The Secret Dawn

by Solomon Carter

  Hogarth’s face screwed up. He’d wanted to face the woman on the basis of her character and her form. But as she spoke, his speculations faltered. Hogarth pushed on, looking for the solid ground he hoped was just out of sight.

  “I didn’t know how you’d done it, Emily – but I do know you’re capable of it.” He fell silent and waited.

  “My ways might not be your ways, Inspector. But I’ve never harmed a soul,” the young woman shook her head. “You have me wrong.”

  Hogarth swallowed.

  Palmer skipped down the stairs. “There’s no one here. Every room is empty.”

  Hogarth frowned, sick at himself for not resisting the obvious. He had wanted it to be Flount, believed it was her. The woman had been too flagrant, too arrogant, too willing to put herself above everybody else… and yet he knew she had been detached from the others in almost every other way. The business could never have been hers, no matter who died for it. The cash was her only available prize. Her sole obsession.

  “Maybe you’re not a killer, Miss Flount,” said Hogarth, quietly. “But we all know the rest of what you’ve done.”

  Why had he been taken in by Emily Flount? Because of what? The moment he’d passed her in the door and felt her breath on his face? She had captivated him and Hogarth hoped no one else was going to pay the price.

  “Everyone?” said Flount.

  Hogarth nodded.

  “What? You went and told Grant I was looking for his money?!” she said, angry and incredulous.

  “It may have slipped out by accident,” said Hogarth. “But Grant seemed to know already. He knows you too well.” The white car. The chocolates. The neon flowers. His brain hammered away at the clues, and dragged new details from his memory… He had discounted Yvette George too easily. Always the bridesmaid, never the bride. The pitiful wallflower who was always the victim, no matter what. But when Reville died, her future was over. What motive did George have? None he could see. He couldn’t see it – but the chocolates had been there, so what if…? What if? Hogarth felt a chill. They needed to go. He needed to find Yvette George. And another thought hit him – he remembered her car. The white Audi hatchback, seen once on Sabine Dawn’s driveway last Saturday morning. The first and only time he’d seen it. And all the while Emily Flount wouldn’t let up.

  “And what if I tell someone all your little secrets regarding this case?” said Flount.

  “You can do whatever you like, Miss Flount, because if I don’t find your cousin and his wife alive, your petty revenge will be the least of my worries…”

  Flount shifted on her little feet and frowned.

  “Do you really think they’re in danger?”

  “That’s the only reason I came here,” said Hogarth. “Sabine Dawn was last seen getting into a white hatchback in central Southend. Right now, she’s out of contact, and our witness said she looked upset. Grant Dawn is out of contact too. So, yes, I’m worried.”

  “Grant would kill anyone if they tried to hurt her,” said Emily.

  “And that’s one of the things I’m worried about, Miss Flount. One way or another, we have to find them. So, if you know anything at all, now is the time to tell me.” Hogarth’s jacket began to vibrate, his mobile buzzing in his pocket.

  “I’m not the only woman with a white car, you know…” said Flount, echoing his thoughts. Palmer frowned.

  Hogarth scanned the screen of his mobile. Emily Flount and Palmer looked at him.

  The call was from the pathologist, Ed Quentin. Hogarth was barely able to hide the faint squirm of hope in his voice, but hope was fading fast. The case was slipping through his hands.

  “Hogarth!” said Quentin. “I’ve got some news for you. I’m still certain that Reville died from massive cardiac arrest…” Hogarth’s smile slipped away. “Reville’s heart showed early signs of developing heart disease… but… as I say, only early signs.”

  Hogarth’s face turned quizzical. “But you just said he died of a heart attack? I’m confused, Ed. Was it a cardiac or not?”

  “Yes, yes. It was heart attack alright and I must say it did seem entirely natural, especially at first look. Blood samples reported the usual levels one would expect to see after a cardiac arrest. But after you called, a closer inspection of the results had me thinking that the potassium chloride levels were a little off.”

  “Potassium chloride?”

