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

by Solomon Carter

  “Look at them. Open again already. Those people don’t have any respect for the dead, do they?” said Dawson.

  Rawlins only murmured in agreement because she was busy making other plans.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Café Seven One Seven. Not really a place for Hogarth, but more a place for ladies who lunched. If the pastel-pink wood-cladded walls didn’t give it away, then the posy of ribbon-tied flowers on each table should have done the trick. Each table wore a pink gingham table cloth. Seven One Seven served elderflower cordial at three pounds a bottle. No, the place wasn’t for him. Hogarth preferred whisky, rough-cut wooden tables, and ancient leather chairs. But for Ali he was willing to make all kinds of concessions.

  The door shuddered open and Ali walked in. Without missing a beat, Hogarth stood up, passing by the other lady punters drinking their dainty flat whites with their ciabatta sandwiches. He squeezed Ali’s soft cold hand briefly. He watched her look around to make sure their contact hadn’t looked too informal. Too intimate. Hogarth moved to the café window, staying behind the net curtain. His eyes flicked out onto the street. Cars passed. People walked by. He took the measure of them all, but didn’t see anyone acting odd. No one stopped to look inside. Hogarth waited by the window and counted time. It was almost a full twenty seconds before he turned back towards Ali.

  “It’s good to see you,” he said. His eyes had shaken off their usual sleepiness. They gleamed. But they gleamed because they were looking at her. Ali Hartigan was five years his junior, but to look at her, it could have been ten. She had long blonde hair with a soft pretty face. There was always a singular line of determination about her, but he liked it. For Hogarth, Ali was the most attractive woman he’d ever known. She even had her own Cindy Crawford beauty spot. Yes, she was distinctive. Which was another reason he had to be very careful. They took their seats and he glanced over her shoulder to the window. Still, nothing. Hogarth was elated simply to be in her presence. He watched her eyes flicking around the coffee shop as she settled in. Finally, when she was saw no one was watching, she relaxed and found Hogarth’s eyes on her.

  “You’re looking at me like you haven’t seen me in years,” she said.

  “Feels like it. I’ve missed you,” said Hogarth. Romantic words felt extremely awkward in his mouth. They rolled around like cracked rocks. But the sentiments were real. He had to control himself. Being the gushing sort didn’t suit him, nor Ali for that matter.

  “I’ve missed you too,” she said. For a moment there was a deep warmth between them, and he wanted to reach out and kiss her. Dear God, he wanted much more than that. Instead he coughed and picked up a menu.

  “Do you think he followed you?”

  “No. I was careful. I kept checking along the way. I never saw a sign of anyone. He can’t be around.”

  “Or he could be very smart. Villains are smart. They have to be.”

  “Who says he’s a villain? Yes, he’s a weirdo. He might have a mental illness or something. That doesn’t mean he’s a villain.”

  “The Nazi psycho who killed that MP last year had a condition too. Anyone can get a condition. The doctors give ‘em out to anyone who asks. That doesn’t make him any less a villain.”

  The woman blushed. He had gone too far, speaking if he was lecturing Dawson, Simmons, or Palmer.

  “I’m sorry, Ali,” said Hogarth. “I worry about you, that’s all.”

  “It’s okay. I get it.”

  “I wish your husband gave a damn. He should have his own people on this. The best kind of people.”

  “We’ve been through that, Joe. James doesn’t care about me. He’s sleeping with his parliamentary secretary. He doesn’t even make much effort to hide it these days.”

  “I still don’t know how he could do that to a woman like you.”

  He watched a glisten of tears mist Ali’s eyes. She blinked and looked away. When she looked up they were gone.

  “It’s over between me and him. I know that. But there’s no process underway yet. Nothing. That’s why I have to be careful. I don’t want him to make it out our troubles are my fault come the divorce.”

  Divorce? Hogarth felt a burst of hope. She had used the D word. Not him, but her.

  They ordered a ciabatta and a coffee each and looked at one another while they waited.

  “You could find proof on him, Ali,” said Hogarth. “That would seal it. He wouldn’t be able to blame you for anything then”

  “What?” she said.

