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

by Solomon Carter

“Small indeed,” said Palmer. She could see the spark of excitement in Hogarth’s eyes.

  “It is detached, yes. And I think there’s a mini junkyard on the other side. As I remember, it’s filled with all kinds of rubbish someone should have taken down the tip…”

  “Righto,” said Palmer. “You go round the back of the building, I’ll take the front. Look out for any hiding places, and use your ears too. If Picton’s seen us – if he’s got a guilty conscience, he’ll be ready to run.”

  Hogarth watched as Palmer stepped into the urban undergrowth of weeds and gravel at the left side of the building. She picked her way through the mess with her arms splayed at her sides as if she was afraid of losing balance and falling over. Hogarth shook his head. If Picton made a run for it, Palmer wasn’t going to be much use in a chase. Hogarth cut past the front of the big garage. He took a hand out of his pocket, and poked at the letterbox slot. He bent down and peered into the cold, dusty interior. There was a large mechanical contraption in the centre of the empty space – a machine for lifting vehicles for inspection. Beside it was a workstation with business stickers all over it. There was grease, dust, and dirt everywhere, and no sign of a car. Hogarth glanced down to the floor immediately behind the door. There was a stack of letters, bills, and junk-mail spilling wide in all directions. He heard something. A scratching sound and it came from inside the garage. Hogarth narrowed his eyes and searched for it. Maybe a rat or a pigeon had snuck in to die. He saw a huddle of cardboard boxes at the back of the garage. Nope. Hogarth turned his head to peer left and looked up to a strip window high up on the wall. A shadow was raking at the window from outside. Hogarth’s eyes flashed, and a thin grin spread over his face. He saw a long ladder set against the inside wall beneath the window. He’d thought nothing of it until he’d seen the movement outside. Hogarth stood up and edged along the shutter door. He kept his tan brogues quiet, shuffling along until he felt safe to lean out, past the corner of the wall. Just as Palmer had described, he saw a junkyard chock full of broken fence panels, rotting fence posts, empty paint pots, car engine grilles, rusting signage, and engine parts from another era. Some of the old parts were stacked against the garage wall to form a rough slope. And scrambling up at the top was a slight man in a grey fleece top and blue jeans.

  “In you go,” muttered Hogarth, under his breath. Palmer appeared through the fence on the other side of the junkyard. He saw her mouth open to speak. Hogarth quickly put a finger to his lips, and nodded to the top of the pile. Palmer saw the man and stayed quiet. They tucked themselves out of the way as the trespasser climbed through the window and disappeared inside. Hogarth darted back to the shutter letterbox and watched the man climb down. He got down the ladder and shot across the concrete floor towards the stack of boxes at the back. The little man was instantly busy, in a verminous, scurrying way. He moved most of them aside, and kicked another pile of mess out of his way to get at what he wanted. He crouched low and started to prize some boxes open. It was time to intervene. Hogarth moved quickly toward the junkyard and scaled the flimsy fence, hefting himself up and throwing himself down without any grace. He climbed the mountain. “Keep an eye on him from the front, will you…” he called to Palmer in a hoarse whisper. She nodded and took up position at the letterbox.

  Now in his mid-forties, Hogarth was not at his limber best, but he wrenched the window wide open and thrust his torso through with a heave. The small man below him froze and looked up. The bespectacled man’s eyes met his and his mouth dropped open.

  “Dan Picton?” growled Hogarth.

  The man didn’t answer, but his expression was a response in itself.

  “Stay exactly where you are. You’re in deep trouble, so don’t go making it any worse.”

  Hogarth peered back over his shoulder as he climbed down the tall ladder. He watched Picton drop something from his hands and it landed behind his feet. Then he kicked it away with a back heel.

  “He tried to get rid of something – on the floor,” called Palmer. Her voice echoed into the garage and made Picton jump. Hogarth grinned as he reached the floor and straightened out his jacket.

  “Was that the sound of your conscience, Mr Picton?” said Hogarth. He walked calmly across the garage.

  “So, what exactly have you got to hide, Mr Picton?”

