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

by Solomon Carter

  “Nigel offered him safety and ease here. A simple life and an easy future. I can’t offer him that. I wouldn’t even want to. Life isn’t to be hidden from, or to run away from. You’ve got to get out there and embrace it, no matter what.”

  Hogarth eyed the Pernod on the table.

  “And you’ve done no running then, Mrs Grave? You’re not one for burying your head in the sand or blaming others for their troubles, I take it.”

  The woman put her mug down and met Hogarth’s eyes. Colour came to her pale cheeks. She looked angry. For an old woman, she looked menacing.

  “You suspect Neville is only here for what he can get, am I right, Mrs Grave? Strangely, for a mother, you seem to resent that. But I thought that was part of the deal in parenthood.”

  Beside Hogarth, Palmer shifted in her chair. She looked at Hogarth as the room became tense, but then she recalled Hogarth’s word of the case. Context. Maybe Hogarth knew something she didn’t.

  “Most parents are only too glad to let their children have what is theirs, aren’t they?”

  “I’m not most parents, Inspector.”

  “No. I suppose not,” said Hogarth.

  “What did you really come here for, Inspector? You’re pussyfooting around. What is it?”

  “To see if the past has affected the present, Mrs Grave. To see if it pertains to the murder. If it does, it might help us learn the identity of the killer.”

  “The past?”

  “Yes. The past. People don’t much like talking about the past,” he said.

  “I think you’d better ask what’s on your mind, then get on your way.”

  “Very well, Mrs Grave. But I’ll have to keep coming back until we find that killer.”

  The woman said nothing.

  “Check the door, Palmer,” said Hogarth, nodding towards the door to the hall. “We don’t want to be responsible for any more family trouble, do we?”

  DS Palmer opened the kitchen door and looked out into the grand old hallway. It was dim and empty. She looked up the wooden staircase and saw no sign of a lurking eavesdropper.

  “Nobody there, sir,” said Palmer.

  “Good.”

  The old woman looked tense. She reached for her mug of Pernod, but Hogarth shook his head. “Not for a moment, please, Mrs Grave. I need your head as clear as it can be. Let me take you back for a moment. Back to 1991 when your husband took on some seasonal staff. Migrant workers.”

  The woman coughed. “Nigel was always taking on seasonal workers. There must have been thousands through here.”

  “But these were different, Mrs Grave. You had people here who came from different parts of Europe. The first of the migrant workers from the EU. It must have been interesting though, all these new people, so new and different to the others before. But fascinating as it was, you had a problem with one of them, didn’t you?”

  The woman’s mouth dropped open. Her eyes fixed on Hogarth’s. He saw she now hung on his every word.

  “This one kept hassling you. Coming to the kitchen window here, maybe. Ogling you. I mean, you must have been back in your prime still back then, a looker, like you said. You were a handsome woman of means. A catch. But you were a married woman, and off limits, and you knew it. So did he. But this man was a foreigner. He harassed you. He upset you. It got out of control and something bad happened. Something awful.”

  The woman nodded slowly. “That’s right.”

  Hogarth looked into the woman’s eyes.

  “No, Mrs Grave. That’s not right at all. I just described the version of events you told your husband. There was even an account of the alleged attack in the local press of the day. A short article about the foreign bogeyman in The Record. But no charges were ever made because that poor foreigner had already suffered enough because of you. Your husband became furious with him – enraged that a man he had trusted on his own farm had abused that trust and taken advantage of his wife. In a fit of rage, Nigel attacked the man, who denied everything, even when Nigel threatened him. And ultimately, blood was shed. Your husband attacked him with a pitch fork. That’s the truth, isn’t it? But even that is only part of it. Your husband didn’t want to go to prison, and he didn’t want the shame of the true story in the press. He cared about his reputation because he wanted to live up to the Graves of the past. His old family heroes. So, he paid off that poor farm worker, gave him a whole season’s wages in one go, and kept it all quiet to make it go away. Maybe Nigel also did it because deep down he knew the truth. That you’d led that man on – the foreign worker – that you led him on and flirted with him and eventually even slept with him, but when the deed was done you turned and blamed him for a sexual assault. Why did you do it? Was it the drink? Because you’ve been drinking a long time, haven’t you, Mrs Grave? And gambling too. But even after all you’d done, Nigel tried to help you. He took you away to those rehabs. He stayed with you. He helped you… even though he probably suspected the child you gave birth to in 1992 wasn’t his.”

