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

by Solomon Carter

  “You mean her medical condition? We already know that Nigel Grave made inquiries about setting up a Lasting Power of Attorney. It’s possible the inquiry was made to put financial controls in place in event of Mr Grave dying and his wife being unfit to manage the estate.”

  “Susan would never have agreed to that.”

  “But if she was mentally unfit…?”

  Venky shifted in his seat and folded his arms.

  “What do you think is wrong with her, Inspector?”

  Hogarth’s brow dipped low over his eyes. “She seems a little confused. I’d guessed she was suffering from early dementia, maybe even Alzheimer’s. I’ll be able to look at the medical reports soon enough…”

  Venky shook his head. “I’m afraid her variety of madness is the self-induced kind. Dear Susan is a drunk. Any brain damage she has suffered would have been caused by all her boozing. She’s been that way as long as I can remember.”

  “What? She’s a chronic alcoholic?” Hogarth remembered the aniseed smell on the air. His early suspicions hadn’t been wrong then.

  “And it’s never been treated properly. Oh, Nigel would take her away from time to time to get her fixed up, get a little rehab and what have you. But it was always private. And she always went back to the bottle in the end. I am telling you because I know her too well, Susan would never have accepted the LPA.”

  Hogarth took it all in. The Grave family were a kaleidoscope of problems. Hogarth wondered what he would discover next. He needed progress, not more mess to contain.

  “Mr Venky, we found some notes written in Mr Grave’s hand. Nigel Grave. The notes look recently written, but they were torn up. Some were found on the body… a few were found elsewhere.”

  “Writing, eh? Nigel used writing as way of gathering his thoughts. He didn’t talk much, so he wrote when he had bigger things to work through.”

  “We know he’d come to a decision on the future of the farm and I think he’d written it down,” said Hogarth. “Maybe he’d even written these notes as the basis of the announcement he was to give at the lunch. I think he was going to tell you all his decision and how he’d arrived at it. Unfortunately, those notes are incomplete. But we’ve got enough to see that you had also advised him on the future of the farm. But it seems he wasn’t convinced of your ideas, either, Mr Venky. What did you want to convince him of?”

  Venky shrugged.

  “I didn’t want to convince him of anything. I wanted to help him.”

  That’s what they all say, thought Hogarth.

  Venky must have seen the suspicion in his eyes.

  “Look. I recommended trying a rare breeds farm. They’re all the rage these days and there’s much more money to be earned that way. Yes, the animals need a little more care, but I could have provided that…”

  Hogarth’s eyes narrowed.

  “At a discount, Inspector! This was never a money-making scheme. I wanted Nigel to prosper, not me.”

  “And you know he wasn’t receptive to your ideas?”

  “Broadly. I knew he wasn’t receptive to anyone’s ideas, much. Slow to think and even slower to act. That was our Nigel.”

  “Did that frustrate you at all?”

  The vet’s eyebrows tilted up into an arc. “Not enough to kill him! Nothing could frustrate me enough to kill anyone. Not even enough to have a spat. He was my friend, Inspector. Do you think I’m somehow implicated in this? How could I be? I only saw the body after the migrant workers did. Igor and the other one, Borev.”

  “So you say.”

  “They were there before me. Igor is an honourable man. He will vouch for me.”

  “Let’s hope so.”

  “I don’t have to hope so, Inspector. In all good conscience, I didn’t do anything to harm my friend. I’ve helped Nigel out during the hard times with his wife. And I helped him out during the bad times with his son and on the farm.”

  Hogarth’s eyes lit up, his mind brimming with questions. Hogarth’s look continued to put Venky into defensive mode.

  “Look…” said Venky. “Is it truly necessary for me to tell you exactly why I had no reason to kill him? No reason at all.”

  “Tell me whatever you think will help, Mr Venky.”

  The man pushed himself up from his chair with a pale, downcast face. He walked to a set of shelves by the fireplace and teased out some paperwork from between some books on animal husbandry. He handed the folded sheets to Hogarth and sat back down again, blinking at Hogarth from behind his spectacles.

  “Well go on then. You might as well see,” said Venky.

