It was true alright.
“Look, Ali. Meet me for a coffee. Just a coffee. And don’t tell anyone. Meet me, but try and make it easy for this sicko to follow you. If he does, I’ll have a polite little word with him, ID him, and make his life difficult until he leaves you alone.”
“A coffee? That’s all?”
He paused and swallowed.
“I’d like it to be more, but I’m thinking of you. It’ll have to do for now, won’t it. Keep your eyes peeled, Ali, and keep those doors locked. Promise?”
“Promise.”
“Coffee… how about tomorrow afternoon?”
“Fine,” said Ali. “Where?”
“Café Seven One Seven, Southchurch Road. It’s quiet. Discreet. And gives your scumbag ample chances to follow. Two pm. Can you make it?”
“Yes. I’ll be there, I promise.”
“Bye, Ali. Be safe.” The words seemed so inadequate. Half formed things hiding his true sentiments, but some things couldn’t yet be said. Hogarth wasn’t sure if they ever would be.
He slowly returned to Rawlins and Dawson who were standing close by his car, looking down to the strip of seafront at the end of the wealthy road. Dawson looked at Hogarth and noticed something in his eyes. Hogarth stared back a moment too long. He wondered if Dawson had seen something he would have rather stayed hidden.
“Trouble?” Dawson said, referring to Hogarth’s call.
“No more than usual,” said Hogarth.
The trio nodded at each other, knowing there were secrets.
They were quiet as they drove, staring at the sea. Rawlins looked at the street and frowned.
“You’re going the wrong way,” said Rawlins. “Don’t you want to find Picton?”
“Ah, yes. I’m just a little distracted and tired, that’s all,” said Hogarth. “Never mind. Let’s get you two back to the station. I’ll borrow Palmer to help me hunt for Picton.”
But Hogarth hadn’t just been distracted by thoughts of Ali. Rawlins was too involved with the Cruddas family for it to go well. She wanted them to be innocent. It was a conflict of interest which looked set to become more difficult unless Hogarth nipped it in the bud.
***
Picton’s apartment was situated above a fancy artisan bakery on Leigh Road, at the only slightly less fancy end of Leigh. Hogarth spent a good minute sniffing the tantalising smells of fresh baked bread while appreciating the rustic-style commercial artwork above the shop. Even though the bakery prices were exorbitant, he still wondered if they sold the kind of bread Ali liked. As Hogarth rung the bell on the door beside the bakery he pushed thoughts of bread aside.
“It’s amazing how much people can charge once they’ve slapped the word ‘artisan’ on it,” he said while they waited for the door.
Palmer nodded, and pressed the doorbell. No reply. They spent another minute knocking and ringing before they turned away.
“That’s it. Picton’s off the radar too,” said Palmer.
“Do we know where Picton works?” Hogarth said.
“No, but I’ll look into it.”
Hogarth nodded. “It looks like these boys are shaping up to be our main suspects.”
“But they can’t really have done it, can they? We know they were away before Drummond was hurt.”
“They mightn’t have pulled the trigger, but they’re not in the clear by any means.”
Hogarth and Palmer turned away. Out of habit, Hogarth looked up to see if the net curtains twitched on the first floor. But there was no movement. All was still. Picton wasn’t at home. But even if Cruddas and Picton weren’t the killers, Hogarth was sure something was going on with them. They had to be found.
Chapter Six
Day Five: Tuesday
“No joy, guv,” said Palmer. Hogarth’s team was safely nestled in the scrappy mess of the main CID room. Calling it the main room made it sound grander than it really was. The name came from the fact that the team who worked the east district had an even smaller cupboard to call their home. The police station had been grandly refurbed not more than ten months back but Hogarth’s CID room looked as bad as any other he could recall in his career. The incident board was stacked with crimes and there was paperwork everywhere. Every desk in the office was overflowing with paperwork and case files from cases past and present. The walls were closing in. In short, it felt like home.