  “Proof? How would I get that, exactly?”

  “I know two private investigators. They’re very good at what they do. Dogged. Persistent.”

  “I can’t spend money on things like that. He’ll see it in our accounts.”

  “But I could. I wouldn’t mind paying for a month or so.”

  “No, Joe. Then he’d soon know that we were… that there was something between us.”

  “He’ll know one day.”

  “When the timing suits us, and he can’t wrong-foot me.”

  Hogarth nodded. It was time to back off. But the idea of using the PI services still stayed in mind. It was a useful option for proving grounds for divorce, and maybe they could solve other problems too. Stalkers for instance. But Hogarth held his tongue. He wanted to enjoy the moment.

  “I should pop round now and then. Just to see if the stalker is there. I’d soon spot him.”

  “But then you’ll be playing into James’s hands. What if he already has someone watching me?”

  “Like the stalker, you mean? That’s a bit extreme, Ali.”

  “Not the stalker. I’m sure he’s genuine. I mean an investigator.”

  “I need to make sure you’re safe…” said Hogarth.

  Ali reached out and laid a soft hand on the back of his. She stroked his skin a few times before she drew her hand away.

  “I know. You can drive past the house. You can look then. But for both our sakes, please don’t stop and visit. You know how much I want to see you… but…”

  Hogarth nodded.

  “The last time we were together…” he muttered.

  Ali nodded. “I know. I want that too.”

  Hogarth sighed and finished his sandwich.

  “This isn’t enough, Ali. I’m sorry. I don’t mean to be ungrateful, but seeing you like this isn’t enough.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Nothing dramatic. I’m not saying anything like that. I’ll always be here, but I need more.”

  Ali nodded. “It’s the same for me.” She checked her bangle watch. “I best go. I told James that I was meeting my friend Amanda. We always meet for an hour for lunch. I should keep to the same pattern.”

  Hogarth nodded reluctantly and threw down his napkin Her heard the café door chime, but his mind was full of yearning and regret and confusion. Only when no one entered did he look up. As Hogarth looked through the glass, the man who had been holding the door open turned abruptly and walked away. The door clunked shut and the traffic noise faded. But Hogarth was alert. He blinked and stood up. He peered through the glass, and saw a figure rushing away. Hogarth had hardly seen the man. He had no description to count on, but adrenaline was bursting through his body.

  “What is it, Joe?”

  “That man. He stopped, he opened the door, he looked in, and now he’s gone…”

  Hogarth peeled a twenty pound note from his wallet and laid it on the table.

  “Pay the bill with this. But you stay here a minute. Wait for me, promise?”

  Ali Hartigan nodded. Hogarth strode out of the coffee shop and looked left to see a shoe heel disappear around the nearby corner onto a side street. Hogarth scowled and broke into a jog. He ran past the shops until he came to the charity shop on the corner. There, walking away down Turner Drive was a thin man with a smart raincoat flapping around him like a cloak. He was walking away quickly.

  “Got you,” muttered Hogarth. He kept his feet light and jogged on. When he was close en
ough, the man in the raincoat must have heard him coming. The man turned around and looked at Hogarth’s menacing face with big frightened eyes. The man was slight and dark haired. There was something Latino about his eyes. Portuguese maybe. Hogarth reached out and grabbed the man’s coat.

  “You… what were you doing at the coffee shop just now?”

  “What?” said the man. Hogarth detected a faintly Scottish accent.

  “You heard. What were you doing?”

  “At a coffee shop? I wasn’t at a coffee shop. I’ve been at work all morning. Get your hands off me!”

  Hogarth’s fingers loosened with doubt. Then they tensed again.

  “I know your game, pal. You’re a sicko. Twisted. I’m warning you – leave her alone. Do you hear me?”

  “How dare you!” said the man. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. Let go of me at once, or I’ll call the police, and have you arrested for assault!”

  I am the police, thought Hogarth. But wisdom prevented him from saying the words.

  “Work? Where do you work?”