  “Yes,” said Quentin. “It’s an element present in the human body to one degree of another, often very visible in the deceased, whatever they died of. But the second time round I noticed the potassium levels were quite elevated – consistent with someone who’d taken too many health supplements for instance.”

  “Health supplements. No. I don’t think Brett Reville spent much of his ill-gotten gains in Holland and Barrett.”

  “No, quite. So I did another test for the potassium chloride and it showed even higher, far too high to be natural. In fact, it’s too high for any supplements, unless he was misusing them.”

  Hogarth waited for the bottom line. He could feel Quentin’s theatrics building to the pent-up release of the necessary information. He willed the man to get to the point.

  “Potassium chloride is useful to the human body in modest amounts. It’s sometimes prescribed after a bout of diarrhoea or vomiting bugs… but in amounts like this – and combined with the state of Mr Reville’s already damaged cardiovascular health, a massive heart attack was almost inevitable.”

  “Yes, Ed, but was it murder?”

  “With levels like this? It’s certainly not by accident. I’m going to run toxicology to be sure – but if you suspect potassium chloride was ingested through those chocolates, well, Inspector, I wouldn’t be at all surprised if you were right. And that would be poisoning.”

  Hogarth nodded. His grim face took on hint of relief. “Thanks Ed.”

  “Does it help, Inspector?”

  “Let’s hope so,” said Hogarth.

  He thanked Quentin and hung up. He looked around the hallway, ignoring Emily Flount’s eyes, his mind elsewhere, scanning his memory for the details he’d missed. Potassium chloride was a new one for him.

  “He confirmed it was murder?” said Palmer.

  “He’s running a toxicology report to prove it. But yes, it’s murder.”

  “And did you hear what I said…” said Flount. “I’m not the only one with a white car. Did you know.”

  Hogarth’s temples bulged as he nodded at her. “Yvette George,” he said with a sigh. “I saw her car once. Parked out there on the driveway last Saturday morning and it slipped my mind ever since. But the chocolates… they gave Sabine chocolates and she turned them down. It was too obvious. We were looking at the sabotage. And Yvette had no motive.”

  Palmer nodded. “The woman loved Brett Reville… she was grieving. I saw it. She didn’t fake that. She couldn’t have planned it.”

  “But she killed him all the same.”

  Hogarth turned for the door.

  “Good luck with your treasure hunt, Miss Flount.”

  Emily Flount watched them leave, hands on hips, and they left her alone in the ransacked house. She watched the policeman open the car door and she studied his face one more time before he ducked into the car and started the engine. Inspector Hogarth certainly wasn’t her usual type. Much older too. But he would have been interesting, nonetheless.

  The car pulled away and she closed the front door.

  “Good luck to you too, Inspector,” she muttered, and turned back to the hallway for the task at hand. She would find that money, even if it killed her…

  Twenty-three

  “She’s not in,” said Palmer. Hogarth paced across the narrow front lawn of 169 St John’s Road, abandoning the front door to pull at the pine gate at the side. The gate held and Hogarth stretched his arm over the top, reaching for the bolt lock.

  “Guv, she’s not in,” said Palmer. “She would have answered. And this is hardly the kind of place where you can k
eep someone prisoner. It’s got windows everywhere.”

  “How would you know?” snapped Hogarth, as the sliding bolt nicked his finger.

  “I’ve been in there. It’s a big ground floor flat, there’s really nowhere to hide.”

  Hogarth sucked his finger and turned to the surrounding street. There was hardly any off-road parking to be seen. The cars were pressed tightly together on both sides of the street and there was no sign of a white Audi hatchback in the whole area.

  “If she’s not in there, what then, eh?” said Hogarth. He turned to face Palmer, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. “Of course it had to be her. The quiet one. The shrinking violet. The one with nothing to gain from any of this. Of course it was!”

  Palmer searched for something to say. But she had been no less at fault. Yvette George had seemed to be leading a life of quiet desperation, and just like most other people in the world, she had seemed resigned to it. Ready to live with whatever came her way without complaint. She was normal. She was a nobody.