“No joy?” said Hogarth. DC Simmons looked round. DC Simmons with his slicked-back hair was known across the station as a young slacker and a sycophant. His reputation wasn’t entirely fair but there were moments when it seemed to fit well enough. Hogarth had inherited Simmons when he joined the Southend outfit from London as part of the new order to try and clean up a station tainted by corruption. There was no corruption anymore, Hogarth was pretty sure of that. But Simmons was still a brown-nose, and Hogarth pretended not to notice. But Palmer was good. She was staunch, though Hogarth made sure he paid only fleeting compliments about Palmer’s quality as he didn’t want it going to her head. Give her too much praise and she might fly the nest to another station with a bigger office and better coffee. Hogarth needed someone like her to stick around.
“Dan Picton used to work at Southend Airport,” said Palmer. “He was an apprentice aviation engineer for Essex Air Works. But they haven’t seen him in months. They’ve hired someone else.”
“And he’s had no other job since?”
“If he has, we can’t find it.”
“Then what’s he been living on?” said Hogarth. “Is he claiming benefits?”
“I haven’t checked with the dole office yet.”
“Hmmmm. So Picton really has done a flit? My, my… that doesn’t look good now, does it? That marks these boys out from the rest of the suspects. From now on, finding them is a priority. Any ideas? Simmons?”
Simmons’ hair looked particularly gel-slicked this morning. He rubbed a hand across his head as if it helped him think, but his face stayed blank.
“Thanks for the input, Simmons.”
The man blushed. “Sir, I was thinking their disappearance could be unconnected to the murder, that’s all. They left the club right before Drummond died, but so what?”
“Unconnected to the murder? You’re not the first one to say it. But these two disappeared five seconds before Jake Drummond dropped down dead. And we know Drummond gave them a hard time just before he was killed. There’s something in that. I can’t rule it out until we’ve looked at it thoroughly.”
“It’s still possible, I suppose. But the timing could have been a coincidence,” said Simmons.
“Everything is possible. But I think it’s likely they knew what was coming. They’re a priority. Palmer, any ideas where they might have gone?”
“We need to know more about them before we could say,” said Palmer.
“Okay. What do we know already?” said Hogarth. “We know Picton and Cruddas had a problem with Jake Drummond. Or Jake Drummond had a problem with them. We know Drummond had good form for violence and extortion… and plenty of the people we spoke to at the club seemed to know about it.”
“There’s the finer details too. PC Dawson says Cruddas offered him a twelve grand Mercedes for just five grand.”
“A Merc? Sounds like a bargain,” said Hogarth.
“He was definitely in urgent need of cash,” said Palmer.
Hogarth nodded. “That money could have been to pay off Drummond, right? The blackmail game must be a high-paying business. So then? What dirt did he have on those boys? Or was it simple good old-fashioned bullying. The pay me or I’ll punch your lights out method…? There’s no real way of knowing until we find them. Get the uniforms out there looking for these two on their rounds. It’s far too early in the game to make any public appeal for information. The chief will only want us to use the media as a last resort and he’ll want to vet any briefing himself. Which means we’ll have to put the feelers out through our own sources…”
“Our own sources?”
said Simmons.
“Come on, DC Simmons. You’ve made it this far in the detective game. Get your thinking cap on. We need to get out there and start asking some questions.”
Simmons nodded and made a note on his notepad. Hogarth wondered if what he’d written was a meaningless squiggle, but chose not to humiliate the man any further. Not today anyway.
“What about the CCTV?”
“Nothing much,” said Palmer. “I scoured the club camera footage, and it backs up the witness statements. Drummond was surrounded by people the moment he was stabbed, and it was dark. It’s hard to even locate the moment he was stabbed. It’s a flurry of movement at the bar which tells us close to nothing. The crowd parts and Drummond drops down clutching his chest. That part is on camera. There are a few familiar faces around at the time. Peter Deal is in the pack there. Gary Grayson is queuing for another drink. The club manager, John Milford, is on the scene, the barman you spoke to, Gordy Turner, and some shadows passing the lens…”
“Shadows?”
“Sir, the footage is naff, believe me. No matter where I look, I don’t get a killer, and I don’t see the weapon.”
“This was a knife attack. Our killer was there. He got close enough to stick the knife in. We need to keep looking at that footage until we see something."
“You want me to try again?”
“No, Palmer. Get some of the uniforms on it. I need your brain out there, looking at the angles. We need to find these two pronto. Where do you want to start?”