  “How did you even know I was here?” said the man, in an impish voice.

  Hogarth shrugged, but he saw understanding dawn on the man’s face.

  “It was the bloody caretaker, wasn’t it? He saw me.”

  The caretaker. So, he was the PI’s source.

  “Let’s just say a little bird told me,” said Hogarth. “So, out with it. Where is Andy Cruddas? And why exactly have you been avoiding everyone?”

  The man shook his head. “I’m not avoiding anyone at all.”

  “Just the police then,” said Hogarth.

  He stepped past Picton, and kicked at a manila envelope left on the floor behind him. “My colleague saw you drop this. It’ll have your fingerprints all over it. Care to tell me what it is?”

  “It’s nothing. It’s not mine. I don’t even know what it is.”

  “You don’t look like an idiot, Mr Picton, but you certainly act like one,” said Hogarth.

  The window rattled as DS Palmer’s backside slid through and her flat heels scuffed the top rungs of the ladder. “DS Palmer. I think you’re distracting this man with your posterior,” said Hogarth with an air of levity.

  DS Palmer tutted as she climbed down.

  But Picton wasn’t smiling. The man looked deeply fraught.

  “What are you doing skulking around on this estate, breaking into old garages? It doesn’t look good. Especially after you disappeared moments before a man you dislike got stabbed to death.”

  “What?” said Picton.

  Hogarth waited and watched the manclosely. There was a flurry of confusion on his face, but Hogarth knew it could have been faked.

  “Don’t tell me you don’t know, Picton. Jake Drummond. Maybe you call him Drummie, as some idiots do. You did know him, didn’t you?”

  Picton turned pale by degrees.

  “We know you did. We know he was picking on you at Club Smart. You were seen entering the nightclub at the same time as him, at his side. He had a go at you, didn’t he? What did he want from you? What was the issue between you?”

  “Nothing. He’s dead, is he? That man was a selfish piece of crap, always exploiting people. He tried it with me, but it didn’t work.”

  “No?” Hogarth walked past Picton and picked up the envelope with delicate fingers, trying not to contaminate it with his own fingerprints. He peered inside and saw some small flimsy cardboard cartons with bright logos and colours. He recognised the type of thing. A couple of years back the local ‘head shops’ had been able to get away with selling all kinds of toxic legal highs. But then people started dying all over the country. It wasn’t an epidemic. Just the next batch of poisons exploiting a loophole because the substances had not yet been banned. Stuff like ‘Spice’. Now there was nothing legal about them.

  “Well, well, well? Did dear Jake know about this? That you had a little side business on the go? Or maybe Jake Drummond wanted you to sell this crap for him. Maybe he was blackmailing you because he found out about it.”

  “No. You’re wrong…”

  Hogarth’s eyes narrowed. “Am I? Fine. So, tell me how it worked, Daniel. I’m all ears.”

  He watched the man’s hand press against his belly, and heard something slide beneath the smooth fleece material. “What you got under there?!” snapped Hogarth. “Tell me now.” Hogarth clicked his fingers and. the man seemed to wilt. Picton pulled up his jumper and revealed another envelope. This one looked stiff and flat as if filled with card.

  “It’s not what you think.”

  “Oh, it never is, son,” said Hogarth. He clicked his fingers again and Picton gave him the card-backed envelope. Hogarth stuffed the first one in his pocket and open
ed the second. At first it seemed there was nothing inside, but then at the bottom he saw a little green book. The thing looked creased and worn from use. Hogarth pulled it out and flipped through the handwritten pages. There was a list of numbers, amounts, and a good few names, many of which repeated as the pages flicked by. It was amateur-hour stuff. Hogarth grinned. He had Picton by the short and curlies. Not only him but Cruddas too. Andy Cruddas’ name went through the cash book like a stick of rock.

  “So, you’re a big cheese then, Daniel. You’re in the import, export business, you and Andy. You get it all from Holland, right? Where? From the Hook to Harwich, maybe. Then one of you drives it in and then what? You knock it out at clubs like Club Smart? Maybe the local bars too? I bet I could work it out just from reading this.” Hogarth waved the book in the air. “You know this crap kills people, don’t you? That’s why they banned it, Dan. And to be honest, you don’t look like the kind of man who could handle a death on his conscience… but then again, appearances can be so deceiving.”