  “Lies. Vicious lies. Nigel always believed Neville was his!”

  “Even though Nigel was smart enough to see through your drunken lies, he accepted that child as his and brought him up as your son. But you didn’t like it. You never liked Neville, did you? Because you were ashamed of where he came from. He was living evidence of your indiscretion and drunkenness.” Hogarth lowered his voice. “Even though you hated yourself for it, you took it out on Neville. All these years on, I’d say you’re still doing it.”

  “What is the purpose of all this poison?” said the old woman.

  The look Palmer gave Hogarth suggested she was wondering the same thing.

  “The past leads us right here, Mrs Grave. A bitter family vying to control this farm just hours after the owner was brutally killed. That could even have provided the motive for your husband’s murder.”

  “I really don’t know what you intend by dredging up the past like this…”

  The old woman’s hand was shaking.

  “Mrs Grave. Am I right about what happened?”

  The old woman regarded him with new eyes. Hogarth saw fear there. She bit her trembling lip. Hogarth recognised the look in her eyes because he’d seen it before. It was the fear of justice catching up with her. Hogarth shook his head.

  “The past is not my concern, Mrs Grave. There’ll be no charges for what happened. I only bring it up because it could bear relation to the present.”

  “No. You bring it up for the same reason as the person who told you. They all see me as a drunken harlot. They always did. Only Nigel didn’t see me like that. But I punished him every day of his life all the same. Yes, I gave the man hell, when it was what I deserved. Let me have that drink now, will you?”

  Hogarth relented with a nod. The old woman poured another generous measure into the mug and tipped it down her neck. In a drinking competition, Susan Grave could have given an old sailor a run for his money.

  “I know what I’ve done,” she said. “But I don’t see how it bears any relation to what happened. That was nearly thirty years ago.”

  “What do you think might have happened if your son found out about it?”

  “Neville?”

  “Your son, yes,” said Hogarth. He fixed the woman with his eyes, unwilling to let her off the hook.

  “I think he would have hated me, but he would never have harmed his father. But yes, he would have been right to hate me.”

  “Is it possible that he could have blamed his father in some way? Think about it.”

  “No… the only thing Neville held against his father was his damn-fool stubbornness about the business. But I’m glad he was so stubborn when it came to Neville. The only ideas he had to save the farm were bad ones. Until that woman came into the frame. I’m civil enough, mind. But I know a troublemaker when I see one – no matter how pretty she may be. It takes one to know one, after all.”

  Hogarth nodded and watched as the old woman looked out through the window. Her eye
s fell upon the men in the green and blue puffer jackets far out in the fields – the migrant workers who had found the body. Hogarth saw them and was relieved they were still around, but he wondered what the old woman was thinking.

  “Do you think there’s any chance those two men are related to the man who you took up with back then?”

  The woman looked at Hogarth with angry eyes.

  “Took up with?! You have a way with words, Inspector.”

  Hogarth didn’t apologise.

  “You mean do I think they are the man’s sons? Is that it? Did they kill Nigel? That’s your thinking, right? You’re wrong. They aren’t his. I remember that man’s face very well, because I still see it every day. Igor and the other one are from Eastern Europe, he was Greek, no, they’re not his sons. Neither of them.”

  “Then why was Nigel murdered, Mrs Grave? You must have an inkling. A suspicion.”

  “Because he was a stubbornly good man. Stubborn to the end. He was a good man, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes, so it seems,” said Hogarth.

