The Darkest Deed_A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery

by Solomon Carter

  “I never knew about Harry King at all,” she said.

  “You’re only a year into the job, and Harry King keeps it close to his chest. If you went there you’d never even notice it. There’s barely any signage, and HKS could mean anything. He’s hidden it well.”

  “I pride myself on knowing most things about this town,” said Perry.

  “Well, now you know one more,” said Hogarth, sipping his coffee.

  “I think we should have coffee more often, Inspector. It might prove an education for me.”

  There she was, flirting again, but Hogarth wasn’t in the mood.

  “Aimee Gillen,” said Hogarth. “Did you actually speak to the woman…?”

  “Aimee Gillen? The dead woman?”

  Hogarth nodded.

  “And she was one of these, um, porno actresses?” said Perry. He watched the girl’s mind drift away as she began to compose a story in her head.

  “One of her last calls was to a reporter? Interesting.”

  “We know she contacted you, Alice. She called you, then she texted you. Did you take that call?”

  The girl looked Hogarth in the eye, reading him before she spoke.

  “We spoke, briefly, yes. But I was busy. She sounded like one of those stricken, needy types. I guessed she had an axe to grind with somebody – an ex maybe. I get lots of calls like that. I didn’t quite cut the call immediately, but I wanted to. She sounded like a timewaster. While she was speaking I moved on to other things.”

  Such as driving, thought Hogarth. But he was no saint when it came to calls behind the steering wheel.

  “What did she say, Alice?”

  A thoughtful smile covered Perry’s face. An unreadable, Mona Lisa smile.

  “I can’t remember much of it. But I think she may have wanted to tell me about something bad happening to her friend, by which I assumed she was referring to herself, as people do.”

  “Something bad?” Hogarth sipped his coffee and kept a poker face as he shuffled in his seat. The glint in Alice Perry’s eye seemed to intensify, with the pull of a sci-fi tractor beam.

  “Yes, I think those were the words, Inspector. I don’t suppose you could shed any light on that, could you?”

  “No, Alice. I don’t think I can. That’s why I’m here asking you about it… think. Was there anything else? Any other phrase she might have mentioned? Any other words at all?”

  “What is it? What is the key word that are you looking for, Inspector?”

  “That’s just the thing – we don’t know.”

  “You think it wasn’t a suicide, don’t you?” Her eyes sparkled at him.

  “The pathology report is on the record. The woman died through a combination of circumstances, which look more like a mix of damaged health brought about by prolonged substance abuse, heat exhaustion, and damn bad luck.”

  “But you don’t believe that, do you? Otherwise we wouldn’t be talking about her.”

  “I am a sceptic by profession, Miss Perry. Now did she say anything else?”

  He watched the girl sip her mocha while she considered her response.

  “If I told you she did, then what would you tell me?”

  “I don’t do those kind of trades, Miss Perry.”

  “No?” Alice Perry leaned forward in her seat and made the hem of her skirt ride up her leg. “Then what kind of trades do you do?”

  Hogarth’s eyes flared with disdain, but he held his tongue.

  The smile on Alice Perry’s face widened before it faded away.

  “There was one thing,” she said. “I could be wrong of course, I was barely listening by the end of that call. I mean, she sounded a mess. An unreliable source at best. She said something very bad was happening to her friend. But maybe I was wrong. It might be that she didn’t say friend…”

  “Then what did she say?” said Hogarth. He pushed his vast mug of coffee aside before he risked consuming a lethal amount of caffeine.

  “I think she might have said ‘friends’. Friends, with an s – the plural, not singular.”

  Hogarth’s eyes glazed and he looked away.

  “That means something to you, doesn’t it? I can see it does.”

  Hogarth swept a hand back through his hair. “It could mean a lot of things, Miss Perry.”

  “I noticed you stopped calling me Alice a while back.”

  “Force of habit, I’m afraid,” said Hogarth. He pushed himself up out of his seat.

  “Are we done already?” said Perry. “I was hoping for some detail from you. It looks like I should have taken that call, after all.”

