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

by Solomon Carter

  Neville Grave led them to a comfortable upstairs living room. The room had a window looking out over the allotment and the long blue barn where the old man had been killed, to the wide flat fields beyond.

  The young man pointed to a couple of empty and worn red-upholstered armchairs.

  “Please take a seat.”

  Hogarth did as he was asked. Palmer followed suit, her stomach growling loudly enough for all to hear.

  For a second there was silence, and then the door opened behind Neville and out came Nancy Decorville. Her cheeks were flushed, and her hands were busy as she replaced an earring. As the door shut behind her, Hogarth and Palmer caught sight of an unmade double bed. Hogarth raised an eyebrow at Palmer. Neville and Nancy were well rested.

  “Miss Decorville,” said Hogarth.

  “Inspector,” she said, her eyes a strange guarded mix of flirtatious and aggressive.

  Hogarth ignored the vibe.

  “Thanks for agreeing to see us.”

  “No trouble at all. It’s in everybody’s interests that this matter is resolved as quickly as possible. So the family can move on.”

  “It would be good for the farm too,” said Neville. Hogarth watched Nancy give him a pointed look. A look like a rebuke. A warning.

  “Neville wants what is best for his family, and for the farm.”

  “I’m sure he does. It must be difficult to think straight with so much grief weighing you down, eh, Neville?” said Hogarth. But the lack of emotion on Neville’s face made his words seem ridiculous.

  “I am grieving, Inspector. In my own way. I loved my father deeply and I’m still in shock at the moment. But he was an old man and he was getting frail. My mind had been on the future for a long time.”

  “But this wasn’t dying of old age, Neville. This was murder. This was sudden and brutal and horrific.”

  The man’s face changed and flickered with emotion. “Do you think I don’t know that? He was my father! I know how horrible it was. He must have been in agony when he died.”

  “I am sure he was,” said Hogarth. “Which is why we must find the killer and bring him to justice. Killing a man like that, it’s a despicable crime.”

  Nancy Decorville perched her backside on the edge of a chest of drawers and folded her arms.

  “But you have arrested the migrant workers, haven’t you?”

  “News travels fast around here, miss. Yes, we have. But I have a few reasons to doubt their guilt.”

  “Oh,” said Nancy.

  Hogarth’s eyes tracked across the floor of the room. He looked at their feet, sizing them up, trying to be discreet all the while. Decorville was barefoot except for her tights. Hogarth guessed she was a size six, or maybe a seven. Not small feet by any means, but not large either. She would have had plenty of spare room in a size nine – maybe too much to wear them easily. Neville’s Grave’s feet were bigger and wider, maybe a ten. But his feet could still fit into a nine. They’d pinch a bit, but otherwise be fine. Hogarth’s eyes took in their body shape next. Both looked fit and strong. The woman’s bare arms looked supple and toned.

  Both Neville and Nancy waited and looked at Hogarth with awkward eyes.

  “Why did you want to see me, Inspector?” said Decorville, playing with her necklace. “I’ve taken time away from work for this.”

  “Yes, you do seem very busy,” he replied, with a hint of sarcasm. “Neville. You were in the kitchen the whole time when your father went out to collect the wood from the barn. You were still in the kitchen when Mr Venky went out to bring your father back. From the notes we’ve gathered so far, your father went out around eleven-fifty am, and Venky found him around twelve-ten. That’s a window of no more than twenty minutes between approximately eleven-fifty and twelve-ten. But you were seen at home the whole time by your family. Which means, physically at least, you could not have been the killer. Trevor Goodwell left a few minutes after your father and went to get the butter, meaning he had virtually no spare time either…”

  The young man shuffled on his feet and scratched his cheek. “I had never thought you’d think me guilty!”

  “Murder, Mr Grave, is a messy business. Murders are often committed from mixed motivations, and it’s even worse when family are involved. We need to look at everyone involved in this to be certain.”

  The man offered a weak nod and looked at Nancy.

  “Now, Miss Decorville. Correct me if I am wrong, but you didn’t arrive until just after Mr Venky went to fetch Mr Grave senior from the barn. That puts your entrance at Grave Farm at around the twelve-ten mark or just after.”

