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

by Solomon Carter

  “Dirt? Did she find any?”

  “Yes. They met with a man from Crump Agro Industries. Crump is the one who could buy up the farm.”

  “But they don’t own the farm, do they? The old man did. What motive did anyone have in seeing him dead.”

  “The son, has less and less. I think Nancy Decorville’s plans are shot to pieces too.”

  “Which leaves you with a bunch of suspects with watertight alibis, am I right?”

  Hogarth blinked and looked away.

  “It’s not as bad as you’re making it sound, sir.”

  “Is that right? Because to me, it sounds like a shit-show. Which is exactly how you’ve been looking the last few days. Palmer, if your team is losing its grip of the case, I need to know it now, so I can do something about it. You’re clearly underhanded, but that isn’t all that’s going wrong here.”

  Palmer turned quiet and pensive. She looked at Hogarth. His eyes lingered on hers. He wasn’t asking for a favour. He was waiting to hear her response.

  “Sir,” she said.

  Melford nodded for her to speak.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “I believe we’re on track to solve the case,” said Palmer, as calmly as she could. “We’re well equipped to finish the job. If you hand this case on to the other team they’ll be starting from scratch.”

  “And that’s your honest opinion, is it?”

  Palmer nodded. “Yes, sir, it is.”

  “Okay then. Get this case fixed. Then you can take a few days off or do whatever you need to, okay, DI Hogarth. But for God’s sake, keep it together until then.”

  “Sir,” said Hogarth, gritting his teeth. Melford stared down at him with stern eyes.

  “Yes?”

  Hogarth felt Palmer appealing to him at his side. It was just a feeling. She wanted him to hold his temper in check.

  “I’ll wrap this one up for you, no trouble, sir,” said Hogarth.

  “Glad to hear it, Hogarth. I’ll want an update before the end of the day, okay?”

  Melford turned out of the room and shut the door.

  “Bastard!” hissed Hogarth.

  “That was out of order,” said Palmer. “He shouldn’t have done that. He shouldn’t have put me in that position.”

  “You didn’t have to lie for me, Palmer.”

  “I didn’t lie, guv. We’re progressing the case. But the DCI had no right to put you and me on the spot like that.”

  “That’s because someone’s put a fire under his backside about me,” said Hogarth.

  “Why?”

  “Because Melford thinks I’m a problem, so now he probably wants me to leave. But I’ve got nowhere to leave to, Palmer. I transferred in to this place for the long term. Who’d bloody have me after this? I’m staying put whether he likes it or not.”

  “That’s not what I mean, guv. I meant what has he got on you?”

  Hogarth looked at her, his throat full of words. For a moment it seemed he was about to speak. Then he shook his head and swallowed his words away.

  “All you need to know is that I haven’t broken any laws, and haven’t done anything – or should I say, much, wrong. No corruption. No crime.”

  “Then I don’t get it,” said Palmer.

  “Don’t get involved in the psychodrama, Palmer. Just stick to the case and you’ll come up smelling of roses.”

  Hogarth took a deep breath and wondered. The DCI was worse than ever. The MP must have been on to him again. Melford was under pressure and passing it on. The office phone rang and Hogarth snatched it up as a welcome distraction.

  “Yes?”

  “DI Hogarth?” said the police call-handler. “I’ve got Andrew Gardner of Gardner and Co solicitors on the line for you.”

  “Gardner and Co,” said Hogarth aloud. Palmer nodded and turned her chair to listen. “Yes, put them through.”

  “Detective Inspector Hogarth speaking,” he said.

  “Hello there. I’ve had some dealings with you lately,” said the well-spoken man at the other end.

  “Yes. The Nigel Grave case. You advised us on the lasting power of attorney issue.”

  “Yes… I did. And I’ve had an interesting development in the light of that inquiry…”

  “Oh really?” said Hogarth. “My colleague DS Palmer is here with me. Mind if I put you on loud speaker, Mr Gardner?”

  “No. That’s fine.”

  Hogarth hit the speakerphone button and the man’s voice filled the room.

  “I shouldn’t be doing this, really,” said Gardner. “If it wasn’t for our recent conversation I certainly wouldn’t, but, well…”

  “What is the matter, Mr Gardner?”

  And I think I now know why Mr Grave wanted to make that power or attorney. Susan Grave called to ask if she can make changes to her will. I put the brakes on that, of course, and advised it’s a bit of a tricky time at the moment, what with Mr Grave’s recent death. I said there was a process to slow her down. I exaggerated because there is no such process apart from obtaining an appointment.”

  “A shrewd move, Mr Gardner. And what was the change she wanted to make?”

  “Neville Grave was to be the main beneficiary of the will once both mother and father were deceased…”

  “Yes,” Hogarth already knew where this was going. It was as the son had predicted. He was about to lose his inheritance.

