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

by Solomon Carter

  “It’s okay, Neville,” said Nancy. “Everyone’s entitled to their opinion. Even when they’re patently wrong.”

  Venky the vet stared into the bottom of his glass before necking what was left. If this lunch meeting got any worse, he would invent an appointment so he could leave. A breech birth at Belfairs stables perhaps?

  “I’ll go and check on Nigel,” said Venky. “He’s been long enough by now.”

  The tall vet walked out of the back door and left them to it. Shaking his head, he walked down the gravel track, past the overgrown garden and abandoned home allotment, towards the long blue shed, and he took his time. As he got nearer, Venky squinted. He thought he could hear an engine. A tractor maybe? Cheeky sod! It’d be just like Nigel to arrange an event then to bugger off and escape into some farm work. Venky smiled at the thought. Who could blame him? They were like vultures, the bloody lot of them.

  Two men appeared from the end of the shed. He recognised them. The foreign migrant workers Old Nige had kept on, because he had a soft spot for them. Both wore puffer jackets with their hoods up in the cold. One blue, one green. They talked to each other as they turned into the darkness of the long shed. A moment later there was an awful shout. The shout quickly became a scream. A wild, blood-curdling scream. Peter Venky stopped walking. A few horrific possibilities skittered through his mind. He dismissed them all as ridiculous. This was just another day like any other. Yes, he knew worse were coming, but not today. Not today. He repeated the words like a mantra in his head, but something in him didn’t believe it. The tall elderly man broke into a loping run. The foreigner in the blue coat emerged from the shed and fell to his knees. His face was ashen. There were tears in his eyes.

  “What is it?” cried Venky. “What’s the matter with you, man?”

  The worker couldn’t respond. Venky walked inside. Now he didn’t need an explanation. The horror was evident enough. “Oh no. Oh please, no…” he said, walking forwards through the hay towards the mechanical feeder. He recognised his friend’s shoes, his trousers, even his bloodied checked shirt. But the top of his torso was invisible, all held by the feeder. The engine chuntered, but the blades whined in complaint. Venky risked a glance to his left towards the end of the contraption which produced the wood chips and instantly regretted it. His stomach heaved. He felt faint.

  The other migrant worker was pacing the hay strewn floor, muttering in his own language as if he had lost his mind. Then he said “Who? Who?”

  The vet shook his head. And then he turned away, shouting for help. He ran outside shouting before he fell down in the cold rutted field and vomited onto the soil. Peter Venky couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. His friend was dead too soon. From now on, the rest of Venky’s life could never be the same.

  Chapter Two

  Detective Sergeant Palmer slowed as she drove along the end of Prittlewell Chase. She’d taken a call from Hogarth, and the DI had asked her for a lift. It was a strange request, and not just because Hogarth had a car of his own. The end of Prittlewell Chase was home to the driving test centre and a community garden for disadvantaged and disabled people. It was an odd place for someone like Hogarth to be out walking on a weekday afternoon. Hogarth hadn’t been at the station during the morning and Palmer had heard the rumour he was off sick. After their recent case, Palmer wondered if it was a delayed stress reaction or an old-fashioned hangover. After all, Prittlewell Chase wasn’t far from the nick. Hogarth could have easily walked the rest of the way. She had even thought about telling Hogarth to walk. Just as a bit of banter. But the strange, distant tone of his voice had changed her mind.

