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

by Solomon Carter

  It would soon become another pin in the map of the Crump farming empire.”

  “My, my,” said Hogarth. “That picture must have scared you witless, Miss Decorville. What with how much you care for the Grave farming legacy and all.”

  “I don’t care what you think of me, Inspector. This photograph here shows I was perfectly right to hire my investigator. They’re out to take the farm from right over your head, Neville. And while that hateful mother of yours is still alive, they can do it too.”

  The words stuck in Hogarth’s mind. That hateful mother.

  “Do you think Susan Grave is of a mind to accept such a deal?”

  “It depends on how much alcohol they offer her, wouldn’t you say, Inspector?” said Decorville.

  Neville Grave was silent and looked upset. Nancy Decorville went to his side, but he didn’t look at her. Instead he looked at Hogarth.

  “It’s true, Inspector. You see how my mother is with me. Even if I figured in my father’s will, any mention of me will soon be removed. She owns the place now, and she can do what she damn well likes with no one to stop her.”

  “What are you going to do?” said Hogarth.

  “I’m going to do my best to persuade her it’s in her interests and the farm that I take over. If Trevor and Marjorie are making promises to look after her, then so I can.”

  “That’s the spirit, Neville,” said Nancy, taking hold of his arm.

  Hogarth’s eyes glinted as he watched them. He had heard enough to be getting on with.

  “Thank you for your time, Mr Grave, Miss Decorville. It’s been most enlightening – for all of us. I’ll need to borrow these photographs too. Don’t worry. You’ll get it all back in due course. In the meantime, stay local. I’ll need to speak to you again.”

  Hogarth shared his weighted glare between both of them, but only Neville Grave responded with a nod. Nancy Decorville was too busy attempting to clean up the mess she’d created. Her attention was devoted to Neville. Hogarth opened the door and waited for Palmer to walk out ahead of him. When they were halfway down the creaking steps, Hogarth muttered. “These bloody people…”

  Palmer agreed. “And I think we’ve just found the supreme candidate for the worst one of all,” she said.

  “I don’t think so, Palmer. Not yet. But we’re certainly getting closer.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  By late afternoon, the trainers and the gloves were with Ivan Marris. The photographs went up on the incident board, along with the graphic images depicting the old man’s body stuck in the chipper. Hogarth left the goriest ones in the file where they belonged. When the day was done, Hogarth could think of nothing more than the whisky bottle waiting at home, or another of those chicken and mushroom pies at the Old Naval club. He didn’t want to be at home alone with his thoughts and fears, or the words of Ali’s brush-off echoing through his head. Even so, three chicken and mushroom pies in one day would be the world’s slowest form of suicide. Instead, Hogarth made a cheese sandwich for dinner and chomped through the stale bread as he watched the news. The grim-faced newscaster spoke about the tragedy of another US shooting by a lone nut in a shopping mall. The local police chief said the killer wasn’t a terrorist, but to Hogarth these nut jobs were all the same. By the time he was on his second half of the sandwich, the whisky bottle was out – just one small glass – just a nip – and the news had shifted to North Yorkshire. Police had failed to react to a warning that a teenage boy had a fixation on a female teacher. One month after the teacher asked police for help, she was killed in the classroom. Hogarth stopped chewing the dry bread and flavourless cheese. He clunked his plate down on the side table and poured the entire nip of whisky down his neck. Time to go out.

  North Lane, Shoebury. After news like that, Hogarth had no choice. He sat in his car staring into space from behind the windscreen, tired and alone, feeling something like a stalker himself. The hilly road was empty of pedestrians. The evening was quiet and cold, and already dark. At least the days were lengthening again. He started the engine to take another drive by. He just wanted to see her, that was all. To make she sure she was alright, because he had to know. Had to see. Hogarth started the engine and pulled the car out onto the street. Just as he passed the Hartigan house, he dabbed the brake and turned his head to look towards the big gallery window. Inside, the lights were on, and the thick curtains had not yet been shut. There! He saw her. His Ali, her fine slender figure as she walked across the room, heading towards the window to close the curtains. He saw a square bandage taped to the side of her head, otherwise she looked fine. Or was that a black eye? Even at a distance, it was good to see her. But the bandage annoyed him. That bastard had almost killed her, and if he got another chance he’d probably succeed. And there were still no police around. None in sight, at least. James Hartigan had said he’d spoken to the Super. If so, then the tight bastard still hadn’t agreed to post anyone on the MP’s front door.

