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

by Solomon Carter

  “Of course,” said Neville Grave. “Come through.”

  As the man walked them through the hallway towards the country kitchen, Hogarth’s eyes fell on the man’s broad back.

  “I’d say you must be a bit of a sportsman, Mr Grave, looking at that upper body of yours. What is it? Rugby? Or swimming possibly? Or some other water sport, maybe.”

  The man turned back with a quizzical look in his eye as they reached the kitchen door. Soft golden light poured out from the kitchen along with the sound of hushed voices.

  “Water sport?” said the man. “Whatever gave you that idea?”

  “You’ve got a swimmer’s shoulders, Mr Grave.”

  “No. I’m not into swimming or any other water sport, Inspector. Most of the heavy lifting I’ve ever done was right here on the farm while I was growing up. But I do get down to the gym when I can.”

  “Good. It’s good to keep in shape. In my job, we barely get the time to eat, sleep, or anything else. Not lately, anyway.”

  Neville gave an uncertain smile and led them into the kitchen.

  “The inspector’s back,” said Neville. “And he’s been flattering me about my swimmer’s shoulders…” said the man, back on firmer ground among his family. Hogarth scoped them out. Every one of them was still around, even the uncomfortable looking Mr Venky. A shocking death had made their work routines redundant. It was a common result in a crisis. Who could return to their tawdry work routine after a tragedy? If the dead person mattered at all, it simply wasn’t possible. They had stayed encamped in the kitchen, either unwilling to leave or unwilling to be the first to make a move. Poor old Venky looked as pale as the old man’s wife.

  Trevor Goodwell sat by his wife near the warmth of the range cooker in the fireplace. The thin blonde woman held a mug of tea, while Trevor Goodwell cradled a glass of something resembling whisky. Neville returned to seats by the kitchen table. Nancy Decorville was still present too, looking young, pretty, and completely out of place. She looked like she’d been beamed in from a London recruitment consultancy and yet she seemed content to stay put. Her eyes flashed when Hogarth looked at her, but with what he couldn’t tell. Nerves, maybe? Hogarth knew he was far too old and weather-beaten to be of any other interest. Besides, she seemed very content with her current beau. As Neville sat down at the table Miss Decorville draped an arm across his shoulders.

  “Swimmer’s shoulders?” she said. “Strong shoulders, more like. Shoulders which can bear anything.”

  Trevor Goodwell sneered from across the room. “Oh, please…” He whispered to his wife, but Marjorie remained implacable.

  “Would either of you like a cup of tea?” said the old woman, with a lopsided smile. Her eyes were full of dark mirth. Hogarth wondered if she’d forgotten what had happened just a couple of ours beforehand.

  Hogarth waved the offer away.

  “We don’t want to impose.”

  “And yet, here you are,” said Trevor Goodwell.

  Trevor Goodwell was clearly a total arse, but the situation made it impossible for Hogarth to respond in kind. At least for now. But he was able to offer a good mean smile.

  “Seeing as I’m imposing,” said Hogarth, “I’ll do it quickly. I want to ask more about the purpose of today’s event. About Mr Grave’s announcement.”

  “We already told you. It was going to be a surprise,” said Neville Grave.

  “Yes, you did say that, didn’t you?” said Hogarth. “But I’m keen to know what you think was about to happen. You must have been excited. I mean, your girlfriend, Nancy here, must have abandoned her workday routine to be here.”

  There was another sneer from across the room. “I doubt that one is ever off duty,” said Goodwell.

  Hogarth turned and glared at the man.

  “I don’t think we need your opinion for a moment, Mr Goodwell.”

  Goodwell responded with a glare of his own, but Hogarth kept his gaze firm until Goodwell looked away.

  Nancy Decorville scowled and shook her head, but when Hogarth looked at her, she soon lost the scowl. Her face became sunshine and light once again. I’ve got your number, sweetheart, thought Hogarth. Maybe Goodwell had it too. But Neville Grave looked done for, the soppy fool. The girl had him hook, line, and sinker..

  “Well? Come on. One of you, please. What do you think Mr Grave was going to tell you all? You must have had an inkling. Some of you drove a fair way to get here. Where did you come in from, Mr Goodwell?”