  It was one-thirty-five pm when she saw him. Her dented Vauxhall Corsa turned onto the side parking bays of Prittlewell Chase and there he was, standing right outside the community garden staring over the hedge towards the well-tended allotments and greenhouses. Palmer parked her car and waited for Hogarth to walk over, but he didn’t. In the end, Palmer looked at herself in the rear-view mirror and sighed. She checked the fringe of her blonde bob and blinked, making sure her eyes didn’t look too tired. It was far too late to be bothered with any make-up. Hogarth had seen her in all kinds of states. He’d be able to see past the slap and lippy in a heartbeat. Besides, it would only make her too bloody obvious. She didn’t know what was bothering Hogarth, but at least it was an opportunity to get to know him better. Or something better than that. Palmer stopped and stared at herself. Her breath stilled. Did she really want to sleep with her boss? Her direct superior officer? No, not really. But if she’d met Hogarth in any other situation, she knew she wouldn’t have turned him down. He was a bit of a bastard, but only when you first got to know him. After that, he was actually quite funny. And he didn’t look too bad either, for a man of his age. And what with working sixty-hour weeks where else was she going to meet a man? It could only be in the force. And as her mother kept reminding her, she was still alone, and her body clock was ticking. As if she needed reminding. If she didn’t meet a man soon and get on with it, any chance of a family and kids was going to go right out of the window – for good. So, if Hogarth was the least bit interested, she would have to go for it. Not because he was her ideal man. Was Hogarth anybody’s ideal man? But because he was there, because he was real, and because she was unlikely to meet anybody else. If they got together she would have to transfer to the other CID team. Or maybe to another station, such as Basildon. But that was for the future. Right now, she was here for him and that had to count for something. Palmer got out of the car. Seeing how tired he looked, she wondered if he was about to quit. Even in profile, as he leaned over the fence, she could see he looked fragile. Burned out, maybe?

  “Guv?” she called, feeling butterflies in her tummy. Stupid, stupid girl. Just bloody grow up. She told herself.

  “Palmer…” he said. Hogarth looked around at her sheepishly and scratched his chin. He looked emotional and tired… and something else. Palmer tried to read his eyes. Then she saw it. He was angry. Hogarth was very angry, and she didn’t know why.

  “Sir, are you okay?”

  “Why do you ask, Palmer? Oh, I suppose I might not look at my wholesome best right now.”

  “Something’s wrong, guv. I can see that.”

  “You’ll make a fine detective one day,” said Hogarth, with a heap of irony. Palmer shrugged.

  “Joke, Palmer. You’re a pretty good detective already.”

  “Thank you, sir. You’re not a bad one yourself,” she said. The butterflies intensified. But Hogarth looked in a state.

  “No, Palmer. Not true. I get by, Palmer, that’s all. I got by for twenty years in the force, but right now I couldn’t give a single solitary shit about it.”

  “But why, guv? DC Simmons is on the mend. And Melford’s been singing your praises at the station, even the Super mentioned your exploits in the newsletter.”

  “They can both shove the newsletter where the sun doesn’t shine.”

  “Would you like me to pass that on, sir?” said Palmer with a grin.

  “No, Palmer. When I tell the Super to shove it, I’ll do it in person. You can be there to watch.”

  Palmer smiled. “So, what is it?”

  “It’s bullshit, Palmer. That’s what. We’ve got drug dealing scumbags coming out of our ear ‘oles, so they assign a surveillance team to them to ‘collate information’ like we’re working on a stamp collection. We’ve got gangs carving up the districts like departments in Debenhams, and let’s face it – if you close your eyes and point at anyone you like in this town my bet is you’d be pointing at a criminal.”

  “At least it keeps us in work,” said Palmer. She mirrored Hogarth’s body language, leaning over the fence and edged just a little closer. Hogarth seemed oblivious.

  “Is it family? Did something happen over the weekend?

  Hogarth grunted and shook his head. Palmer bit her lip and took a risk.

  “Is it your partner?”

  “Partner, Palmer? Me? Come on! A pa
rtner. Darts partner, maybe. Didn’t you know I’m far too much of a sad sack bastard to keep a spouse. I’m all about the job, me. It’s just a shame the job doesn’t love me back.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “I’ve given this job the best years of my life. I’ve been shot at, stabbed, and more for being with the police. I had my car burned out in Tower Hamlets. I had a cigar stubbed out on me in Holloway. I had my little finger bent back by a man in a frock at Aldgate bus station. And I’ve had every police chief I’ve ever worked for undervalue and underappreciate the work I’ve done. I know we don’t do it for the thanks. We do it because it’s what we do, but still.”

  Palmer nodded and made eye contact. Hogarth sighed.

  “But even when we’re dealing with all this crap, doing the very best we can, we still miss the bad ones.”

  “Like who?”

  Hogarth shook his head. He stayed silent for a moment, then met her eye.

  “Look at Alison Hartigan.”

  “Who?”

  “Exactly, Palmer. Exactly. The MP’s wife. The woman should have been high profile. High priority. Considered to be at risk from all kinds of threats, but no one even bothered to look at the Hartigans. She’d reported a stalker, apparently. But nothing was done about it. And now the poor woman has been beaten up like a street scumbag.”

