Palmer and Hogarth walked past the crime scene van and saw Dickens’ team still poring over the woodchipper machine with torches, swabs and brushes. It was a painstaking business, and Hogarth didn’t want to go into the barn unless absolutely necessary. Dickens was bound to be tetchy and Hogarth didn’t need the aggravation.
But instead, as they passed Dickens looked up and peeled back his face mask.
“DI Hogarth. Just the man!”
Hogarth kept his eyes on the distant migrants and put on a weary smile as he turned to face Dickens.
“And DS Palmer, too,” said Dickens.
Palmer nodded.
“I just thought you’d want to know,” said Dickens. “We found some more of those fibres you were fussing about yesterday.”
“Fibres?” said Hogarth, playing dumb.
“The black stuff. Marris told you that it’s neoprene, right?”
“That stuff. Yes, I believe he did.”
“Well, we’ve found some more. And we’ve found some other little pieces which could tell us more.”
“What?” said Hogarth.
“The wide feeder of the woodchipper machine – the curved metal opening at the back. See it?”
“The part where they stuck the old man.”
“Yes. It has a tin lip to it on all sides – right at the top. The lip curls around to the back but has a hidden sharp edge. It couldn’t hurt anyone, but it’s enough to catch a loose garment or thread. I found something on there that looks like Velcro. Just a few strands on the machine feeder. The Velcro is old too, it looks like it’s gone loose and fluffy. I think there’s a good chance they relate to your other find. But you’ll have to wait for Marris before we can be sure. Is that any good to you?”
Velcro? What kind of garment used neoprene and Velcro? Hogarth chewed it over for a moment.
“Thanks for the tip, John. That might narrow it down a little.”
“If there’s anything else hidden in those fibres, it could narrow it down a lot,” said Dickens, giving Hogarth a nod. “The crime scene work must be coming to an end,” muttered Hogarth. “Dickens is demob-happy. You don’t see him being helpful very often.”
“Must have been a pretty grim task, this one.”
Hogarth’s eyes moved to the far field and found that the men in the puffer jackets were gone. In the time of Dickens’ update they had disappeared.
“The migrants have gone, Palmer. Come on. We need to find them, or Melford will have my guts for garters. Especially if it turns out to be them…”
Hogarth took in a deep breath and started to advance towards the field, with Palmer at his side.
Reaching the misty back field, Hogarth could see the red lights of the airport landing strip in the distance He turned his head left and right, but still couldn’t see any sign of the migrants until he caught a fleck of bright green turning through a distant corner of the field into some hedgerows. “There!” he said.
“I see them,” said Palmer.
“But I wonder if they saw us first. Let’s see if there’s a short cut.”
“I’ll go this way, in case they come back,” said Palmer.
“Okay,” said Hogarth. He doubled back along the track towards the house, but stopped short of the barn. Instead he turned right across a wasteland strewn with ancient farming tools and a jungle of weeds. Hogarth picked though it until he reached the back of the hedgerow. He walked along gingerly, acutely aware of being a townie afraid of getting a little mud on his shoes. But by the time he stepped onto firmer land he saw his brogues were caked in mud as were the calves of his trousers.
“Bloody mess,” he hissed. As he spoke, he saw the back of the man in the green puffer just ahead of him. Hearing Hogarth behind him, the man in the green coat turned. He saw Hogarth and nodded at him and gave him a flick of a wave. He seemed friendly and polite enough. But then the man kept walking. The other man in the blue coat joined him and gave Hogarth a friendly smile.
“Hey! Excuse me, boys. I need a word with you…”
The men kept moving. Slowly.
“Stop. I have to talk to you.”
Hogarth heard the men exchange words in their native tongue, soft calm words. Five seconds later, with Hogarth still walking after them, the men broke into a hard run.
“Oi!” said Hogarth. “Stop!”
He ran after them, leaning so far and fast over his shoes that he almost fell head first onto the mud. He stumbled but kept running, his heels thudding and slopping on the cold ground. He felt mud spattering all over his trousers as he ran, and his breathing started to become laboured.
