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

by Solomon Carter

  Hogarth looked into Deal’s eyes and saw the raw panic mounting. The trembling of his jaw. His eyes widened, and he turned in his chair.

  “Palmer, this man’s daughter is in grave danger… we need to find her address now.”

  “You can’t! You mustn’t!” said Peter Deal, hands beating down on the table as he shouted and floundered.

  “Mr Deal. Someone is blackmailing you in the worst possible way, and it isn’t Jake Drummond. Drummond is dead. So, who is it? Who called you? Who told you not to speak to us?”

  “The man’s got money. He’s successful. I was pleased when they got together. I thought my prayers had been answered. I mean, I knew he could be moody, but I didn’t ever think… never would I have thought…”

  “Who?”

  Deal looked at Hogarth and he almost read the name in the man’s eyes. He saw the face of John Milford, inquisitive, friendly. The man who appeared as soon as he wanted access to the nightclub office. Milford, who enquired about the photograph of the children and why it gave him hope.

  “If you want us to be able to save your family, Mr Deal, you won’t dare waste another second, or I’ll personally see to it that any and every charge we can bring against you will be brought and thoroughly pursued to prosecution. Do I make myself clear?”

  Tears welled from under the man’s eyelids and he broke like a dam.

  “Yes, yes… okay. I’ll tell you. Sandra lives at twelve Dalton Drive, North Leigh. Near the school off Manchester Drive… please don’t let him hurt her. I’ll have nothing without her. Nothing.”

  Hogarth nodded and grabbed his jacket. He stormed out of the door leaving Palmer in his wake. She followed him through the office. Hogarth slid his blazer on and hurried past the desks.

  “Who is it, guv?”

  “John Milford. Those killings were so close together we should have known. He’s tall. He knows everyone involved. He knew where those cameras were because they were his cameras…”

  The uniforms looked up from his desk as he passed by.

  “Dawson, we could have a situation on our hands at twelve Dalton Drive,” he said to PC Dawson as he passed.

  “What kind of situation?” he said.

  “An abduction, a siege, maybe even another murder. We need to be prepared for the worst,” said Hogarth. “Come on, Palmer. This could turn nasty…”

  “Sir?” said Simmons, across the office. “Do you need me?”

  “Yes, Simmons. You’ve been coming through with the goods. I need you to get John Milford’s address. It should be chock full of evidence. Call Marris and see what you can find. I think we’re going to need forensics in there…”

  ***

  Simmons knew witness contact details had been taken the night Drummond was killed. Dawson and Rawlins had done all that, and passed a list to Palmer. But scrabbling through the notes and files on Palmer’s desk, he still couldn’t find them. DC Simmons knew he had a bad rep on the team. Sometimes they made it so obvious. And it was out of that spirit he had complained about Hogarth to DCI Melford. It was a chance meeting. He’d seen DCI Melford at a local curry house, and the DI had asked him how he was getting on. Simmons should have kept his mouth shut, but he didn’t. The DI had been berating him for so long and Palmer sometimes joined in. The bad feelings were there, so close to the surface, that it all came out. And so, Simmons had given the DCI his real feeling about Hogarth’s policing methods and had regretted it ever since. But here Simmons had seen an opportunity to turn things around. There were glimmers of hope. And yet here he was again, with luck turning against him at the worst possible time. Trust me to fail at the first hurdle, he thought. If he couldn’t even manage the basics, he would certainly deserve the next roasting which came his way. But Simmons was determined not to let anyone down. He stopped searching through Palmer’s desk and started thinking. He knew Milford ran the nightclub under a well-known company name, Milford Enterprises. The firm which owned Club Smart had to be listed at Companies House. He checked with a quick web search and found the right company along with a whole list of other firms under the Milford name. An online search showed various addresses listed with each company, but only one address was repeated consistently. It was the address of an accountancy firm in Benfleet, six miles out of town. Why was nothing ever easy? Simmons took a moment, and tried to assume the air of a professional detective as he made the call to the accountant. The truth was his confidence had taken a knock and he needed to nurse his way back. Hogarth was a cop who enjoyed the hard knocks that went with the job. The gallows humour, the sarcasm, and all the banter. But as time went on, the jokes at his expense had started to weigh on Simmons. Yes, he was sometimes clumsy with his words, sometimes a little slow on the uptake. But he had always been a trier, until now. But Hogarth had caught a glimpse of what he could do, and he intended to show there was even more beneath the surface.

