The Secret Dawn

by Solomon Carter

  “…no. I think it should be okay… I honestly do… yes. Look… I’m doing all I can to hold things together. It’s not easy, damn it! What more do you expect of me? I have to do it. All you have to do is chase me! You’ve got it easy. Yes. Yes. I’m going to see him about that. All of this is about timing. Timing and orchestration…”

  The way Melford was talking, it sounded as if he didn’t much like the man he was dealing with. Neither, it seemed, did he like the other man, the one he was going to visit. A man who needed to be ‘orchestrated’. Both were putting him under pressure.

  There was no way to know that either one of them were men, of course, but it seemed likely.

  Police corruption was territory very rarely trodden by female police officers.

  Corruption. There. He’d faced up to the possibility…

  One man wanted something.

  And another needed to be played, organised, to a particular timing.

  It certainly didn’t sound like a police matter.

  No matter which way Hogarth turned it, he couldn’t see past that one ugly word.

  The word which had brought him to Southend in the first place, to clear up the mess and reputation left behind by his rotten predecessor.

  Corruption. No. But it had to be. And DCI Melford seemed at the very heart of it all.

  But then there was his wife’s name on that shred of paper.

  How did she fit into this? The mild-mannered, stuffy woman he’d met twice at staff functions. The Hyacinth Bouquet to Melford’s grim John Cleese.

  Neither one of them seemed the type to take a bung.

  But Hogarth had worked in the Met for long enough to know plenty of apparently good fruit could be rotten inside.

  But here at the end of the line, it mattered even more. Hogarth had struggled to stay clear of the bad cops all his career, and he didn’t intend to get dragged down here. But the only way to ensure he could stay clear was to expose him. Or else, by degrees, he knew he would be tainted as well.

  Hogarth fumbled in his jacket, looking for his mobile phone. He took it out and dabbed the screen to switch on the camera function. He aimed the phone through the misty glass, ready to take an essential pic of the man making his phone call. IT would become only the second piece of evidence alongside his scrap of paper. And to make it stick, Hogarth knew he was going to need a damn sight more than that. He took two snaps of Melford stalking around in the car park, and as he got ready to take a third, his phone buzzed again. Bzt-bzt-bzt.. It vibrated against the glass door, and outside Melford wheeled around to search for the source. Hogarth withdrew and took a much-needed gasp of air. He hid behind the wall beside the door and glanced at his phone. Not a call, not a text. A notification! His heart started beating harder still.

  Hogarth grimaced and swiped the notification, and the app blew up to fill his screen.

  Emily Flount’s profile picture came up at the top of the screen, with a fresh message underneath.

  Please call me. I need to see you. It’s urgent.

  Hogarth winced. Urgent was in the eye of the beholder, but if it was truly urgent, then it probably wasn’t good. He thought about his exchange with Simmons… Grant Dawn being an impulsive wild-child. If either of them had done something to change the shape of the case, or had done something to expose their earlier involvement, they were stuffed. And Miss Flount didn’t exactly seem the most stable of women either. Who knew what trouble lay ahead?

  With his hangover tension reaching new heights, Hogarth dabbed the number the woman had provided. He pressed himself deep into the recess behind the door, back against the wall, hoping Melford was too distracted to bother investigating any further.

  The woman answered the call inside three rings and Hogarth was defensive from the moment she picked up.

  “Inspector Hogarth. You’re a quick mover when you want to be.”

  Hogarth shook his head.

  “Miss Flount? You said it was urgent.”

  “Miss Flount?” she said. “You were far less formal in your PMs last night.”

  “PMs?” said Hogarth.

  “Private messages. Call me Emily.”

  “I’ll think I’ll stick with Miss Flount. It’s for the best.”

  “If you like,” she replied.

  “You said it was urgent.”

  “Yes, and it really is, Inspector. I need to see you – to explain a few things.”

  “I’m listening.”

  “Not over the phone, Inspector. I think I can trust you but I need to see you right away.”