“Hey! Igor! Stop,” he called, but the men were fit and strong. Hogarth hadn’t seen the inside of a gym or gone for a recreational jog for longer than he cared to remember. In his mind he was still a fit man. It seemed he wasn’t nearly as fit as he remembered. Whisky and freezer food was not a diet of champions.
“Don’t do this!” called Hogarth, as the men broke through the wide hedge, and made their way into a neighbouring field. The scratching branches tore at the men’s thick coats as they broke away, then the hedge sealed up behind them. Hogarth shook his head and leaned over his knees, dragging in short sharp breaths until his lungs were almost useable again. He looked at the mud caked all over his trousers. Sweat dripped from his brow.
“Did you lose them, sir?” said Palmer, appearing beside him.
“Now that you mention it, Palmer, I think I did.” He stood up and put his hands on his hips.
“I’m screwed,” said Hogarth.
“But there’s no need to tell Melford, yet, is there, guv?”
“You think?” said Hogarth.
“We still might find them…”
“I bloody hope so, Palmer. I can’t face another lecture from that man. Not today.”
But Hogarth knew he would be in for more than a lecture. If the migrants ran because of the murder, his neck would be on the line for not nabbing them when he’d had the chance.
As Hogarth contemplated the humiliating jobs he would face after discharge from the force – Barman at the Old Naval? A private investigator snapping liars and perverts for cash? No way, his mobile phone started to buzz in his pocket. Hogarth winced and put the phone to his ear.
“Yes?” he said.
“Oh, DI Hogarth. You sound just about ready for the slab yourself.”
It was the pathologist, Ed Quentin.
“Everyone’s out to cheer me up today, Ed. Okay. What have you got?”
“Are you ready?”
“You know me, Ed. Ready as ever.”
“Okay then. It turns out that the old man liked a drink or two. His liver showed plenty of use. It looks like a large dead sea sponge. But much more interesting was his prostate. There were signs of a well-developed cancer. And when I opened him up I found tumours developing on the bowel and liver. The tumours had spread from the prostate, I think. Checking his records, I’ve found the man did have a cancer diagnosis. He was terminal. Still, I think I know which way I would rather have gone.”
“I got a tip off about the cancer, thanks Ed. But it’s good to know it wasn’t just a red herring. Anything else?”
“Yes. There are a few grip marks, bands of bruising around the old man’s upper arms and ribs. It certainly looks like there was a struggle to get him in that machine.”
“Did the bruises give you any indication of the size or strength of the culprit?”
“Not really. There’s not enough to go on I’m afraid. But there are some signs of friction and scratch marks around the bruised areas. No prints of course. Not on skin.”
“Friction and scratching?”
“Yes. Caused by the struggle. When Nigel Grave was being handled, he incurred some very minor injuries.”
“Hmmmm. Any idea on how they were caused?”
“Well, they don’t appear to be made by fingernails, if that’s what you were hoping for. From what I’m seeing, I think the killer was wearing gloves, but definit
ely not the surgical kind, or there’d only be bruising. These must have been made of rough material. Strange really. I can’t get much insight into the size of their hands from the bruises either. The gloves seem to have distorted the pressure marks. But gloves that leave scratches? That’s very curious.”
“Any insight on those gloves?”
“Yes, a little maybe. I think you’ll like this one, DI Hogarth.”
“Go on.”
“There are traces of neoprene material left on the skin. It’s beginning to seem like this rogue neoprene came from the killer’s gloves.”
“Gloves! Of course!” said Hogarth. “And I’ve just had a heads up from Dickens at the crime ccene. They’ve found some loose Velcro fibres caught in the machine, too. I think it could be from the gloves.”
“Could well be, but that’s a matter for forensics, I’m afraid. The body came to me with almost all of the head missing apart from the lower jaw. Cause of death was simple enough. As you know, death was caused by the machine blades impacting the skull, and then penetrating the skull, before it made a total mash of the poor man’s head. It’s a small mercy, I suppose, but from the lack of hand injuries and from attempting to escape, I believe Nigel Grave died within seconds of being pushed into that machine.”
“Just his head? The pictures looked worse.”
