The Darkest Lies: A Gripping Crime Mystery Series - Two Novel Boxed Set (The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Boxed Sets Book 1)

by Solomon Carter

  Dawson ran into the crowd by the body, and pushed a few drunken gawpers away from the victim with a forceful shove. “Police! Move away! PCSO Rawlins!” he shouted. Bec nodded. She was on her way. “Get them to shut off the music and tell the security to lock the doors, sharpish.”

  Bec looked ashen when she reached him. Dawson knelt by the body and pressed his fingers into the side of the big man’s neck, hunting for a pulse. But he felt nothing. He looked up at the faces ranged around them, looking for someone half-useful as he hunted for the eyes of the culprit. He scanned them for a few seconds. The truth was it could have been any of them and none of them looked fit to help.

  One of the bar staff leaned over the bar. He looked like a school kid. “Is he…?”

  “Just call an ambulance will you?!” snapped Dawson.

  The man nodded and went away to do as he was told.

  He tried for the pulse again, but it wasn’t there. Dawson looked up at the faces ranged around him. They were waiting for news, eyes appealing to him, like they were watching some bloody crime movie on Webflix. But very soon they would get the news they were waiting for. He would try CPR, but Dawson already knew for certain it would fail. There was no hurry for an ambulance. The bully was dead.

  Chapter Two

  Detective Sergeant Sue Palmer was far too tired for a late night call-out, but these days, crime in the town wasn’t letting up. There were enough cases and names on the CID room incident board to keep them busy for a month of Sundays. And just when she thought she had some time to herself, it had happened again. Lying on her bed, indulging in a chicken chow mein with prawn crackers and an NYPD Blue boxed set for company, the phone call from DI Hogarth was most unwelcome. And with it went all chance of sleep. DS Palmer regretted the Chinese as soon as she put the phone down. Her stomach felt bloated and her mouth was greasy. Not that DI Hogarth would have thought twice about snaffling a quick Kung Po washed down with his favourite whisky before a job, but Sue Palmer was a woman and whatever the blokes said, it was different. At least Hogarth wasn’t one of the PC brigade who said there was no glass ceiling. Hogarth was a dark realist with a cynical sense of humour. Lately Palmer had almost gotten used to Hogarth’s unintended sexism. It had almost become amusing. And under Hogarth’s rough, rotten exterior, she had found a sliver of charm which made her wonder about the distant possibilities… maybe if she was working on the team in the other office, it could have worked. Maybe. But then she had seen no signs that he was in the least interested in her. No clear signs, anyway. Oh well. The dating sites would have to wait for another night.

  Palmer parked her battered Vauxhall hatchback on the yellow lines on the corner of Luker Close, central Southend. The close was a dead-end street adjoining the middle of Southend’s busy high street. It was lined by a mix of long-closed office blocks, the newish student union bar, and the nightclub, Club Smart. Palmer stepped out of her dented Corsa and tried her best to present a businesslike air to hide her chow mein stomach. As she walked along Luker Close to the door, a homeless guy who lived under the neighbouring shop canopy drifted past and gave her a once-over. At least some men still wanted to look. Palmer shook her head with a weary smile. At thirty-seven years old, Palmer was a single blonde with a few white hairs already showing. And she was a committed career copper with no spare time. It was hardly good material for her dating profile. If nothing happened soon, she’d be eyeing up hobos herself. She marched towards the uniforms guarding the front door. The officers were chatting with the club doormen as if they were on the same team. It showed how naïve they were. In Palmer’s experience club doormen were often linked to criminals. It simply went with the territory. The uniforms seemed to feel Palmer’s weary gaze fall on them. They instantly shut their chattering and stiffened their backs.

  “Any update, Jordan?” she said to the younger of the PCs as she passed him by.

  “Nothing yet. No sign of the weapon or the perpetrator, as far as I know.”

  “No one would tell you anyway, would they, Jordan?” said PC Orton, the bigger and heavier of the men. Orton was a bit of a pillock. Palmer was too tired for the banter. She stepped between the uniforms with a thin smile then walked into the sparkly purple corridor by the cloakroom and ticket desk.

  “What’s her problem?” said Orton, when she was out of earshot.

  “Hogarth, I reckon,” said Jordan. “I wouldn’t want to work with the man either.”

  Orton laughed like a drain.

  Under the unforgiving strip lights the interior of Club Smart looked like a cave with added flashes of neon. Nightclubs were never supposed to be seen like this. The darkness was how they got away with the low budget décor. Or lack of it. The whole place was dirty and cold, like an industrial warehouse with added sparkle and grime. The club goers had been kept back, still standing about in their short sparkly skirts, smeared mascara and drink-glazed eyes. The men were sweaty and bleary eyed. What a sight. Everyone looked ready for bed. Detective Inspector Joe Hogarth didn’t look any better, which brought a mite of comfort. His straggly ginger-brown hair looked shaggier than normal, but it always looked like it needed a cut. And his shirt collar was untidy. He had dressed in a hurry. His favourite navy-blue blazer, tan chinos, and brogues were all in place, but even they looked scruffy. The DI stood in his customary stance with hands in his pockets as he spoke to a small young man in a black polo shirt, while Ivan Marris from the forensic crew and John Dickens from Crime Scene began to unpack their equipment around his feet. Palmer looked down at the place where the body had fallen. Hogarth was so busy asking questions he hadn’t yet seen her. Palmer looked around the club until she saw a pair of familiar eyes. The young blonde PCSO Rawlins looked as glamorous as a film star in her little party dress. Looking at the girl was almost depressing. “Rawlins?” said Palmer. The room was quiet, apart from a low chorus of hoarse whispers. DI Hogarth’s eyes darted her way.

