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

by Solomon Carter

  “Ali… what are you saying?”

  “From now on he’ll be looking for signs of you in my life. But he mustn’t find any. Do you understand?”

  “So that’s it? You’re packing me in? You’re punishing me for caring about you?”

  “No. I’m saying we have to pause things. Put them on hold for a while. It could take time, and who knows how long… but. if we are meant to be – then you’ll still be there for me when the time comes.”

  “That’s a very fancy way of ending things without saying the actual words.”

  “No, it isn’t. I mean what I say, Joe. What you did was very, very foolish, but I still care about you.”

  Hogarth gulped and shook his head.

  “Has he put a guard on you, yet? Because you bloody need one.”

  “No. He said he’s asked for police resources. He said paying for security would look too flash and show a lack of trust in the police.”

  “He’s still thinking about the voters at a time like this! I’m a policeman, damn it, and I have a very justified lack of trust in the police! You need proper protection, Ali.”

  “Well, I’m not going to get anything more than what the police will provide.”

  “Don’t finish with me like this, Ali. You need my help now.”

  “Maybe I do. But until the dust settles I’m going to have to manage without you. Wait for me, Joe. I hope that you will.”

  He heard Ali’s movements at the other end – she was about to cut the call.

  “Ali! Wait.”

  “What?” she said, quietly.

  “What does he look like? This stalker – please?”

  “I… I…”

  “Ali?”

  “He’s a small man. Brown eyes. Dark hair with grey flecks. He’s either in his late forties or early fifties. And one other thing, the only other thing I remember very clearly, was his grey raincoat. And he wore an aftershave that smelt like boiled sweets.”

  Hogarth blinked and fell silent.

  “Joe? Isn’t that enough?”

  But Hogarth couldn’t speak.

  “Are you still there?” she said.

  “Thanks for telling me, Ali. I’ll keep well away from your house. And away from that waste of space you call a husband too. But I can’t promise that I won’t be watching you.”

  “Don’t – his people could see you!”

  “His people?”

  “Now he knows about you, I wouldn’t put it past him to hire someone…”

  “What? You think he’d hire a PI, but no bodyguard to protect you? I have to keep an eye on you.”

  “Just don’t ruin what’s left of my life in the process, eh?”

  “Ali…?” he said, slowly, before his voice dried up.

  “I know…” she said. “We need to be strong. I have to go. I won’t call you again for a while.”

  But her words sounded final.

  “Ali…” he said.

  “Don’t say it. Not yet…” said Ali. The call ended abruptly, and Hogarth stared at the screen of his phone. A small movie played inside his head, over and over. The confrontation with the man in Southchurch. A smallish man with dark eyes, dark hair. A man in a grey raincoat. Hogarth growled and hurled his phone to the floor and watched it bounce once on the carpet. He ran a hand through his hair, stood up, and paced around his front room before he finally remembered that Palmer was waiting for him outside. He still needed to put some clothes on. Hogarth ran up the stairs and picked up last’s week’s chinos from the washing basket and dragged the cold dank things on over his legs. Then he snatched his old blue blazer from the wardrobe. Downstairs, he picked up his phone from the downstairs carpet, and found a fresh new crack running across the screen. He grimaced. It served him right. All this rubbish served him right. But he was still seething, and someone was going to pay. The killer in the Grave Farm case would pay handsomely. But when he found the stalker, that particular scumbag was going to pay most of all.

  He opened the front door, stepped out into the cold and tried to set his face to a less abrasive look. His smile twitched at Palmer before it caved in. He let his shoulders sink and walked to the car.

  “Guv? You okay?” said Palmer as he got in the car.

  “No, sorry, Palmer. I could pretend I’m A-okay, spiffing and all that, but the truth is my life is rapidly sinking to deeper lows with each passing day. But hey. Now that’s said, I hope you’ll forgive me if I don’t put on my jolliest smile. If I tried to do that all day, I’d end up in a loony bin by Friday night.”