  “Yes, in time for lunch.”

  “And perhaps, maybe at the perfect time for having just committed a murder.”

  “What?!” said the woman. She looked incredulous and defiant, her eyes flashing at Neville and at Hogarth.

  “You don’t have an alibi for that time from eleven-fifty to twelve-ten, do you, Miss Decorville?”

  “What do you mean? Isn’t it obvious. I was driving, wasn’t I? I had to drive to get here.”

  “Of course. But it’s feasible that you could have set off earlier, waited for your moment, and sprung on the old man when you saw the chance.”

  “What? Surely you don’t believe that? You make me sound like some kind of monster! As if I could ever do such a thing! I’ve never hurt a person in my entire life.”

  Hogarth looked at her blankly.

  “Not even in pursuit of business, Miss Decorville? Because you strike me as a very driven individual.”

  “Driven? Yes, of course I’m driven. Driven to be successful in my career, but not at any cost.”

  “Really?” said Hogarth.

  He let his words sink in.

  “How dare you?!” she said.

  “This is a murder investigation, madam. I have to look at everything in front of me.”

  Hogarth turned to Neville.

  “Mr Grave. You were seen arguing with your father on the day before the murder. Can you tell us what you were arguing about?”

  The man blinked at Hogarth in surprise.

  “Arguing?”

  “Yes. That’s how it was described...”

  “I didn’t think we were arguing, but… I was trying to persuade him to see sense. To listen to my ideas before it was too late.”

  “Too late? For what?” said Hogarth.

  “He still had a brief window of opportunity to diversify the business here at the farm. If he sold just a little of the land to a developer – just a sliver – it would have released enough capital to reinvest in the new tech and crops which could have brought life back to the farm.”

  “But your father wasn’t too receptive to the idea, was he? From what I’ve heard, he never was very receptive to your ideas. As I understand it, you’d tried a few things already and none of them had worked out.”

  “And why was that? Because they were sticking-plaster solutions. Vain attempts to stick a finger in the wall of a cracking dam. I was working with the tools I was given. But to save the farm we needed to do much more.”

  “And let me guess, the sale of this sliver of land would have gone through Crispin and Co, meaning a healthy commission for Miss Decorville here.”

  “That had nothing to do with it,” she said, all too quickly.

  Hogarth’s mouth formed a bitter grin. “Of course not.”

  “If you want to convince me you were elsewhere at the time of the murder, Miss Decorville, I’ll need to know your whereabouts for the entire day but especially for the hour between eleven twenty and twelve fifteen.”

  The lovers exchanged a glance.

  “What is it?” said Hogarth.

  “I suppose it’s probably best we tell you,” said Nancy Decorville, finally.

  “Tell me what.”

  “We had our own plan for the lunch. We were worried – Neville was worried – that his father had made the wrong choice and was about to announce something desperately foolish. Neville and I ta
lked about how to give him a last minute talking to. As a way to turn his thinking around before he made a very serious mistake…”

  “A last-minute talking-to, eh?” said Hogarth, looking at Palmer.

  “No, no, no. Not like that. The plan was about showing him a better way. Persuading him.”

  “Why were you so desperate to persuade him, Neville? I think I can see Miss Decorville’s angle here, but what about yours?”

  “My father wanted the farm to go on and so did I. I didn’t want him listening to Venky’s absurd rare breed ideas, or the bloody industrial partnership thing Trevor was always on about.”

  “So?”

  “So, I was about to confront him with a truly golden, once-in-a-life-time offer.”

  Hogarth frowned. The young man’s words sounded like a sales-pitch. His eyes narrowed, ready to hear some bull. In suspicion, Hogarth glanced at Nancy Decorville.

  “Nancy and I had talked it through after the argument which I assume my dear mother must have told you about.”

  “And?”

  “We came up with a perfect plan – to keep three quarters of the farm, all the best land there was, while freeing up some of the disused wasteland on the fringes, the parts nearest Rochford and Sutland village. Those would be sold for new housing, and all the money would go back into the farm.”

