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

Surrey, and the prospect of driving down to Maidstone to view the new Hoys first-hand was one she couldn’t pass by.

The two pieces of artwork sat on a dust sheet to protect the frame from the floor and had been unceremoniously propped against a steel evidence rack in the small secure room at the police station. To Garrick’s eye they looked just as he remembered them in Fraser’s living room: awful. Jasmine Slater crouched reverently in front of each and took them in. Every so often she would sigh with delight.

“They certainly look like originals.” She used her little finger to indicate the brush strokes. “See the paint is layered in the horizontal? Quite thick at times.”

“Like a child slashing at the canvas,” said Garrick.

Jasmine was too engrossed to pick up on his sarcasm. “Almost. Yes. The verticals are not as heavy, which is in line with the previous work. And the juxtaposition of the primary colours and primitive shapes…” Words failed her as she stood, her eyes never leaving the canvases. “The issue is that there are only a few other works to compare the artist’s technique. On the other hand, that makes it more difficult for a forger because so little is known.”

“But your best guess is that they’re genuine?” Chib prompted.

“Indeed. Although the real expert is Mr Fraser.”

“He confirmed they were real.” Only thirty minutes earlier he had stood in the very room and almost wept when he saw his precious paintings were intact. “We just needed a second opinion.”

Since she had made the journey to see them, they allowed her another ten minutes of breathless appreciation, listening to her extract meaning from the abstract. They escorted her out and then made their way to the interview room.

“Since when did you become a luvvie, Chib?”

“What do you mean?”

“Nodding and gasping at all the bollocks she was touting. Were you like that in public school?”

“When an expert explains things to you, it’s easier to see hidden meaning and digest it. Didn’t you feel something when she explained the emotions on display? How the colours were in direct conflict with the meaning?”

“All I heard was a bunch of arty-farty bull. If art has to be explained, then it’s not working. I still can’t see how that junk is better than anything drawn in a nursery. Proper art should look like, whatever it’s supposed to be. When I see a picture of fruit, I know what it is.”

“What about the emotional trigger?”

“Yeah. I see fruit, it makes me hungry. My point is I know what I’m looking at.”

Chib chewed her lip for a moment, then said, “A little girl draws a picture of a horse. Her teacher says, ‘You drew the horse wrong!’. The girl looks at him and asks, ‘How?’ The teacher points and says, ‘You drew wings on it. It isn’t a horse if it has wings!’. The little girl replies, ‘Then why did you call it a horse?’”

They stopped outside the interview room. Garrick blinked at her.

“Is that supposed to be a joke?”

“Maybe it’s an allegory.”

“Because jokes are also not funny if you need to explain them. That kinda proves my point.”

Inside, Fraser was seated with his solicitor, Rosamund Hellberg. She had a legal pad open on the desk and had made a page of notes. She carefully closed it so Garrick couldn’t see what was written.

Chib started the recording and introduced the participants. Garrick leaned on the table and looked Fraser squarely in the eyes.

“I hope you are satisfied that your artwork is safe.”

“Aye, but you just better make sure you’re insured too. Just in case.”

“Always thinking of the important things, Mr Fraser. I commend you. After all, the paintings were the first thing you asked about when I told you Mr Kline-Watson had been murdered.”

Hellberg rolled her eyes but said nothing.

Fraser pulled a face, as if the answer was obvious. “Of course. You told me he’d been murdered, so there was little point in asking if he’d gotten any better, was there? Don’t mean I wasn’t sorry for the lad. He’d done well selling me paintings. I couldn’t fault him.”

“Would you categorise your relationship as a friendly one?”

“Absolutely.”

Garrick nodded. “And, because of course I have to ask, can you confirm where you were last night, between eleven and nine this morning?”

“In the hotel. Had a few snifters at the bar before going to bed. Then had breakfast there this morning. I have a question for you. He had a buyer lined up for those paintings. More than one, at least that’s what he hinted at. He never told me their details. Did he leave any records, notes, emails about them? I have a duty of care to my client, you understand.”

“We can look into that, but at the moment any information is held as part of a murder enquiry.”

“They’re my customers!” snapped Fraser. “That’s my information you’re withholding!”

For the first time since they’d met, Garrick saw Fraser was genuinely concerned. He understood why. The art was rapidly making his career, and the new amounts offered defied common sense. As much as he disliked the man, Garrick felt sympathetic.

“I wouldn’t worry. If people are willing to pay so much for them, they’ll reach out directly to you.”

Fraser took a sip of water as he thought about that. His expression suddenly brightened, and he nodded.

“Of course… I wasn’t thinking straight.”

No, thought Garrick, although now you’ve just realised you don’t have to pay the commission to the gallery either. Another death following the mysterious artist’s work had all the hallmarks of more than bad luck.

“Who did he have issues with?” said Chib.

“You mean, who’d kill him?” Fraser shook his head and thought. “Nobody I know.”

Garrick and Chib swapped a look. She had made door-to-door enquiries, and the initial response painted Mark Kline-Watson as an affable member of the community. His brief spike in popularity had a beneficial knock-on effect in the town as more visitors came to the gallery. She had copied footage from several doorstep cameras, which