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

are no defensive marks on his hands or arms.” Garrick frowned. He was being assaulted, but hadn’t raised his arms to ward off the blows? “And there are indications some wounds were a few days old.”

“He could have been restrained. Send Wilkes to Tenterden and find out when Fraser was last seen out and about.”

Drury’s office was overly warm, enhanced by a rare showing of the sun directly blazing through the window. There were no blinds or curtains, so when she sat behind her desk she was forced to squint.

“How’re you feeling, David?”

“Absolutely fine.” He declined from sitting down. He was eager to get on the road.

Drury angled away from the window, shielding her eyes from the glare, but she was stalling as she picked her words carefully. Something that was quite out of character in all the years Garrick had known his superior officer. She was a powerhouse who rode roughshod over people’s feelings if it got the job done.

“Dr Harman seems pleased with your sessions.” Garrick nodded. He couldn’t think what the right response would be. “In fact, she has suggested that you would benefit from continuing them.”

Garrick tried not to react. The sessions had been in place since Christmas, just after he attended Sam McKinzie’s funeral, the man he had thought would become his brother-in-law. Sam was found murdered on a remote snowbound ranch in Illinois, with a few other victims and signs that Garrick’s sister, Emelie, had been abducted and later killed. Therapy wasn’t something he had requested or even considered, but he had found it useful. He also remembered it was only supposed to be for a couple of months.

“I’m happy either way,” he said diplomatically. It would be a shame not to see Harman again, although preferably in a non-professional setting, but alarm bells were ringing. Did Drury really think she needed to keep an eye on him?

“Good,” Drury said, suddenly a little more chipper. “Then let’s do that. It can only be a good thing.” She hesitated again, and Garrick sensed that wasn’t the only issue on the table. “Especially after the incident with John Howard.”

Since wrapping the case of concerning murdered immigrants, several other agencies had stepped in to take control. From the National Crime Agency, who were unpicking the drug smuggling network Garrick had uncovered, through to the Military Police who were reopening John Howard’s old service records since he was dishonourably discharged while serving in the Falklands Conflict. Garrick’s friendship with him over the years had meant that, although he had solved the case, loose ends needed to be taken up by other detectives with no personal connection to the serial killer.

“I’m dealing with that scumbag just fine,” he assured her.

Drury steepled her fingers, once again searching for her words. “I’m sure you are. It’s just that you may be called upon to give evidence about him.”

“Naturally.”

“I mean beyond just this case.”

“He’s suspected in something else?”

“Early days, David. The movements of a man like him need to be thoroughly examined.”

“A cold case?”

“I’m not privileged to know any details. Other than I’ve been asked for your cooperation, should it be required.”

The energy he had been feeling minutes earlier evaporated as he dragged his heels to his car with Fanta in tow. She was talking rapidly and with more enthusiasm than he could muster. It took over an hour to make the thirty-mile drive, by which time Garrick had already forgotten half the things she had said.

5

Rye was a picturesque historical village, set a couple of miles back from the Channel on the conflux of the rivers Brede and Rother. Often cited as one of the most photographed villages in the UK, Garrick began questioning its popularity as he struggled to find a parking spot in the cramped Lucknow Place car park. He could smell the refreshing scent of the sea from here, and hungry gulls swooped overhead. The ticket machine was broken, but Fanta assured him she would pay on her phone, if she was reimbursed before the end of the week.

They walked down the narrow East Cliff Street as it curved onto the equally tight High Street where barely two cars could pass. Populated by several cafes, local souvenir shops, a traditional sweet shop and a couple of art galleries promoting local artists that all gave a distinct air of respectability to the town. Cinq Arts Gallery sat on the corner. A quaint whitewashed lower front was crowned by a distinctive crimson tiled upper story. Stepping inside dispelled any notion of old school antiquity.

Monitors hung on the walls, displaying images of rolling artwork, while ever-changing LED lights cast pools of vibrant colours across the walls. Smooth and slow contemporary drum music played over a hidden speaker system. Twisted sculptures made from stone or metal were Interspersed between the monitors. Above them hung a dozen abstract paintings. Garrick recognised two in the same style as those in Fraser’s living room.

A gangly pale thirty-something, in a black tight polo neck top and jeans far too tight to be comfortable, appeared from the back. Impeccably groomed, his black hair was shaved at the side, but shot straight up by several inches in a fashion that Garrick assumed was supposed to be stylish, but he suspected it was more ironic. A single diamond earring sparkled in the mood lighting.

“Welcome!” he waved with one hand, his mobile gripped in the other. “Are you and your daughter looking for something specific?”

Garrick heard Fanta’s snigger from behind. She had left her hat in the car and was wearing her police jacket, but the Police insignia was blocked by Garrick. He was only 41, and although PC Liu looked younger than her mid-twenties, he still couldn’t pass as her adopted father. Bloody millennials. He held up his card.

“I’m DCI Garrick, this is Officer PC Liu,” he said their names with pointed emphasis and the man’s smug smile dropped. “Are you the proprietor?”

“Yes, sir. Mark Kline-Watson. How may I help… officers?”

“I believe you sell work for an art