  “Isn’t that the same deal you’ve described already?” said Hogarth.

  “No – this was a better deal. The clincher – was this. I would take over the running of the farm. And the ownership. My father would sign it over to me, with one extra, crucial proviso written into the agreement. I would never completely sell the farm. I would always ensure that Grave Farm went from my generation to the next. This would ensure my father had a peace-of-mind guarantee that the farm would go on. That was what he cared about. I was going to guarantee it.”

  “The way you say it, the phrases you choose… excuse me for saying, Mr Grave, but you make it sound like an advert from TV,” said Hogarth.

  Neville Grave’s face dropped. “That was never my intention.”

  “You’ve got the wrong end of the stick, Inspector,” said Nancy Decorville.

  “I’m telling you what I hear. So, according to this plan, you were going to own the farm? Taking it over from him? Interesting. But I picked up on the word completely. You said you would never completely sell the whole farm.”

  “That’s right,” said Neville.

  “That must have made Miss Decorville here very happy. Because that word would leave the farm open to lots more sell-offs over time. So long as you kept a small farm operation going while you sold off everything else, you would be honouring your promise.”

  “You’re out of order,” said Miss Decorville.

  “That’s a wilful misrepresentation of what I wanted to do. And our plans had no bearing on father’s death.”

  “On the contrary, Mr Grave. The future of this farm seems of critical importance to everyone who was here the day your father was killed. So, you cooked up this agreement for the farm… when did you plan to pitch it to him?”

  “Before he made his announcement. I was going to ask him for a word just before lunch. That was the intention. As a matter of fact, it was Nancy who dropped me off for the lunch. We talked it through, and knew what we were going to say… and that’s why I know Nancy couldn’t have killed him – because she was driving.”

  “Driving?” said Hogarth. “You had this plan to talk to Nigel before lunch. But you dropped Neville off and came back, what, twenty minutes later. Why? Where did you go, Miss Decorville?”

  “To my office - to Crispin and Co. You can check it out if you like. I was there.”

  “But this was your last chance to persuade Nigel Grave to adopt your plan, yet instead you drive away to your office, and for such a short time… it doesn’t make sense.”

  The woman blushed, just a shade, but Hogarth still saw it. “I went there to provide an update on proceedings for Mr Crispin.”

  “An update on your plan, eh?” said Hogarth.

  “Our plan,” said Decorville. The woman toyed with her necklace.

  “All very dignified and above board then,” said Hogarth. “You set out to take the farm out of his hands and sell some of it off – maybe just one piece or maybe lots of pieces over time. That sounds like Nigel’s worst nightmare.”

  “That was never my plan!” said Neville.

  “Trevor Goodwell’s been in your ear,” said the woman sharply.

  “You’re wrong there, Miss Decorville. Tell me. Do either of you wear trainers?”

  “Trainers?” said Neville, like it was a trick question. “Sports shoes? Or fashion shoes?”

  “Either,” said Hogarth.

  Neville shrugged. “Yes, I’ve got a pair.”

  “Can you get them for me please?”

  Neville looked at Nancy Decorville and she shrugged. Hogarth saw a marked bitterness on her pretty face. She had been called out and she knew it.

  “And you, miss. What shoe size are you?”

  “This is absolutely preposterous,” she said.

  “Miss, this is a murder investigation,” said Palmer.

  “Fine. Whatever you say. I’m a size six…” she said, shaking her head.

  Neville Grave opened the bedroom door and walked inside. He left the door open and passed the unmade double bed. Palmer and Hogarth’s eyes followed Neville into the room, and though the young farmer seemed oblivious, Hogarth and Palmer couldn’t fail to notice the brassiere hanging over the bedstead, or the lingerie abandoned on the floor.

  Neville Grave returned holding a pair of black sporty trainers with a red swish down the side. Hogarth was still looking at the skimpy underwear on the floor when Neville Grave handed him the trainers. Hogarth coughed and looked at the insides then turned them upside down and looked at the soles. The soles were neat and new the tread was deep and thick.

  “And these are the only pair you have?”

  “Yes.”

  “Then have you replaced them recently?”

  “No,” he said, looking confused. “Why?”