“There’s a lot of substantial matter in the human head, Inspector. I’m told that machine sprayed it around the barn like confetti at a wedding. That’s all for now. See you for the next one, eh?” said Quentin.
“Hopefully not for a while, Ed.”
Hogarth ended the call. “It was true, then. The old man had been dying of cancer. Old Nigel should have told his family about the condition. It could have saved his life.”
“But not if the motive was revenge, eh, guv? If it was revenge I think the killer might have hit him all the same,” said Palmer.
“Hmmmm.” Hogarth looked around for a sign of the migrants. Palmer was beginning to feel sorry for him,
“Come on,” said Palmer. “Let’s try the corner shop at Furdon’s. Who knows? We might even see our runaway foreigners on the way.”
“Good idea.” Hogarth started to fuss with his phone. “I’ll get the stopwatch ready…”
Hogarth hit pause on his smartphone stopwatch the moment they went inside the corner shop. A tall bald Asian man stood behind the counter. There was old-fashioned Asian music on in the background, a female singer wailing with lots of clashing cymbals and drums. The shop smelt of warm food, Bombay mix, and curry spices. It was a smell that Hogarth had always liked. It reminded him of the sweetshops of his youth.
“Hello, sir. Detective Inspector Hogarth, Southend CID. I’m here in connection with…”
“Let me guess…” said the man in an accent more Dagenham than Delhi. “The murder of Nigel Grave?”
“You knew him, did you?”
“Yes. Old Mr Grave came in for his papers, chocolate, and drink for his wife. Such a shame. He was a very nice man.”
“Yes. That’s what they say. Yesterday – the day Mr Grave was murdered – a man came in here around lunchtime. Not a local man, not someone you’d know. He came in and bought some butter. Do you remember him at all?”
“Lunch time? Yes, I think so. Midday or something like that. A man with silver hair. Stocky.”
“That’s him. Can you tell us what happened?”
The man shrugged. “Why? There’s nothing much to describe. The man walked in, he looked around the shelves and I asked him what he wanted to buy. He said he needed butter. I pointed to the fridge cabinet there and he picked up two packets of the Pyke’s butter. The purple brand. It’s cheaper than the rest. No one buys the other brand. I should really stop stocking it.”
“How did the man seem to you?”
“Good enough. A little stiff, maybe. If you know what I mean. Why? Who was he?”
“Nigel Grave’s brother-in-law.”
“Really? He wasn’t overly friendly, and not like Nigel at all.”
“No, I don’t think he is.”
“What I mean is, the man picked the cheapest brand of butter, brought it to the counter and then complained about the price.”
“What?”
“He said my butter was too expensive.”
A long wrinkle appeared in Hogarth’s brow. “Did he say anything else?”
“No. He said two pounds a pack was too much. I said he didn’t know my overheads. It was nothing, really. Lots of people moan about prices these days.”
Hogarth looked at Palmer. Was the price issue significant?
“Do you remember what the man was wearing?
“Smart clothes. A shirt and trousers. That’s all I can remember.”
“What about his shoes?”
“I’m sorry. I look at their faces and their hands, not their feet.”
Hogarth nodded. “Thank you, Mr errrm?”
“Pradesh. My name is on the sign. Pradesh Convenience Stores.”
“Mr Pradesh, yes. Thank you. We may see you again.”
“You think he did it then?” called Pradesh, as they headed for the door.
“After what you’ve told us… probably not.”
“Oh dear. I hope you catch the killer. Good luck.”
Hogarth waved and pressed the start button on his smartphone screen as they walked outside. They got into the car and sped off back to Grave Farm.
***
Hogarth was about to turn his Vauxhall onto the driveway when he saw them. Two men with olive coloured skin walking along the edge of the road. Hogarth hit the stopwatch pause button and tossed the phone into the backseat. He pulled the car over high up on the verge. As soon as the doors opened, the migrants recognised him. Hogarth watched as panic filled their eyes. One pointed across the street where a field climbed away from the road up a steep grassy bank.
“No, you don’t!” shouted Hogarth. “You know English. You’ve been here long enough. If you do this, it only gets worse for you. So don’t run. Stop here and talk to me. That’s all. You run now, and I could presume you’re guilty for the murder.”