  “Yes, maybe you should. And not just for your newspaper, either. You could have saved us all a lot of time.”

  “You’re saying this story could be that big?”

  “No, Miss Perry. That’s what you’re hoping.”

  “If you drop a hint about this one, maybe I could call you when I have something useful,” said the girl. “Quid pro quo. I’d buy the coffee next time.”

  “Thanks all the same, Miss Perry, but I’m feeling like I need to cut down.”

  “I’ll find out what this is, you know…” said the girl, as he stepped away from their seats.

  “Oh, I’ve no doubt about that at all. Thanks for your time, Miss Perry. See you around.”

  Alice Perry picked up her mocha as she watched Hogarth walk away onto the town square outside.

  “You certainly will,” she muttered, and settled in for the rest of her drink.

  ***

  “What did you get?” said Palmer.

  “Not much, I’m afraid,” said Simmons. “The calls to Gunther and Harland were only logged as inquiries. And Gillen didn’t get to speak to a proper solicitor,” said Simmons, “Just some admin girl, and she sounded like the brainless variety to me. She couldn’t remember much at all.”

  “But they record the nature of the call?”

  “Yes. That’s about all they did do. They have two separate calls on record. The first call was about employment rights and discrimination.”

  “Eh? But they have a record of what she actually said?”

  “No. They don’t,” said Simmons. “Gunthers logged Aimee Gillen’s call inquiries under work headings to help flow the inquiry to the right solicitor or to dismiss it as not suitable for follow-up. After that first call, Aimee Gillen called back the next day and left a message on the answerphone.”

  “So they have the message?” said Palmer.

  “No. They wipe all of the weekend’s messages on Monday morning.”

  “Damn it,” said Palmer. “So, what was the second call about?”

  “It was put under the employment heading again – but this time they categorised her more specifically –Possible Sexual Harassment under the Equality Act.”

  Palmer frowned. “That’s pretty specific. That should help. And you spoke to the person who dealt with those calls?”

  Simmons nodded. “Yes. It was the same monotone admin woman. She did say Gillen mentioned the word ‘coercion’ or talked about being ‘coerced’.”

  “Employment rights? Sexual harassment? Coercion…? That all sounds a little bit soft and nuanced for someone in Aimee Gillen’s debauched state of mind. Did the woman describe how Aimee Gillen seemed to her?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Simmons. “The admin there said she was halfway between hysterical and rabid. But she said the gist of it was sexual harassment, and coercion.”

  Palmer chewed her lip.

  “I’ve got a feeling Aimee Gillen was holding back. She could have been getting cold feet about telling the truth. How did it end with Gunthers anyway?”

  “The admin sensed money was an issue on the first call. So she told Gillen to phone the police so she could get a legal aid solicitor.”

  “And it looks like that’s what she did,” said Palmer. “But she called the old community line number, not 999. What was that community number again? Pass it over will you?”

  Simmons handed the RIPA repo
rt to Palmer. She squinted at the notes until she found the number she was looking for.

  “Let’s see where this goes today…” she said. She opened the CID room door out into the open plan office where a few of the uniforms were still in residence, heads down over their paperwork or talking on the phone. Palmer dialled the number and scanned the room. As soon as the call connected, a phone started to ring in the distant corner of the office, on an unmanned desk.

  “There. The number comes through to this office,” said Palmer, turning to Simmons. “Looks like it goes to the PCSOs on the Neighbourhood Team.”

  As Palmer spoke the heavy frame of PCSO Gill Penner lumbered into view. Palmer waved at her, and Penner looked irritated. To save the woman a few extra steps, Palmer hung up the call and met her half way across the office. “Gill?”

  “Yes,” said Penner, dropping a plastic-packed sandwich onto her desk.

  “Who handles the community line calls these days? You know. The local number they used to have on the Smiling Bobby poster?”

  “That old thing? They don’t give out that number anymore.”

  “But there are a few old posters still out there.”

  “Well, there shouldn’t be. Calls should all come through to the main desk and get divvied up there.”

