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

by Solomon Carter

  “Lies? What lies?” said Simmons.

  The bald man’s lips pursed up. “I’m not one for gossip… but… I’ve heard him tell a couple of those girls that he loves them. Those are the ones who come back for more. I suppose he uses that line just to keep ‘em ready and willing. I don’t know, do I? That kind of life was never for me. Messing about with women’s feelings only ever causes trouble – for all concerned.”

  “Sage advice,” said Simmons.

  Palmer gave him a steely eye.

  “None of that was on the record, was it? I was just making conversation, that’s all. I don’t see too many people in here.”

  “Oh, we don’t mind a little chat now and then, do we Simmons?” said Palmer. “These girls… the ones he says he loves… do you know many there might be?”

  “I don’t count them, exactly. But I know he got with some of them a few times…”

  “And do you think it went further than a bit of fun with any of these girls?”

  “What, like wedding bells, you mean? Don’t be daft.”

  “Like children, Mr Henry.”

  Henry blinked. He looked away and pursed his lips. Then he looked up again. “It’s not my business. But let’s just say it might have. I’m not certain, but I do remember him consoling some little madam a while back. Got to be a while back now. For them young girls, having unwanted kids can ruin their lives, I suppose…”

  “Especially if the father is a good for nothing liar,” said Simmons.

  This time Palmer didn’t rebuke Simmons. It was true.

  The phone started ringing in Palmer’s jacket pocket. She moved away and answered the call without checking the screen. She hoped for an update from Hogarth, but the voice she heard instead made her stiffen up.

  “DS Palmer. Any idea where DI Hogarth is? I can’t get hold of him.”

  “Sir, I believe he’s dealing with an important lead relating to Andy Cruddas.”

  “Cruddas? Has he found the man? His mother’s rambling suggests you already know his whereabouts.”

  Palmer frowned. The DCI already knew. “Yes, Hogarth has found him. I think he’s about to bring him in, sir.”

  The DCI turned quiet. Something in her tone must have caused suspicion.

  “Well, Palmer. I’d rather have told Hogarth, but since he’s ignoring his phone… it seems that Cruddas and Picton are off the hook.”

  “Sir?” said Palmer. She looked round at Simmons. He gave her a furrowed brow and tried to listen in.

  “It’s not good news, Palmer. Where are you?”

  “Club Smart, sir. Luker Close.

  “Excellent. At least someone’s on the job. You’re just around the corner.”

  “From what?”

  “There’s another body, Palmer. A shop worker phoned it in just now. From the description of the wound on the chest, it sounds like our killer has struck again. They found the body by the wheelie bins around the back of the SavaPenny Store. I want you to go straight around the back of the store to where the body is. Secure the area and look around. Uniforms have been dispatched.”

  “Righto, sir. We’re on the way.”

  “And, Palmer?”

  “Sir?”

  “Your team need to get your ruddy finger out. This looks terrible. The national press will be on this one. I need progress. And tell Hogarth to call me, asap.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Palmer turned away and started moving for the door. “DS Palmer!” said Simmons.

  “There’s another body, Simmons,” she said, without looking back.

  “Another one? Where?”

  “Just follow me…”

  They left the cleaner where they’d found him and ran out through the darkness of the nightclub. As they bundled through another set of doors, they almost bumped into three tall men. Palmer recognised two of them as security, but the first man looked different. He was shaven-headed like the rest, but smarter.

  “Whoa!” he said. “Who are you and where are you going?”

  Palmer looked at him, but kept moving.

  “Police,” she replied. “And who are you?” she said, as she backed out of the doors.

  “John Milford. I only bloody own the place.”

  Milford? She hadn’t spoken to him yet, but she and Simmons kept on running. If the evidence was fresh, there was a chance they could keep it fresh and secure for Marris and the forensics. But with the public around, there were no guarantees.

  “That was the DCI?” said Simmons.

  “Yeah,” said Palmer, panting as they rounded the corner towards the library.