  Hogarth teased open the pieces of paper. One had the blue NHS logo at the top. The other had the bright green insignia of MacMillan Cancer Support. Hogarth frowned and scan-read the documents. The NHS letter was an appointment for a meeting to discuss how palliative care worked, and the other was a first appointment letter with MacMillan.

  “Do you see?” said Venky. “I’m dying, Inspector. I’ve got an advanced cancer. It’s in my system and it’s far too late to treat – not that I would bother anyway. I want to live before I die, not drown myself in radiation and chemotherapy.”

  Hogarth looked at the man who seemed as well as any other, but the evidence in his hand was undeniable.

  “I’m very sorry, Mr Venky.”

  “At least you see. That’s one very good reason why I would never harm another person for financial gain… but in case you wanted another, I’ve got another very good one.”

  Venky made him wait for it. Hogarth nodded for him to go on.

  “Nigel was dying too,” said Venky.

  “What?”

  Venky nodded. “It’s true, Inspector. It brought us closer, of course. I suggested the rare breed animals not just for money, but to give him a passion for doing what he used to love, with the time he had left. I have months at most, Inspector, maybe a year. But Nigel had maybe a year left. He still had time to enjoy it.”

  “Cancer?”

  “They say it gets one in three of us, don’t they? Well for me and Nigel it was two out of two. Mine is pancreatic. His was prostate. He had a little time, but someone robbed him of it. That’s the worst thing of all. I should have gone before him, Inspector. It’s so bitterly sad.”

  Hogarth ran a hand through his hair and sighed.

  “I’m sorry, Mr Venky.”

  “Yes, so you’ve said.”

  “But who else knew? His wife? His son?”

  “In time, yes. But he was holding all of them off for now. I think that was one of the reasons he couldn’t commit to changing the farm. He’d been in shock about his health. But now he had come to terms with it, he was ready to hand it on ready for the modern era.”

  “Was he going to announce his medical condition?”

  “Oh no. Nigel really wasn’t ready for that. This was all about the farm. He told me he’d only tell them about his health when it was about to become obvious and it wasn’t going to be obvious for a while yet. Besides, he was worried it would send Susan on a killer bender when he needed them thinking straight.”

  “And they didn’t know? You’re sure? Not any of them?”

  “No. I’m sure. But he was dying, Inspector. You’ll be able to prove it too, won’t you?”

  Hogarth nodded. “Soon enough, yes… Mr Venky. I don’t want to trouble you any further, but I must ask just a couple more questions.”

  “Very well.”

  “What was the issue with the migrant workers, Mr Venky?”

  “Igor and the other one? There were no issue as far as I’m aware. They were well liked.”

  “I don’t mean the recent batch. I mean the past issues. We’ve picked up information that there was a past issue surrounding migrant workers at Grave Farm.”

  Venky frowned and shook his head.

  “Do you really need to go digging there, Inspector, at this unsavoury time?”

  “I have to go wherever this case takes me, Mr Venky. The past always has some bearing o
n the present.”

  “Who told you then?”

  “No one told us outright. A rumour slipped someone’s lips.”

  Venky frowned.

  “Now is not the time for this. But if you’re demanding I tell you…”

  “I’m asking for your full cooperation, Mr Venky.”

  The man sank back in his chair and folded his arms.

  “It was a long time ago. It was 1991 when it happened. Nigel and I were mere acquaintances at the time. He told me about it afterwards. Nigel had always taken on migrant workers at the farm. Before then it had been the Irish ones and the students, but after ’91 it was Greeks, Portuguese and people from all over. They were good hard-working folk. But he did have trouble with one of them. Susan complained. She said this one man kept making eyes at her. Said he kept on appearing near the house. Then one day she got in a dreadful state and said he attacked her. Nigel went wild and chased the man off, but in the end, they fought. Nigel eventually told me that he lost the plot and stabbed him with a pitchfork. Thankfully the man lived and didn’t press charges. Nigel paid him up for his work the rest of the year without the poor man lifting a hand. Not long after, the truth came out. Susan had been the one making the advances. One of the older workers had seen it all. He told Nigel everything and it stacked up and made sense. Nine months later, Susan gave birth at the ripe old age of forty-two. Nigel had been childless. He didn’t have an heir apparent, and even though he knew it wasn’t his, he brought up that child as his own.”