  “We live in Upminster, Inspector. I’m retired. It’s really very little effort for us to come here.”

  “And you came down here all the time? Or just today?”

  “Trevor and Marjorie come too often,” said Neville.

  Hogarth watched Goodwell seethe for a moment before he regained composure.

  “We only ever came here to help – that’s all we ever came here for.”

  Details. Tones of voice. Nuances. It was all grist for the mill, useful to help draw conclusions about dynamics and motive, but Hogarth had heard enough of the bickering.

  “Hold on, folks. I asked you a question. What did you think you were here for?”

  The old woman was the first to speak. She coughed into her fist and looked up.

  “Nigel told me he had a plan. He was going to tell us about it today. He’d made his decision. He was going to make the farm a success, just like the old days.”

  “He told you that, did he?” said Hogarth.

  “He told me he had a plan…” said the old woman, in a harder voice.

  “But that was all he said,” said Hogarth. “I see. So, you don’t know what his plan was?”

  “No,” said the old woman. “He wanted to tell everybody at the same time.”

  “Mum, with the greatest respect…” said Neville, hesitantly. “Dad wasn’t going to make the farm great again. He was watching it slowly sink into the ground. Unless he was going to announce that he liked my proposal…”

  “Stop it, stop it,” said the old woman. “Your ideas came from him! Your father provided for you every day of his life…”

  “But now is the time for the truth, isn’t it?” said Neville. “Dad’s been killed. There’s a policeman in the room. We need to face the facts.”

  “You’re being selfish and horrid. Horrid, I say. I expected better from you… but I don’t know why I did.” The woman turned away to face the table.

  “Face the facts?” said Goodwell. “The facts are you’re trying to manipulate people, Neville. And why? I think it’s patently obvious, don’t you? It’s been obvious since she first started sniffing around here,” said Goodwell, nodding at Nancy Decorville.

  “Don’t you dare insult us – her or me,” said Neville, his face turning as dark red as his shirt.

  “I wouldn’t dream of insulting you, Neville. You’re family. But she’s a different story. You said it. Face the facts, didn’t you just say that? I’m calling a spade a spade. That woman has been trying to manipulate you and your father for her own advantage.”

  “How dare you!” said Neville, launching out of his chair.

  Venky tutted loudly and hung his head. He leaned across the table and laid a hand on Susan Grave’s shoulder.

  “Come on, then Neville,” said Goodwell. “Tell us all about your proposal for the farm! Tell me that it didn’t have anything to do with her. Can you do that?”

  “This has nothing to do with Nancy or her job…” he said, muttering. Trevor Goodwell’s eyes sought Hogarth’s. Hogarth met the man’s gaze but didn’t respond in kind. He didn’t have to. Neville’s mumbled reply proved his point. It seemed the girl had a stake in the farm’s future after all.

  “And you, Mr Goodwell,” said Hogarth. “What did you think this announcement was about?”

  “I don’t know, of course. But it should have been about Nigel taking on a partner to run the business.”

  “That’s a fast track to losing the whole farm,” said Neville.

  “No, son.
You know nothing about it,” said Goodwell. “By taking a partner Grave Farm would still be here in a hundred years’ time. If you have your way, Neville – and if she has hers – it’ll be closed, sold up for tuppence, and gone before summertime.”

  Neville shook his head and bit his tongue.

  “Did you speak to Mr Grave about your idea too?” said Hogarth.

  “Many times,” said Goodwell.

  “It was the only reason he ever came here,” said Neville. “Uncle Trevor’s got more pitch than Old Trafford, haven’t you, Trevor?”

  Goodwell shook his head and tutted like the accusation was beneath him.

  “Be honest with yourself,” said Goodwell. “Do you think you’re the reason she’s here, Neville?”

  The girl in the bright dress leaned towards Goodwell.

  “Yes, I am here for Neville,” she said. “He’s the only reason I’m here.”

  Venky’s head snapped up. “Now listen you lot,” said the vet, in a loud voice which seemed to surprise him as much as the others. “I think you’d all better shut up or leave. Think of poor Susan here, instead of yourselves.”

