The Secret Dawn

by Solomon Carter

  The

  Secret

  Dawn

  A Gripping Crime Mystery

  The DI Hogarth Secret Fear Book 2

  Solomon Carter

  Great Leap

  One

  Friday.

  The bleak and empty roads cut through the flat fields and marshes ahead like a rusting blade. The road was winding, rough and rustic, the landscape bleak, but it suited him down to the ground. He dabbed the stiff accelerator with his toe. The car growled, and the speedometer needle edged higher around the clock. Grant Dawn smiled. Nobody understood why Grant Dawn insisted on owning a lock-up so far into the godforsaken sticks of Paglesham. For most people, Paglesham was beyond the end of nowhere. In winter it seemed still more remote, but Grant Dawn loved it anyway, warts and all. Paglesham was a wide-open space with a strange coast of fractal-like inlets, muddy creeks, and salt marshes punctuated with the detritus of two hundred years and more of boating history. If the wild grasses could ever be cut, they would have revealed a never-ending, always changing coastline, infinitely detailed and wrinkled as a walnut. But Grant Dawn wasn’t interested in the minutiae of the landscape. He was a big picture man and he kept a lock-up on the loneliest edge of barren Paglesham for two reasons. For one, it enabled him to store his favourite cars somewhere he could admire them without being sniffed at by the women in his life. Two – the quiet, lonely lanes of the salt marshes made for a truly excellent drive. A drive to clear the head. A drive to wipe away the concerns of the day, the arguments, and the whinging hints about cash flow problems. Yes, the cash flow issues were a very good reason to keep his cars away from the others, because he knew they’d see his motors as potential problem solvers. Selling his cars would be a way to stem the lack of cash in his exciting, needy business. But Grant knew when his cars were sold and the lock-up gone with them, his business would still be as needy as ever. It was like a child. A demanding spoilt child. The business was doing well, serving them all, but it was greedy and all-consuming of their attention and money. He often wondered if he should have pulled out of the damn thing and let the others have a crack, and yet no. It couldn’t be done. The firm had his name all over it. Grant Dawn Social – GDS for short. Under pressure, Grant had recently succumbed to the idea of rebranding, calling the firm something funky and fresh. But he had a penchant for keeping his name in there somehow. Hmmmm. New Dawn, maybe? Bright Dawn? No. But the others, mostly women, said the new name had to be a zingy one-word affair in order to stay truly zeitgeist. Sunrise? No, oh no, that one sounded like peanut butter, or a dodgy old people’s home. First Light? Two words, but getting better… but deep down, Grant Dawn knew the women wouldn’t be satisfied until the name had been made as personal to them as one of their own handbags. Grant Dawn decided to hold out for as long as he could. Social media firms were supposed to be cool, yes, but he was already cool, wasn’t he? Granted, he was forty-three years old, and his hands had turned veiny with the first leatheriness of age. He looked at his hands on the steering wheel, tutted, and tried to shake off any notion of ageing. After all, age was just a concept, right? He gripped the steering wheel of his favourite car, an early eighties Ford Capri in Ferrari red, and spun the wheel to take a tight right as a battered lorry hurtled around the corner towards him. The deep horn blared loud. The lorry forced him to take a wider line, almost jumping up over a grassy rut into a ditch. These marshes were flat lands, but roads often surprised, changing from straight to precariously windy, and occasionally a clutch of gnarled trees would block the view of what lay ahead. Grant held his breath, yanked the wheel away from the ditch, dabbed the brake, and seized control of the car just as it veered away from the bend. The Capri was all about muscle, showing the old car who was boss. Power steering? None at all. But he loved it all the same. But the brakes didn’t bite too well either, and the car’s worn tyres slid over the first rough rut of the grasses before he managed to find safe road again. He sighed in relief. All of his cars needed a little work. A gross understatement, perhaps. In the early days each of his projects had been well loved – from the outside, his red Capri looked like a dream – but it growled too much and it burned oil almost as fast as petrol. It needed a tune-up, but it still drove like an old-fashioned racing car. Grant stopped at the barren left-right junction signposted for Canewdon or Southend. Married and without children, he was a man-child without the obligations of many men his age. No kids. Just a wife, a big house, a garage full of tasty cars, a block of money to sit on, and a business to help him chase his dreams. He could do whatever he liked but he looked at the late evening sky and thought of home. It was time to go home and rescue the glass from Sabine’s hand before she drank another damn bottle. He smiled wearily and shook his head. The woman was a true lush, but she was gorgeous with it. She was his beautiful lush. Shame the drink was making her so distant these days. Though he felt certain the distance wasn’t just down to the wine alone… He turned the Capri in a tight U-turn and headed back towards the nothingness of Paglesham – its marshes, fields, mud, and almost hidden waterways were turning silver grey in the moonlight and fading to blackness further on. He would open her up one last time before he went back to sit with his wife. So why not make the last drive a memorable one, eh? He ramped up the speed on the first chicane-like bends, and in anticipation of thrills to come, changed gears ahead of time and slammed his foot hard on the accelerator. The car bolted forward as if shot from a catapult. He grinned like a child as he hurtled towards what felt like the end of the world. Ahead, the straight road was coming to an end, and now he had to choose the turning for the quiet pub or go back towards the lock-up. He pushed the car again, harder still, until the final few curves forced him to slow the pace. But slowing wasn’t easy. The brakes were erratic and much worse this last couple of days. Dawn dabbed and hit them hard to get more bite. On the very last bend before turning for home base, he dabbed the accelerator a touch heavier than usual. The brakes bit in, then failed altogether. The car slid wide on the bend, snaking wildly down the slipway towards the murky waters of the River Roach. The car passed the rusting hulk of a dry-docked fishing vessel, the rotting carcass of a Morris Minor, a pile of chains, and rust-stained buoys as it skidded down the slippery concrete. Grant hit the brakes again. Still no purchase, no bite, nothing at all. His foot plunged again and again, hitting like a hammer, but the car skidded left and right as he turned the wheel hard to avoid the pull of the slope. But there was too much momentum, too much gravity. The car spun out of control, finally turning so Grant Dawn was forced to face his destiny. The slope fell steeply and the car plummeted down the gradient into the black, moon-reflecting brine. The front of the car crunched into the water and mud, before sinking into the freezing blackness. The windscreen shattered as the weight of the water pressed hard and the muddy water trickled in as the glass cracked. As the high water flowed finally over the car roof, the water burst through the windscreen and gushed over Grant Dawn’s face. He felt the car sliding and drifting deeper into the mud. He tried to pull his seatbelt free, but the water now filled the car completely. In seconds all air had gone. There was only darkness, and the freezing, watery embrace of the end of the world.