  Picton’s head dropped.

  “Jake Drummond knew about your business, didn’t he?”

  Picton’s mouth formed a word, but then his brain seemed to kick in. “No comment.”

  “You killed Drummond, didn’t you? Because he threatened to expose your business.”

  “No!” said Picton out loud. Hogarth looked into his small eyes. The outcry seemed genuine.

  “Then why did you run?”

  “From the club? But we didn’t run. We just didn’t want to be there anymore.”

  “People to see, places to go?” said Hogarth, waving the cash book.

  Picton’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down in his throat.

  “If you didn’t run, then why is Andy Cruddas missing? Even his dear old mum doesn’t seem to know where he is. You wouldn’t want to make his mother upset, would you?”

  “Andy is missing?”

  Hogarth waited then nodded. “Don’t try to blag me, Daniel. You’re not very good at it.”

  “But I don’t know where he is. Are you sure?”

  “You’re telling me you really don’t know where he’s hiding?” said Hogarth.

  “I don’t. I swear. I called him, and he hasn’t replied.”

  “So why did you come here today? Why now, the day after the murder…?”

  “Because I was worried. I thought you might have found out that Drummond knew Peter Deal. If you did, you would have come right here.”

  Hogarth frowned.

  “Peter Deal?”

  “He owns the garage here…”

  “We worked that part out, thanks, Daniel. Now, I think you’d better tell me everything you know because if you don’t, the magistrate isn’t going to like you one little bit. And if Andy Cruddas is still on the run, it’s beginning to look like he’s our prime suspect for the murder.”

  “He didn’t do it.”

  “Then why did you both act so guilty and why is he on the run?”

  “He didn’t. I swear. But you need to find him quick. He could be in danger.”

  “You’re coming with us.”

  “But I didn’t do it.”

  “We’ll see about that. Daniel Picton, I’m arresting you on suspicion of importing controlled substances, and possession with intent to supply…” Hogarth quoted the man his rights, and Palmer gave him a set of handcuffs. It was their first collar. It wouldn’t be their last.

  Chapter Ten

  He sat in the darkness with the curtains drawn, because he was a man well used to the dark. It was a way of life. He turned on the stereo with the remote control and flicked to the local radio station. He had never liked local radio. It was too provincial. Too trivial. It was all about parish council announcements, seasonal food recipes, jumble sales, ancient cheesy music, and local events. But these days he couldn’t get enough of it. He was keen to listen just in case he got another mention. In case his handiwork got a mention. He’d had plenty of airtime already. The phone-in DJs said a disaster had befallen the town. “What was the world coming to?” All those call-in DJs made him smile. But now the news was beginning to dry up too early and he didn’t like it. He’d seen photographs of the detective in charge of the case. They were all over The Record. A DI Hogarth. He’d seen that knackered old copper on the first night. The man looked like a rock ’n’ roller with his hair and his blazer. Paul Weller with a police car. Yes, he looked like someone with an ego. Which was good, because the man in the dark liked to do battle with people like that. He liked to measure himself. Which was part of the reason he’d had to take down Jake Drummond. That and the fact the man was trying to screw him for money. But now Drummond was gone and so the tension which had kept him planning and waiting for months was gone. He was empty, and it made him twitchy. Who would have ever thought that killing a man would have made him feel so clean and empty? He felt a strange mix of power and boredom after such a high. After all the highs he’d tried in his life, he’d finally found the undisputed best. Murder. The heady mix of adrenaline and fear and commitment to the act was one part of it. Then delivering the final fatal contact itself was like a sexual climax. There was no other way to describe it. It was the best rush ever. The man grinned to himself, nodding because it was the most apt description he could muster.

  It was only day one, but even so, the police had slackened up considerably since their lockdown at the nightclub. As far as he knew there had been no arrests. He had already heard they had gone back to the club, searching for a weapon they would never find. He’d seen them. Pathetic. Their aggressive start had scared him, but today he wasn’t impressed.