  Hogarth’s jaw tensed as he spoke. Palmer was taken aback by the anger in his eyes. It shone out from deep inside.

  “The Record newspaper insinuated we were to blame,” said Palmer. “But that cheap hack Alice Perry was out to knock us again.”

  “Alice Perry was right, Palmer. I know. There’s always a first time.” The DI leaned up from the fence.

  “What do you mean? We should have seen into the future and known she was in danger?”

  “No, Palmer. The signs were there. We should have seen the risks. And that bloody MP should have told us he needed some protection.”

  “Sir? I don’t get why you’re so upset about this.”

  “It’s the blind spots, Palmer. That’s what it is. You know, I think I’ve got more blind spots than I ever realised. And in this job, that’s not good.”

  “Sir,” said Palmer, becoming a mite irritated at Hogarth’s self-pity. “With respect, we all have blind spots. But last week you ensured a killer was stopped in his tracks, you saved DC Simmons from being stabbed to death, and you got four other collars along the way. You’re doing all you can, sir.”

  “You reckon, do you?” said Hogarth.

  “As a matter of fact, yes, I do.”

  Hogarth made a thoughtful face, pursing his lips.

  “I didn’t know you did pep talks, Palmer. You’re pretty good at them, as it happens.”

  “I have been known to offer a little peer-to-peer support in my time.”

  “Bollocks to the work jargon. You’re good at listening. Hope I didn’t offload on you too much, did I?”

  “Not any more than necessary, sir.”

  Hogarth straightened out his blazer and shirt collar.

  “Where’s your car?” she asked.

  “I didn’t feel good. I decided to take a walk this morning.”

  “From Westcliff?” said Palmer, with a quizzical frown.

  “Why?”

  Hogarth shrugged. Palmer looked down the length of the boulevard to the distant brown and grey hulks of Southend Hospital on the horizon.

  “Why did the MP’s wife thing get to you so much?”

  Hogarth met Palmer’s eyes before he looked away.

  “I don’t know. I guess it’s symbolic of something. The state of the police, maybe. The state of the town. I don’t know.”

  “I didn’t have you down as that much of a deep thinker, sir.”

  “Oh, DS Palmer? Contrary to popular belief I’m about as deep as they come. Now where’ve you parked your charming little motor.”

  “Charming?” she said.

  “Yes, dents give it a certain rustic chic.”

  “I’ll take that as a compliment,” said Palmer, smiling.

  “I would if I were you,” said Hogarth with a gruff chuckle.

  Palmer unlocked the Corsa and they both got inside.

  “Sir. If you ever need to let off steam again…” said Palmer. She finished there, fearful of saying too much.

  “Thank you for hearing me out, Sue. But I’ll try not to dump on you like that again. I promise.”

  Palmer blinked, turned her eyes to the road and started the engine. As she drove, Hogarth’s mobile phone started ringing.

  “Here we go,” said Hogarth. “Melford must be calling again to pretend he cares…” Hogarth put his phone to his ears.

  “DCI Melford. I’ll be along in… sir? You what?!” Hogarth turned to Palmer. The look in his eyes had gone from tired resignation to wide-eyed shock. “Yes, sir. I’m on my way.” He ended the call and dropped the phone aside.

  “Where to?” said Palmer.

  “Sutland. Just out of town. You know it?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes,” said Palmer. “The farmland in the sticks,” said Palmer. She hit the accelerator and the Corsa took off. “What is it?” said Palmer.

  “It’s another murder,” said Hogarth. “And this one sounds grisly.”

  Chapter Three

  Hogarth’s tan brogues crunched on the pea-shingle which filled the long drive outside Grave Farm all the way to the house. He slammed the car door hard enough to make Palmer wince. The Corsa wasn’t much, but it was hers. Looking at Hogarth, she saw he was oblivious. Hogarth stared up at the great old, red brick farmhouse before him.

  “This place must have been built long before the town,” he said.

  “Yeah. It looks Victorian,” said Palmer. “Or thereabout…”

  “You’re a local, Sue,” said Hogarth. “Do you know anything about the Grave family?”