  Two

  Simmons frowned.

  What the hell is wrong with me? His voice was loud inside his own head. It was louder than the smooth guitar pouring from the speakers. It was more intense than the spice of the chorizo meatballs he’d endured and dowsed with continental lager. But whatever was wrong with him, Simmons couldn’t help it. He was living in his head, second-guessing every failing move… But there was nothing he could do about it. Ecrin sat before him, looking like a dream. He watched her pop an olive into her mouth. She chewed, making eating look elegant and sipped her white wine w
ithout a hint of the self-consciousness that Simmons saw in her when she was in uniform. Tonight it was as if they had swapped roles. And seeing her without the uniform made her seem more than he had hoped. She was intimidatingly good looking. Ecrin Kaplan was a Mediterranean beauty of the highest order.

  “What’s the matter?” said Ecrin. She sipped again and set down her drink. “You couldn’t stop talking at work today, but you’ve clammed up tonight. Is anything the matter?”

  Simmons got hooked on the sparkle of Kaplan’s eyes. It took a moment to gather himself enough to respond.

  “No. No,” he said. “The working week’s just caught up with me, that’s all.”

  Ecrin smiled.

  “I’m glad it’s over too. Two weeks in and one murder case under my belt already… And there I was expecting Southend to be a nice, easy place to start my career. I could have gone to the Met and earned a lot more for the same job. Who knows? Maybe, I made the wrong move.”

  Simmons shook his head.

  “No. I don’t think so. It’s not all murder cases and horror around here. There’re some real characters here too. They make life interesting.”

