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

fractionally, by half-an-inch, but it was undoubtedly open. He swapped the keys for his phone and activated its LED torch. His heart felt as if it had leapt into his throat as he studied the lock. There was no sign of tampering. He gently applied pressure… and heard a click as the Yale catch slid off the strike plate. It hadn’t been fully pulled closed to allow the lock to snap in position. Had he done that in his haste to leave in the morning?

As quietly as he could, Garrick entered the house and swept the light around. Nothing looked disturbed. He suddenly realised how pointless it was using the phone. He reached for the light switch. Everything looked normal. His front door led directly to a staircase, with the living room beyond. His television was still there. The kitchen was undisturbed, with his laptop next to his fossil project.

A quick check upstairs assured him that nothing had been taken. The partially open door was because of his own carelessness, but the adrenaline rush he had experienced had now woken him up once more.

“Pull yourself together, David,” he said to the house at large. Despite the frustrations of the case, he detected an undercurrent that the universe was pulling at various strands of his life to make things go right for once. For the first time, he felt he was the one impeding his own success.

Wired and alert, he retired to bed and submitted to the sleeping pills.

22

The gun had been found by National Rail workers performing essential maintenance on the line in the dead of the night. DS Okon had arrived at the scene, parking on a bridge on Bowley Lane that crossed over the track. It was an obvious assumption to make that the gunman had driven at speed over a bridge two-hundred feet earlier, passing over the M20, which would have been lit up at night. The rest of the lane ahead would have been smothered in darkness, so a person in panic would think they were tossing the weapon into a ditch. Not off another bridge and onto a dark railway line.

Forensics came back with a quick match: it was a silver Colt M1911A1 semi-automatic pistol. Forty years old and in a shoddy state, but it was still lethal. And it was the weapon used in both the security van robbery and the hotel incident.

It never ceased to amaze Garrick how villains could spend months or years concocting elaborate plans, then panic and make foolish errors. Such as discarding a weapon in panic. He recalled the fear in the gunman’s eyes. On reflection, it was as if the man hadn’t expected his plan to go so awry. There was also the issue of why use live rounds attacking the security van, but blanks in the hotel.

Forensics revealed skid marks as the driver had slowed down to toss the gun, indicating he was alone. The same skid marks were found at the end of the lane, turning right at speed onto Lenham Heath Road. That gave them a direction of flight. It also provided a distinctive tyre tread pattern: they were Bridgestone Turanza T005s. Garrick launched an immediate search for any matching tyres fitted to a black Hyundai. The car that had followed him from Rebecca’s Airbnb, probably the same one that was parked outside the hotel on the night of the shooting. Checks had revealed that it didn’t belong to any of the hotel diners, guests, or staff.

Further research revealed that the black Hyundai that had followed them from the Airbnb had been parked in the owner’s driveway in Guildford all week. The licence plate had been cloned. Was it the gunman’s, or a persistent reporter? Garrick’s suspicious mind thought immediately of Molly Meyers, but he’d been with her when she was sat in her Beetle.

The gaggle of reporters lurking outside the station had dwindled as the news cycle moved on. The video of Garrick sliding off a roof could only keep people amused for so long, but he was left in no doubt that the press was eager to leap on the slightest scent of blood in the story. Drury had taken him aside to confirm this.

“We’re coming out looking good on this case,” she had said without a smile. “For a change. Mainly because of your little stunt and Mr Fraser’s constant addiction to a camera lens. And how you’ve turned little Miss Molly Meyers onto our side, I can’t imagine. She has been a pain in the arse since I first met her. She’s the sort of person who would flip a turd over to see if it’s dirtier on the other side.”

Garrick was impressed with the goodwill they had been receiving from all quarters, despite their slow progress on the case. Drury’s lofty tone tightened as she focused on just that.

“However, if we have nothing to charge Rebecca Ellis with, then smashing into her house at the crack of dawn will not look so diligent. And she is exactly the type of person who will make a noise to discredit the investigation. And you, especially.”

Garrick had been relishing the sense of momentum in the air, but her warnings pulled him back to earth. By lunchtime, Fanta had unearthed some details that warranted another interview with Rebecca Ellis.

Rebecca had slept well in her cell and now had changed her clothes and tied her hair back. She was composed compared to the previous day. A ghostly mocking smile lingered, powered by the certainty they had nothing to charge her with.

“How many visitors have you entertained at your rental?”

“I haven’t been in an entertaining frame of mind.”

“And your friend, Jenny…” he made a pretence as forgetting her surname.

“Laverty.”

“You took her directly to the train station.” Rebecca nodded. “Only Eurostar have no passengers registered by that name.”

Rebecca didn’t flinch. “She must have used her maiden name on her passport.”

“And what would that be?”

Rebecca shrugged. “I’ve only known her by her married name.”

“Interesting. And how does