  “What are you doing here, Bec?” she continued.

  “Night off. At least it was supposed to be. I was here with PC Dawson.”

  “Oh, were you now?” said Palmer, with a wry smile.

  Rawlins blushed, but she needn’t have. Her relationship with Dawson was well known by now. The joke was that they were the royal couple of Southend nick. Harry and Meghan eat your heart out.

  “Don’t worry, Bec. I’m only jealous. I haven’t had a night out in years.” Or a man, she thought. “I wouldn’t know what to do if I did. If you want a life, Bec, please don’t join CID.”

  “CID? I’m not even a WPC yet.”

  “That’ll come soon enough. So, what happened here?”

  “It was a stabbing, with no sign of who did it. No one seems to have seen a thing. Rob—I mean PC Dawson said he’d seen the fella throwing his weight around before he was attacked. Sounds like the guy had only been here for a few minutes before he got stabbed.”

  “And no one saw anything?” said Palmer.

  “Not that I know.”

  “Or are they just too scared to say…?” she said.

  “You’d have to speak to DI Hogarth. He’s been grilling the people who were at the bar where the man was stabbed. Hogarth has had me and Rob carrying out searches for the knife. But we haven’t found a thing.”

  “You’re sure the killer didn’t get out?”

  “Ninety-five per cent sure. We locked the doors as quick as we could and security helped us hold everyone back.”

  Palmer saw a tall, shaven-headed man in a black bomber jacket. He was chewing gum and was built like a brick outhouse. “Security being helpful are they?” she said.

  “Why? You think security could have been in on it?” said Bec doubtfully.

  “At this stage, we don’t know a thing. But I wouldn’t ever rule them out, that’s for sure. But if the place was sealed up in time, that means our killer must still be here…”

  “Don’t bet on it,” said Dawson, appearing at Palmer’s shoulder. Palmer looked up at PC Dawson’s clean-cut face. She
smelt the beer on his breath but the man seemed sober enough.

  “Why not?” said Palmer.

  PC Dawson looked at Rawlins. “I think a couple of them could have got out just in time…”

  Rawlins frowned at him while Palmer waited for an explanation.

  “You’re telling me the big man was good as gold all the way up until he was attacked?” said Hogarth, with more than a hint of irony. “All sweetness and light, was he?” said DI Hogarth, rubbing his eyes. The young barman in front of him wore one of the standard issue earpieces which made modern people look like a cyborg. Yes, they’d been around for years, but Hogarth still couldn’t get used to it.

  “Well, I wouldn’t say sweetness and light, exactly. Drummie is… I mean, was, built like a beast.”

  “You called him ‘Drummie’?” said Hogarth. “So you knew Jake Drummond then?” he said , his eyes opening a little wider. The young man nodded.

  “Yeah. Drummie came here a lot. I still don’t know why, though. He never ever danced. He was big and too old for all that. But I think he liked to have a gawp at the young girlies like a few of the older boys who come here do. Look around, you’ll see the ones I mean.”

  Hogarth looked and saw a few haggard faces who were older than him and at forty-five he was far too old for this kind of rubbish. What were they thinking? Hogarth’s face crumpled in disdain. “Might that have upset anyone? The gawping at girls, I mean,” said Hogarth, probing his way towards a motive.

  “I don’t see how. Drummond had only been here five minutes when it happened. I still can’t believe it. I’ve never seen trouble like that in here before… and I’ve never seen anyone die…”

  The kid’s eyes drifted away. Hogarth shifted in front of him and forced the kid to look into his eyes. He didn’t need help from another shell-shocked bystander. He needed a few answers while things were fresh. Hogarth checked around, keeping his voice low.

  “You work behind the bar, so you must hear things, if you know what I mean. Tell me. Do you know if Jake Drummond had any longstanding, enemies, let’s say… people with grudges against him… people who may not have liked him too much?”

  The man shrugged. “I don’t want to get involved in that kind of stuff…”

  “You’re already involved, son. The man was killed not ten feet in front of you. That’s very involved in my book. You could be a key witness.”

  “Key witness? But I didn’t see anything. There was a shout, a scream, whatever, then the man fell down. That’s it. That’s what I saw.”

  “I asked you about enemies. Come on. You must know something on that score. Every barman does.”

  “This is a nightclub, not a pub, Inspector. I don’t hear anything they say. They all talk crap when they’re drunk, so I shut them out. But look… Drummie was like Marmite. That’s for sure. You either loved him or you hated his guts.”

  “Why?”