  “Neville?”

  “Yes. Neville.”

  “But I was told he was adopted.”

  Venky shook his head. “No. Not adopted. But certainly not favoured by his mother. She loved him and resented him in equal measure. She’s the one who bandied that word about, bad as it is. She’s treated him so badly through the years. I always supposed it was because Neville was the permanent evidence of what she’d done. She lied to Nigel and had a son by another man and kept the pretence going for years. Think – she almost had another man killed because of her drunken lies. And yet she somehow blamed her son for it all.”

  “Where did the adoption idea come from?”

  “Oh, I heard a little about it. When he was a child she tried to have him adopted by someone else. It was another family secret. I doubt Neville ever knew.”

  “I wouldn’t be so sure about that,” said Hogarth. “Then in the eyes of the law, he is their son, and would stand to inherit the farm.”

  “But his mother is still alive, Inspector. And she will inherit everything before he ever would. You think Neville is the killer?”

  “We’ll all know who the killer is soon enough, Mr Venky. Thanks for your help.”

  Hogarth stood and gave the man an earnest nod, then slowly made for the door. Venky let him out.

  “The family is a mess. It always was, Inspector. But I can’t see how they could have killed a man like Nigel. It must be someone else. Just please make sure you get them.”

  “Oh, I intend to, Mr Venky. You can count on it.”

  The door closed, and Hogarth turned away to face his thoughts.

  The family was a mess? The entire case looked like a quagmire. It was only day one, but everyone bar Venky was a suspect. And the dirty cover-up of the lies, the violence, and the migrant’s child were a strong potential motive. Digging another level down, the case had just gotten even murkier.

  Climbing into his Vauxhall Insignia beneath a cold dark sky, Hogarth thought about the lies Susan Grave had told. He imagined how Nigel Grave must have felt as his wife recounted the tales of being followed and watched by a strange man on their own family farm. Of being attacked, of being raped at home. The farmer would have been beside himself. Rightly so. Hogarth understood all too well what the man had been through. Those lies had come with a cost for everyone at Grave Farm. Was it possible, that almost thirty years on, Nigel Grave had paid the highest price of all? Igor and Borev needed looking at, but so did Susan Grave. From a muddled old woman with a slipping mind, to a lying, cheating drunken harridan in one day. No wonder the job was taking its toll on him. Hogarth drove a mile before his thoughts of the case took him straight back to Ali Hartigan

  He thought about the stalker. He thought about embracing her in that hotel bed. Then he imagined the stalker bearing down on her, striking her on the doorstep of her home. Hogarth gritted his teeth and slapped the steering wheel.

  “Screw it!” said Hogarth.

  He doubled back around the Rochford roundabout and took the turning for Westcliff and Southend Hospital. By hook or by crook, he had to see her.

  Chapter Eight

  Hogarth marched right up to the Rigby Ward, and snuck in after a woman who held the door open for him. He breezed past the reception with a fixed smile, his tie flying back over his shoulder like a scarf in a high wind. There was a gallery window overlooking the wide ward where Ali’s bed had been stationed. He looked in, his heart thudding as he considered that he was breaking the rules of their ‘arrangement’. But right now, he didn’t care. The curtains were drawn around the end bed where he had seen her before. Maybe they were giving her a bed bath or seeing to her wounds. Surely it didn’t mean anything bad – because he didn’t know if he could cope if it did. His heart rate thudded faster at the thought. Before he stopped to consider whether it was wise, he pushed the door into the orange-walled ward and stamped along the tiled floor. He waited outside the edge of the blue curtain and listened.

  “I’ll just do this, and we’ll be done, okay?” said the nurse, hidden behind the curtain.

  “Hello?” said Hogarth. He waited for a response, but none came. He shook his head, looked around and decided he couldn’t wait anymore.

  “Ali?” he called. He hung his head and looked at the tiles. “Ali? It’s me.”

  A few of the people in the other beds looked around at him. He ignored them.