  Hogarth waited, his eyes flicking between the blinking dots of his dashboard clock, and the cold dark street. He knew he should have gone home. The sicko had already taken what he could from the woman and it was late. Surely he wouldn’t try anything now, not with Ali safely locked away at home. But Hogarth couldn’t bring himself to start the engine, so he stewed in his driving seat and waited. After a while, a walker came into view. A man in a long dark coat., pacing down the road down from the top of the hill. His face was obscured in shadow, mostly from the hood pulled over his head. It wasn’t raining, but the night air was freezing cold. Hogarth sat up in his driving seat and squinted over the steering wheel. The coat was a long puffer-style coat, the kind football managers wore in the coldest months. It wasn’t a raincoat, that was for sure. The man’s head flicked across his right shoulder every so often as he checked the windows of houses where people were still awake – with the lights on. When it came to Ali Hartigan’s house, he slowed down. Then he almost stopped. Hogarth didn’t wait a beat. He opened his car door, stood up and slammed it behind him. The man in the puffer coat jerked around to see Hogarth striding towards him and he took a step back. Then another.

  “Oi. Don’t you move,” said Hogarth.

  “What? Why?” said the man, stepping back.

  “You heard what I said,”

  “Leave me alone.”

  Hogarth sped up, bounding along the kerbside as the man backed away.

  “What? What do you want?” said the man in a panicked voice.

  “The question is, pal…” said Hogarth, seizing the man by his hood. “What do you want?”

  He dragged the hood away from the man’s face and found a hollow-eyed, pasty-face man with a shaven head. The guy appeared to be in his thirties, and had a nasty, shifty look about him. He was vermin alright, but not the vermin he was looking for. But Hogarth was still caught off guard. He pulled the man upright and held him by the collar of his coat.

  “What are you doing hanging around here?”

  “I’m walking home, that’s all.”

  Hogarth picked up the drink fumes from the man’s breath.

  “I saw you staring into that window. Someone put you up to it, did they? Did someone ask you to do their dirty work?”

  “You’re flipped, mate. Get your bloody hands off me!”

  “Then why were you looking at that house?”

  “Come on! You know why?! It’s the MP’s house, innit? That MP’s missus got attacked there. It was in the news.”

  Hogarth stared into his eyes, looking for the lie.

  “I was being nosy. So, there’s a law against being nosy now as well, is there, copper?”

  He spat the last word like a swear word. Yes, he was the kind of vermin who recognised a cop. Hogarth let go of the man and shoved him away. Then he raised a finger and pointed at him.

  “If I ever see you round here again, I’ll…”

  “You’ll what?”

  Hogarth sighed. “Use your imagination, cretin. Now piss off.”


  “Pig…” muttered the man as he moved away, trying hard not to hurry. Hogarth sighed and looked at the Hartigan house. He wasn’t exactly doing much to restore public faith in the police. In terms of outreach to the community, that momentary encounter was an epic fail. And Ali Hartigan had dumped him. For better or worse, he had pushed her too far, so she had ended it. “Bollocks,” said Hogarth. He thought about the real stalker, the skulking rat who had struck hard when no one was looking. Hogarth looked around the street, sensing that the man was near. But there was no way of knowing and the thought made him want to hit out. Hogarth thought what a pleasure it would have been to own a gun. To find the man and simply remove him from the face of the earth. Hogarth knew the ways to get hold of a gun, but he shook his head and walked back to the car.

  “You’re not shooting anyone, you daft bastard,” he muttered.

  The dashboard clock told him it was too early to go home to bed and he was too burdened to be alone. And Henry the barman was no company at all. Talking to Henry was like having a conversation with a soggy beermat. Hogarth started the engine of his Vauxhall and drove away. But he didn’t go home.