  “Where’s Hogarth then?”

  “How am I supposed to know?” said Palmer.

  Out of breath, Palmer felt herself flagging, but out of sheer bloody mindedness would not allow Simmons to overtake her. A group of students had already gathered outside the library, and were pointing their snacks towards the noise and kerfuffle at the back of the shops. A moment later Palmer drew to a halt. She found a middle-aged woman in a cheap black suit kneeling beside a man lying still on his side. A dark puddle of blood had spilled either side of him. His eyes stared ahead, his mouth open as if frozen in shock. His matted bleach-blond hair looked wet. But the worst part was the man’s lower body. Gary Grayson’s trousers had been yanked down by his feet, and were gathered into folds around his ankles.

  “With his pants round his ankles…” said Simmons.

  “I can see for myself, Simmons…” said Palmer. “Madam?” she said, addressing the woman by the body in the cheap black suit. The woman looked up. She was fortyish, wearing glasses and had short hair. She looked like the shop manager. “Please move away from the body.”

  “It’s the killer, isn’t it… he’s struck again. Here. Right outside my shop. Why here?” Her face spoke of shock. The other staff lingered, a hushed pack by the back door of the shop.

  “Have you touched the body?” said Palmer.

  The woman shook her head.

  “Good. I’m Detective Sergeant Palmer and this is Detective Constable Simmons, Southend CID.

  The sound of sirens punctuated the air, rising over the noise of the high street.

  “I only touched his neck and his wrist. I was trying to find a pulse… to see if I could help him. But he’s gone., isn’t he?”

  “At least you tried.”

  “Oh, and there’s something else we need to talk to you about,” said the shop manager as she backed away.

  Palmer looked at her. “What?”

  “It’s probably nothing, but we think there were some people messing around out here a few nights back.”

  Palmer’s eyes narrowed. “How do you mean?”

  “One of my staff, Alexandra, says the bins were all moved around. And now this happened in the same spot.”

  Palmer chewed it over when she noticed a camera flash in the corner of her eye. She turned and saw the distant students aiming their mobile phone cameras towards the crime scene.

  “Thanks for letting me know. Okay, now can you please wait by the door, and tell your staff to stay back. Simmons, can you deal with those students by the library. Keep them out of the way.”

  “How?”

  “Come on. You used to be in uniform once. Stand tall and tell them to keep back. We don’t want the whole bloody town getting their eyes on this.”

  Gary Grayson was dead. And the body didn’t yet look cold. Surely, somebody must have seen something. And for his own sake, if nothing else, Hogarth needed to get his arse in gear. Palmer took her phone from her handbag. If Hogarth wasn’t taking calls, she hoped he would at least read a text message from her.

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Hogarth marched up the winding ramp between the three huge tower blocks of the Kingsmere Estate. Andy Cruddas stayed right by his side. There was no way the lad would risk doing a runner here. Criminal or not, Andy Cruddas reeked of having a pampered, gilt-edged life. Left alone, he would have been easy meat for the locals.

&nbs
p; “Why are we here?” said Cruddas.

  “Because the soup kitchen’s open. That’s why.”

  Andy Cruddas shook his head.

  “What’s the matter? Don’t you like soup?” said Hogarth.

  “I don’t get it. Shouldn’t you be taking me to the police station by now?”

  “If I were you I wouldn’t be in such a hurry, lad,” said Hogarth. “The grub in here is going to be haute cuisine compared to what they serve at Southend nick.”

  At the centre of the platform was the bright-coloured single-storey brick building of the homeless centre known as The Refuge. The Refuge was a foodbank and a soup kitchen and acted as a night shelter once a week. Hogarth hoped he had found them on the right night. Opposite each end of the building was a small square area, edged by a low concrete wall. One square housed a play park for kids which was often littered with discarded syringes. At the other end, the square was empty. In the absence of any other use, its low wall had become a street bench for the troublemakers, street drinkers, and hobos. A few people wearing overfilled backpacks were making use of the bench, necking booze from their cans as day tilted towards evening. They turned and looked at Hogarth and Cruddas the way a cat looks at a dog. Hogarth didn’t fancy dealing with that bunch yet. No, he would try The Refuge first. He looked at Cruddas as they approached the centre and saw the panic in his eyes.