  “I’m not that local,” said Palmer. “But I’ve heard a little. The family has been here for generations, and they used to own swathes of land out here – I mean almost the whole thing from the town boundary all the way to Rochford. They sold off most of it across the years. The only thing I know is they keep running these little odd events. Christmas things. Barn dances, that kind of thing. And look at the house, guv. It needs a fair bit of work.”

  Hogarth eyed the timbers supporting the roof. Where the great black beam protruded over the gable ends, he saw signs of rot. Rot wasn’t something to be neglected if an old property was to hold together.

  “I’d say they’d fallen on hard times, then,” said Hogarth. “Which could prove instructive in itself… come on,we’d better get started.”

  They walked along the driveway as it curled past the big oak front door, which sat beneath a grand stone arch. Hogarth was about to press the doorbell when he heard loud voices from the side of the property. He cast an eye around the front and counted off the cars parked there as he walked. A top of the range Porsche estate – its fine shell was spoiled by a black roof rack and a cycle rack on the back window. Next was a ropey old Land Rover with muddy wheels and a battered body. An old fashioned mini, probably thirty years old, and a white mini-van with muddy tyres, not too old. The Land Rover had to belong to the farmer, probably the Mini too. Hard times and all that. But as for the estate and the white van? He’d soon find out. Reaching the side of the farmhouse he saw PCs Orton and Jordan squabbling beside their squad car. Hogarth gave Palmer a look.

  “I’ve had enough of their crap already and we haven’t even started yet.”

  “Yeah, I know what you mean,” said Palmer. She took the lead and made a beeline for the uniforms.

  “Hey. What’s up with you two?”

  Hogarth watched with satisfaction when the two men stiffened up at the sight of Palmer walking towards them. He was glad to have Palmer on board. She didn’t take any crap, just like him. Hogarth strode on by, barely acknowledging them. He tried to put thoughts of Ali behind him. It was difficult. He’d tried to visit her – he’d had to. Aft
er seeing the article in The Record he had been shocked to the core. He’d been with her mere hours before it happened. He’d made love to her at the hotel near the airport. He’d watched her leave in that taxi. And less than twenty minutes later the bastard stalker had tried to cave her head in.

  He couldn’t help but feel it had been his fault. Being involved in a secret affair wasn’t good for the soul. He felt like he was stealing from another man, even though the man in question was a total bastard. But stealing was never good. And seeing as Ali had been attacked so soon after the hotel tryst, he was sure they had been watched. How had he not seen the stalker? He’d tried to ensure they were clear by scouting the airport hotel twice after they arrived. But clearly his mind had been on other things at the time. Hogarth seethed, ashamed of himself. And in a way, he could not escape the feeling that he had been punished. Yes, dear Ali had been punished the most. But he was supposed to be a cop. A man of justice. And he was doing wrong.

  Hogarth shook his head to clear it. He neared the long dark grey barn at the end of a rough garden track. The house was behind him now. He looked at the long shed and swallowed, knowing that the dead body was inside. A white van was parked at an angle across the track – Dickens and his crime scene assistant were already at work. Hogarth hoped it meant most of the horror had already been cleared away as he doubted he had the stomach for it, not today. He looked out to the low cold mist which clung to the fields ahead. Not far off he could see the red dotted lights of the airport. Somewhere out there was the hotel which had given him such pleasure and led to such pain. Hogarth started trudging towards the white van.

  The barn was busy. John Dickens, the crime scene manager and his assistant were on their knees, covered head to toe in their white plastic overalls, gloves and masks. The suits were to protect the evidence from contamination. But as Hogarth surveyed the crime scene, he saw the suits were protecting them from the body matter too. The vast woodchipper used to kill the man was still firmly in place. Hogarth was pleased to see the body was gone. Well, most of it. Beneath the large metal feeding bucket was plenty of dark blood and other matter which had pooled on the hay-strewn floor, probably left behind when the coroner removed the body. Hogarth swallowed on a sicky feeling in his throat and strode towards the men in the white suits. Dickens was on his hands and knees aiming a powerful torch around the floor. Sensing Hogarth’s presence, he stopped and looked up. His movements were abrupt. He raised a gloved hand towards the DI. “Stop there and don’t come any nearer.”