“With the witnesses, I’d say. Someone must have seen Cruddas and Picton leave Club Smart,” said Palmer. “We can try the cab firms too. Maybe they got some fast food on the high street. Someone will have seen them.”
“All worth a try. Okay, I’ll leave you two to try those angles.” Hogarth stood up and pulled on his blazer. “As for me… I’m going to see if I can take a shortcut,” said Hogarth.
“A shortcut?” said Simmons. “I thought shortcuts were a bad idea.”
“But not all shortcuts are the same, Simmons. Leave me to work my magic, and one day, I might even explain how you can work some yourself,” said Hogarth with a wink.
“When?”
“In the memoirs, dear boy. In the memoirs. Okay, let’s hit the street. We’ll meet up later on.”
As Palmer waited for Simmons to get his stuff together, Hogarth lingered in the CID room door. He called her name. Palmer followed Hogarth out of the door into the corridor.
“Sir?”
“Use Dawson and Rawlins as much as you need to. They were on the scene first. And I know those two have got their heads screwed on. Screwed on a lot tighter than Simmons, anyway.”
Palmer nodded. “Understood. So where exactly are you going to weave this magic of yours?”
“Trade secrets, I’m afraid, DS Palmer. I’ve been sworn to secrecy by the Magic Circle.”
“Right. If you say so…” said Palmer. Hogarth wondered if he detected a trace of irritation in Palmer’s voice. Then he told himself it didn’t matter if he did. He had a lot more to worry about than Palmer’s happiness. Hogarth checked his blazer pocket for his car keys and set off. It was time to catch up with some old faces.
The Sutland Arms. The dingiest pub in town. Always a chore, never a pleasure. The Sutland was situated on a corner halfway down the rough, raw, and very urban part of Southchurch Road, which spilled off the top of Southend High Street. DI Hogarth had spent twenty years of his police career swooping the London streets before accepting his transfer to sort out Southend’s problems. He had expected an easier ride, a more sedate atmosphere, but central Southend was nothing of the kind. Southchurch Road symbolised the town’s problems. The place reminded Hogarth of South London with its dilapidated buildings, graffiti, constant exhaust fumes, and hordes of drunks and junkies. The place would have fitted right into one of the South London boroughs. And some of the problems around the town were London in origin. Such as the young drug mules who travelled the Fenchurch Street line to do their London dealers’ dirty work. And the international gangs who groomed the local junkies and turned their flats into temporary drug factories. He’d seen it all before. Southend was home from home.
Hogarth walked through the saloon-bar doors of the ramshackle pub and found his brogues sticking to the dark wooden floor as he walked. It was early, but that was why he was here. There was a chance his informant would still be sober. And the pub would presumably be at the peak of cleanliness before the punters came in and ruined it all. Evidently the cleaning standards were not high at any time of day. The smell of stale beer and disinfectant dominated the dark interior. But even those smells were much better than old Vic Norton. As expected, Norton was there at his favourite back table. Norton was thin, with a face shaped like an arrowhead. He was gaunt, with grey stubble all over his chin. His hair was grey, overgrown, and straggly with a widow’s peak at the front. As usual, he was wearing a garish shell suit. Hogarth couldn’t work out where he got them all from. There was a pint of a dark brown beer in front of him and a copy of The Gambler’s Life newspaper folded beside it.
“Oh dear… look who’s turned up,” said Norton in his raspy old voice.
“Shut it, Vic, or I’ll search you for contraband tobacco. I know I’ll find it too, won’t I?”
“You lot use the law as you like it,” said Norton.
“And you lot break it as you like it. It’s like a game of chess, Vic. Except with you it’s more like tiddlywinks.”
The man looked at Hogarth with his yellowing eyes. Hogarth wondered if the drink was finally catching up with him. There were a few coppers he knew who weren’t far off, either.
“Right, Vic. The nightclub murder. What do you know?”
“That it was murder, same as you.”
“And the rest. What do you know about Big Jake Drummond?”
“Not much. I’ve heard about him like everyone has.”
“Like everyone else. See no evil, hear no evil, speak no evil,” said Hogarth. “But you always hear more, Vic. Don’t you?”
“Oh, I heard about him alright. A dark, selfish specimen of a human being. Not afraid of using his fists on anyone, men or women.”
