. He looked straight at Garrick – not with the eyes of a killer, but those of a frightened young man.

Then he jumped out.

“NO!”

Garrick darted to the window, unable to stop him.

The drop was only a few feet onto the angled glass roof of a conservatory, below which he could see the startled faces of diners looking up. The man slid on his backside towards the edge and fell the rest of the way onto the grass below.

Garrick wasn’t thinking. He clambered through the window and onto the double-glazed glass panel. Only when he applied his full weight and heard it creak, did it occur to him he was several stone heavier than the other bloke. He twisted to turn back, but his shoes slipped on the rain-soaked glass and he fell flat on his chest. His palms squealed along the glass and refused to gain any purchase as he slid backwards.

Then he was suddenly flung off the edge. He landed on his feet – but momentum propelled him onto his backside, and he rolled across the slick grass, his