  “Gulshari Accounts. Good afternoon?”

  “Good afternoon. My name is Detective Constable David Simmons. I need to speak to someone about one of your clients. John Milford of Milford Enterprises. Can anyone help me at all?”

  “I’m sorry,” came the reply. We’re not at liberty to discuss our client’s accounts, I am afraid,”

  “But you’ve heard about the murders in Southend?” said Simmons, borrowing a stern tone of voice he’d heard Hogarth use many times.

  “Yes… it’s awful. I’ve heard about it.”

  “I’m calling you as part of that investigation.”

  “Mr Milford? Is he involved in any way?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say, madam. But in helping us, you may help to prevent another murder…”

  Simmons waited.

  “Wait one moment. I’ll see what I can do.”

  Simmons smiled. He had used the woman’s professional confidentiality shtick back against her and won. Now all he needed was the address. The woman soon came back on the line.

  “Seeing as this is a serious police matter, you can have the details.”

  Simmons punched the air but kept his tone serious.

  “Thank you. You’ve been a great help. Maybe you could help us with one more thing?”

  “Yes?”

  “Is there any chance we could look at his accounts?”

  “His accounts? For which period?” said the woman. He could hear she was already typing.

  “As recent as possible.”

  “May I ask why?”

  “It’s confidential, but I can tell you it’s related to a possible fraud.”

  “I thought this was a murder investigation?” said the woman.

  “Murder is rarely a simple matter, madam,” said Simmons.

  “I see,” said the woman. “Management accounts will cover the period since the last tax return. But I’ll need an email address to send it to. A police email address,” she added with emphasis.

  As soon as he put the phone down Simmons stood up from his desk, grabbed his coat, and made off. With any luck, he would be able to get into Milford’s home, find some evidence, and make it to Dalton Drive with news for the DI about his finds. Hogarth would certainly think better of him then…

  ***

  Less than ten minutes later, Simmons was climbing the stairs of the apartment block at the back of the high street. The block was situated above the shops and nightclubs – not those belonging to John Milford, but the few tucked around the corner beside the Quality Lodge. Simmons had known of the flats for years, but had never been inside them. He avoided the claustrophobic looking lift and took the stairs. He smelled family dinners and heard TV canned laughter as he climbed. At the top floor he found three doors. Number twenty-five belonged to Milford. A penthouse flat overlooking the top of the town, and out across the Thames Estuary. Nice if you could get it, but still not Simmons’ cup of tea. He preferred houses to flats, but a single man on his salary couldn’t afford one. Maybe if he could find a nice young WPC to settle down with or a pretty PCSO like Bec Rawlins, then he would
be able to buy one. He knocked on the door and heard the echo in the flat beyond. He rang the bell and knocked again, hard. Still no answer. Simmons considered his options. Do nothing? Walk away and wait for a warrant? Or wait for explicit instructions to break down the door? But what would Hogarth have done? Yep. He would have kicked the bloody door down and sod the consequences. Simmons gulped and imagined Palmer warning against doing anything stupid. Then he backed away from the door, swore under his breath, and rammed his shoulder hard against it. The door didn’t budge. His shoulder burned with pain, but the door held. He rubbed his shoulder and looked at the sturdy door.

  As an angry afterthought, Simmons lifted one of his long legs and kicked it beside the lock. The door jamb instantly cracked, the lock gave way and the door opened into a wall of darkness. He’d done it now. His heart pounded at the prospect of reprimands and suspension. But it was done. And now he confronted a penthouse apartment which was nothing like he’d ever imagined. It was dark. It was musty. And there was a faint glow from the room at the end of the hall.