  “Just a question. From your physique, it’s clear that you must lift a few weights, Mr Grave. You said you were a gym goer?”

  “When I get the chance. I used to go a lot more than I do now.”

  “Life gets in the way, eh? Gloves, Mr Grave. Do you wear weightlifting gloves?”

  “To stop myself getting sore hands. Yes. Hold on. I’ll fetch them. Why do you want all this stuff?”

  Hogarth’s eyes flicked to Nancy Decorville. “It’s something we have to look into, that’s all. And how do you keep fit, Miss Decorville?”

  The woman’s eyes flicked to the open door and the unmade bed. She shifted on her feet with awkwardness. “All the usual ways, Inspector.”

  “Gym goer, are we?”

  “No. I prefer to run, and I run in my size sixes. What is all this about?”

  “All will become clear in due course.”

  Neville Grave returned and handed the gloves to Hogarth and he inspected them. They were smooth black neoprene stitched with nylon – just what the doctor ordered. In this case, Dr Ivan Marris. Hogarth prodded the Velcro strap and passed the shoes and gloves to Palmer.

  “Mind if we borrow these for a few days?”

  “Not at all,” he said.

  “Very sensible, Neville. I think you should both know that Miss Decorville’s lack of alibi, late arrival for the lunch and the nature of your business proposal leave me with serious questions to be answered.”

  “But I do have an alibi, Inspector,” said Nancy.

  “So you say. But Crispin and Co may not be watertight. Can any other Crispin staff vouch for you?”

  “No. The office was empty. It’s not like an estate agent’s. We can come and go. I left a note for Mr Crispin.”

  “You see my problem, then,” said Hogarth.

  “No, Inspector. There’s something else.”

  Miss D
ecorville looked increasingly awkward. Hogarth’s eyes locked onto her discomfort, and Neville was watching too.

  “What then?” he said.

  “I did meet someone at Crispin’s, albeit very briefly, and face to face. They are my alibi.”

  “Then who did you meet?” said Hogarth.

  Nancy Decorville turned her eyes towards Neville. “I made a small investment for the both of us, Neville. Just a little of my own money. I hired someone to help us.”

  “Spell it out, Miss Decorville,” said Neville.

  “I met with a man called Fred Schapps. He’s a private detective.”

  “Excuse me? You did what?” said Neville.

  “Go on,” said Hogarth.

  “I had some suspicions that your uncle and aunt were up to something. That they were trying to out-manoeuvre us.”

  The young man kept quiet.

  “Trevor and Marjorie Goodwell,” said Hogarth. “In what way?”

  “I didn’t know exactly. But I knew they had their own plan for the farm’s future.”

  “And?”

  “I was going to tell you about this later on, Neville. But seeing as the inspector won’t give us time alone to talk…”

  The woman hurried back into the bedroom and returned with a large handbag. She made sure to close the bedroom door behind her, but it was far too late for all that. From her shiny red patent leather bag, she produced a paper wallet with two photographs in it.

  She handed them to Hogarth. The first photograph showed Susan Grave looking animated as she spoke with Marjorie, her sister-in-law. Looking closer, Hogarth saw they were arguing.

  “So? What is this supposed to prove?” said Hogarth.

  “Not much. But the second one does.”

  He handed the first photo to Palmer while Neville Grave looked on, confused. Hogarth looked at the second photograph.

  “That shows Marjorie in a restaurant in Brentwood. The man she is seated with there is Daniel Crump. Does that name mean anything to you, Inspector?”

  “No,” said Hogarth. “Should it?”

  “Really? I am surprised,” said Nancy Decorville. “Head anywhere into farming territory – East Anglia, Wales, the South West – and you’ll see the Crump brand name everywhere. Milk tankers, farms, feed factories, farm gas supply and utilities, farm transport and engineering, Crump is simply everywhere you look. They are the biggest brand of the new industrial farms. Officially, Crump’s way of business is to become a partner with the local farmer, moving in their industrial equipment to streamline the business. In reality, they buy a stake and take over stage by stage. If Crump got hold of Grave Farm it would remain Grave Farm in name only.