  “This world can’t stand good people, Inspector. At least I know I never could.”

  “Come on, Mrs Grave. You must have a feeling for who did it…”

  “I drink for a reason. I drink so I don’t have to look at my life too closely, any more. I don’t know who did it. But I know I want you to get them. Whoever it is.”

  “Especially if it’s Neville, eh?”

  “No. It isn’t him. Even if I can’t stand him, this wasn’t his fault. It wasn’t him.”

  Hogarth sighed in frustration and changed tack.

  “Peter Venky went down to the barn to find him – it seems to have been around twelve-ten or twelve-fifteen. So, your husband must have been killed shortly before then. Tell me, were any of the people in this room acting odd at the time? Did any of them make excuses to leave or vanish from the room. Think hard, please.”

  The woman looked away in thought and swished her cup.

  “I wanted people full. I wanted people comfortable and we were running low on butter, so I sent Trevor down to the shop. It was good for him to go because he and Neville had been bitching at each other and it relieved the tension. Him and Neville are always scrapping.”

  “About the farm?” said Palmer.

  “At present, yes.”

  “But no one else apart from Trevor came or went around the time of the murder?”

  “No one. But that harlot Decorlay…”

  “Decorville,” said Palmer.

  “Whatever, she came in a little late, didn’t she? She turned up after Peter went to fetch Nigel. Now that was uncanny timing, don’t you think?”

  Hogarth studied the woman’s glassy eyes. He could almost see them gradually filling with the drink. He ignored the remark, putting it down to jealousy.

  “Do you know which shop Mr Goodwell used to buy the butter?” said Hogarth.

  “Same one we all use. To go out and be back that quick, Trevor must have used the corner shop just past Furdon’s Industrial Estate…”

  Palmer jotted it down.

  “We can time it, Palmer,” said Hogarth. Palmer nodded. “Would you know of any reason why Trevor might have wanted Mr Grave out of the picture?”

  “None at all. He didn’t stand to gain a thing from it, did he?”

  “Then why did he care so much about the farm?”

  “Like most hangers on, they think a farm is money. He’s retired. If the farm thrived because of his ideas, he’d be hanging on for a dividend, wouldn’t he? A few scraps from the table to make his pension go further.”

  “In spite of all that drink, you’re not as addled as you seem, Mrs Grave.” Hogarth put his hands on his knees and got ready to stand up and leave. He saw the foreigners were still working in the distant field, well past the police cordon around the barn.

  “Just one thing… do you know anything about a power of attorney?”

  “I’ve heard of the phrase. To do with your will, or something, isn’t it?”

  “Almost. It’s more about taking responsibility for someone’s assets while they are still alive, often because that persons knows they will no longer be in a fit state to handle them. Have you had any dealings like that?”

  “The LPA? Nigel brought it up with me twice. Just twice. And I shot him down in flames. Nigel was worried I was lost to the drink. He let other people think I was merely going senile, because he preferred that. Less to be ashamed of, I suppose. But I wasn’t going to allow it. I like having my say.”

  “Did Nigel ever tell anyone else about the idea?”

  “Not that I know of. He always kept things like that to himself. He was a very private man.”

  “And did Nigel ever discuss his health with you?”

  “Not much. He was getting old, yes, but Nigel was one of those kind that go on forever.”

  Hogarth nodded. “So, you really don’t know why he would have wanted that power of attorney?”

  “I didn’t care why he wanted it. All I knew, it wasn’t going to happen. Not over my dead body.”

  “Well, thank you. It’s been enlightening, Mrs Grave. Very enlightening.” Hogarth stood up and looked out to the garden, as a swirl of new questions percolated through his head. He had to process them. He slowly walked to the hallway door and opened it. In the hallway, moving away as if he just happened to have walked past the door was Neville Grave.

  Hogarth watched the man as he started to climb the stairs. The young man was a good actor, but Hogarth still wasn’t buying it.

