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

Mark nodded, but his shoulders were tense. A bead of perspiration was forming on his brow. Garrick was never one to jump to immediate conclusions, especially as people became nervous and tongue-tied around cops, but he couldn’t shake the feeling that their visit was expected.

“Y-yes. I sell on his behalf.”

Fanta crossed to two pictures hung either side of a monitor playing fading countryside scenes.

“These two are by Hoy, right?”

Mark nodded. “Yes. That’s the artist Derek is pushing hard. A wonderful talent.”

Garrick looked at the paintings, both some two-foot long. One was a series of horizontal green lines, interspersed by the white of the canvas. Three circles were painted amongst them, two orange and the other blood red. The second painting had similar horizontal green lines intersected by jagged brown vertical scars.

“What are they supposed to be?” Garrick asked.

“The English countryside,” Fanta replied in a tone that suggested it was obvious.

Garrick’s brow furrowed as he looked harder. “I don’t… what part of the countryside, exactly?”

Mark joined them; his eyes riveted on the canvases. “This is the beating heart of what makes the British landscape so iconic.” He pointed to the first. “This is the Kent Downs. The spirit laid bare on the canvas. A spiritual ode of love and aspiration.”

Garrick gestured to the rest of the paintings in the gallery. “Are these all Hoy’s?”

Fanta scoffed. “No. Can’t you tell? The others don’t possess this energy!”

Garrick looked at her, trying to work out if she was making fun of him or not. She was unreadable.

“To appreciate art, you need to step back.” She took a physical step backwards. “Spin it around in your head.” She held out her hands, fingers forming a frame which she tilted one way then the other. “Look at it from a different point of view to challenge yourself. And check out that negative space!”

Garrick looked at her as if she’d cracked. Then he turned to Mark. “People actually buy this stuff?”

Mark looked shocked. “Of course! It’s art. The last Hoy sold for thirty thousand. I’ve earmarked these two for sixty.”

It was Garrick’s turn to be shocked. “You expect somebody to pay sixty grand for two pictures that look as if they have been drawn in a nursery school?”

“Each.” Despite his nerves, Mark looked indignant. “Beauty is in the beholder's eye. This is especially true for art. And Derek only provides Hoy’s work a couple at a time, which of course restricts the market…”

“And bumps up the value,” Garrick finished.

“He was doing a Banksy with Hoy!” exclaimed Fanta.

Mark nodded. “Why not? A phantom artist captures the public’s imagination.”

Fanta looked appreciatively at the other pieces on display. All abstract arrays of colours and shapes. “And what did Mr Fraser sell before he discovered this wunderkind?”

“Mostly local artists. More traditional landscapes and such. Things you may approve of,” he added with a sharp look in Garrick’s direction.

“But his sales only really kicked off with Hoy?”

“Yes. Derek was quite savvy in the way he promotes him. And people respond.”

Garrick gave up trying to find a deeper meaning in the smudges on the wall. If anything, the pictures were irritating him. “We need to speak to this Hoy. What’s the full name?”

“I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know?”

“Derek was his agent. I never met the artist. Nobody has. That’s part of the fun.”

Garrick and Fanta swapped a look.

“Fraser brings in the art. You pay him the money when it sells, and that’s it?”

“He doesn’t even buy me dinner,” Mark quipped. “Of course, I’ve asked to meet Hoy, but Derek is very guarded. His golden goose, he said.”

“But there was an interview…” Garrick looked to Fanta for help. He had zoned out on the drive when she had read out the Country Life article.

“There were quotes,” Mark corrected. “Which Derek sourced directly from Hoy. You’ll have to ask him. Sorry, Detective, but what exactly is this all about?”

“Mr Fraser was murdered in his home yesterday.”

Garrick studied Mark carefully. There was a widening of the eyes; a small backward jolt of the head, as if physically struck. Shock. Then, an unexpected chuckle of relief, which was quickly blocked when Mark covered his mouth with the back of the hand clutching the phone.

“Sorry. That must have sounded weird. That’s terrible, of course. But I was worried… I thought…” he vaguely indicated to the Hoy artwork.

“Why would you think it was linked to the paintings?”

Mark scratched the back of his neck in a deliberate sign of hesitation. “Because, well. They’re becoming valuable.”

“And who do you think would have a grudge against Mr Fraser?”

“A grudge? No one. He was garnering quite a reputation.”

“And how can we get in touch with Hoy?”

Mark shrugged. “That’s the question.” His face suddenly dropped as something occurred to him. Garrick read his mind.

“You’ve just realised he’s your golden goose too. Without Fraser, how are you going to get more art to sell?”

“There is that…” he replied quietly.

Fanta spoke up. “At least you have these two here. He’ll be in touch. Especially if he’s expecting to sell these for over a hundred thousand pounds.” Mark nodded. “And you will put him in touch with us.”

“Of course,” Mark mumbled.

“I want a list of every customer you have sold work to for Mr Fraser.”

“That may be difficult…” he coughed when Garrick shifted position, subtly straightening to loom over the younger man. “I mean, data protection laws and all that…”

“I understand. In that case, I will come back with a warrant and formally search every nook and cranny to get them.”

Mark cleared his throat. “But of course, as you are the police, I am sure I won’t have any such problems if I gave them to you.”

They waited a further fifteen minutes for Mark to print hard copies of each order, by which time Garrick’s bad mood was deepening. When they left the gallery, he walked at such a pace that Fanta had to double-time it to keep up.

“What’s the matter, sir?” Her slide back to formality indicated a worry that she’d