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

by Solomon Carter

  “And so would you.”

  Hogarth grimaced. Neville burst up from his chair and took another big step towards the man with the steely hair. The men were a generation apart, but physically looked an equal match. It would have made for an interesting fight. But the mother scowled, grunted and burst into tears. The good-looker with the red lips and nails pulled Neville back.

  “Don’t upset your mother… not now,” she said.

  “And she shouldn’t be here at all,” said Marjorie.

  “She’s my guest,” said Neville. “Nancy’s work is nothing to do with why she’s here.”

  Hogarth glanced at Palmer and arched an eyebrow.

  Hogarth coughed. “Does anyone here have any clue what this announcement might have been? Any idea at all? Mrs Grave?”

  The old woman looked up. “He was going to make changes, that’s all. He didn’t tell me what. He never did. But the farm was his business…”

  “I think he was going to take up some of my recommendations,” said Neville.

  “Rubbish. As if they would ever work,” said Goodwell.

  Hogarth kept his eyes on Neville.

  “Diversification and changes in the structure of the farm to make it sustainable.”

  “Poppycock,” said Goodwell.

  “Well, Mr Goodwell?” said Hogarth. “What do you think he was going to say?”

  “We’d been talking to him about the farm too. I’m certain he was considering what we’d said.”

  “Which was?”

  “The farm needed to take on a partner to streamline the operation and run it like a modern farming business.”

  “Would you be that partner, by any chance?” said Hogarth with a glint in his eye.

  “Oh, good Lord, no. This isn’t our business. What do we know about farming. Our only care was that the farm survived. Not just saving it from decline, but saving it from the predators too.”

  Goodwell’s eyes flicked to the pretty young woman in the suit. He was making an accusation with his eyes. Hogarth pretended not to pick up on it. Occasionally, it was best to play dumb.

  “Then you suggested a partner to him?” said Hogarth.

  “Not as such. Just that one of the larger farm businesses should take a stake in it. He would have been wealthy again in his later years. Of course, none of that matters now, does it?”

  The young man bristled with unspoken anger.

  “Calm down, Mr Grave,” said Hogarth. “I think we should break here, let you have a little time to come to terms with what’s happened. But we’re going to need to speak to you again. I’ve got all the names I think. Except for yours…” said Hogarth as he passed the woman with the red lips. The more Hogarth saw her, the more he felt the confidence pouring off her. He could already tell she was the type people described as ‘spirited’.

  “And what’s your name, miss?”

  “Nancy Decorville.”

  “Decorville? Fancy name.”

  “Ancestral French, a long time back.”

  “I know it might be nothing, miss, but there’s already been a reference to your work. Would you mind if I asked what your profession is?”

  There was a titter from the other side of the room.

  “I work in property. I am involved in sourcing commercial property for redevelopment.”

  Hogarth nodded. “I see.”

  Miss Decorville’s face turned a shade of pink, but her pretty eyes stayed defiant.

  “My career has nothing to do with my being here. I’m here as Nev’s partner.”

  “Of course, you are,” said Trevor Goodwell.

  “I’d mind that mouth of yours, if I were you,” she snapped.

  “Or what, exactly?” said Goodwell.

  Neville Grave chewed on his lip and kept quiet, as the young woman in the snazzy dress kneaded his arm to comfort him.

  “I’m sorry for your loss,” said Hogarth in parting. “But I’m afraid you’ll be seeing a lot more of me until this is done. Please keep your phones on and your diaries free. Come on DS Palmer. Thank you for your time.”

  He nodded at each of them, taking one last survey of their eyes and behaviour before he walked out into the bright cold day.

  No sooner was the door closed than Hogarth let out a long sigh.

  “My, my. I don’t think I’ve ever encountered such acrimony in a family home right after a family member’s death. And a murder too. The atmosphere in that old house was almost toxic,” said Hogarth. “What did you make of it?”

  “I felt sorry for that old woman. She was barely holding on.”

  “Hmmmmm,” said Hogarth.