  “You’ve got no choice now, Simmons,” he muttered to himself. “In you go.”

  He took a deep breath and edged into the corridor. Slowly, he moved past dark doorways, his eyes on the faint glow in the room beyond. He heard the hum of a fridge in the kitchen. The clunk of a central heating pipe. He told himself to calm down. Simmons edged into a cavernous room at the end. He couldn’t see much, but the room felt oddly cluttered. He rubbed his hands across the smooth walls until he flicked a light switch and suddenly the room was bathed in pale yellow light. He blinked until his eyes were accustomed to the light, and then he looked around. The curtains were drawn in a messy haphazard fashion. They fell in creases and folds over the back of sofas and windowsills with newspapers stacked over the curtain hems, along with pizza boxes and old yogurt pots. He stepped over the newspapers. Most of them were copies of The Record. A couple of them were printouts of the same edition, with headlines about the Drummond murder. The man was obsessed. Some of the papers were open on inside pages with the salacious reports by Alice Perry. He stepped over the papers and looked again. The faint glow he’d seen had come from the small white LCD light on top of a laptop left on a coffee table. Simmons used his fingernails to prize it open, to avoid leaving prints. He hit the on button with a knuckle and the computer flicked into life. The screen woke up. A moment later, the screen opened on the internet web pages left by the last user. Simmons saw several open tabs. One belonged to UKNews. Another to The Record. Another for the Basildon Recorder. All of them news media. Simmons didn’t need to check what news the man had been looking at. But he decided to scroll the first page out of interest. And there he found the article from two days after the Drummond killing, with Alice Perry decrying the police’s ineptitude. Front and centre was an image of Hogarth walking out of the doors of Club Smart, looking shabby and black-eyed as if he was the root of all evil. That Alice Perry didn’t know what she was talking about. And maybe she didn’t understand that others paid the price for her lies. Blame Hogarth – that was her article. This useless cop is the reason you are afraid – nothing to do with the killer. Simmons shook his head. He minimised the web browser and found the Weblook email icon on the desktop. Clicking it was a risk worth taking. He opened the mailbox and found a stack of emails. They were a mix of business and junk mail and he saw most of them had been read. Simmons drilled down quickly looking for any kind of meat relating to the case against Milford. His impatience got the better of him, so he opened the search box. He typed in ‘Deal’ and ran a search, but got nothing. Next he tried Grayson. He found a couple of emails about deejaying dates and payments, but nothing juicy. He typed in Drummond. Nothing. On a final whim he typed in Jake. There. Twelve emails were pinged back. All of them pre-read. Simmons opened one at random.

  “U need to pay now.” Nothing more than that. It was pure teenage text speak. Basic. Blunt. No words spared.

  He’d found gold – something not just to impress Hogarth, but something to sink Milford for good. Even DCI Melford would love this kind of initiative.

  Simmons went to the first, bottom email in the stack.

  Milford,

  Nothing in my account again this morning. Let me remind you what’s at stake. I know about the planning application for the nightclub and I know how you intend to get permission. I saw you with Cllr Brownlow. If you’ve got enough money for him, you’ve got enough for me. My fee just went up by another two hundred. Next time best not be late.

  Your friend,

  Jake

  Brownlow? Hogarth would know about the councillor. But Simmons could already read between the lines. Planning applications went to the council wherever the high street was concerned, and impact on the community was considered, those permissions could be slow as hell and they were often rejected. It looked like Milford didn’t want to take that risk. He’d met with a councillor and had been seen by Drummond, who had a nose for blackmail like no villain he’d ever met. And because of it, he’d eventually paid the price. Milford was on CCTV camera around the time when Jake Drummond died. He knew the club like no other. He knew where the cameras were. He knew how to hide and where to keep his knife. How had he done it? Maybe he had attacked from within the crowd. Maybe across the bar itself. The camera didn’t show enough detail. All it showed was the result. But looking around Milford’s dirty penthouse, the evidence was damning. Simmons grinned to himself. It was too late to go over to Dalton Drive and there was plenty to keep him occupied here. Simmons decided to stay and call in forensics along with some back up, just in case Milford decided to come back. He called Marris first. He dialled the number and paced the room. Outside the flat he heard the little elevator ping and the doors slide open. The neighbours would get antsy when they saw the broken door. Once his call was made he would knock on their doors to reassure them.