  “What’s the matter? If you don’t mind me asking…”

  “Life. That’s what they call it, I believe. And apparently, it’s incurable. Come on. Let’s go and get a bite to eat. Scratch the coffee though, I think I need more than that. Then I am going to give Neville and Nancy a grilling like you wouldn’t believe.”

  Palmer nodded, stony-faced and rebuffed. So, it was the secret lover then. But even having Hogarth shut the door on her stupid, illogical fantasy – a world where she and Joe Hogarth would become the most unlikely romantic couple since the Krankees, she still found a glimmer of hope. It seemed Hogarth’s secret romance had hit the rocks. Yeah, it was mean, selfish, stupid, and nasty, but Palmer couldn’t help it. Behind her glum face, she was just a little bit pleased. But Palmer didn’t like herself for it.

  “I’ll get the sandwiches in, guv. My shout.”

  “Really? Maybe this once I’ll let you buy me a beer too.”

  A dark glimmer of stupid hope grew just a little bit brighter. It was a phase. A moment. A brief crush. It would pass. Palmer told herself all these things. Don’t make life awkward, and all that. And at the same time, her weird, foolish hope remained. Palmer hoped her serious cop side would outlast the silly crush. He was hardly a catch. But no matter what she told herself, the small awkward feeling still remained.

  “A drink as well? Don’t push it, guv,” said Palmer.

  “Sorry, Palmer. I can’t change the habit of a lifetime.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Hogarth refused every pub Palmer suggested, eventually taking her to a venue she’d never known existed. The Old Naval social club was tucked away on the Westcliff seafront, hidden from the estuary by a tall hedge and a row of parked cars. Palmer was hesitant as they walked in.

  “Don’t look so frightened, Palmer. This is lunch. It’s not an initiation ceremony, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “I’m not worried,” she said, looking around the white-walled interior as Hogarth led the way. The club was bright but old-fashioned inside. It smelt of carpet cleaner, cheap greasy food and strong beer. Hogarth walked in with the air of a man who felt right at home. He’d been grim and moody ever since they left his house on the other side of Westcliff, but the social club seemed to put him in a different air.

  “You should be grateful,” said Hogarth.

  “Grateful? I wouldn’t go that far,” said Palmer, wrinkling her nose at the fading, yellowing prints on the walls. Seaside prints, naval prints, coastal maps, all in dated-looking wooden frames.

  Hogarth reached the bar and clapped his hands in anticipation. A man who looked like a cross between a sergeant major and a cartoon fisherman appeared behind the bar. The man wore a bushy white beard, and wisps of white hair around a shining bald pink head.

  “Joe Hogarth,” said the man, wiping his hands on a towel. “With a woman too. About time, I’d say.”

  “You don’t get many in here, do you, Henry?”

  “They weren’t allowed in until the eighties. Some of the older members haven’t yet embraced the change in the rules,” said the old barman, giving her a once over. “But you’ve got no worries with me,” he said.

  Palmer tried not to shake her head. So much for being grateful.

  “What do you want? Scotch and water? Or is it just the scotch?”

  “I’m working, Henry. I’d best stick to lager.”

  “Dear me, you must really be working.”<
br />
  Hogarth tapped the Aussie lager tap, and the old man poured him a glass. “And you, love?” he said.

  “Vodka and lemonade,” said Palmer.

  “Right you are.”

  “We are having lunch, aren’t we?” said Palmer.

  “Oh, yes. Lunch for two please, Henry.”

  “No problem. Take a seat and I’ll bring it out in two minutes.”

  He gave them their drinks and Palmer gave Hogarth a confused look as the old man disappeared into a room out back.

  “What’s he doing now?” said Palmer.

  “Making lunch.”

  “But he didn’t even ask what we wanted.”

  “Oh, Henry doesn’t bother with all that. His menu consists of the sum total of pies and crisps. And he already knows what pie I like. Chicken and mushroom. You do like chicken and mushroom, don’t you?”

