The Secret Dawn

by Solomon Carter

  Hogarth shook his head. “Not yet… she’s after Grant’s money, we know that. Maybe she was after more than that. Maybe, the business too. Maybe Reville got in her way. I’ve seen her in action, Palmer. This woman is after all she can get.”

  “Something you saw on Instagram, perhaps?” said Palmer.

  Hogarth’s eyes flicked to hers. “Never you mind what I saw on Instagram. I’m far too old for all that malarkey.”

  “When it comes to certain things, guv, I think you’re only as old as you feel.”

  “That wasn’t a compliment either, was it?”

  A faint smirk crept over Palmer’s face.

  “You know me far too well,” said Hogarth. “It’s actually quite disconcerting,” he added lightly, as he strode past her, deeper into the house.

  “Where are you off to?”

  “To find a carrier bag for those chocolates. Any more of my fingerprints on that box, and you can bet forensics boys will have a seizure.”

  Hogarth returned with an old-style 5p carrier bag and uncrumpled it before he used the bag as a glove to grab the box. Then he wrapped the box in the bag and stuffed it under his arm.

  “I’m not yet seeing a direct link between Flount and poisoning Reville, myself, but I know she was all over Sabine Dawn’s house looking for that missing cash. Could well be that she was all over Brett Reville too. The woman’s not exactly fussy, and she knows what she wants. And if it turns out to be her, then I’m really worried.”

  Palmer gave him a questioning look.

  “Sabine Dawn is missing. If Emily Flount still thinks Sabine Dawn knows where that money is, Mrs Dawn could be in as much danger as Reville ever was.”

  “And what about Yvette George? She knew about those chocolates too, didn’t she?”

  “Of course. She was there when Brett tried to give her them… were they poisoned then? Did they know the chocolates had been poisoned? You saw Yvette George after Reville died. How was she? Shifty? Evasive?” She saw Hogarth’s questions were rhetorical. He looked like he already had a good feel for the likely answer.

  “No,” said Palmer. “She was quiet. Emotional, and still very angry with the Dawns – even more angry after Reville’s death. She knows the company will fold, and her job has effectively gone.”

  “Anger. Blame. They sound like good motives, don’t they So, are they enough?” said Hogarth. But Palmer wasn’t buying the rhetorical questions.

  “I don’t think so. She sounded like a woman bereaved, guv. Shame she can’t see what an awful man Brett Reville really was. That might make things easier.”

  “We need a result on those chocolates. I’m sure Reville was poisoned, but we can’t wait for it. We go for Flount first, she has all the motive and all the attitude. And we need to find her in case she has Sabine Dawn. Grant Dawn was all set to murder Reville himself before he snapped out of it. If he discovers his own cousin is out to hurt his wife, all hell could break loose. We need to find them, now.”

  Hogarth led the way. They pulled the front door shut against the cracked frame, and it looked almost intact. In any case, Hogarth wasn’t worried about leaving it ajar. Dead men didn’t file complaints for damage to their home.

  Twenty-two

  “Have any witness reports come in?” said Hogarth, breezing into the CID room. “Any sightings of Sabine or Grant Dawn at all?” Simmons glanced up from his desk, and saw the DI was full of energy. He had the aura of a man who had little intention of staying around for long. “No, guv,” Simmons replied. “We’ve had a few uniforms check with the neighbours, and the local shop owners, but no one’s seen her in Rochford. We didn’t get much back from the vicinity of Dawn’s office, either – where she had the meetings with Reville. If she’d have been there, we’d have had some evidence of it by now. The other firm in the building say they see staff whenever they go upstairs to GDS, so they can confirm no one’s been in all morning.”

  Hogarth’s brow tensed. “Brilliant,” said Hogarth, bitterly. “And what about Grant Dawn – the zombie on the run. I said he’d make the telly by teatime. If he keeps this up, the rest of us will be on the news too. But I’d have to call it infamy rather than fame.”

  Simmons shook his head. “No joy there, either, guv. We do know a man with his description used a Southend Cabs taxi. He picked it up from the back of the hospital, and they dropped him off in the centre of town. But he could have gone anywhere by now.”