  “Ali?!” he said.

  The curtain was jerked aside, and a bespectacled nurse stuck her head out. Hogarth tried to steal a look past her, but she pulled the curtain and blocked him.

  “Visiting hours don’t start for another hour.”

  “I’m a policeman. I’m working on a serious case, and I took time off to come and see if she was okay.”

  “I don’t care if you’re the prime minister. The rules are the rules for the police as well as anybody else.”

  Hogarth shook his head. “Ali? Are you okay in there?”

  There was no response from behind the curtains.

  “Do you mind?!” said the nurse.

  “I just want to see Ali Hartigan.”

  “Ali Hartigan? The MP’s wife?” said one of the other patients.

  Hogarth nodded.

  “She’s gone,” said another.

  Hogarth blinked at the nurse, his face aflame. The nurse disappeared back behind her curtain.

  “You’re sure about that?” said Hogarth, looking at the other patients.

  “Yes. I heard an ambulance took her home this afternoon.”

  Hogarth bit his lip, then in one quick move tugged an edge of the blue curtain and peered inside. A large woman sat up in the bed while the nurse attended to some stitches on the side of her head. The nurse turned her head and glared at him. “Oi! I’ve warned you!” said the nurse. Hogarth had seen all he needed. He dropped the curtain back into place. As the nurse called out after him, Hogarth strode out of the reception and into the main hospital corridor.

  Ali being sent home should have been good news, but somehow it made him feel worse. The stalker had been proved violent, and now Ali had been sent home he wondered if her husband had made any provision for her safety. This time he couldn’t risk it. He had to know.

  ***

  North Lane, Shoebury

  The lights were on inside the big plush house. Classical music and warmth poured through the double glazing and net curtains, but it gave Hogarth no comfort. He walked past the big house, hoping Ali would see him and come to the door
. But nothing happened. On a second whim, he chose to walk down the lane, hoping to catch the stalker hanging around. He felt wired with tension from the new case and with unspent rage after what had happened to Ali. But there was no one around. Hogarth looked back at the house and noted that the driveway was empty – the MP’s jag was nowhere in sight, which meant the blighter was in London again, pretending to earn his inflated wages as an upstanding citizen. Self-righteous lying hypocrites, the bloody lot of them. Hogarth took a breath and crossed the street, making a beeline right for the front door.

  He rang the doorbell and waited as the chime echoed deep inside.

  “Come on, Ali, come on!” he muttered, as he bounced on his feet.

  He tensed as a shadow came towards the front door. It lingered behind the glass for a moment and then the door opened. A tall man with a receding hairline opened the door. He had a neatly trimmed fashionable beard. His hair and his beard were dark brown. He wore a white shirt with an open collar and had a smallish paunch belly. Hogarth recognised the man from his posed smiling shots from the front of The Record. It was none other than James Hartigan MP. Damn.

  “Yes? Who are you?”

  “I’m… I’m Inspector Hogarth, Southend Police.”

  The MP looked confused. Hogarth tried to hide his awkwardness behind a stiff, professional air. His work face.

  “I’m sorry. Are we supposed to be expecting you? I don’t think…”

  “No, I just came to ensure that Mrs Hartigan is okay?”

  “Mrs Hartigan?” said the man. He looked at Hogarth and stiffened. “My wife is doing very well considering what she’s been through.”

  “Then she’s okay? She’s not hurt?”

  “She was hurt, but she’ll be okay in a few days. Shouldn’t you already know about that? She’s stoic. Always has been. But I’m afraid I can’t let anyone in to see her. She’s resting.”

  The two men regarded one another for the first time. They exchanged a brief look, questioning one another in silence.

  “What did you say your name was, Inspector?”

  Hogarth didn’t answer. As the man spoke, Hogarth caught sight of someone else moving into view in the hallway behind him. Hogarth made out a female silhouette and a warm but guarded smile briefly flickered across Hogarth’s face. But it wasn’t Ali. The woman drifted into view until she was close by the MP’s side. She was in the forty-to-fifty bracket with tied-back blonde hair. She was pretty, but had hard eyes. She wore a white blouse and a dark work skirt.