  “Lattigan and Davis. The solicitors. Happy now?”

  Hogarth knew the firm, but never had any dealings with them. He knew they had an office down Southchurch Road. He looked at the man’s smart clothes, his clean-shaven, college-educated appearance. His soft-bellied fear. A solicitor made sense.

  Hogarth let him go. “Touch me again, you lunatic, and I’ll call the police. Do you hear me?”

  Hogarth nodded, and the man turned away. He looked back over his shoulder as he walked off. Hogarth scratched his head and looked to the sky. A man had been at the coffee shop door. He knew that much. But he had lost him before he even left the door. He grunted at his own inadequacy and turned away. If the solicitor did call the police, he would have been in trouble with the chief at a time he couldn’t afford. It was a near miss. But poor Ali still had to live with the consequences. He started walking back to Southchurch Road and saw Ali turn the corner. There she was in her plush winter coat and scarf, her long blonde hair and brown eyes. Just to look at her near bowled him over. He stopped.

  “Are you okay?” she said.

  “It wasn’t him.”

  “I told you. He didn’t follow me today. The trouble is I don’t know when he will and when he won’t.”

  Hogarth nodded. They approached one another at the side of the charity shop passing out of sight from the shop windows.

  “What are we going to do, Ali?”

  “We are going to carry on, aren’t we?”

  Hogarth nodded slowly. “As we are, I suppose. Well, there’s no other choice.”

  “Joe…” she said, softly. She leaned close to him, resting her forehead on his chin. He kissed her skin.

  “This is so difficult, isn’t it?” she said.

  “This? Meeting you is the highlight of my fortnight.”

  The woman laughed at that. Then she turned her face to his, and their lips reached for each other. The kiss was sweet and warm. Ali Hartigan’s hands wrapped around him and she gently steered him willingly around the corner behind the shop, into a gravel and weed strewn back alley. There they kissed, and pressed their bodies close. Eventually, the kiss ended and they slipped away from one another.

  “Correction,” said Hogarth. “This is the highlight of my entire month.”

  Ali put a hand to her lips. “Same here, Joe. But I’ve got to go.”

  He nodded and watched her turn the corner walking back towards the main street. Then Hogarth looked around. He checked the doors and the lanes opposite. He checked the whole area and he saw no one worth seeing. With a long deep sigh, and the broad smile of some well-stoked hopes, Joe Hogarth walked away.

  Hogarth couldn’t have known it.

  But he was watched the entire way.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Bec Rawlins and Rob Dawson had reached the point where they spent almost every night together bar the odd one. But PCSO Rawlins was careful to prepare the ground for a night off, by telling Dawson that she was unwell long in advance of the evening. Her illness came on from the moment she decided to take matters into her own hands. Of course, Dawson offered to look after her, but Rawlins wouldn’t hear of it. Hogarth had appreciated her efforts and she felt encouraged. Rawlins wanted to progress from her lowly rank to become a proper police constable. But this particular decision was not about progressing her career. This was about doing what was right.

  There would be risks involved, like being recognised by the club goers from the night of the murder. But to mitigate against the risks, there were always things a woman could do. Firstly, Bec changed her look. A change of hairstyle, a different dress and new make-up would help. No matter what needed to be done, she was going to do it. Andy needed help badly. He was a good man in a deep fix. He was sensitive and thoughtful. Being involved in a drug racket was no good thing, but he was being accused of a murder he didn’t commit. Rawlins knew there were plenty of potential killers still in the frame. And the way she saw it, all of them seemed to be in the orbit of Club Smart. And the photographs showed that even George Cruddas had been there once. Club Smart was at the centre of it all. And who was at the centre of Club Smart? Who knew everything there was to know? The one and only Gary Grayson. DJ GG. He’d been there the night of the kill. She’d seen him acting as if he had more than a few beers in his system. She had never spoken to him directly. The DJ had been busy gossiping while she and Dawson had been corralling people and running their searches. Which gave Rawlins enough hope that her plan might work.