  “Ever been to a place like this before, Andy?”

  “Never,” he said.

  “Then think of this as an education.”

  “Why? What’s the point?”

  “The point is I’m following a hunch.”

  “You said you would find my father.”

  “I made you no promises.”

  “My father wouldn’t be seen dead in a place like this…”

  “But your father is already dead, remember…”

  Hogarth pushed open the door before Andy Cruddas had time to reply.

  Inside, a bearded man in fingerless gloves sat by the door looking at a chunky old desktop computer. He wore an overcoat with his coat collar pulled high about his neck. Hogarth couldn’t tell whether the man was a hobo or a helper. The steam coming from the man’s mug of tea was as thick as smoke from a bonfire.

  “Do you work here?”

  “Yeah. I help run the night shelter. Can I help you at all?”

  Hogarth smiled. He’d picked the right night. During the winter the local churches and The Refuge clubbed together to run an extra night shelter for the homeless who the council couldn’t provide for. The man with the beard called down the hall and the centre manager arrived at the door, rubbing his hands. “Yes. How can I help?” The manager looked dressed only marginally better than the man on the door. He looked at Hogarth with fascination. Then he looked at Cruddas with a different reaction. Curiosity.

  “Detective Inspector Hogarth, Southend Police,” said Hogarth. He didn’t bother to introduce Cruddas. If this little mission turned into a disaster, he didn’t intend to leave a trail of witnesses saying he took a criminal on a Southend tour before making the arrest.

  “We’re looking for a homeless gentleman in his late fifties, but he could look older than that. He wears a big parka jacket. A green one with a big fur-lined hood.”

  Hogarth felt Cruddas watching him at his side.

  “Who exactly are you describing here?” said Cruddas.

  “You just wait a minute…” said Hogarth. “Well? Does he sound familiar?”

  The centre manager shrugged. “Come winter a good few of them wear coats like that, and they all begin to look a bit old when they’ve been out on the street for a while. It ages them.”

  Hogarth frowned. “Could we ask around inside?”

  “Sure. But it’s only the volunteers in there at present.”

  “But they will know some of the homeless people, won’t they?”

  “Yeah. Some of them used to be homeless themselves. Help yourself. The volunteers are in the hall.” The manager pointed down a blue-carpeted corridor which stretched along the centre of the building towards a wooden-framed security door. Beyond the door was a pale coloured hall. The room was busy with people noisily shifting tables and positioning airbeds on the floor. Steam poured from a kitchen doorway on the right. The thick steam carried smells of curry spices on the air. They passed the door and looked in. A stick-thin figure was stirring two vast steel vats of hot food on the hob. Hogarth’s mouth started to water. “Excuse me, chef. We’re looking for a homeless guy in his fifties or sixties. He wears a parka coat. A green one.”

  The stick man looked back at them as he stirred. He was a youngster, maybe as old as Cruddas, but he dressed like a teen.

  “That describes about half of the people we get in here,” he said. There was an unfortunate arrogance in the guy’s tone.

  “This is pointless,” said Cruddas.

  “Until further notice will you just keep shtum,” said Hogarth. “You’re just lucky you’re not in a cell.”

  The kitchen guy smirked at them like they were good entertainment. Hogarth’s face darkened and the youth stopped smiling.

  “Look. I only volunteer here twice a month. You need to ask him instead. Steve, the tall guy. If anyone knows who you’re talking about, Steve will.”

  Hogarth peered through the serving hatch into the hall. His eyes found the tallest man in the room, a chap who looked like a total scallywag, shaven-headed and stoop-shouldered, with nasty gold rings all over his hands. Hogarth could tell the man had served time. But volunteering in a homeless centre suggested a reformed character.