  “Where are you?” he said, his head still tight. “Still in Paglesham?”

  “No. I’m at home in Chalkwell.”

  Hogarth knitted his eyes shut. A home visit? That really didn’t sound like a good idea. But he really didn’t have a choice but to check it out.

  “Where, exactly?”

  The woman gave him an address not far from Chalkwell station.

  “Fine. But I hope you or Grant haven’t done anything stupid.”

  “Stupid? No. Nothing stupid. Actually, this is about being smart. See you soon.”

  She hung up on him and Hogarth stared at his phone. He remembered Melford and took a hurried glance out of the back door. Melford was gone, but his saloon was still there. Odd, but never mind. Melford would have to wait. Hogarth walked out into the sunshine, furtively at first – worrying Melford had set a trap for him. But Melford wasn’t there. Hogarth got into his car and started the engine. He pootled towards the security exit, swiped his card and waited for the gate to slide open, pondering the mess he’d got himself into, and how he could get himself out of it. But he found his brain still incapable of fixing anything. Instead, he drove out following the lane between the courthouse and the new Beecroft Gallery before he paused at the junction for Victoria Avenue.

  Looking right, back past the courthouse towards the obelisk of the Civic Centre, he saw a familiar figure waiting at the bus stop. Melford, phone still pressed to his ear. Hogarth watched as a metallic red Ford SUV pulled up in the bus stop layby. Melford didn’t wait. He opened the passenger door and got in. Hogarth reversed back down the side road as the gleaming Ford roared and pulled away. Hogarth strained his eyes past the reflection of the windscreen to get a look at the faces behind the glass. He saw the driver for a fraction of a moment, but all he glimpsed was a pale face with a shaven head. The impression he had of the driver was of a tough guy. A man different from Melford in almost every aspect. A man from the other side of the tracks. Hogarth let a couple of cars go before he pulled out, forcing his car into the road ahead of another stream of cars. Someone behind him hit their horn.

  “Sue me,” said Hogarth. He matched the red Ford’s pace to the junction by Southend Victoria station, then watched as the car turned left towards Southchurch and beyond. Hogarth needed to turn right. He pondered his options, ground his teeth, shook his head, and turned right for Westcliff, Chalkwell and Leigh. For now, damage limitation had to be the name of the game. He hoped whatever Emily Flount knew was going to be worth the risk.

  Nine

  Simmons sat at the desk in the back of the Paglesham lock-up, with a mug of tea. He watched Grant Dawn tinker under the bonnet of his Jaguar E-type – he was playing mechanic, but nothing more than that. Dawn’s hands were barely dirty by the time he closed the long, sleek Jag bonnet and turned his attention instead to his yellow and red Porsche 944. The yellow and red colours seemed to be part of a dated rally design. The checks and stripes did the car no favours. Without them, it might have looked like a more desirable model. The two-seater aspect had Simmons’ attention. It reminded him of the Roger Moore Bond movies he used to watch on bank holidays as a kid and it occurred to him that Kaplan would have looked good in the passenger seat. If only the car had been a better colour… black maybe. Or silver, like the E-type. Simmons slurped from a mug of tea. Dawn glanced at him and wiped the oil from his fingers with a rag.

  “You like it, don’t you? The car I m
ean,” said Dawn.

  “Apart from the yellow and red. Those colours make it look like a kid’s toy.”

  “I was going to have it sprayed all red. Once all the work on it is done. Seeing as you’re Max’s kid, maybe I could let you drive it, once it’s up to scratch.”

  Simmons nodded. It was a guarded response.

  “What is it?” said Dawn.

  “Nothing.”

  “Spit it out. You people are supposed to be on my team so I’d like to know what you’re thinking.”

  “Sorry, but you’re wrong about that,” said Simmons. “We’re not on your team. And unless we can fix this mess very soon, I can’t see us being able to keep you in hiding.”

  “Then why did you even agree to help? I’m trying to find out who wanted me dead!”