  “What?” said Palmer.

  “I’m not entirely sure Mrs Susan Grave is entirely with us. I think she might have let go of whatever she was holding on to a long time back. She’ll need looking at too.”

  “But what for? She can’t have done it, can she?” said Palmer.

  “Context, remember. She’s not going to be a suspect, but if the old girl’s gone doolally there’s a question about where the money, house, and business go now her husband’s dead.”

  Palmer nodded. “Yes… I’d like to know what was in that old man’s will.

  “The vibe in that kitchen wasn’t that the vultures were circling,” said Hogarth. “I think they were already swooping to take their first bite.”

  Palmer nodded. “Fine. I’ll look at the will and the solicitor.”

  Hogarth’s eyes narrowed and glazed over with thought. As he walked he jangled the change and keys in his chinos pockets, thinking about the frightened pale faces of the migrant workers and the black crumbs they’d found at the scene.

  “But what would drive someone to kill like that, Palmer? Such a hideous, brutal way to kill a man. Not much could drive someone to that. We need to know more about old Farmer Grave, more about this farm, and much more about that family of vultures. I think we’ve got our work cut out.”

  “Yes. Haven’t we just,” said Palmer. Palmer’s eyes framed the faintest of smiles. Hogarth seemed to have forgotten his melancholy. The cut and thrust of the job suited him better than he knew. And Palmer was happy to have peeled one layer beneath his rough exterior to have found something new. Something vulnerable. But even so, Palmer was a realist. She knew there would likely be another thousand impenetrable layers to go before she ever really got to know the man at all.

  Chapter Five

  “DI Hogarth. You’re calling me already?” said Ivan Marris.

  “If I didn’t know better,” said Hogarth “I’d say you didn’t look forward to my calls.”

  Marris snorted a little laugh before he cut to the chase. Marris was an austere type, but then he was a scientist by trade. Even so, his tone was less brusque than Dickens, the crime scene manager’s, had been. At least with Marris there was a hint of sophistication and wit to make the conversations a tad less dry.

  “You’re calling about the poor old farmer, I take it?”

  “Who else? I haven’t spoken with Quentin yet,” said Hogarth.

  Ed Quentin was the pathologist they consulted in every case involving a suspicious death.

  “He’ll have his work cut out with this one,” said Marris. “From what I’ve heard the crime scene was hideous.”

  “I think so,” said Hogarth. “I saw the aftermath. It was a bloody horror show. Whoever did this one was twisted, Ivan. Deeply twisted. So, have you got anything for us yet?”

  “As a matter of fact, yes. There were shreds of paper rescued from the old man’s trouser pockets. They came to me, so I could analyse them for traces of fingerprints. But the paper was so torn it was more like jigsaw work. Quite a chunk of the note had been torn away and looks to be missing. I think the paper had been torn up to be thrown away. I’m no expert in handwriting either, Hogarth, but I think it was written by the old man. The writing is very spidery, reminds me of my grandfather’s actually.”

  “What does it say?”

  “Something about a ‘better idea’
, whatever that means. There’s not much of the note left and it ends on those two words – ‘better idea’. Does that mean anything to you?”

  “Not yet. But it might become clear as we go.” Hogarth frowned in thought. A better idea? Who’s idea? And better than what idea? New questions. He hoped they would lead to revealing answers.

  “What else have you got?” said Hogarth.

  “Brain, blood, and bone matter on the hay, and some on the blades of the woodchipper. It all belongs to the victim. We’ve got a mish-mash of boot prints and fragments of trainer prints in the barn too. But the freshest ones are well mixed up. There seems to be at least four or five different sets of footprints in there.”

  “What about the newest ones? The kill happened today, after all.”

  “It all needs work, DI Hogarth. Which takes time. We’re talking about fragments of footprints here, just like that note. The grass and hay all over the show mean that the concrete floor didn’t receive every full footprint, and they criss-cross over one another.”

  “But you might have an idea…” said Hogarth.