  “Like Roly Smundle and Neville Grint, you mean?” said Ecrin, grinning.

  “No. I meant proper people. The townsfolk. They’re not all bad. Then there’s DI Hogarth, of course. Who could forget him? He’s a bit of a legend, don’t you think?”

  “He’s certainly an enigma,” said Ecrin, her eyes briefly misting in thought. “But DCI Melford seems even more interesting, if you ask me. All those clocks in his office – he’s eccentric, isn’t he?”

  “That’s his hobby. Antique clocks. That’s why we call him Long Melford.”

  “What?” said Ecrin.

  “It must be a joke for people of a certain age. Long Melford is a town famous for selling antiques. And DCI Melford is pretty long too, as you might have noticed.”

  “Long? Yeah. Thanks, DC Simmons, I got that part.” Ecrin sniggered and sipped her glass.

  “Don’t DC me. And you don’t really look like PCSO Kaplan tonight.”

  Ecrin chuckled. “Fine. Will Simmons do?”

  “Mark, please.”

  “Mark? Okay, Mark it is,” she said.

  “This is nice,” said Simmons, forcing himself to relax. He picked up his pint, half gone already, and the starter wasn’t even finished. He looked at the glass and told himself to slow down.

  Ecrin Kaplan looked down at her plate and teased a chorizo meatball with her fork.

  “You know… This is nice, Mark, but… I still don’t know if it was the best idea to come out for dinner together. I’m too new to make a mistake of any kind. You understand that, don’t you?”

  Simmons winced. He sighed.

  “But there isn’t going to be any mistake, Ecrin, so don’t worry. This is just dinner. We’re friends, right? We’re talking shop, that’s all.”

  “You said you could tell me about the staff, the unwritten rules, how everything works…?” said Kaplan, her voice careful.

  “And I will. But we may as well enjoy some dinner and a glass too, eh?”

  Ecrin looked up at Simmons, her eyes searching for the intensity she had seen since they’d arrived. Thankfully, she saw only a warm smile. Simmons lifted his glass and Ecrin followed suit. His eyes briefly traced the line and shape of her elegant, slender arm to her bare shoulder, so pretty in her spaghetti-strap dress. He forced his eyes away as Ecrin clinked her glass against his

  “To you, Ecrin,” said Simmons.

  The girl hesitated.

  “No,” said Kaplan. “To a new friend and a new career.”

  “New friends, then,” said Simmons. The words were less than he’d hoped for. They clinked their glasses together again and Simmons gulped another third of his pint down, then finished his spicy meatballs to spite his mouth.

  “You’re sure you’re okay?” she said.

  Simmons looked up and met her dark eyes.

  “Couldn’t be better,” he said.

  Kaplan didn’t look entirely convinced.

  “Ecrin!” called a voice from the door behind their table. Kaplan turned to see a pretty girl and two young men strut into the restaurant. The newcomer and her companions had the same caramel coloured skin as Ecrin. The woman walked inside and advanced towards them, but the young men hung back a few feet like teenagers.

  “Oh my God, Olivia!” said Kaplan. “What are you doing here?”

  Simmons watched as Kaplan came to life. She stood up from the table, clattering her fork to the plate. In a split second, Ecrin changed from a sophisticated and intimidating beauty to a loud, enthusiastic girl barely out of her teens. She walked away over the cobbled floor and embraced her friend, and they started to chat, loudly. Simmons only caught some of it. He watched Ecrin turn to point him out. Simmons nodded, and the girl waved and gave him the once-over. The two men looked at him with a guarded greeting, before they returned their focus back to Ecrin. They spoke mainly English, though Simmons was sure they were speaking a bit of Turkish too. After a few minutes of watching, by which time Simmons’ pint glass was empty, Kaplan led her friends to their table. Now Kaplan was the one who seemed sheepish.

  “Olivia, this is Mark Simmons… Mark, this is Olivia and this is Refik and Kaspar.”

  “Well, well… this looks nice and cosy,” said Olivia.

  “Cosy? Oh, it’s nothing like that,” said Ecrin, blushing. “Mark is a detective at the station. A colleague. He’s just helping me settle in. We’re just friends, aren’t we, Mark?”