  “Hello. Is Marris there please?”

  “I’ll just put you through.”

  Simmons heard the front door gently creak. He turned his head to see a tall man with a shaven head walking into the apartment. The man was looking directly at him. In one hand he held a young child who was fast asleep. His other hand held tight to a young woman’s wrist. He pulled her into the apartment behind him. Simmons saw the woman was holding another smaller child. Her face was a mess of tears. John Milford leaned back against the door.

  “Put that phone down,” said Milford.

  Simmons face turned black with shock.

  “Hello, Marris here,” said the voice in his ear. “Hello…? Hello, who is this?”

  Simmons lowered the phone from his ear.

  “End the call.”

  “Simmons hit the end call button and the voice died.

  “You look scared, Mr Policeman,” said Milford, smiling. “Scared is exactly what you should be. You see, Sandra. Now we’ve got another human shield, you really don’t have to be scared at all…”

  Simmons shook his head in terror and disbelief.

  Milford grinned and drew the knife from his pocket and raised it in the air. It glinted with the light from the living room bulb.Hogarth and Palmer had been at Dalton Drive for less than one minute when they knew something was wrong. Palmer drilled the doorbell with her finger for the fourth time, while Hogarth paced the garden path, stepping into the overgrown garden to peer through the front window. He saw the overturned plastic ride-on toys inside the front room, the Mega Bloks scattered over the rug, the baby bottle and the discarded nappies. The TV was still on, showing a happy little blue man holding a red blanket as he waved at the screen.

  Hogarth hissed and walked back to the front door.

  “They’re not here. Milford’s got them.”

  “We don’t know that, sir. That’s worst-case scenario. They could have gone out.”

  “In so much of a hurry that the TV is on? They had a visitor, what – twenty-five minutes ago? She’s with him. He’s taken her somewhere.”

  Hogarth’s gaze turne
d inward. If Sandra Deal and her kids were killed, his career would be over. Melford would scapegoat him. The Record had already laid the groundwork for it. But that really wasn’t so important in the grand scheme of things. Milford was a sick man who had seemed sane and friendly to speak to. Which meant he was one of the worst types. He knew Milford had done it out of choice not compulsion. Hogarth wanted to save Sandra Deal and her kids. Everyone else in this case had born some kind of guilt, but Sandra had been tricked and used not once, but twice. And now those children were in the worst danger of their brief lives. Hogarth burned at the thought of the children being hurt.

  “Think, Sue. Come on. Where would Milford take them?”

  “The club maybe?”

  Hogarth shook his head. “No. Not there. There are fire exits and all sorts. It gives us lots of ways in and him lots of risks…”

  “We don’t know him. We don’t know him well enough to make that call…” said Palmer. She was right. Hogarth racked his brains for insight. He was on the verge of shouting in frustration when his phone rang.

  “Yes! What is it now!” he shouted down the line, venting at the unknown caller. He had expected Simmons. But it wasn’t him.

  “DI Hogarth. This is Ivan Marris. I received a call just now. One of your team, I believe.”

  “Marris? What?”

  “Did you need something from forensics?” said Marris.

  “No. I didn’t call you. Neither did Palmer…”

  “Wait there. I can check the number if you like…” said Marris.

  Hogarth waited while Marris produced the number. As Marris called out the digits, Hogarth repeated them allowed.

  “That’s Simmons’s phone,” said Palmer.

  “It was DC Simmons,” said Hogarth. “Didn’t he tell you why he was calling?”

  “No. In fact, he left me hanging from the very moment I picked up the call. I heard him breathing. I heard someone else talking, but that was it…”

  Hogarth looked at Palmer. “Simmons called you, but he didn’t speak?”