MURDER IS SKIN DEEP, M.G. Cole [i can read with my eyes shut TXT] 📗

“What made him doubt it?” asked Chib.

“No reason. And when Ethan was born, Derek even took a paternity test, but he didn’t want to see the results. He just cut me off.”

“Did he ever talk about his life before you met?”

“You mean about prison?” She nodded. “Said he was stitched up.”

“By whom?”

She didn't want to answer at first. “By Oscar Benjamin.”

“Did he say how or why?”

She shook her head and stared at the sleeping baby, a silent indication that that line of questioning was over.

“What was he doing for money when you were together?” asked Chib.

“He talked about setting up an antique shop. We had a friend who had one in Islington. Derek started experimenting by selling things on eBay. He didn’t have a clue, really. It was all a bunch of old tat. That’s why he was at the fundraiser.”

“Where you met?”

“He was looking at getting into art. That’s what I studied in uni.”

Garrick cocked his head. “Paintings?”

“That’s where the real money is.”

“Was Fraser a good artist?”

Terri snorted. “He was terrible. Fancied himself as one. Kept talking about doing a course, but he was talentless.”

“What do you know about an artist named Hoy?”

Terri laughed and rose to check on the baby. “That was after he dumped me. We used to go to art fairs and exhibitions. He was always on the lookout for new talent. Never found it.”

“We need to get in touch with Hoy,” said Chib.

Terri tightened the blanket around the baby. “Good luck. But I don’t have a clue. I’ll be honest with you. I don’t care that he’s dead. The bastard had it coming to him. Don’t think for a second that I’m the only one he has ever kicked in the teeth and walked away from. My only interest is what he left us.” She looked at the two officers. “Which I’m guessing is nothing.” She gestured around. “He left us in squaller. I can’t afford childcare. I can’t go back to work. And he didn’t care.”

Garrick stood, his knees cracking from the effort. He felt sorry for Terri. She was one of the ignored victims of such crimes. A loose end that could never be tied up. Given nothing and left with less.

“That’s a matter for the solicitors to sort out, I’m afraid.” He moved to her side and looked at the sleeping baby. “Did he never attempt to see him?”

“He never tried. Never asked. He stopped responding to all my messages. Just blocked me from his life entirely. I’m one of these people that is never given an explanation. I’m just expected to let life trample over me and be happy about it.”

7

“Detective Garrick, can you comment further on the murder of Derek Fraser?”

Garrick wasn’t expecting the double flash from the SLR to burst so close to his face. The sudden white light felt like needles in his eyeballs, provoking a migraine like Vesuvius erupting in his skull.

“Is it true he was shot?” The young reporter thrust her phone closer, recording very word. She had bobbed red hair and a swatch of freckles across her cheeks and nose, and the most intense green eyes he had seen. Another three men flanked her. One was a reporter he recognised, the other was his cameraman.

“No comment,” Garrick said automatically, favouring the camera.

“What about tortured?” pressed the well-informed redhead.

Garrick’s hesitation made her smile knowingly. This wasn’t how he had expected his lunchtime run to Pret to develop. He had simply wanted a break from the cloying atmosphere in the evidence room, and a chance to exchange a few messages with Wendy.

“The pathologist hasn’t yet released his report.” It was an evasive ‘yes,’ and they both knew it.

“His death is rocking the local art world. Do you think it is linked to the rise of Hoy’s success?”

Rocking the art world? That was news to Garrick.

“We’re exploring all options,” Garrick replied, stepping around the reporter and into the station. Before he could make it to the office, Drury blocked his path.

“Reporters have been calling all morning. The BBC has been chasing your case. They wanted you down the studio for South East Today. I declined on your behalf.”

Television interest was either a sign of a slow-news day, or the reporter outside hadn’t been exaggerating how the art world was responding.

“We’re going to have to give then something soon,” Drury continued, “So I want a full debriefing on where you’re at by the end of the day.”

Stepping into the incident room, Garrick was greeted by stressed looks from Fanta and PC Sean Wilkes. Wilkes was on a call; Fanta was surfing the internet. She caught Garrick’s look.

“Before you ask, it’s work. He’s gone viral.” She angled the screen so he could see a Twitter page. Garrick avoided social media and, although he was a spritely young man when the internet had boomed, he’d actively avoided it as just another fad.

“Why?” He dropped his paper sandwich bag on his desk and took his coat off. “And just how bad is that?”

“It turns out Fraser was the only connection to Hoy. He - or she - is the one who has gone viral, really. A secret artist wrapped up in a murder, well, that’s just got everybody excited. People are already asking for more of his work. It’s going to drive the price up.”

“Christ. Any luck searching the house for contact details?”

Wilkes hung up the phone. “No, sir. I was with uniform at the house yesterday and we opened every book and piece of paper we could find. Nothing. No sign of a mobile or laptop either.”

“And Fraser’s buyers?”

“Just got off the phone from the last one. He’d sold about six Hoys before the last one flew off the shelf. Just for a couple of hundred. I tell you, Fraser must have had had a good PR spin to push the price up to thirty grand. Now the other owners are all rubbing their hands with glee. None of them met either Fraser or Hoy.