  “We need to get in there,” said Hogarth with new resolve. He jabbed a finger at the front door and started to move. “There’s bound to be something in there. A note. A plan. A receipt for the potassium chloride, another address, something – something that could help us. We’ve been stuck before, Palmer, we can get out of this one too.”

  She saw it in his demeanour. The doubt. They’d played every hand badly from the very start. And in the end, there were only so many bad hands to be played before the game was lost.

  “Guv… we’d be better off calling her friends and family. They might know something about where she’s gone. Her habits. Her favourite places to go.”

  “It will take too long!” he snapped.

  “But what can we find in there? I’ve been in there, believe me. We need to try something else.”

  “Damn it,” said Hogarth. “Melford will be rubbing his hands in glee if I mess this up.”

  “He’s too distracted to care about that,” said Palmer.

  Hogarth sighed and dragged a hand through his hair. “You’re probably right. Okay. We’ll try and play it sensible for once.” Hogarth gave Palmer a weak smile. “There’s always a first time, eh?”

  They got back into Hogarth’s car and he drove them back towards the station. He drove in silence. Palmer saw the tension in his neck, felt it in the way he drove. Hogarth was struggling with something deeper. He swore and grabbed the mobile phone he had dumped on the dash.

  “Who are you calling?” she said, as Hogarth dialled and drove.

  “Here, let me do it,” she said, but Hogarth ignored her. As soon as the phone connected, he dropped it to his lap and raised his voice to a bark.

  “Simmons!” he called. His efforts to be heard hurt Palmer’s ears.

  “Guv?” said Simmons.

  “Heard any more about Sabine Dawn? Or Grant Dawn perhaps?”

  “Nothing as yet, no.”

  “Then get PC Dawson out there – and anyone else worth their salt. We need some help on this.”

  “We’ve already got eyes out there looking. I’ll call you soon as we hear anything.”

  “Make sure you do,” he said. Hogarth hung up.

  He turned to Palmer. “Who knows… if we drive around the known spots, Rochford, Alexandra Street, we might still catch them before something happens.”

  Palmer nodded. It seemed a waste of time, but they were out of options. They drove from St John’s Road towards the GDS office, quietly scanning the streets for white cars and familiar faces. By the time they reached the high street neither had said a word.

  “Another drive past Longacre Road? See if that white Audi has shown up…?”

  Palmer nodded, knowing they were both unwilling to admit the obvious. They were stuck and all but beaten. Hogarth had turned the car past the back of the high street when his mobile started to buzz again. He picked it up and glanced at the screen.

  “Bloody hell. That’s the last thing I need. Another procedural discussion with PC Heybridge. Here, Sue. You answer it. Tell him I’m driving. Tell him anything you like to get him off the line.”

  He tossed the mobile to Palmer and she caught it in her lap. She cleared her throat and got her professional voice ready.

  “Hogarth’s phone, DS Palmer speaking… No. Sorry. He’s driving at the moment. Can I pass a message on? Get him to call you back…?”

  Hogarth glanced at her. From the silence and the look on Palmer’s face he saw Heybridge must have been giving a lengthy reply. He was glad he’d passed her the phone. Hogarth pretended to yawn, but Palmer didn’t smile back. She seemed strangely engrossed in whatever Heybridge was saying.

  “Really?” she said. “I think DI Hogarth had better hear this. Let me put you on loudspeaker.”

  Hogarth shook his head and mouthed ‘No’ but Palmer pressed the button and laid the phone on the centre of the dash. Hogarth frowned.

  “Hogarth here.”

  “Hello, sir. I know you’re driving, but I really think you should hear this.”

  “Go on,” said Hogarth, interest suitably piqued.

  “The forensics on the Capri are in. The underneath of the car was virtually smashed apart as it left the slipway – and they say the damage prohibited any serious attempt to determine if there had been any sabotage on the mechanical aspect of the brakes. It was also very clear there was a very substantial amount of wear and tear left unrepaired even before the accident. I don’t suppose you’ve spoken to Mr Dawn about the state of his vehicle prior to the incident.”