  Hogarth led Cruddas into the main hall and the eyes of the busy volunteers turned their way.

  “Steve-o!” said a chunky man with a goatee beard. “Looks like you’ve got visitors.”

  “Oh, have I now?” said the man called Steve. When the big man saw DI Hogarth his eyes turned flinty, before a polite smile slowly dawned. Yes, he looked like a lag alright. The type who knew a copper when he saw one.

  “How can I help you gents?”

  “We’re looking for a homeless man. He’s an older type. Wears a green parka. Tall kind of chap as I remember. Does that ring any bells?”

  “We have a few like that. Got any other details?”

  Hogarth looked at Andy Cruddas. There was no pointing giving the man’s real name. George Cruddas would have been an idiot to have used that. So, what else was there? He snapped his fingers. “He’ll be well spoken. And if you talk to him, you might get the impression he had money once upon a time.”

  “There’s a few with hard luck stories, to be sure. But well spoken? Posh, you mean? That’s a hard one. You know, I can only think of one fella who fits that description. He’s not easy to know either. He hasn’t bothered with the night shelters since one of the others had a pop at him last year.”

  “Last year?” said Hogarth. His heart sank. They were talking about the wrong man.

  “Yep. He’s called Wilbur, but we call him Free Willy, because he only comes here for sandwiches in the daytime. He doesn’t bother with any of the rest of the help he could get from us. All he wants is his sandwiches.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Hogarth.

  Free Willy. He remembered the homeless man who had been watching them outside the Cruddas house. All of a sudden the man seemed important. But Hogarth felt he was at risk with losing touch with the heart of the case. The further he investigated, the further away from the murder case he seemed to travel. And he couldn’t risk another wild goose chase. He was trying to solve a murder. But here it was. His instinct was trying to drag him away yet again. “Do you know where we can find him?”

  The tall man looked to his volunteers. “Does anyone know where Free Willy is hanging out these days?” His words were followed by a din of dirty laughter.

  “I didn’t know you were in the market, Steve!” said one of the jokers.

  “I know where he is,” said one of the volunteers, who put down the table he was carrying and wiped his brow. “He�
�s started hanging around underneath the canopy by the side of the old JV Sports shop. A few of the guys hang around there, but Willy’s a bit different to them. Willy always keeps to himself.”

  “By JV Sports, you say?” said Hogarth.

  “Yeah,” said Steve. “The side on Luker Close. Just off the high street. You know it?”

  “Yes, I know it,” said Hogarth. He looked at Andy Cruddas. Cruddas looked in his eyes with confusion. “What?” said Cruddas. Hogarth didn’t reply.

  “Thank you, Steve. You’ve been a great help. Keep up the good work.” Hogarth pumped the tall man’s hand, then turned for the door. “Come on, Andy. Don’t hang about. We’ve got an urgent appointment with Free Willy…”

  “This is absurd. You know my father is hiding up north,” said Cruddas, trying to keep up.

  “Absurd? Of course, it’s absurd,” said Hogarth. He walked into the cold air and closed the homeless shelter door behind them. “Everything your father has done is absurd. But we already know he came back to Southend once. What’s to say he ever left? He could have invented the gone-up-north idea to keep your mother quiet. Or maybe she made it up herself.”

  “There’s no way my father could handle being homeless He wouldn’t lower himself.”

  “Wouldn’t he now?” said Hogarth, stopping and turning around to face Cruddas. “He certainly lowered himself enough to set up a car crash that killed four other people on the M25. And what about you? You lowered yourself to knock out drugs just to save your own skin. No. You Cruddas types wouldn’t lower yourselves for anything, would you? Don’t make me laugh. See those guys sitting over there?”

  Hogarth jabbed a finger towards the homeless men sitting on the wall. By now they were little more than silhouettes holding beer cans.

  “Those men have got more integrity than you Cruddas types will ever have.”

  “And I’m supposed to listen to you?” said Cruddas.