  Palmer thought it over and decided there was no point complaining or questioning things any further. In Hogarth’s skewed view of the world, it was clear to see this club was close to Hogarth’s version of nirvana. Palmer was grateful for the culture shock. Her view of Hogarth was becoming a little clearer – her rose-tinted glasses were beginning to slip.

  “Do you know why I like it here, eh, Palmer?”

  She looked around for clues, but didn’t find any fast enough to respond.

  “Because there’s no scumbags in here,” he said. “And guess what else – no coppers either. It’s ideal.”

  “I’ve been working with you near on a year, and I don’t think I understand you any better than I did at the start.”

  “Join the club. I understand less and less as I get older.”

  “You’re not going to turn all philosophical on me as well, are you?”

  “Don’t fret. When the chicken pie turns up I’ll stop talking altogether.”

  When the pies turned up, Hogarth did stop talking, and so did Palmer. While Hogarth rubbed his hands and looked at his steaming plate with delight, Palmer could barely hide her feelings. The old barman clunked their two plates down in front of them with a knife and fork each. The pies were still in their foil wrapping, and the pastry lids had the sunken look of a freshly microwaved affair. It looked less than appetizing.

  “Voila,” said Henry, and walked away rubbing his hands on his trousers. Hogarth picked up his knife and fork and looked at Palmer.

  “What’s the matter?” he said.

  “I guess I’m just not that hungry,” lied Palmer.

  Hogarth raised an eyebrow. “You’re soft, that’s all. Henry’s pies, once tried, never forgotten.”

  “I believe you on that score,” said Palmer.

  Hogarth cut himself a splodge of chicken and pastry goo when the phone started to ring in his pocket. He looked at the fork and stuffed it in his mouth in defiance.

  Still chewing, he stuck the mobile to his ear.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Hogarth, is that you?”

  “Ivan. Yes, it’s me, with a mouthful of chicken pie.”

  “Sounds disgusting,” said Marris.

  Hogarth refused to have his lunch talked down any further.

  “What do you want, Ivan?”

  “I’ve looked at those prints more closely.”

  “Prints?” said Hogarth.

  “Don’t get excited. I’m talking about footprints, not fingerprints. The ones in the barn at Grave Farm.”

  “Oh?”

  “The boots look to be cheap and cheerful synthetic rubber soles. A common pattern. They have the same print, so they were probably ordered at the same time from the same firm.”

  “Yes. I’ve met the boys who were wearing them. Those boots were bought by the farmer, I’d say. Those two men are in custody because of their immigration status, but it’s handy for us. It gives us time to look at them in connection with the evidence.”

  “Jolly good. I’ve looked at the other prints too…”

  “The trainers?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes. They’re a cheaper sports brand. Nothing fancy. And they’ve been well worn-in too. The prints we found lacked a lot of the original definition to the sole pattern, but some of it was still there.”

  Hogarth stuffed his fork into the steaming heart of the pie and stirred it up.

  “What about timings, Ivan? Any idea when those prints were laid? Which came first and all that?”

  “That is about the degree of moisture left in the print, and which print is the last imposed.”

  Hogarth processed Marris’s words. He wasn’t much interested in the process. “Yes… and?”

  “And the boot prints show up a lot. There are dry ones, ones half-hidden by the hay. Dickens found a ton of them. But the trainer prints are a mess. They show up along with the shoe prints belonging to the old man. From the mess of prints near the front of the woodchipper, we can assume the messy prints depict the struggle as the victim was physically overwhelmed. Then the trainer prints are much stronger, and the shoe prints disappear as they get closer to the chipper, just before the work-boot prints smear over them again.”

  “Have you got a hypothesis, Ivan? You usually do.”

  “As it happens, I do. The trainers are size nines and very well worn. The person who wore those used them a lot, over time. Maybe they are an everyday item.”

  “But nobody was wearing trainers at Grave Farm on the day of the killing.”

  “That’s as maybe. The killer wears them a lot.”

  “Okay,” said Hogarth.

