MURDER IS SKIN DEEP
M.G. COLE
MURDER IS SKIN DEEP
A DCI Garrick mystery - Book 2
Copyright © 2021 by MG Cole
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other non-commercial uses permitted by copyright law.
Cover art: Shutterstock
Contents
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Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Also by M.G. COLE
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SNOWBLIND
Start the puzzle here…
… and get inside DCI David Garrick’s head.
1
Anybody can commit a murder. Getting away with it, that’s what takes real skill.
The crunch of broken glass underfoot would wake nobody this morning. A chill breeze through the broken double-glazed patio doors brought with it a smattering of rain that cast dark spots across the parchment-coloured Saxony carpet. Manoeuvring the body in the living room was more difficult than expected, especially when the limp foot caught on the leg of the coffee table and dragged it along, spilling several luxury lifestyle magazines to the floor.
The body was positioned in front of the eighty-five-inch Samsung television. A quick search for the remote control, and the television came to life with a dreary reality show in which gormless bunch of talentless nobody’s complained about their privileged lifestyles. The volume inched upwards until one girl’s shrill regional accent became a banshee wail It was an appropriate harbinger of death. A moment was needed to make sure everything was in place.
This is how it should be. Unhurried. Careful. This way, mistakes are not made.
The faint rise and fall of the prone man’s snug-fitting Hugo Boss shirt verified he was still breathing.
Just.
That was something else a murder required: a victim.
The gun felt almost like a toy; old and uncared for. Only its weight hinted at its lethal potential. The loud reports were almost deafening in the enclosed room. But the shots were on target, creating a pair of deep-red roses across the shirt, and causing the body to jerk as it absorbed the impact. It was almost hypnotic to watch the stains grow to fist size blotches. Then blood seeped from beneath the victim as it poured from the exit wound and oozed across the carpet.
The execution was complete.
There was little point in hanging around. The catch on the victim’s Rolex only came free on the third attempt, and it was removed from the swollen limp wrist. A quick riffle through the wallet on the dining room table confirmed there was no cash inside. Now it it was time to leave.
They say murder is easy.
This one would look like it was.
2
“And you’ve heard nothing for the last few weeks?”
The top of Dr Amy Harman’s pen swayed to-and-fro over her pad in an almost hypnotic motion. Her blue eyes narrowed behind the red-framed glasses as she sized DCI David Garrick up.
Garrick pulled his gaze away and fixed it on a potted plant sitting on the window ledge. The soil was dry, and the edges of the leaves were slightly crinkled and turning brown. He hoped the good doctor looked after her patients’ mental health better than she did the office flora.
“It was just that one time. I’ve received a bunch of blank calls, but they hang up a couple of seconds after the answerphone kicks in. Typical cold callers,” he assured her.
It had been several weeks since he received a phone call he had sworn was from his sister. His sister who was murdered on the other side of the Atlantic months earlier. At the time he had been under a considerable amount of pressure from a case he was leading, and a recent health diagnosis had compounded his worries.
After taking compassionate leave over his sister’s death, Dr Harman had been assigned to him as a condition for his return to work. She was an angel and a curse. He didn’t have anybody to talk to about his inner turmoil. No family. No friends, well, not anymore. Having an attractive woman hang on his every word was a novelty for Garrick, even if she was being paid for it and analysing every syllable to gauge his mental health.
Which is why he had regretted telling her about answering a call from his dead sister. His damage limitation strategy hadn’t been a great idea either. He had hurriedly placed the blame on the growth that had been found pressing on his brain. It must have been a side effect of the medication or a manifestation of his worry. He couldn’t stop himself from throwing half-arsed solutions at her. If he went on much longer, he would probably give her all the ammunition she needed to eject him off the force.
Harman assured him she was there solely to assess his mental wellbeing; his physical was somebody else’s problem. She had been more than understanding and, prior to their next session, had taken the time to research similar cases. Coupled with the fact that the very evening of the alleged phone call, he had been warned by his consultant to avoid any head trauma, Garrick had an entire bookcase fall on him and had been laid unconscious from smoke inhalation. She assured him that would have been enough for anybody to hear voices.
Garrick had downplayed the incident, but it had really shaken him. He’d even telephoned the police department in Flora, Illinois, to check if there had any further developments in the case. There had been none.
The focus of Garrick’s stress had then shifted to the mischievous growth in his head. A biopsy would tell if it was malignant or not,