  “I know that, Gill,” said Palmer. “Tell me. Who answers that phone?”

  Penner looked at the phone on the end desk.

  “Whoever can be bothered.”

  Palmer winced.

  “It’s not like it rings often these days,” said Penner in defence.

  “Okay…” said Palmer. “There was a call in last Friday, a call from a woman who now happens to be dead. Do you know who might have answered it? Or where a record log of those calls might be?”

  “There is no log for that anymore. Except you know all the calls are recorded by head office… you could try putting in a request there.”

  Palmer shook her head. Accessing management only information would take a lot of patience, admin legwork, along with a lengthy justification as to why she was effectively snooping on fellow officers. It wouldn’t be an easy road to travel.

  “Did anyone mention a call from a distressed woman last week?”

  “Not that I know, and I was here on Friday.”

  Palmer’s face darkened.

  “Hey, it’s not my fault, DS Palmer. They should have cut that line when they pulled those posters.”

  “Or someone here could have done their bloody job properly,” said Palmer.

  Palmer turned away “We dropped the ball on this and someone ended up dead. Not good. Not good at all.”

  As Palmer knew, she’d said too much. By accusing the Neighbourhood Team of negligence leading to death, no one would now admit to taking the call. The team would close ranks in silence. It was human nature. Simmons looked up from his desk as Palmer trudged back into the room.

  “It didn’t go well then?”

  “No. They fucked up. The call wasn’t logged, and after Gillen died no one is ever going to admit they took it. It’s effectively a dead end.”

  “Then sexual harassment is all we’ve got.”

  “But it’s lame, isn’t it? We’ve got all this anecdotal that the woman was in pieces, we’ve got the coke which Hogarth is obsessing about, we’ve got the toxicology conundrum… but it’s nothing. We haven’t got any proof of murder. We haven’t got proof of anything aside from the fact that Aimee Gillen was a loose, drug-ridden, flaky mess.”

  “So, you’re not optimistic then?” said Simmons with a silly grin.

  Palmer shot him the look which she had spared Penner, and he blushed.

  “Sorry. Just trying to keep it light.”

  “Yeah. Light,” said Palmer. “DCI Melford’s given the guv a virtually impossible ultimatum to prove his suspicions. He’s got Commissioner Johnson against him, and the top brass too. If we don’t find something, I honestly think Hogarth will be in some serious trouble.”

  “I don’t get it. Why is he in the crap? When I went to hospital he was like a folk hero.”

  “I don’t know, Simmons. Something’s going on with him in the background. I think the DCI knows about it.” Again, Palmer realised she’d said too much.

  “Like what?”

  “Probably nothing,” said Palmer, covering up her own suspicions. Simmons didn’t need to know much more. She liked Simmons, but still didn’t know how far she could trust him with personal opinions like that.

  “Probably nothing?” repeated Simmons, doubtfully.

  “Yeah. But that doesn’t stop the top brass having their knee jerk reactions, does it now? Hogarth needs our help.”

  “And he’s getting it. We’re doing our best, aren’t we?”

  The door creaked open. Palmer’s heart skipped when she saw Hogarth’s weary frame filling the doorway.

  “Doing your best? I should bloody hope so too,” said Hogarth. He walked in and dropped his backside onto his chair. “We haven’t had any fly-bys from DCI Melford while I was away, have we?” he said.

  “No. We’ve been busy,” said Simmons.

  “And?”

  “Gillen’s police phone call was a dead end, guv. Nobody has bothered with that old community line since the posters were pulled.”

  “Bloody typical,” said Hogarth. “And the solicitors?”

  “Sexual harassment under the Equality Act is all they’ve got…” said Simmons. “She said something about coercion too.”

  “Are you sure? Aimee Gillen doesn’t strike me as your women’s libber type. Not with what she did for a living. What’s that all about, I wonder?”

  “It’s the way Gunther’s categorise their calls, guv,” said Simmons. “Just because they say it’s sexual harassment doesn’t mean it was. They mentioned employment and coercion too remember.”