  “Yeah. Anywhere. Except we know he’s looking for his wife, and we’ve got to beat him to it before someone else gets seriously hurt. Or worse…”

  “Are we still safe from any comeback on this?” said Simmons, looking coy in front of DS Palmer.

  “You mean the nonsense your dear old dad got us involved with? Maybe. But only if we can get Grant Dawn back on board, or the whole thing will unravel all over again. But at least we got him to A&E. That means we’ve got an independent medic verifying him as alive and well. That should stop any escalation issues in terms of the case. But we need to nab him before he does something crazy. Something else, that is.”

  “Have you got any ideas where they could be?” said Simmons.

  Hogarth shook his head. “We need something – a lead, a clue from somewhere – or this thing is just a wild goose chase. Anything back from Dickens or Marris?”

  “Not yet, guv. I thought it was too early to chase.”

  “It is. But I might be able to offer Marris and Dickens a trade for a detail…”

  “Trade?” said Simmons.

  Hogarth raised the box of chocolates in the carrier bag and rattled the remaining chocolates inside.

  “Evidence, Simmons.”

  “Evidence of what, guv?”

  “That’s for the experts to decide.”

  Before Simmons could inquire further, Hogarth walked out of the room, lifting his phone to his ear. Palmer followed, offering Simmons the usual shrug at Hogarth’s tense, flighty ways.

  Hogarth and Palmer looked left down the corridor to find Melford watching them. The DCI stood stock still by his office door, his gnarled hand on the door handle as if he was about to go in. His eyes looked troubled as ever. Hogarth didn’t acknowledge the DCI, and Palmer offered the merest nod of deference. Melford watched them go without a word. Hogarth strolled away, waiting for his call to connect. DCI Melford frowned and walked into his room.

  Hogarth marched past the uniform desks, and PCSO Kaplan peered up at them as they passed. Hogarth ignored the girl’s sheepish face. That issue was for another time, another place. There were far more pressing matters at stake

  “Flount’s not answering.”

  “You’ve got Emily Flount’s number?”

  “Yes… she gave it to me,” said Hogarth as they walked out of the station. “Unsolicited, of course. She’s had an angle the whole way through. Her angle is to turn over as many people as she can on the way to getting what she wants. Thankfully, it wasn’t too hard to spot.”

  Palmer kept her mouth shut but couldn’t help wondering how close things had gotten. Instagram, numbers on his phone. It was all questionable, but such personal questions weren’t her remit. Though she guessed Liv Burns might not have been best pleased.

  Hogarth seemed to sense some of Palmer’s thoughts.

  “You’ve not had the pleasure of meeting Emily Flount, have you? You’ll understand a lot better when you do. She’s an influencer, don’t you know? And I happen to think she’s a lot more than that.”

  “But where did the chocolates come from? You think Flount had anything to do with them?”

  “The chocolates were a present from Brett Reville to Sabine Dawn. But the man’s hardly likely to have injected the chocolates and poisoned himself to death, is he?”

  Palmer frowned a moment, considering Yvette George’s withdrawn, mournful face. Timid and broken, it was hard to conceive of her in any other light than a victim. Especially seeing as Reville would have gladly dumped her for Sabine Dawn given half the chance.


  “Well?” said Hogarth.

  “Yvette George was involved in giving those chocolates, wasn’t she?” said Palmer.

  “Yes. She was,” said Hogarth, slowing down. “You’re changing your mind? You’re telling me you think she was capable of this? Brett Reville’s been walking over her since they got together. She might have been involved with the giving, but those chocolates were in Brett’s hand. Yvette George has lost everything now. I don’t see any motive for her to try and kill Sabine or anyone else. But Emily Flount, has been on manoeuvres since the very beginning.”

  “But the chocolates? How did Flount get hold of them? You do think that box of chocolates killed Brett, don’t you?”

  “Those puncture marks say they’ve been tampered with, that’s for sure. Our Emily gets herself around. Who knows when she might have got access to them? But if the girl was intent on it, you can bet she would have done it. She’s as resourceful as they come. Take it from one who knows.”