  “Secondly, we know from the moisture traces that the murderer tussled with Nigel Grave. The stronger footprints near the machine suggest a heavier load. This is where your man in trainers had picked up the farmer, and the extra weight impacted the prints. The other boot print smears were made when the migrants you mentioned probably attempted to rescue Nigel Grave when they found the body.”

  “How confident are you on that theory, Marris?”

  “It’s about the evidence. That’s what I’m seeing.”

  Hogarth blinked at Palmer.

  “Then the migrant boys are innocent?” said Hogarth.

  “It’s very likely.”

  “And our killer wears trainers?”

  “Your killer is the one in trainers, yes.”

  “So, if we factor in the neoprene gloves…” said Hogarth.

  “I’m sure you’re beginning to come to some conclusions of your own.”

  “As a matter of fact, I am… and in a very timely way. Thanks for the update, Ivan.”

  Hogarth ended the call and stuffed another fork-load of pie into his mouth. He washed it down with a slurp of lager.

  “You get any of that?” he said, still chewing.

  “I think so,” said Palmer. “The killer wears old size nine trainers.”

  “Indeed, he does. Which doesn’t eliminate naughty Nancy from being involved – a woman can put on big trainers just as well as a man.”

  “But Marris said they were old and worn in, didn’t he?”

  “Yes. Maybe like a pair you could buy in a charity shop.”

  “You think it’s her? Seriously. Do you think Nancy Decorville is strong enough to move someone like that?”

  “If she had to. The old man was slight as a bird. He was withering away from cancer, preparing for the end with the LPA and his business announcement. I’m not sure how much fight he had left in him. And if that girl is as spirited as she looks, she could be capable of anything.”

  Hogarth finished his pie and drained his pint to the halfway mark. His eyes fell to Palmer’s pie, still untouched in the foil.

  “I do hate waste, Palmer.”

  “It’s all yours, guv.”

  Hogarth swapped their plates around and stuck his fork into the pastry. Palmer looked away to spare herself. If she was worried about developing an unhealthy close-quarters crush on the DI, then this little chicken pie break had done a great deal to allay her fears.

  When the pint was drained and the plates empty, Hogart
h wiped his mouth with the napkin and stood up. “The lady is paying, Henry.”

  “How very modern of you,” said Henry, at the bar.

  “I’m a New Man, Henry. That’s me all over.”

  “Eight pounds fifty, miss,” said Henry.

  Hogarth was right. It was the cheapest lunch for two Palmer had heard of in twenty years. Shame that it wasn’t edible. Palmer took out the eight pounds fifty from her purse and left the money on the bar top, right beside old Henry’s open hand.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Hogarth put on a calmer, friendlier air as he stepped back into Grave Farm house and wiped his brogues on the thick brown mat. The pies and beer had contributed something to his new demeanour, but for the most part it was an act. He was getting himself into the zone. The new main suspects were coming into view, and this afternoon, he intended to make a full study of them. To be thorough he needed them at ease. He wanted to catch them off-guard. It didn’t take long to see the couple had been at ease long before Hogarth and Palmer had arrived.

  “Mr Grave,” said Hogarth, nodding at the man.

  “Inspector,” said the young man. His tone was confident, but his eyes betrayed just a hint of nerves. Neville greeted Palmer as she came in and closed the door.

  “And where is your good lady, Mr Grave?” said Hogarth.

  “Oh, don’t worry, Inspector, I promised you she would be here, and she is. I think we’ll leave my mother to it down here… we’ll go upstairs to talk.”

  At the mention of his mother, Hogarth watched Neville’s face hardening. Yes, the boy had heard too much.

  “Okay, is she, your mother?” said Hogarth, picking at the sore.

  “Okay? By now you have probably noticed that she’s never okay. She’s drunk. And she’s worse today than most times, but she’s always drunk. I don’t know how to address it anymore.”

  “No,” said Hogarth. As they climbed the creaky wooden steps, Hogarth peered through the gap in the door towards the kitchen. He caught a glimpse of the woman huddled at the table. It seemed she was fast asleep.