  “I suppose you’ll want to update Nancy on everything you’ve just heard, Mr Grave,” said Hogarth.

  Neville froze on the stairs and looked down at Hogarth. His face was strained, his eyes hard. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Inspector. But you can leave Nancy out of it.”

  “But I’m not sure I can, Mr Grave. I’m going to need to speak to you, soon. Both of you…”

  “When?”

  “This afternoon.”

  “At the police station?”

  “I don’t think that’s necessary. Not yet,” said Hogarth.

  “Then meet me here then.”

  Did none of them ever leave this damn farm?

  “Two pm.”

  “Very well, Inspector. I’ll make sure Nancy will be here.”

  Neville looked away and climbed the stairs. But as he turned, Hogarth saw bitter emotion overtake his face.

  “What’s the matter with him?” said Palmer, joining him at the door.

  Hogarth waved at the old woman and pulled the kitchen door shut behind them.

  “Sometimes it really doesn’t pay to eavesdrop, you know. I think our Neville may have heard more than he bargained for.”

  Palmer made a face. “Oh crap. Then that could be on us.”

  “Well, he was going to find out soon enough.”

  “But if he was involved in the murder, finding out like that could prove to be dangerous.”

  “I don’t have him down as a psycho, but I could be wrong, Palmer. If he was involved, we’ll know soon enough…”

  Palmer shut the once grand old wooden front door behind them and marched around to the front of the house.

  “You heard my question about the Lasting Power of Attorney?”

  “Yes,” said Palmer. “The solicitor was going to set one up for Nigel.”

  “That’s right. But Nigel only made an initial inquiry about it, didn’t he? I couldn’t understand it. But he wanted her to sign over her power to someone else. Initially the solicitor must have thought the power of attorney was to be given to Nigel. That he would have full control over the assets. But Nigel didn’t need any more control than he had already. He was the husband. He had full legal control of the estate anyway.”

  “So why then?” said Palmer.

  “Because Nigel Grave knew he was dying and he was afraid what would become of the farm after he was gone. He knew he had no more than two or three years tops, and he knew how his w
ife had squandered money on booze and gambling so many times before. It’s all interesting, but it doesn’t help us find a culprit.”

  “Doesn’t it?” said Palmer.

  “Old Nigel never told anyone who he was going to sign those powers over to. Someone was in the frame to get those powers, that is until the old woman point-blank refused to agree to it. But Nigel took his secrets with him.”

  “Do you think his announcement was going to be about his illness? Or about the power of attorney?”

  “Neither,” said Hogarth. “Both were absolute secrets. I think old Nigel wanted to look like he was still in control – he wanted to give direction to the new methods he was about to adopt for the farm. Confessing a terminal illness would have got them all jockeying for position instead. The announcement was about leading the farm to security – securing his legacy before he popped his clogs. Yes, he was going to modernise, but we still don’t know which way he would have gone. Taking on a partner, like Goodwell suggested, or diversifying like Neville wanted. If we could find that out, we’d have a huge clue as to who wanted to kill him.”

  “And the power of attorney thing?”

  “Now, it’ll be a footnote. A wrinkle of history. The old woman put the kibosh on it, so it was a non-event. This is either about greed, or revenge. And it’s the revenge angle we need to look at now…”

  “Revenge?” said Palmer.

  “The old man put a pitchfork into the man who slept with his missus. That’s a big deal. That’s the migrant worker history we spoke about. Susan Grave diddled one of the migrants in ’91, and nine months later bouncing baby Neville turned up. It seems old Nigel must have turned a blind eye to the timing and made Neville his. When it first happened, Nigel believed the old woman’s line about being stalked and assaulted and went wild. But when he came to his senses, he saw things as they were and hushed it up with a pay off.”

  “The tangled webs we weave, and all that,” said Palmer.

  Hogarth thought for a moment about his own sorely tangled web. “Yes, indeed.”

  “Let’s interview those two migrant boys up there. We have to pin them down on exactly how they found the body… and their footwear is important too.”