  “Yeah, yeah. Friends. Absolutely,” said Simmons.

  The two young men gave Simmons a knowing look and one of them smirked. Simmons stood up.

  “I’ll think I’ll just go and get…” but he saw no one was listening. He picked up his pint glass and headed back to the overpriced bar. Suddenly Simmons didn’t fancy his main course. What he wanted was three more pints, and maybe a kebab to finish. A kebab was going to be the only company Simmons would be taking home tonight. He raised his hand to catch the eye of the hipster barmaid. As he waited his mobile phone started ringing. The blue-haired barmaid arrived to take his order just as he put the phone to his ear. Simmons didn’t speak. Instead he tapped the chrome Czech lager tap and got ready to part with a fiver. The barmaid conjured up a glass shaped like an expensive vase and Simmons took out a fiver from his pocket. He answered the call.

  “Yes?” he said. The music was loud and Simmons had to poke a finger in his ear to hear.

  “Mark. It’s me. It’s your dad.”

  “Dad? What are you calling for? I mean, sorry, but you know… you hardly ever call and it’s Friday night…”

  “Yes, yes. And are you well?” his dad said quickly.

  “Yes, I’m well. What about you?” he shouted.

  His father ignored the question. As usual, he quickly got to the point.

  “No need to shout! Mark, you know I never usually ask you for any favours… but something’s come up and I’ve got no choice. It’s a bit of a shock, actually. Seems one of my friends has had a terrible accident.”

  “An accident?”

  “Yes. A car accident. A man called Grant Dawn. Do you remember him?”

  Simmons frowned. His old man was as fickle with his friends as he was about everything else. There was no reason he would know any of his father’s friends.

  “No, sorry, Dad, I don’t.”

  “Well, you’ll soon know all about him, I’m afraid. I heard the news on the radio, and I called his wife right away. Grant Dawn had an accident out in Paglesham. Looks like he lost control and drove his car right into the river there…”

  “Is he…?”

  “We think so. The news bulletin said his body is missing… Sabine, his wife, said the coastguard thinks his body could have been dragged away in the current. Grant was a bit of an adrenaline junkie. I bet he wasn’t even wearing a seatbelt and it was high tide when it happened. Awful to say, but I dare say they’l
l find his body washed up in one of those muddy inlets tomorrow morning. Poor man. Grant was life and soul of the party, he really was. I’d never met a couple like them.”

  Simmons looked around to see Ecrin laughing with her young friends. She caught Simmons watching from the bar, and her smile dropped a fraction. Damn it. Her friends made her smile and he made her frown. Simmons tutted to himself.

  “Five pounds sixty please,” said the barmaid.

  “How much?!” said Simmons, turning abruptly to face the blue haired barmaid.

  “Five sixty. It’s our premium beer.”

  “Was it brewed with champagne and truffles?”

  The woman rolled her eyes as Simmons handed her the money.

  “Where are you, Mark?” said his father’s voice in his ear. His voice was demanding and snappy. Funny. It really wasn’t so different from the internal voice which had ruined his dinner date.

  “Mark?! Are you even listening to me?” said his father.

  “Yes, Dad. I’m listening. But it’s Friday night remember? I have a life as well, you know.”

  “This is important, Mark. I’m sure you’ll be able to help.”

  “Help? In what way?” said Simmons.

  “I don’t know yet. I just said you would. It’s the least I could do, under the circumstances. The woman is beside herself.”

  “Yeah. Right. The least you could do,” said Simmons, shaking his head. “Okay. Let me see what I can do.”

  “Good man. I knew you wouldn’t mind. I’ll tell Sabine you’re on standby.”

  “Standby? Standby for what? And who the hell is Sabine?” said Simmons.

  “You just enjoy the rest of your evening,” said his father, and the call ended. Simmons stared at his mobile, dumbfounded. The barmaid clattered a little silver tray on the bar with his change and turned away without a word. The little tray implied she wanted a tip. For what exactly? Simmons collected every penny of his change and was gritting his teeth when Ecrin appeared at his shoulder.