  “I didn’t agree to anything. My father didn’t even explain what you wanted or that you were alive. I thought we were supposed to help your wife, since she was grieving.”

  “That was the idea, yes. But I called Max and got you here with me instead. Sabine will be fine. Her suffering – if she really is suffering – won’t last. Not a second longer than necessary. Hmmmm. You’re quite like your father, aren’t you?”

  “I don’t think so. Why do you say that?” said Simmons.

  “Because you’re cautious. Quiet. A bit of a moody one too. But that’s okay. We all have our place in the world.”

  “Mr Dawn, if my son was a police officer, I would never have gotten him involved in something like this on false pretences. He’s got me and DI Hogarth into some difficulties by embroiling us in this.”

  “But Max would have done what he thought was best. He always does.”

  Simmons frowned. “Best for who? Best for you?”

  “Mostly for him, actually. We worked on projects before and made some money together here and there.”

  “Dare I ask…?”

  Dawn grinned. “Ask your father. Not me.”

  Simmons grimaced. “Whatever. But this can’t go on. You do understand that.”

  “No. It can’t go on very long. Which is why…” Grant Dawn looked at his watch. “Which is why,” he said again. “I’ve got someone else to help out.”

  Simmons stiffened in his seat and thudded his mug down on the desk.

  “You’ve done what?”

  “Steady, DC Simmons. Just as a precaution, that’s all. I needed another pair of hands. Someone who might be able to get a little bit closer to the suspects than you.”

  Simmons didn’t say a word, but he looked stunned. Dawn smiled.

  “It’s okay, it really is. My man is one hundred per cent confidential. You’re not going to get in any trouble because of him, I can promise you that.”

  Simmons blinked and shook his head. His face betrayed his thoughts. They were screwed.

  All of them. They were all totally screwed.

  “Who is he?” said Simmons, his voice near silent.

  “There’s no need for me to answer that.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because he’ll be here any minute. Now just calm down.”

  As Simmons shook his head, there was the sound of a car slowing down outside, slowly crunching on the gravel.

  “That’ll be him.”

  Grant waited until the door was knocked.

  “You answer the door, will you?” he said.

  “Me?” said Simmons. “Why?”

  “In case it’s Sabine or one of the other vultures…”

  “No way. I’m not even supposed to be here.”

  Simmons scowled and stayed where he was. Grant Dawn tutted and stormed off to answer the door himself. A moment later, he returned chatting with the shorter, smartly dressed man who followed on behind him. A man in a dark suit, with neat-cut, short brown hair. The man met Simmons’ eye, and they regarded one another. The grin slipped from the smaller man’s narrow face.

  “DC Simmons, this is John Gurney. John Gurney, this is DC Simmons.”

  “Okaaay…” said Gurney, frowning. Simmons found a smidgen of comfort in the fact the newcomer clearly hadn’t known of his involvement. But it was still less than encouraging.

  “DC Simmons is helping me here so I want you to be candid and open in front of him. He is allowed to see any information you’ve got for me.”

  “And you’re sure that’s a good idea?” said Gurney.

  “He’s on side. Whatever you’ve got, you can show him.”

  “If you insist,” said Gurney.

  “Show me what?” said Simmons, rising from the desk. He looked increasingly pained.

  “Gurney here is a private investigator.”

  “Brilliant,” muttered Simmons in despair. Now a man well-used to collecting evidence also knew they were arguably complicit in crimes relating to Dawn’s status.

  “Stop fretting,” said Dawn. “John’s going to be useful. You’ll see. What have you got, John?” said Dawn.

  Gurney walked to Simmons’ corner desk and pulled a manila card file from inside a dark brown doctor’s style brief case. He laid the file down on the table, and opened it up, looking at Simmons with concern. Grant Dawn ignored him.

  “First, just a few of the usual things. Yvette George went with Brett Reville to see your wife, yesterday morning. Here.”