  “A basic idea, yes. There were three or four sets of fresh prints. Two look like wellington boots from the shape of the print. But the others definitely weren’t.”

  “One of them belonged to the victim, of course.”

  “And one of the other three could be the killer,” said Marris.

  “When will you have more on the footprints?”

  “Hard to say. I won’t be able to isolate or analyse them without a bit of legwork. And if you’re after me presenting you with killer’s actual shoe print, I warn you now, I might not be able to do that.”

  Hogarth grunted. “Okay. DNA. Fingerprints. Anything on that note which shouldn’t be there?”

  “Given time, I might be able to get something. Hopefully pathology can provide you more.”

  Hogarth gritted his teeth but kept his tone light. “Okay, Ivan. Thanks for the news on the note. Scan a copy to me if you would. Oh. And before you go, did you see any of those random black fibres on the floor?”

  “Random?”

  “Little black dots…?” said Hogarth.

  “Oh, yes, I’ve picked up a few of those.”

  “What do you make of them?”

  “That’s easy enough. Those are neoprene fibres shed from a garment which has had too much wear and tear.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ve not run any chemical analysis on them,” said Marris. “That’s on the to do list. But it’s definitely neoprene. And to be this broken down – broken down enough to shed particles – suggests a very old garment which has seen a lot of impact and pressure.”

  “Impact and pressure?”

  “I’d guess whichever garment they came from really needs throwing away. Probably some kind of old PPE gear for the farm. Or sports equipment, even”

  “Interesting.”

  “It might be interesting, Hogarth but it could be nothing. It’s hard to say right now. ’ll update you when I’ve checked it out.”

  “Thanks, Ivan.”

  Hogarth ended the call and tapped the edge of the phone on his lips. The neoprene mattered – he was almost sure of it. He just didn’t yet know how.

  Palmer breezed into the small CID room. With DC Simmons still in recovery from his injuries from the Club Smart case, the room seemed far less cluttered than before. Empty in fact, and it was quieter too. Hogarth didn’t like the quiet. It made him brood, and inevitably, his thoughts turned to Ali Hartigan and the stalker. He still needed to see Ali. He hadn’t even gotten close to her at the hospital. Instead he had only seen her bandaged face through the ward window at Southend Hospital. If he’d visited her bedside, it would have been taking a risk. It wasn’t fair to Ali. But he needed to see her, to let her know he cared, that he was sorry for putting her at risk. But most of all, he wanted to see that she was okay. The yearning gnawed at him whenever he was alone.

  He was all too glad for Palmer’s return to the office. Hogarth looked up from his desk.

  “Anything from the solicitor about the will?” he said.

  “Not yet,” said Palmer.

  “Not yet! Now you sound like Marris.”

  “Nothing back from forensics yet then?” said Palmer.

  “No. So what was the solicitor’s excuse?”

  Palmer shrugged. “The solicitor was busy. It’s Gardner’s & Co. They said they’ll call us back.”

  “When it suits them, and they’re solicitors, means we’ll have to chase. I don’t like sitting here waiting, Palmer. We already know it’s got to be one of those scavengers back there in that farmhouse.”

  “Or maybe the migrant workers?” said Palmer.

  “Hmmmm. They were the first to find the body,” said Hogarth.

  “According to Peter Venky, that is,” said Palmer.

  “But we’ve got no reason to doubt him, yet. The vet had the least to gain out of his friend dying. There’s a chance he’ll lose whatever business he had from them if the farm is sold up.”

  “But he was still present when it happened,” said Palmer. “We can’t discount him,”

  “I won’t discount any of them,” said Hogarth. “Maybe it’s the stench of all that greed which has me so suspicious. I’d like to put them under a bit more pressure. Just a bit, to see if any of them squirms louder than the others.”

  “That might look insensitive under the circumstances.”

  “Now you sound like the DCI. I think the Super’s finally getting to him. All he cares about now are appearances and what the press might say. But he still wants results, of course. How about we swing past Grave Farm one more time, just to see what we else we can get?”