The men shuffled on the verge while the traffic passed by. The cars had kept them from crossing. “Well?” said Hogarth. He advanced towards them slowly, with his arms out, much like a farmer steering sheep towards a gate.
The man in the blue jacket seemed to nod in acceptance but the man in green looked wary. Hogarth moved in.
“Good. Very good. Just a word, that’s all we want, isn’t it, Palmer?”
Hogarth gave them a smile and nod of encouragement. He was almost in front of them now, almost blocking their way. But as soon as he got there, the man in the blue jacket barged right through him. The man’s shoulder struck Hogarth in centre of his chest. Hogarth grunted in shock and was tipped back towards the road. He kept his balance long enough to avoid a car as it hurtled past, its horn blaring loud in his ears, before he fell on his backside. The men darted across the road, just as a lorry took the corner towards them. Brakes screeched. The lorry shuddered and shook, swerving across the centre of the narrow road and Hogarth blinked at the panicking driver.
Palmer took her chance and gave chase.
“Be careful, Palmer!” called Hogarth. As the truck drew to a shuddering halt, Hogarth pushed himself up and followed, his chest still aching form the strike to his sternum. Now he was angry. Melford had been on his case because of Hartigan. Now these two foreigners wanted to make a jerk of him too. He’d had enough. Hogarth scrambled up the grassy bank and growled as he pushed himself into a run. They were getting away. But he saw their trajectory. Up here the fields were flat again. Not far away was an allotment, and a long metal shed with some smaller buildings clustered around it. Hogarth couldn’t keep up with them. But looking at those buildings, Hogarth now he believed he could take his time.
“Slow down, Palmer. We’ll do this together.” He called.
Palmer reluctantly waited and watched as the migrants got away
.
“I know this plot,” said Hogarth when he reached her side.
“Do you?”
“Yes. They have a miniature railway at the back there. I’ve been past at Christmas time and seen kiddies hurtling around the edges of the farm on the back of a miniature steam train. I guess it must have been one of the first of Neville’s diversification ideas.”
“This land belongs to Grave Farm too then?”
“Yes. Which explains why they’re running on it.” Hogarth sighed and let himself enjoy a bitter smile. “Whether they like it or not, we’ve got ‘em.”
“They could be armed,” said Palmer.
“I very much doubt it. First off, we’ll search them. But we’re looking for those gloves as much as weapons. And wherever they go, we’ll need to check it out. And if they’ve got somewhere to hide, maybe they’ve stashed the evidence in there too.”
Reaching the allotment and the secondary farm, they started to edge towards the buildings. The allotment shed was padlocked.
“Not in here then,” said Palmer.
Hogarth pointed down the side of the shed and led the way. He moved carefully between the shed and a tall hedgerow, aiming for the large corrugated barn behind it – it was almost a duplicate of the barn Nigel Grave had been killed in by the farmhouse. As they walked, Hogarth caught the sound of a whisper and some noise through the hedge. He stopped and peered through towards the huddle of buildings half hidden by the conifer wind-break on the other side. Then he caught a flash of blue between the buildings.
“They’re through there,” whispered Hogarth.
He moved along the trees until he found a gap which had been almost entirely closed by rampant tree growth. By now, Hogarth’s clothes were only fit for the dry cleaners, anyway. There was no use worrying about the conifer branches. He slid through the gap, bending the branches back. One bent branch thwacked Palmer in the face as she followed Hogarth through, but she didn’t complain. Breaking out into the open, Hogarth saw a small single-storey house – a ramshackle tiny bungalow which had fallen into disrepair, right beside another allotment. This plot was well tended. The earth looked rich and dark. Beside the allotment was a greenhouse, every pane of glass had been blotted out with swabs of white paint. There were in the greenhouse. Hogarth could feel it. He moved across the sandy, soft brown earth and reached the door with a final surge of movement to prevent any escape. He snatched the door handle and yanked it open. There they were. Two sizeable gents in beanie hats and puffer jackets. Hogarth grinned at them.
The Darkest Lies: A Gripping Crime Mystery Series - Two Novel Boxed Set (The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Boxed Sets Book 1) Page 37