Hogarth nodded. “Is that why someone topped him? Because he’d been cruel?”
Vic Norton’s eyes sparkled and he took his time to sip his pint.
“Maybe.”
Hogarth sighed and took out his wallet. “I need information, Vic, not fairy stories.”
“You know I don’t do fairy stories. And Drummond is no fairy.”
Hogarth laid a crisp new tenner on the table. Norton looked at it, blinked, and looked up. Hogarth peeled off another tenner, and laid it on top of the first.
“Okay…” said Vic. “That’s better. He’s dead, and that’s the only reason I can say anything.”
“Go on then.”
“He was back in the old routine is what I heard. Coercion. And he was going for it left, right, and centre. Forcing people to pay him. He’d bully people, he’d use blackmail, anything which would make people pay up.”
“Blackmail? I knew he’d been in bother for extortion with menaces, but out and out blackmail?”
“So… he must have learned it was another way to earn a living. They say you have to diversify to succeed, don’t they?”
Hogarth nodded. “So they say. Who was he blackmailing, Vic?”
“I don’t know the details, but pretty much everyone he knew.”
“Details, Vic. That’s twenty quid I just gave you.”
“Twenty quid well spent, I’d say. You didn’t know about the blackmail. But I can’t tell you anything else. Least not about that.”
“Eh?”
Vic Norton sipped his pint again. A conspiratorial glint flickered in his eyes. “I heard a little rumour. Tell me. Is it true?”
Hogarth squinted and scratched his cheek. Then he leaned forward over the table. “Is what true?”
Norton’s eyes sparkled like dark star
s. “I heard a certain MP’s wife is getting knocked off by a certain hard-faced copper.”
“You heard what?” said Hogarth, horrified.
Norton stared at him and slowly nodded once. Just once. Hogarth tensed, reached out for the man’s scrawny neck, and Norton shrank back. Hogarth’s fingers fluttered loose in the air. He drew them back, but his voice was filled with tension. He was always disgusted by Vic Norton, but now he wanted to punch him hard in the face. He wanted to break his teeth.
“So, it’s true then…” said Vic.
“No, Vic. It’s not true. It’s not true in the least.”
Norton’s eyes said he didn’t believe Hogarth’s words.
“Don’t worry, your secret’s safe with me.”
Hogarth’s voice turned sharp and quiet. “Listen here you vicious old codger. I know you haven’t got a decent bone in that withered old body. The only thing you care about is yourself. So pay attention. This is about consequences for you. No one else. You. If you so much as breathe those awful lies to anyone else… if The Record newspaper hear about it… if anyone else hears at all, I’ll know where it came from. And I’ll hold you personally responsible. If you think you know what I’m capable of, Vic, you’re wrong. Do you hear?”
Norton blinked. His smile was gone.
“Where did you hear that? Tell me!” snapped Hogarth. Norton looked shocked and afraid.
He shook his head.
“The person who told you… what did the man look like? Come on! Have you had dealings with him before?”
“Calm down, Hogarth. It was just a rumour. I didn’t know you’d take it so personal.”
“You watch your mouth. And if you hear anything else about that woman, anything at all, you call me first. Are we clear?”
Hogarth stood up and walked away. Behind him Norton’s face turned into a sneering smile. He sipped his pint and left a moustache of froth on his lip.
“Crystal,” said Norton.
By now Hogarth was hardly in the mood for pleasantries, but the job called for a social call. By the time he arrived at the private investigators’ office, Hogarth was strung out with questions about how Norton came to know about Ali Hartigan. But he needed to put it aside. He would see her tomorrow. He needed to park it until then. He walked to the window of the shop-cum-office and peered through the glass. The PIs were in. Dan Bradley, a thirty-something likely-lad raised a coffee mug from the back-room kitchen, while the brains of the outfit, Eva Roberts was hard at work on her laptop. Eva wasn’t just brains, she was beauty too, a gorgeous red-head with a detective’s inquisitive mind. But she was off limits and a good five or ten years too young for him. Besides, their swords had crossed too many times for that. But at least he had shared enough information with them to call in a favour of his own.
The Darkest Lies: A Gripping Crime Mystery Series - Two Novel Boxed Set (The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Boxed Sets Book 1) Page 5