  The local radio station started playing something by The Carpenters, and he hit the off button. The police were useless. For all his obvious ego, this DI Hogarth didn’t seem to be up to much. Which was interesting. Maybe there was room for a little fun. Was it time yet to set up another kill? The idea set him tingling with anticipation. Then the police really wouldn’t have a clue, would they? He had enjoyed the thrill of the kill so much, he wanted to do it again. He had never known that murder could be so damn moreish. His face formed a wide grin. He lifted the greasy empty pizza box from his coffee table, and saw the faithful knife glinting at him from the table top. He had cleaned, disinfected, and polished it. It shone like precious metal.

  “What do you think? Shall we try again?” he whispered in excitement. “Okay. Just a little bit longer. First, let’s throw him something else to think about.”

  The man looked up from his knife to the special something he’d saved back. The value of his planning was becoming more evident with every day that passed. It was an emergency object he’d saved for just such a rainy day. If that didn’t stir things up nicely, then he would all too gladly give in to his urge…

  Chapter Eleven

  Hogarth’s team was gathered in the cramped confines of the main CID room. PC Dawson hung by the doorway at the back under the resentful gaze of DC Simmons.

  “What’s Dawson doing here again? He shouldn’t be a part of this. He’s uniform.”

  “While I understand PC Dawson may not be everyone’s cup of tea,” said Hogarth, “he has played a full part in this case already, so he stays. That is, unless you think there should be a show of hands, Simmons?”. Everyone in the room knew the vote idea was pure sarcasm. No one raised a hand, not even Simmons.

  “Good. So here we are. As you know, the Jake Drummond case is priority number one. Today we picked up one of our runaways in the form of one Daniel Picton. Picton is bum-chums with Andy Cruddas. Both men went missing from Club Smart just moments before Jake Drummond was killed. Want to chip in, DS Palmer?”

  The DS nodded and took over the reins. “We’ve looked at the CCTV footage and found it inconclusive. It doesn’t show any detail pointing to a specific killer or a weapon, though it does show several persons of interest, including Peter Deal and Gary Grayson.”

  “We’ll be interviewing them,” said Hogarth. “The pathologist believes the we
apon to be a narrow-bladed knife. Unfortunately, the knife remains missing, even after PC Dawson’s second go-over at the club today. The killer, whoever he or she is, must have taken the knife with them. Shame. By now it could have been disposed of anywhere. The timing of Cruddas and Picton leaving the club suggests they could be innocent of murder, but thinking from another angle, it would be a great way to create an alibi. Even if they weren’t physically responsible for the murder, it has to be highly likely that Andy Cruddas was involved. For now, we’re holding Picton on drugs charges. That might lure Cruddas out of hiding. Picton denies any knowledge of a plot to kill Drummond. But Picton isn’t one of life’s tough cookies. I think he’ll crack if we apply a bit of pressure.”

  “You think he did it, sir?” said DC Simmons.

  “My view? I think Cruddas is the more likely candidate. He’s still missing. Picton has all but admitted his guilt in terms of drug trafficking, and the cash book we found him taking from the garage proves that he and Cruddas were selling banned drugs. The CPS will have them for that. I asked Picton if Jake Drummond knew about their drug racket and he didn’t deny it.”

  “Then that’s virtually a confession,” said Simmons.

  “Not quite,” said Hogarth. “Now we know Picton is more or less a nobody. But Andy Cruddas comes from money. And by the look of things – from his attempt to offload his Mercedes onto Dawson on the cheap, through to his involvement in a high-risk drug business – we can assume Cruddas was broke. But how did that happen? Was he bled dry by Drummond? Could be. As you can see, we’ve still got plenty of questions.”

  “Forensics give you anything?” said Dawson.

  “Nothing from Marris, I’m afraid,” said Hogarth. “The murder scene was so busy what could we expect? Forensics will have to make way for old-fashioned police work on this one. Most of our questions could be answered if we had Andy Cruddas.”

  “How come Picton was hiding his cash book and drugs at Grange Road?” asked Dawson.