MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

Fraser was strictly a middleman. Art to gallery. Money to him.”
“Bank details?”
“That’s where it gets interesting,” Fanta chimed up. “All payments from Mark Kline-Watson were made to an account in Panama.”
“Wonderful. Always naturally helpful, Panoramian bankers.”
“Panoramian? Is that an actual thing?”
“What else would they be?”
“I’m sure it’s Panamanian. Are you thinking of Pomeranian? That’s a type of dog, I think.”
“Whatever you call them, throw everything we can at them for details, but don’t hold your breath. What about former criminal liaisons?”
“Harry is still doing the rounds. On the whole, they’re all delighted Fraser got what they thought he deserved. And they all have watertight alibis.”
He looked up as Chib entered with a scowl. “What happened to you?”
“I was ambushed outside. Have you seen the reporters?”
“There were a couple.”
“There’s more at the car park gate. They’re multiplying.”
“Not enjoying the limelight, Chib?”
She sat at her desk and pulled a face as she logged on to the computer.
Ignoring them, Fanta continued. “Border Force came back with details on Oscar Benjamin. He’s been back and forth to Portugal every few months. He pops over here for a few days every now and again. He’s in the UK now. Arrived in Gatwick two weeks ago.”
“Portugal? Same as the ex.” He saw the look on Chib’s face. She was thinking the same thing. “Did Oscar run off with Mrs Fraser? Do we have an address for Oscar Benjamin?”
“No. We’re looking out for him.”
Garrick clasped his hands behind his head and stretched his shoulders back with a satisfying crack. He looked at the evidence board that was now filled with pictures of anybody linked to Fraser. Most were taken from social media.
“To summarise, we currently have one dead body. An artist we can’t trace. An alleged criminal who might be sleeping with his ex, but who we can’t yet find, and whose brother is in prison. Which rules him out. The ex-wife in another country and the ex-girlfriend who is delighted to see him dead, but she has an alibi.”
Everybody fell silent.
“That leaves us with an art dealer who has everything to gain,” said Fanta. Everybody turned to look at her. “He called earlier. Those two Hoys sold this morning. A hundred grand each.”
Garrick’s jaw slackened. “What’s his commission on that?”
“Thirty per cent.” She saw Garrick’s lips moved as he calculated. “Sixty thousand British Pounds,” she clarified.
“I wonder how much of that Fraser gets to pocket?”
“Still waiting on his bank records,” said Chib. “Then we’ll know.”
The rest of the afternoon resulted in a quick message exchange with Wendy, confirming Saturday was going to be a splendid night at the theatre, with a few drinks beforehand. Their previous dates had been slow but fun, and he had taken them one at a time with no expectations. This was the first time he was looking forward to one, despite the fact they were seeing a musical called ‘Curtains’.
The end-of-day deadline for Drury’s update was looming when the final forensics report from the house came in. Chib read it in silence for several minutes, thoughtfully tapping her lips with her index finger before Garrick prompted her.
“Is that the next Dan Brown you have there?”
Fanta threw him a look. “Who’s he?”
Chib pointed to the report. “They only found Fraser’s prints around the house. They’re all logged on IDENT1 from when he did time.” The UK’s national fingerprint database housed everybody’s biometrics data if they had had a brush with the law. “Nobody else’s.”
“So the killer was very careful. This sounds more premeditated than a spur-of-the-moment B&E.”
“There’s a lot of DNA evidence in the living room. Well, hair.”
“Do we have a match?”
“Nothing on record. But isn’t that strange? The killer probably wore gloves, but not a hat. It’s the most obvious DNA to leave behind, so it seems odd to me.”
Garrick sighed. “So far, we are telling the press that we are looking for a man without a hat. Well, that certainly limits the scope of the investigation.”
PC Harry Lord’s return to the office confirmed more dead ends.
“Nobody was unhappy to hear that Derek Fraser is dead. Everybody has alibis. The only thing I could confirm was that he owed Oscar Benjamin money. A quarter of a million was mentioned a few times.”
“That’s a lot of money.”
Harry nodded. “As far as I can work out, it was lent to him for the car dealership, which is why Fraser moved into petty crime after he did his time, so that he could pay him back. There was talk that they had met up a few times to work out the debt, but again, nobody is sure.”
Garrick was thoughtful. “It would be handy to have a link between Oscar Benjamin and that account in Panama.”
“Panama?” Lord looked around the room. “Have I missed something?”
“Nothing gets past your radar, does it Harry. Although, I wouldn’t mind a brew.”
Harry sighed. He hadn’t even got his jacket off before being demoted to tea boy.
It was six o’clock on the dot when Superintendent Margery Drury entered the incident room and demanded an update. The very short presentation was greeted with crossed arms and a deepening vertical furrow between her brows.
“I have to say,” she finally said, “in my whole career that has to be about the briefest briefing I have ever heard. No witnesses. No strong suspects. No motive.”
“We have hair follicles at the crime scene, which I bet match Oscar Benjamin. I would say that’s very compelling. And if we track him down by the end of the evening–” she added hopefully.
Garrick halted her unrealistic expectations. “If he is the killer, then he’s smart enough to go to ground.”
“Although it is rather convenient,” muttered Chib.
Garrick threw her a look. “Chib–”
“DS Okon, why is that?”
Chib shifted uncomfortably in her seat as Drury focused her impatient wrath on her. She glanced at Garrick, who rubbed his temple and shook his head. The pain from lunchtime’s migraine was still wearing him down.
“The follicles were only in the living room, around the body. Nowhere else.”
“Because they struggled,” said Garrick. “Which is