  The kid looked around, as if suddenly unsure of himself.

  “Because he was a bruiser. He threw his weight around. He liked to act the big man. I saw that. But we have plenty of idiots who come in here who are the same. The security boys can spot them a mile off.”

  “He was a bruiser, was he? So who did he bruise?”

  “I don’t know. I just heard he was a handful and not always very nice.”

  “Not very nice. Well, there’s a reason to kill a man. Who hated him and why?”

  “I can’t tell you that…”

  “Can’t or won’t, son? There’s a very big difference.”

  The barman started to wilt under Hogarth’s gaze.

  “People like him had a rep. I heard about his rep. I don’t know the details, but I know I was lucky not to see his rough side.”

  “Who else might know more about Drummond’s friends? Or that rough side of his? Any ideas?”

  The kid clammed up before Hogarth’s eyes. His mouth turned into a flat line and he shook his head emphatically. “You’d have to ask around about that. I couldn’t tell you.”

  “What’s your name, young man?”

  “Gordon Turner. People call me Gordy.”

  “Thanks, Gordy. You’ve been a great help,” said Hogarth, with a certain emphasis which told the kid he hadn’t been much help at all. “I’ll be speaking with you again. You can count on it.”

  Hogarth gave the kid the full-beam snake smile, then watched him go away sullen faced. DS Palmer appeared at his side. She was almost a half foot shorter than him. She was a good cop, and a pretty one too. Her shorter hair wasn’t the style he liked most of all, but it suited her well enough. Even so, he could tell the job was already wearing her down. She looked tired and borderline depressed. Hogarth drifted off as he looked at her.

  “Penny for them, sir?”

  “They’re not worth a penny at the moment, Palmer. All we’ve got is a club full of hear-no-evils and see-no-evils. So far, nobody saw anything apart from Jake Drummond clutching his chest before he dropped down to the floor like a sack of spuds.”

  “Jake Drummond…? We know the victim then?”

  “He’s got a good bit of previous from back in the day, a bit of ABH and some extorting with menaces about ten years back. But he’s not been on my radar since I landed in town. What about you?”

  “Drummond… Jack Drummond?” said Palmer, chewing on the name.

  “Known as Drummie to his fan club, apparently,” said Hogarth.

  Palmer rolled the name around her mind. “No, sir. He’s never been one of mine.”

  “I’ve heard the man described as a bruiser, and possibly a low level perv, too,” said Hogarth. “The kind who hangs around nightclubs to stare at girls and throw his weight around.”

  “A real charmer then?”

  “There are plenty of words for men like that, Palmer, but charmer isn’t one of them. To have enemies who wanted him dead, he must have stirred up plenty of trouble. Only it’s not on the record. But someone in here must know something. We didn’t find much on him. A wallet full of cash, probably all dirty money. His mobile phone. A photograph of a baby in his wallet.”

  “A baby? So, he wasn’t a complete toad then.”

  “Having children doesn’t make a bad man good. It makes him worse in my mind. What example was he setting? From what I’ve heard Drummond was nothing but a toad.”

  “What about the murder weapon? Any sign of it yet?”

  “I’ve seen the wound. I’d say we were looking at a narrow blade. The wound was pretty tight – a small puncture wound in the central chest area. He probably died within seconds. I’m pretty certain Quentin will confirm it at the post mortem… what do you think, Marris?” Hogarth looked down at the lanky man hunkered down on the floor below him. The forensic man, Ivan Marris. Marris was already gloved-up and beginning to mark out his territory. He looked irritated, and Dickens had been giving him hard eyes from the moment he arrived. Neither man would be comfortable with so many punters still at the crime scene. They were professionals, and evidence was their business. Every live body presented a threat in terms of contaminating the evidence. Hogarth knew it wouldn’t be long before Marris insisted they move everybody out of the club.

  Marris looked up at them. “It’s not worth me guessing. I’ve more than enough to be getting on with, what with all these people milling around,” he said. Yes, Marris wanted the site clear. But Hogarth was hoping for a collar before he sent them home.

  Hogarth shrugged. “I’d still say we’re looking at a thin blade, probably no more than six inches in length. Anything else couldn’t be hidden too easily.”

  “That’s long enough to kill. The knife must have been seen, then,” said Palmer.

  “You’d think so, but no… but they’re scared. With no weapon and no proper witness as yet, this one’s already beginning to look like hard work.”

  Palmer saw Hogarth looking at her. For a fleeting moment it occurred to her Hogarth was giving her the eye. But she was kidding herself again. Palmer soon dismissed the thought
. After all, it was hardly likely, given that some of the team reckoned Hogarth had a secret woman tucked away somewhere. In the next moment Hogarth dispelled any of her illusions.

  “You look like I feel, Palmer. Or should that be the other way around?” he said with a grim smile.

  “It could be either one, sir. Thanks for the encouragement.”

  “Sorry, Palmer…” he said with a yawn. “You should know by now I’ve got a habit of jabbering when I should shut my mouth. Still. At least I’m not as bad as DC Simmons. But we really could have done without this case on top of everything else we’ve got on.”