  Hogarth looked around and took in the silence. At last someone had finally said it. Hogarth waited until the silence and shame seeped into the atmosphere, then he spoke again.

  “Just a couple more questions.”

  One by one they looked at him. Hogarth made sure to meet their gaze.

  “Is any one of you involved in a sport or activity requiring that you wear a neoprene wetsuit, or that you wear any protective equipment?”

  He watched heads shake around the room.

  “Not even you, Mr Venky? You’re a vet, after all.

  The tall man shook his head. “I wear plastic disposable gloves, much like the ones your crime scene people had on before. I don’t wear anything made of neoprene. To be honest, I don’t even know what it is.”

  “It’s man-made rubber, essentially,” said Hogarth.

  “Why do you ask?” said Neville.

  Hogarth looked at Neville Grave with careful eyes.

  “It’s just a question, that’s all.”

  Hogarth watched his reactions for a moment longer before the young man’s eyes fell away.

  “What? None of you?” said Hogarth. “None of you wear anything like that? Not in the course of work or leisure? You don’t use it.” There was no response.

  “Fine,” said Hogarth. “That’s been noted. And Mrs Grave… if you don’t mind, may I ask you a question?”

  Venky looked at Hogarth, with a protective air.

  “What is it about?”

  “A simple question, that’s all.”

  The woman looked up at him with pink eyes.

  “If your husband ever wrote anything down… where did he leave it? Did he have a work desk? An office, maybe? Something like that?”

  The woman shook her head. “No. Not in the house, he didn’t. He didn’t like indoor work of that kind. He used to write letters at this table. Other than that, he used to do his business work, thinking and number crunching, in the tool shed.”

  Hogarth looked around for a reaction from the others but didn’t see one.

  “And where’s the tool shed?” he said.

  “Just out the back there. To the right of the garden.”

  Hogarth nodded. “May I take a look?”

  “I’ll show you the way,” said Neville Grave, standing up from his seat.

  “If you think that’s necessary, Mr Grave,” said Hogarth. Neville Grave paused.

  “It’s locked. I meant I would get the key and open it for you.”

  “Who was the last person to go in there?”

  Neville shrugged. “It was Dad’s place. Come on, you can see for yourself.”

  Neville opened a plain wooden drawer in the kitchen cupboard and took out a long old-fashioned key. Hogarth nodded to the others as they left. Palmer followed suit. “Thanks again.”

  Neville led the way into the garden. Hogarth followed with Palmer behind. They crossed through the overgrown, strangled allotments to a battered grey shed which looked almost as ancient as the house. The lock crunched and complained as the key was turned in the door. Neville opened the door, bouncing it across the cold dry mud. Inside Hogarth saw old-fashioned tools and new hand tools hanging side-by-side from hooks on the wall. On one side, beneath a cracked glass window was a rickety table which looked as if it was made from an old door. On the floorboards below it was a plastic milk carton – a four-pinter, cut in half for a makeshift waste bin. There was a pencil on the table top. It had been cut the old-fashioned way – the wood and lead chopped away by a blade.

  Hogarth scanned the dim space, eyes reaching into every corner.

  “Give me a moment, will you?” he said to Neville.

  “Of course,” he said. But Neville hesitated before backing out of the shed.

  Hogarth ignored his presence and closed the door behind them, then dipped down and picked up the plastic milk bottle. He poked a finger inside, flicking a dried brown apple core and a dusty teabag out of the way to reach some screwed-up paper. He teased a couple of pieces free and laid them on the desk.

  “A receipt for motor oil…” said Hogarth. “A shopping list… and…what’s this? Hang on.”

  Hogarth pulled open a strip of paper as long and thin as a bookmark. It had rough torn edges on either side, and it contained a faint black spidery scrawl.

  Hogarth tried to read it, holding the strip of paper to the light from the window. He moved the strip closer and further away from his eyes until the note began to make sense.

  “I can’t be the generation to lose the farm to the bailiffs. None of the alternatives were very good, but I’ve spent a long time considering them - much longer than some of you would have liked. Even so, I have made up my mind…” The note ended there. Hogarth looked at Palmer.