  Gurney took a couple of blown-up snaps of the redhead and a swarthy, heavy-set man getting out of their respective cars outside 424 Longacre Road the previous day.

  There was another shot of them leaving, with Reville clutching the same purple box of chocolates and card as in the first image.

  “Look at him. Chiselling to take my social media business off Sabine’s hands before they even know I’m dead. I’d expect no less from Brett. We used to be friends once, can you believe that?”

  “But your wife refused their little card and present,” said Gurney, tapping the box of chocolates in Reville’s hand with a fingernail too clean and too neat to be human. “You were there too,” said Gurney, glancing at Simmons. “I’ve got you on my camera.”

  “We didn’t see you,” said Simmons.

  Gurney smiled. “No. You didn’t, did you?”

  Simmons didn’t like the smugness.

  “Anything else?” said Dawn as he stared at the images, stroking his chin.

  “Yes. Miss Flount was there yesterday too,” said Gurney.

  “I’m not concerned about Emily.”

  “At present, if I were you, I’d be concerned about them all. I think they all have sufficient motive to want you out of the way.”

  “No. Not Emily. She has her own thriving business, and we’re blood relatives. We’ve known each other since we were kids. Blood doesn’t go against blood. Husband and wife, well, that’s different,” said Grant. “So, what did Sabine get up to after Brett’s little visit?” he said.

  “She stayed by herself all day, drinking wine, until a quarter to four. Then she went out.”

  Simmons frowned and narrowed his eyes. “She went out?”

  “Went out?” said Dawn, ignoring Simmons. “But you said she’d been drinking…”

  “And yes, I’m certain she was drunk, but it didn’t stop her. She just took her car and went out.”

  “Where?” said Dawn.

  “Believe it or not, she went to the office.”

  “GDS? My office? Now it’s getting interesting. Why would Sabine want to go to the office at four o’clock on a Saturday afternoon? I could never get her there when she was needed, now soon as I’m dead, she’s there.”

  Gurney nodded.

  “It seems that way. Now look at this.”

  The man pulled another manila file from his bag and laid it on the desk. He opened it and slid another blown-up image onto the desk. “There.”

  Simmons and Grant drew in close and pored over the new photograph.

  “That’s your wife…” said Simmons.

  “And that’s the door of my office, with Brett Reville leaning out of it. Look at him. Look at the way he’s looki
ng at her. He’s sickening.”

  “And… there’s this one,” said Gurney.

  He slid the top photograph behind another waiting beneath it. The second image was taken from outside. Gurney explained.

  “They walked into the little downstairs lobby and shut the door, but they carried right on talking like this for a few minutes before they went upstairs.”

  “They went upstairs?” said Simmons.

  “Our office is on the second floor,” said Dawn without looking up. He stared at the image of his wife and Brett Reville. They stood opposite each other. It was hard to see through the glass as it was partly obscured by a large stencil of the GDS logo, but Simmons was sure he could see Brett Reville’s hand touching the woman’s forearm. Simmons stole a sideward glance at Dawn, then strained his eyes for a closer look at the image. Reville and Sabine were close, but their faces – caught in profile – showed a different dynamic. Reville was smiling as he spoke, while Sabine’s face was wide-eyed and severe, as if she was shouting at him. Dawn studied the image, his face grim.

  “And? Did you hear anything?” said Dawn.

  Gurney shook his head. “No. Sorry. There was no way I could have got close enough for that without them seeing me. Anyway, they stood there like this for two minutes solid, talking, arguing, whatever, then they went upstairs together.”

  “How long were they up there?” said Grant.

  “Sorry,” said Gurney with a shrug.

  “How long were they up there together? It’s a question.”

  “Maybe twenty minutes, give or take. Then she got in her car and drove home again.”

  “Twenty minutes. Twenty bloody minutes… That’s long enough. The scumbag. He didn’t just want my business, did he? He wanted everything else too.”

  Dawn paced away across the floor of the lock-up. He shook his head, fists balled by his sides.

  “What did she do after that?”