  “Time to break some more rules, eh, Joe?” said Hogarth, talking to himself again. He passed the man in the puffer coat, tooted his horn and gave the man a big, friendly wave. The guy flipped him a finger and left it high in the air to ensure it could be seen in Hogarth’s rear-view mirror.

  Beyond the Hartigan house, a lone figure sat in a small dark car parked across the street. The man watched every detail of the encounter unfold until Hogarth’s unmarked Insignia disappeared at the bottom of the slope. And when he was gone, the man in the dark picked up his phone and dialled.

  “Yes. It’s me,” he said, in a soft, well-spoken voice. “Listen, I’ve got something for you. And I thought you’d want to know…”

  BZZZZZZZZZ. Hogarth hit the buzzer on the door for 121b Beedle Road, Westcliff. And just in case the buzzer wasn’t loud enough, he waited two seconds more then hit it harder. A second later the upstairs window opened onto the street, and Sue Palmer leaned out. She was wearing a white towelling dressing gown and her hair was slick from the shower or bath.

  “Who is it?!” she snapped. Then her tone changed. “Guv?”

  “You got any whisky, Palmer?”

  “No. But I’ve got some wine.”

  “They say never mix grape and grain. But who cares? It’ll do.”

  Palmer studied Hogarth for a few seconds before she replied. “Okay.”

  She closed the window and a minute later she appeared at the foot of the stairs and opened the door.

  “What’s this about, sir?” she said.

  “It’s about me being a selfish idiot and needing a little company. I’m only after a drink and a chat, but you’re free to tell me to piss off.”

  Palmer looked at his glum face and stepped back. “Come in, guv. But I hope you don’t mind the smell of garlic.”

  Hogarth shrugged.

  “I hope you don’t mind the smell of whisky,” said Hogarth. But when he reached the upstairs of Palmer’s cluttered flat, he smelt the full force of the garlic butter scent.

  “Bloody hell, Palmer. It smells like you’ve had a squadron of the French resistance in your kitchen. What’ve you been eating?”

  “Garlic bread,” said Palmer. He looked at her sofa in her living room and saw her laptop open while some music blared out from her TV. The TV had been switched onto radio mode, or something. Beside the dent in the sofa left by Palmer’s backside was a plate with a third of a garlic baguette left on it. It looked like Palmer had polished off a loaf and a half by herself.

  He thought of making a quip about her choice of food or about watching her waistline, but neither seemed appropriate. They weren’t at the nick. This was Palmer’s home. He cancelled the banter and sat down.

  “Looks like you’re working, Palmer,” he said, looking at the laptop. Palmer was nowhere to be seen, but she returned with two brimful glasses of red wine.

  “Here you go, guv. The rest of the bottle is in the kitchen if you need it.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Hogarth noticed Palmer was self-conscious. She moved to the far end of the sofa, picked up her laptop and covered her legs with it. Hogarth smelt a new fragrance on the air. Mint. Palmer was sucking on a mint. Hogarth glanced at her laptop screen.

  “I thought I’d look at the Grave family history,” said Palmer. “Seeing as they have all that history behind them, I guessed there would have to be something about it online.”

  “You never stop, do you, Palmer?”

  “And you do? Look at you. You’re still wearing your work gear and you look like you haven’t been home.”

  “Spoken like a true Hercule Poirot,” said Hogarth, sipping his wine. “I’d rather focus on the case than stay at home.”

  “If you don’t mind me asking,” said Palmer, looking at him carefully. “What’s the matter, guv?”

  Hogarth took a big gulp of red wine and sucked his teeth.

  “I don’t mind you asking, Sue, but right now, I don’t even want to think about it. Let’s just talk about the case.”

  Palmer nodded. Hogarth felt close enough to her to drop round her house on a whim when he wanted, but still closed her out when it mattered. Nevertheless, Palmer decided that was progress of a kind. She watched Hogarth take three gulps of wine, leaving the glass half empty.

  “Thirsty, are we?” she said.