  “You’re a bloody tease, Nigel,” said Hogarth.

  “What is it?” said Palmer. “A page from a diary?”

  “No. I don’t think so,” said Hogarth. “It reads more like a letter than a diary.”

  “He wrote a letter and then tore it up before he posted it? That doesn’t make sense,” said Palmer.

  “He could have changed his mind and re-written it,” said Hogarth. “But no, I don’t think it’s a letter.”

  “Then what is it?”

  “I think this could be notes for his little speech. These notes could have been the basis for Mr Grave’s announcement here today. But either Mr Grave changed his mind… or someone else decided to change it for him.”

  As he finished speaking, the door was knocked and shuddered outwards, opening into the daylight.

  “Did you find anything?” said Neville Grave. Hogarth slid the note under his palm and into his shirt sleeve.

  “A couple of scraps of paper, nothing much really.”

  “Oh. Sorry to hear that. Look…” said Neville, looking over his shoulder towards the farmhouse. “I just wanted to have a word with you before you left.

  “Oh? What about?” said Hogarth folding his arms

  “My father…”

  They left the shed and Neville spoke to them as he locked the door behind them.

  “My father was a great farmer. When he was a young man the farm flourished. But in the last ten or fifteen years he lost his way. He neglected it. He didn’t keep changing the farm the way you have to these days. Look around, detective. You can see the place has gone to pot.”

  “But you were here the whole time, weren’t you? If things were so bad, Neville, why weren’t you doing anything to help?”

  “Help? Of course I helped them in every way I could. But my voice used to be too young to be heard.”

  Hogarth eyed Palmer.

  “What is it that you wanted to speak about, Mr Grave?”

  “It’s Trevor and Marjorie… they’re trying to paint my Nancy in a very bad light. On top of that they’re trying to make me look like a fool.”

&nbs
p; “Are they?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes, Inspector,” said Neville, frowning. “You must have noticed it.”

  “I notice a lot of things, Mr Grave. And the things I miss my colleague here picks up on.”

  “They’re saying Nancy is only here to manipulate us for the benefit of her employer. To try and get her hands on the property for them. I mean, that’s ludicrous.”

  “Is it, Mr Grave?” said Hogarth.

  “Of course it is. Trevor and Marjorie have an axe to grind with me because I was Nigel’s son. They don’t like my influence, because they’re worried it’ll affect the family’s wealth. Please. I’m not asking anything of you. I just don’t want them to have shaped your judgment about Nancy, or me for that matter.”

  “Oh no. Their opinions haven’t come into my reckoning, Mr Grave. You can rest assured on that score. Beyond the evidence, we’ll look at every person in this case on their own merits, and their misdemeanours.”

  Hogarth’s words were neutral enough, but they still sounded like a threat. Hogarth didn’t mind at all.

  “We’ll speak soon, Mr Grave,” said Hogarth, walking away. As he passed the kitchen window, Hogarth looked in to see tall Peter Venky consoling Susan Grave with a hand on her shoulder. But it was the eyes of Nancy Decorville which stole Hogarth’s attention. As she looked out from the window, her eyes seemed brighter than all the rest. Hogarth watched her as he walked away.

  When Hogarth was gone, Neville Grave walked into the kitchen and closed the stable door.

  “Well, what was all that about?” said Goodwell.

  “What?” said Neville.

  “You bending that policeman’s ear like that. We all saw you, so don’t deny it. What did you say to him then? Spit it out.”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing eh? That was a lot of talking for saying nothing. Just what are you up to, Neville? Sometimes I wonder if you even know yourself.”

  Goodwell’s eyes traced over Nancy Decorville’s back.

  “What did you make of that?” said Palmer.

  “It’s like watching a nasty, vicious, scrappy game of rugby on a muddy pitch. Everyone’s covered in the crap, they’re busily gouging each other’s eyes out, and no one knows where the ball is. The poor old man’s remains aren’t even cold, and this lot are busy tearing each other apart. You’ve got to feel sorry for the victim’s wife. If it wasn’t for her having bats in the belfry she’d probably be next.”