MURDER IS SKIN DEEP M.G. Cole (best beach reads TXT) 📖

Garrick silently noted the two direct references to how close he and John Howard had been. He doubted that was coincidental. It was exactly the type of provocation he would use against a suspect.

“I can’t imagine you’re here just to stalk me,” Garrick gave a fake laugh.

Kane laughed too. “I was wondering if you ever picked up any parcels for Howard.”

“Not that I can think of. Why?”

“He used to source books from all over the world and used a variety of couriers. In addition, he was pushing his more macabre items for sale on the web, so…”

“I suppose the best way to ship a lamp with a shade made from human skin would be to use a reputable courier. FedEx, DHL, somebody you can rely on to get it to your customer unopened and in one piece. But I wouldn’t want to tell you how to do your job.”

“I was just asking.”

“Most of my time with John was spent in his bookshop. I can count a handful of times over the years that we met elsewhere, which I have told you already. He never came to my house. Never came to my place of work.” Garrick shrugged, there was nothing more to say.

“Did he know where you live?”

“Maybe. We didn’t send each other Christmas cards. He never came to my house or had anything delivered. I would always pick up books in person.” They reached Garrick’s car. “This is me. Can I give you a lift anywhere?” It was a disingenuous question, so he was relieved when Kane shook his head.

“No, thank you. I have a lot to do here.”

Garrick hoped that Kane’s gesture toward his consultant’s office was just coincidental. Not that his doctor would give away the slightest information, not even an admission that he was a client. Not without a search warrant. And what would Kane need one of those for?

Garrick was suddenly struck by how paranoid he was sounding. Was that another side effect he should look out for? He couldn’t remember.

He sat in his car and caught his breath. The encounter with Kane had rattled him more than he’d like to admit. He appreciated that a nuanced investigation into John Howard was required, and his own affiliation, not only as an old friend, but being instrumental in his death, had to be scrutinised. He just couldn’t fathom why Kane was being so circuitous with his questions. He was clumsily trying to tease some specific information.

He turned the engine over on the second attempt, and once again thought about getting a new car. Or at least, a slightly less elderly one. He turned the heater on full to clear the fogged windscreen. As the asthmatic wheeze came through, he scrolled through his emails. Amongst them was one from PC Fanta Liu. Nearing the end of an uneventful shift, she reported a woman entering the gallery and arguing with Mark Kline-Watson. She had attached several pictures taken from her phone’s camera.

Their body language was aggressive on both sides, and the meek-looking Kline-Watson was treating her to a black look. He couldn’t make out her face, but the woman was no pushover, and in several photos, she was coiled to strike. The last two pictures showed her storming from the gallery and returning to her car.

A white Fiat Panda City Life.

There was no mistaking Rebecca Ellis’ distinctive red coat, trailing like a savage scar against the gallery’s white brickwork.

13

“You looked dishy on TV.”

Garrick rolled his eyes, his cheeks hurting from the rictus of self-pity he had been pulling since he sat down with Wendy.

“You mean when I was completely thrown and looked terribly confused as I made an arse of myself on national television.”

“International. They played the clip on the James Corden show.”

“Wonderful.”

Wendy smiled and reached across the table to squeeze his arm. “I’m teasing. But until that moment, you came over very authoritative. And you look good in a suit.”

“It’s turning out to be an unusual case. The very type that makes you fantasise what early retirement will look like.”

“Now that’s exciting.”

Drizzle ran down the window of the Canterbury Tales pub, affording them a view across to the Marlowe Theatre where people were slowly gravitating for the evening show. Garrick was in no hurry. He was enjoying talking to Wendy. After a sluggish Friday at work, she was a welcome relief, making him smile when he didn’t feel like it. She unconsciously pulled goofy faces as she imitated people, recounting incidents at work, it was a look that he was finding adorable. And that was worrying him.

They had little in common, but Garrick suspected that was down to him not having many interests outside of crime, yet they were never stuck for a conversation. It may meander and be unfocused, but it felt natural.

“I always saw retirement as a long way off,” she said, sipping her house white wine.

“To be honest, I’d never considered it before.” He rolled the stem of his wine glass between his thumb and forefinger, watching the liquid swirl back and forth. “When my sister died, all I wanted to do was get back to work.” He noticed her silence and glanced at her. Wendy was watching him sympathetically. She had dropped a few probing questions on prior dates, but he had never risen to the bait. For a fleeting moment he felt like unloading his inner torment, but looking at her, anticipating an evening ahead of mindless entertainment, he decided not to bring the tone down. He forced a smile. “That makes me sound as boring as my fossil collection.”

She laughed. “And when do I get to see this infamous collection?”

“Oh, you’ll be disappointed. It’s very much in single figures,” he chuckled, before realising he had missed the possible hidden-meaning of her comment. Intrigued, he glanced up at her. She was now looking at the theatre as more people arrived. The moment, if there really had been one, had gone.

“Tell me what life was like