  Palmer pursed her lips and considered Hogarth’s words.

  “She’s a chancer, Sue. If Flount thought she could get away with anything to benefit her, she’d do it.”

  “Don’t you think it’s possible we’re in danger of making another mistake?”

  “We have to make a choice and we’re running out of time. So I’m backing the one with most form. Let’s take these to Marris and Dickens and see if they can help us get this over the line.”

  Palmer chewed over her thoughts as they walked. There was no way of being certain. George might have had access to the chocolates, but no motive and no form, and her life had been ruined by the deaths. On behaviour alone, Hogarth was right to suspect Emily Flount. Add motive, she looked even more guilty. But it didn’t mean making the decision was any easier.

  ***

  The police laboratory where crime scene worked neighboured forensics. The two teams were distinct, but their work frequently overlapped. They weren’t bound at the hip, but Hogarth was pleased to find this was one such occasion where the two men were found to be in a case conference. He found John Dickens out of his sci-fi white plastic suit, instead dressed down to his standard casual police attire. Dickens was shaven headed, his face lined, and gruff. Ivan Marris was taller, serious, raptor faced, with the gentle slouch of a tall man who had been apologising for his height for too long. Hogarth pushed through the glass door of the crime scene department, and walked in to see Marris nodding, hands on hips while Dickens looked up at the taller man. Dickens was the man holding forth.

  “Gents,” said Hogarth, cutting through their conversation.

  Marris looked at Hogarth and sighed. Dickens’ brows dropped over his eyes.

  “Don’t tell me you want something – already?”

  “I mustn’t tell a lie,” said Hogarth. “But on a positive note, at least I’ve come bearing gifts. So then. Which one of you wants this?”

  “What is it?” said Marris, the forensics man.

  “A box of chocolates. But please don’t eat them. I think they’ve been laced with poison.”

  “Poison?”

  “Yeah, poison. If you look at the foil wraps on those chocolates, you’ll find each one’s been pierced. Five of those chocolates were missing. My guess is that Brett Reville munched the lot of them. I found these in his house.”

  Dickens’ eyes widened, before his expression hardened.

  “You went into Reville’s home? If you thought there was evidence in there you should have called me in.”

  “Am I supposed to call you in every time I have a hunch, John?”

  Dickens frowned. “Seeing as these are away from the scene, you may as well take them, Ivan.”

  Ivan Marris nodded and took the bag from Hogarth’s hand. “And these are bound to have your fingerprints all over them, am I right?” said Marris.

  Hogarth nodded. “Afraid so, Ivan. But only a few. I left them on the outside of the box. To make an omelette you have to scramble a few eggs, eh?”

  “So long as they’re not too scrambled.”

  Hogarth shook his head. “The rest are clear. I know it’s a tall order, but if you are able to test what’s in those things and let me know.”

  “It’s only a tall order if you want an answer today,” said Marris, peering into the bag.

  Hogarth winked. “Anything you can do would be appreciated.”

  Marris sighed.

  Dickens folded his arms in preparation for Hogarth’s inevitable request.

  “And it would be extremely useful to know if you found any of those wrappers in the car, John. That’s all I need, then we’ll leave you in peace.”

  Dickens sighed. “I think I can manage that…”

  Dickens led Hogarth and Palmer across to a side desk. There was a large shiny, transparent plastic pouch laid on the surface. There were torn wrappers inside the pouch, all pressed neat and flat as if they had been under a steam iron.

  “I don’t suppose those chocolate wrappers look anything like this, do they, Hogarth?” said Dickens.

  Hogarth’s eyes ran over the Mars bar wrappers to land on four pink and purple foil wrappers. Dickens had done his best to reassemble them, but most of them were a mess. Only one foil showed sign of the telltale holes, the rest were too damaged to be sure.

  “That’s it. Bloody hell! These are the ones from Reville’s truck?”

  “Yes. From the passenger side footwell.”

  “Is that what you wanted?”