  “You’re not wrong,” said Hogarth, with a mirthless smile. “Now? What else have you learned…?”

  When Hogarth eventually woke up, he was stretched out on the wide beige corduroy-coloured sofa, with a tartan blanket over his legs. The room still stank of garlic butter, though Hogarth was immune to the additional scent of copper stewed in wine. For a fraction of time he wondered where he was. A moment later, wide-eyed with panic, he wondered if he had made a pass at Palmer. The idea almost brought a cold sweat and the feeling wouldn’t leave him.

  “You’re awake then,” she said. Hogarth bolted upright on the sofa, like Frankenstein’s monster shot full of lightning. Thank God. There was Palmer, standing before him, clean and fresh and in her standard work outfit – skirt, blouse, and jacket. Her hair looked neat and she was smiling, with a cup of coffee in her hand. There was something coy about her look, something girlish which made him double-check his memory banks. He had been a good boy, hadn’t he? She saw the look on his face.

  “It’s okay, don’t panic. You finished the wine and fell asleep on the sofa, guv.”

  “I’ve taken liberties, Palmer.”

  “Not really. At least, not any you need to confess. Actually, I saw another side to you.”

  “Oh no…” said Hogarth. “Should I be worried?”

  Palmer grinned. “Not overly. I made a pot of coffee. The proper stuff. Want some?”

  Hogarth nodded and rubbed his temples. “Please.”

  “And I left a towel by the shower for you.”

  Hogarth looked up at the clock on Palmer’s front room wall. It was seven-fifty – high time he was at work. “No thanks. I’ll skip the shower and nip out later. Unless Melford is watching my every move, which he might well be.”

  Palmer handed him a scalding hot black coffee and a slice of buttered toast.

  “So, what did we find out?” he said, nodding at the laptop. He could barely remember a thing.

  “Only what we knew before, sir. There was the migrant trouble in the nineties, and before that nothing.”

  “Nothing new then. We’d better hope Marris has come up with something on those trainers and gloves before Melford asks for his update.”

  “If I were you, guv, I’d take up the offer of a shower. Melford seems to have enough of a problem with you already. You don’t need him turning up his nose at you as well.”

  Hogarth considered his options.

  “I don’t suppose an extra minute would hurt, would it? And you don’t mind, Palmer?”
/>   “That CID room is pretty cramped, sir. I think it might be for the best.”

  “Yes, good point,” said Hogarth. He left the living room and headed for the bathroom in a hurry.

  Arriving at Southend Police Station a well-coordinated five minutes after Hogarth, Palmer joined him in the CID room. By the time she walked in, she saw Melford was already standing in the middle of their little room taking up far more space than was necessary. His arms were folded. He reminded Palmer of a stern Soviet statue. Hogarth was trapped in his seat, in the full flow of giving his excuses.

  “…but the lack of evidence says we were right. It couldn’t have been the migrants, sir. Besides, the old man was keeping them safe. They’re not Eastern European as we were led to believed. They’re from Syria, no doubt on the run from IS.”

  “Even so, leaving them aside wasn’t your gamble to make. They were the obvious candidates.”

  “Obvious, but it still wasn’t them, sir.”

  “Which means what? Have you got anything at all?” said Melford. As Palmer slid past him into the room, Melford nodded at her then returned his gaze to Hogarth.

  “Yes, sir,” said Hogarth. “We’ve narrowed the field back to those in the family kitchen at Grave Farm at the time of the murder.”

  “But I thought they all had alibis. How is that supposed to work?”

  “Because one or more of them is lying. We’ll have to test every word of their alibis. And we’ve found underlying motives on all of them. I’m certain the motive for the murder was connected to ownership of the farm. The son wanted the old man to transfer ownership to him, so he could sell it. The brother-in-law and sister want the farm to be industrialised for short term gain. Then we’ve got this other chiseller by the name of Nancy Decorville. Dangerous little thing, she is. I think she’s been playing her own game for a while. Her alibi is the weakest of them all. And she hired a PI to dredge up some dirt on the in-laws.”