  Rawlins got out of the taxi outside Club Smart, pulling the hem of her shiny gold dress down over her thighs. It was cold out and it was late. She had styled her blonde hair differently, fringe pulled low over her eyes with swishy little flicks at the sides and back. Her make-up was bolder too. A bit tarty, even, but the main purpose was for disguise. There was another purpose too.

  It was just after ten pm and as she walked towards the queue, and her gait picked up pace as she got near. She recognised the two security guards from the other night. The brutes gave her a look-over, and the biggest one offered a predatory grin. Rawlins got ready for him to say he remembered her. But tonight, he didn’t seem interested in her face. In fact, his eyes went everywhere but.

  “Ello, darling,” said the tallest doorman. “Where’s your boyfriend, eh?” he said with a wink. For a moment Bec thought he meant Rob Dawson, then she realised he hadn’t recognised her at all. It was a chat-up.

  “Oh. He’s in there already,” she said.

  “Lucky man,” said the other guy. “When you get bored of him, you know where we are…”

  The bouncer took away the boundary rope and nodded for Bec to go inside. The few girls and boys held queueing at the other side tutted and complained, but Rawlins didn’t grumble. She was in. She smiled and nodded in thanks, and walked right inside. As soon as she hit the crazy noise, darkness, and air-conditioned chill of the nightclub, her heart started thudding faster than ever. Now she had to follow through on her plan.

  Bec peered across the dance floor and found it surprisingly busy for a weeknight. Even more surprising considering a man had been killed there just days before. But she saw none of those older faces. And there was no sign of Andy Cruddas. Of course not. And Picton was still in a cell pending remand. Rawlins took a breath and told herself to look at ease, like she was enjoying herself. She walked to the little bar near the exit, the one where Drummond had been stabbed and looked around. It was as if nothing had happened. There was noise and drunkenness, laughter and unwanted eye contact. It was just like any other night at Club Smart. Bec got the attention of the little barman and asked for a bottle of Vodka Ice. The guy made eyes at her, but didn’t show any sign of knowing her. Make-up was a wonderful invention. Bec swigged from her bottle and surveyed the room behind her. A couple of men tried to make eye contact, evaluating her availability, but she ignored them. Tonight, Bec Rawlins was a one-man woman. Shame the man in question was n
othing like up to her usual standards. DJ GG was in his booth at the top of the dance floor. Bec fixed her target in mind, and weaved her way to the dance floor. She kept her eyes on DJ GG, as he moved around between the decks and record boxes in his booth. She watched him take out another record. DJ GG still used vinyl. He was a man of the old school. She reached the dance floor, sipped her drink, and started to dance, doing her best to overcome her sobriety, ignoring the people around her. Rawlins enjoyed dancing. And throwing herself into the music meant she was better able to ignore the predatory eyes vying for her attention. Halfway through her second record, Bec looked up and saw the DJ watching her. He looked at her, raised a pint glass and grinned, nodding his head to the music.

  A minute later he was still looking. Rawlins gave him a smile. Grayson waved at her from his booth. As she came near, he leaned down over the edge of his decks towards the dance floor. He was wearing a bad Hawaiian shirt, and he stank of alcohol and too much aftershave.

  “Hello, sweetheart. You got any special requests? Any tune you love to dance to?”

  Bec smiled up at him and took her time to answer. She needed to know if he remembered her. Her sparkling eyes tested him. She saw a flickering moment when his face changed.

  “Do I know you?” he said.

  “You could have seen me before,” said Bec, with a flirty grin. “I’ve been in here a few times. Mostly with my mates…”

  Gary Grayson thought about it, nodding. Then he smiled. “Where are your mates tonight then?”

  “Being boring. I didn’t want to be boring. Not tonight…”

  Gary smiled and sipped his beer as he looked at her. Rawlins could almost feel his rising excitement. Like an angler reeling in his catch.

  “Well we can’t have you dancing down there all alone, can we?” He leaned down further. “You ever done any deejaying?” he called.

  Bec shook her head. “No. Never.” She cupped a hand to his ear, egging him on.

  “Fancy having a go?”