  Hogarth’s eyes flickered. “Coercion… No. You could be right there, Simmons.”

  “What about Alice Perry? Did you manage to get anything from her?” said Palmer.

  “Yes, I did as it happens,” said Hogarth, his brain spinning off on a tangent. “Sexual harassment, eh? That’s a very broad heading, wouldn’t you say? And someone on the edge like our Aimee Gillen was in her last days, I dare say her complaint was about something far more substantial than a lewd comment and a pat on the backside.”

  “Guv? What are you thinking?” said Palmer.

  “I’m thinking this isn’t just about Aimee Gillen.”

  Hogarth glanced up at the office clock. It was late, almost the end of most people’s working day. He was tired but still wired from coffee.

  “I think we’ve got time for one more interview, don’t you?”

  Palmer looked at Hogarth’s weary face and gave a slow nod.

  “Where to?” she said.

  “As if you can’t guess. Back to everyone’s favourite porn studio. Where else? Come on, let’s go.”

  Twenty-four

  Hogarth ignored the red light above the studio door. The red light meant that filming was underway, and if filming was underway, Harry King was in residence. He could have gone through the process of consulting Lana Aubrey beforehand, but the woman always seemed too busy, and Hogarth didn’t fancy any more mind games. The direct route was always his favourite.

  “I hope this isn’t going to offend your sensibilities, is it, Palmer?”

  “Not any more than most days in your company, guv,” said Palmer. Hogarth double-checked her face and found a faint smile. “That’s good then. Because here we go.”

  Harry King had made him squirm before, but now it was King’s turn. Hogarth went into the studio to find the grand piano in use for making an altogether different type of music. The top of the glossy black piano was swathed in white duvets, and the two actors he had seen before were now entwined. They lay naked, their bodies angled for the camera and bright lights, displaying their wares for the whole world to see. But they were still. The set-up looked almost painful to his mind. Like a yoga pose cr
ossed with Twister.

  “Bloody hell,” muttered Hogarth. He coughed, as Palmer stepped in at his side. The actors looked up at him.

  “Harry!” called the moody brunette, and nodded Hogarth’s way.

  “Hey! You again,” said Harry King. “What are you doing here? This is a film studio, not a drop-in.” Harry King stood up and threw his arms up in the air. “Cut, cut, cut! We’ll have to do that bloody part over again. Nigel, you need to give it more oomph my man. You look like you’re ready to fall asleep on the girl!”

  “Uh, okay, Harry.”

  The little man threw his clipboard down on his chair and stepped over the feet of a man holding the boom mic.

  “What do you want now? You’ve invaded my building, occupied my studio, and now you want to interrupt filming at will? This is way too much. Way, way too much. You people are out to destroy us here.”

  “Not quite, Mr King,” said Hogarth. He saw the actors and the production team’s eyes were on the little man’s back. Hogarth suspected the man’s bluster was for his team’s consumption. “But we do need another word, Mr King, and yes, it’s urgent.”

  King blinked at him. “Will it help us get you out of our hair any quicker?”

  Hogarth nodded. “I’d have thought so.”

  “Then come on,” he turned back to the scene under the lights. “Take five, people. I’ll be back soon.”

  King led Palmer and Simmons back into the production room and shut the door. “I see you’ve brought reinforcements,” said King, glancing at Palmer.

  “We’ve made some interesting discoveries Mr King,” said Hogarth. “Some of which we need to discuss with you.”

  “Discoveries? Like with Marvin, you mean?”

  “He’s certainly one of them.”

  “Well?”

  Hogarth pulled a chair from the desk and sat down, King followed suit and so did Palmer.

  “First of all, you’ve got a drug problem in the studio. But then I think you know that don’t you. But what I wonder is to the degree you knew about it.”

  “Know about it? Have you taken a walk around this town, Inspector? You’ve got junkies roaming the streets. You’ve got kids smoking spliffs in the parks and on the beaches. You’ve got every kind of drug from the whole world out there. Did you actually expect my studio to be any different?”