  “Yes,” said Hogarth, with a grim smile. His eyes roved across the rest of the pouch, coming to a stop on a white plastic wrapper with some tiny electronic-style printed text on it. “What about that?” he said, tapping the pouch. “What is it?” he said, his words slow and thoughtful.

  “Bit of a mystery that one,” said Dickens.

  Hogarth leaned forward to scan the tiny writing, but Dickens put him out of his misery before he could even read it.

  “That one certainly didn’t have any chocolate in it. That was medical packaging. From the code on the packaging we’ve determined it contained a microfine pen needle. A disposable for injecting insulin…”

  The lines on Hogarth’s brow deepened. He looked at Dickens.

  “You found that in the car?”

  “Same place. In the footwell, with all the other junk.”

  “Bloody hell. Palmer… It is Flount. It’s got to be her.”

  Marris and Dickens looked at one another. “Excuse me? Who?”

  “One of the main suspects is diabetic. And she’s also the worst of the bloody lot of them…” Hogarth looked at Marris. “Ivan, I don’t suppose insulin can kill a man. Can it?”

  Marris shrugged. “Most things can kill, Inspector, if given in sufficient quantities. But that’s a question you need to direct to Ed Quentin, not me.”

  “Don’t you worry, Ivan. Quentin will be hearing from me alright.”

  “He’s a lucky man,” said Dickens.

  Hogarth ignored the jibe, his mind already racing elsewhere. He glanced at the lab clock and winced. The day was flying past. Grant Dawn had been missing for almost two hours. Sabine Dawn possibly longer than that. Finding Emily Flount was becoming more of a priority than ever.

  “Let me know, won’t you, Ivan?” called Hogarth as he led the way out of the lab.

  “Of course,” said Marris. “If you give me the chance,” he added with a sigh, as the door closed behind them.

  ***

  Hogarth pulled up at Chalkwell, already peering out at the big white house across the street. “Someone’s at home,” he said, his eyes on the shadowy movement behind the front room’s bay window.

  “She can afford a place like that? I’m surprised she needs any of Dawn’s money.”

  “Appearances can be deceiving, Palmer. It’s just another Instasham – so I’m told.”

  “An Insta-what?” said Palmer. “Emily Flount teach you that one, did she?”

  Hogarth humphed and they got out of the car. He straightened his jacket as he c
rossed the street, his eyes roving across every window on the front of the house, his ears pricked to listen for any sign of trouble within. The movement he’d seen before was now gone, but Hogarth knew he hadn’t imagined it.

  “We might have been spotted,” said Hogarth.

  They pressed the doorbell and waited. No one answered. Hogarth stepped close to the fancy coloured glass window of the front door and stared into the interior but it didn’t reveal much. No movement, just plenty of open space. But then he heard a cough. It sounded like a woman’s cough too, just audible somewhere within.

  “I’m not going to let her ignore us,” said Hogarth. He rang the doorbell again and kept his finger on it long and hard. Fifteen or twenty seconds passed before a female voice finally relented.

  “I’m coming, aren’t I?!” she called. He watched the young woman approach the glass, slender, with face distorted. But when the door opened, Hogarth was bitterly disappointed. A stranger stood before them, a young woman with long red hair, somewhere in her early twenties, wearing a tie-dye T-shirt and leggings. She gave Hogarth a vaguely disgusted once-over, then looked at Palmer. She kept the door mostly shut.

  “Who are you?” she said.

  Hogarth saw his charms seemed limited to cunning social media Influencers. It was hardly a surprise.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Hogarth, and this is Detective Sergeant Palmer, Southend CID.” He showed his ID. Now the girl seemed fascinated. The door opened wider.

  “We’re looking for Emily Flount,” said Palmer.

  “Because of what happened to her cousin? Or is it that business in Southend. The dead body?”

  “What of it?” snapped Hogarth.

  The girl’s eyes sparkled at him, as if she was reading him. Hogarth didn’t like it.

  “Emily told us. She told us what happened to her cousin – that businessman she works for – and she said she knew the dead man who was found in the car too. She said the deaths were probably linked.”

  “Did she now?” said Hogarth. “And when did she say that, exactly?”