  “Not as such, not yet, we’ve been a wee bit busy with other matters,” said Hogarth with a hint of blag. “But we’ll get on to that soon enough.”

  “I think you might want to, sir. The forensics tell me that the vehicle’s chassis was the only part of the car which had been well maintained, but most other parts were in disrepair to one degree or another.”

  “I did hear something about Mr Dawn running his cars on a budget.”

  “More like spit and string from what I’m told. They’re doing their best with what’s left, but silt from the river is still a problem, sir. The engine is chock full of it.”

  “Any definitive word on the sabotage then?”

  “There’s one last check to go. They were cleaning out the last of the tubes before they can give a definitive answer, but they’re working on it and we should hear anytime.”

  “Very good, Heybridge. Thanks for the update.”

  “No problem, sir… But there is something else I wanted to ask you about.”

  Hogarth’s brow dipped over his eyes.

  “Go on…” he said wearily.

  “About Flowside.”

  “About Flow what?”

  “Flowside. The name of that old brick barn building where Grant Dawn was holed up for the weekend…”

  Hogarth gritted his teeth and got ready for a damaging insight from the detail-oriented PC – one which would likely undermine his whole elaborate cover story. “Yes…”

  “I wanted to ask if anyone is currently permitted over there, sir – or perhaps if any of our police colleagues are there at present?”

  “Why do you ask?” said Hogarth.

  “Because I went past the place not fifteen minutes ago and saw a car pulling up on the driveway. Anything I should be aware of, sir?”

  Hogarth shifted in his seat. He glanced at Palmer.

  “This car, Heybridge. What did it look like?”

  “White, and definitely not a squad car. A hatchback. It looked a bit like an Audi, I think.”

  Hogarth’s head snapped toward Palmer.

  “Paglesham!” said Hogarth.

  “Bingo,” said Palmer, using the man’s own word.

  “One of yours, is it?” said Heybridge.

  “A nice new Audi? Not bloody likely. But thanks for the tip-off. I might even owe you one after this. Keep your phone on, will you? I’m heading there right now. I may need you to join me.”

>   “You expecting trouble?” said the nasal PC, with more than a hint of interest.

  “Always,” said Hogarth. “I’m hoping I won’t need to call you, but be ready, just in case.”

  Hogarth dabbed the end-call button and Heybridge disappeared before he could utter another word.

  “Why’s she taken Sabine there?” said Palmer.

  “We thought George didn’t know the lock-up existed. I’ve been so wrong about that one, I dread to think,” said Hogarth.

  ***

  Paglesham seemed further away than ever before. The roads through Rochford and Ashingdon snaked and snarled, and a roadworks contra-flow just past Rochford station only added to the mix. Hogarth swept past the red light, bursting down the flank of the waiting queue, stopping the oncoming cars to a symphony of car horns. Ashingdon Road was gone in a blur, and soon they were roaring out into the hedgerows and flat country lanes. But the scenery offered no comfort. Hogarth pushed on down the winding lanes, going so fast on the bends Palmer had to seize hold of the door handle. “Careful. We don’t want to end up like Grant Dawn did.”

  “You’ll be okay. Just hold tight. A car like this needs opening up once in a while.”

  Palmer pushed back into her seat and fought against a rising sickness.

  A few miles away, a white Audi hatchback was tucked away discreetly at the far end of the red brick barn called Flowside, completely hidden from the road. The car’s engine ticked quietly as it cooled. Grant Dawn turned to wave a curt goodbye at the taxi driver. He turned away, grim faced and pulled a new pack of cigarettes from his pocket. Marlboro reds. He hadn’t smoked them since his twenties, and he was disturbed to find a grotesque photographic warning of the dangers of smoking plastered all over the pack. It was far from appetizing, but Dawn felt the need for something to stave off the guilt and the nerves. He couldn’t find her anywhere. Their house had been abandoned. When he’d tried again there was still no sign of her – only Emily’s Fiat 500 was on the driveway instead, and he was in no mood to face her. Everything had backfired.