  “But we only left them an hour ago. What for?”

  “Who knows? I might need another look at the crime scene. We can always concoct a reason for another visit, Palmer.”

  “What’s the real reason?”

  “Thumbscrews, that’s what. Marris was handed shreds of a handwritten note from the old man’s pockets. The only bit he could read mentioned something about a better idea. I’d like to know what that idea was, wouldn’t you?”

  “The note was incomplete?”

  “Yes, torn to shreds. Maybe partly thrown away. It had me thinking, when I’m tearing up a credit card bill, sometimes I put one part in one big bag and one in another.”

  “That’s a little extreme,” said Palmer. “I mean, you’ve already torn it up.”

  “Yes. Maybe a little paranoid even, but you can never be too careful, can you? Nigel Grave might have been the paranoid type too. If there’s a chance the rest of that note is somewhere on that farm, I want it.”

  Hogarth stood up and grabbed his navy blazer.

  “Come on. Let’s go and see who’s left among the vipers…”

  ***

  The door chimed throughout the great house. When the door opened, it was the son, Neville Grave, who greeted them. Now that the young man stood framed in the doorway, Hogarth got a better sense of the man’s physique. His trendy red and black checked shirt was snug around his muscles and broad shoulders.

  “You’re back,” said the young man, with a hint of surprise.

  “Yes, yes, we are,” said Hogarth. “I did warn you. There’s a couple of things we needed to check on. Can we come in?”

  Hogarth’s eyes probed for more with his eyes, but the young man nodded and backed away from the door, breaking away from his gaze. Hogarth looked down at the brown walking boots on the man’s feet. They were the kind with deep, thick-grooved soles. The kind worn by ramblers and people who watched Springwatch. Hogarth noted an edging of mud and gravel around the soles, but it was hardly incriminating.

  “So, Mr Grave,” said Hogarth. “Still very early days, of course. But how’s everyone bearing up?” They stepped into the brown hallway and shut the door behind them.

  “As well as can be hoped,” he said.

  “Is your fair lady still here, Mr Grave?” said Hogar
th.

  The young man looked Hogarth in the eye.

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Because I’ll have to interview her soon.”

  “But Nancy was hardly here, and she wasn’t even here when it happened.”

  “So, you know precisely, do you, the time when your father was attacked?”

  “No… of course not – not precisely… how would I? But it stands to reason. Ask the others… my father went out to get firewood at around ten to twelve. He was outside for about twenty minutes when Peter Venky went to look for him, and found him… found him… found him like that…”

  The young man’s face fell, and he blinked to hide his tears.

  “I’m sorry to press you on this, Mr Grave. I know it’s a very hard time for you.”

  The young man sighed.

  “My point is Nancy wasn’t here, Inspector, so you needn’t interview her.”

  “Thanks for pointing that out, but I will have to speak to her all the same. What time did Miss Decorville arrive then?”

  “Oh… maybe around twelve fifteen, I think.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Hogarth. “I’ve been wondering… there’s no gate blocking public access to the side of the house, to the back garden, or those fields there, is there?”

  The young man looked at both of them and shook his head. “No… only the main gate and that’s generally open. That’s something we need to look at changing, maybe…”

  “To be looked at when you come into ownership of the farm, perhaps?”

  A hint of pink appeared on the sturdy young man’s cheeks and neck. “I wasn’t thinking along those lines at all.”

  “Maybe not. But people do,” said Hogarth. “Even in times like this, Mr Grave. It’s human.”

  The man nodded. “Well someone will need to look at it.”

  “Do you stand to inherit the farm – as things stand?”

  “I wouldn’t know about that, Inspector. I doubt it. My mother is still alive…”

  “Yes… but I see there might be certain extenuating circumstances when an inheritance can be passed along…”

  “My mother is alive, Inspector…” said the man, with firm emphasis.

  “Yes, she is, Mr Grave.” Hogarth decided not to push any further. Not yet. He gave Palmer a sideward glance. “Can we see who else is here?”