MURDER IS SKIN DEEP

pans hung. A granite worktop ran around the edge. A large American-style fridge-freezer stood in the corner. An impressive gas-range cooker ran along one wall. The oven and microwave were discreetly blended amongst the cupboards. There was another patio door that looked across the dark rear garden. Garrick ran his fingers over the granite work surface, then looked back into the living room. It offered a partial line of sight to the extension.
“If the time of death was after five, he would have probably had the lights on rather than stand here in the dark.” It was March, and the daylight hours still felt far too short. “And it doesn’t look like the thief searched in here either, unless we’re dealing with a particularly tidy criminal.”
He moved back into the living room and frowned. “And if Fraser was in here, then he would have seen the bloke break the window. Double glazing is tough. It doesn’t always break first time. He should’ve had enough time to dial 999.”
“Assuming he had a mobile. I can’t see a landline.” Chib frowned. “Then he must have been elsewhere in the house and walked in on him.” Garrick nodded. “But there were no other lights on. Not in the hall or upstairs.” She pointed to the door Garrick had entered through. “There’s another reception room through there with a pool table and a running machine. The lights were off.”
“He could have turned them off as he was passing through, before seeing the intruder. And if the TV was on loud, he may have been trying to listen to it from another room.”
“If the killer was already inside as Fraser entered, then he would have caught him by surprise because the TV would have drowned out any warnings he may have shouted. Our intruder would have turned,” Chib mimed the movements of the killer, raising her hand as if wielding a hammer, “and struck him in the face.” She smiled, satisfied with her reasoning. “They struggled.” She moved around the room, closer to the body. “And he fell here. Then he was shot.”
Garrick chewed his lip thoughtfully.
“Why break the window?”
“How else was he going to get in?”
“I know it’s a quiet area, and the driveway is a way back from the road, even so, wouldn’t the back garden be a more secluded point of entry than the front? And if it was the only room in the house lit up, then our burglar would know there was somebody in, especially if he could hear the TV. So why break-in here?”
Chib opened her mouth to answer but couldn’t think of anything logical to say. She shrugged.
“What about his car?”
“There’s a Mercedes S-Class Coupé in the garage. But as you said, a petty crook wouldn’t take that, would he?”
Garrick circled his finger around the room. “This isn’t gelling for me. It feels more deliberate.”
“Like a hit?”
Garrick met her gaze and raised his eyebrows as if to say, why not? He turned to the victim on the floor. “We need to find out everything about our Mr Fraser. Who is he exactly?”

4
Kent’s Serious Crimes Department was in a pokey austere building in Maidstone, a hangover from hasty post-war rebuilding. It was a far cry from the spacious old Sutton Road HQ, which was sold off due to budget cuts. With a seemingly constant chill blowing through ill-fitting windows and suffering from intermittent heating, it wasn’t the most pleasant place to work. Although Garrick’s team were universally relieved not to have been moved to Northfleet, but they feared it was just a matter of time.
The overnight rain had swelled the banks of the River Medway as it churned a brown soup through the city, but the sun had come out this morning, bringing with it the first real hint of spring. A new start. But not for Derek Fraser.
PC Fanta Liu pinned a photograph of the victim on the evidence wall, standing on tiptoes as far as her petite five-five frame would allow, and provoking sniggers from PC Harry Lord, who was a couple of years older than Garrick. A sharp look from PC Sean Wilkes silenced him. Fanta ignored the heckles. After their last major incident, she was riding high after being congratulated on her input and was feeling bulletproof. She addressed the team.
“Our deceased is Derek Alan Fraser. 46, killed in his home in Tenterden.” The photograph showed a strikingly handsome man with his arm around a woman, both against the backdrop of an azure sea. Even with a mane of thick white hair, he looked young. “This piccy is fourteen months old, sent by his ex-wife. Rebecca Ellis. She uses her maiden name and is living in Portugal. She didn’t sound to cut up when I spoke to her. She claimed they had an acrimonious divorce and seemed quite proud that she had taken him to the cleaners.”
Garrick harrumphed. “Judging by his car and house, he was doing pretty well anyway. What did he do?”
Chib spoke up, sitting on the edge of her desk as Fanta placed pins in a map of the area. “He was an art dealer. Mostly working with a gallery in Rye.” Fanta dutifully placed a pin in the small East Sussex coastal town. “But before that he had a chequered history.” She read from a printout. “He ran a scrapyard outside Tunbridge Wells and was nicked for fencing stolen cars, which he sold at a small dealership he had in Tonbridge. He did two years for that. After that, he was implicated in a marketing scam, extracting money from pensioners for new boiler systems that either never arrived or were installed so poorly that Harry here would look an expert.”
Harry Lord held up his hands as if to say, what did I do?
“I’m starting to dislike our poor deceased wretch,” said Garrick. He hated the moment in a case when he had to immerse himself into the victim’s life. It often brought up unfulfilled dreams and hopes that had been