  “Susan Grave stated that she wished to bequeath Grave Farm and all her assets to Trevor and Marjorie Goodwell.”

  “Goodwell?” said Hogarth, sitting upright.

  “Yes, indeed,” said Gardener, his words charged with judgement. “It strikes me as such a cruel blow.”

  “Cruel, yes,” said Hogarth. “But I think there could be more than cruelty at work here, Mr Gardner. I think we could be talking about a criminal level of greed.”

  “I had wondered that myself,” said Gardner. “And the woman was drunk as a lord. Now I know she’s grieving, and I knew about her issues before, but Nigel’s LPA inquiry makes an awful lot of sense to me now. He wanted to bypass exactly this kind of madness, didn’t he?”

  “I think he did, Mr Gardner, I think he did. Listen. I appreciate the risk you’ve taken in calling me, but I don’t think you’ll regret it. That call from Susan Grave could shape the rest of our investigation…”

  “I’m in a tricky position here, Inspector. Mrs Grave remains my client.”

  “I’m aware of that. If I can keep you out of it, I certainly will."

  “Thank you, Inspector.”

  Hogarth put the phone down.

  “But what does that tell us?” said Palmer. “We already know the Goodwells had influenced her. And they’ve acted like sharks under the circumstances, but it hardly means they’re our killers.”

  “You think their gambit is mere opportunism then?” said Hogarth. “A meeting in a restaurant with one of the agricultural-business’s top names. That’s planning. That would have taken time. Those two are on a mission.”

  “But Goodwell couldn’t have done it, could he? And the rest of them were in the house the whole time, busily hating each other.”

  “The mood music is changing, Palmer, so let’s not rush it. We’re getting closer. If we keep closing in and don’t reveal our hand, the killer might just out themselves. We need evidence. Let’s get Marris on the phone, then maybe we’ll book a meeting with our friends the Goodwells and see what they have to say for themselves.” Hogarth picked up the phone and dialled.

  “Morning, Ivan. Any news on those shoes and gloves?”

  As Marris answered, Hogarth hit the speakerphone button. Marris’ smooth voice filled the room.

  “Yes, I’ve got news alright. The trainers and gloves you supplied have nothing in common with the shoe prints found in the barn. Furthermore, the gloves have even less in common with those rogue black fibres. Those gloves in are mint condition. There’s no sign of any damage or loss of fabric.”

  “Damn,” said Hogarth, ru
nning a hand through his hair. Palmer’s hair conditioner made him smell of strawberries. He wasn’t sure if the scent really suited him.

  “Chin up. It’s not all bad, Hogarth. Those fibres were good for a baseline comparison. Yes, they are neoprene, and yes, they have Velcro straps. But the Velcro on these gloves is new and tacky. The hook and loop weave is in perfect order. The gloves you’re looking at have Velcro which has gone strandy and soft. The neoprene is deteriorating too. These gloves are like new.

  “But how is that helpful, Ivan? The man might have ditched the murder equipment and replaced it yesterday.”

  “No. I considered that. These newer trainers and gloves have been in use for at least a few months. There is some sign of mild wear – enough to prove it. So, either your killer must be someone else, or the person who owns these gloves has been preparing for this murder for a very long time and has provided this equipment only to throw you off track.”

  It was possible, but the tone of Marris’ voice implied he didn’t believe it. Marris was good at his job. His advice couldn’t be ignored lightly.

  “Thank you, Ivan. You’ve come good again.”

  “As always, I hope.”

  “So do I,” said Hogarth, then cut the call.

  “Fancies himself a bit, our Marris, doesn’t he?” said Palmer.

  “Who cares? I think he helped us more than we expected.”

  “Help? He just ruled out your main suspect.”

  “He only ruled out Neville Grave, and to tell you the truth I’m glad. I think that young man has put up with enough crap, and with that girl he’s probably in for more to come. And I expect between the PI meeting and the journey to Crispin’s office we might have to rule her out too.”

  “Then that would mean everybody’s been ruled out.”

  “Which means, Palmer, everybody has to be ruled back in,” said Hogarth. “Do me a favour. Call Crispin’s and then track down Nancy Decorville’s investigator. We need to test her alibi before we go to the next phase.”

  “The next phase?” said Palmer. “What’s the next phase?”

  “Shit or bust.”

  For a moment, Palmer wondered if Melford had been right about the DI after all. Maybe he was cracking up. Hogarth smiled thinly, picked up the telephone and dialled a number from a scrap of paper on his desk.

  “Mr Goodwell, Hello. It’s DI Hogarth here. Listen. I was wondering if we could meet up again today? So, you’re local, are you? Well, isn’t that, handy…” said Hogarth. Palmer heard a hint of the shark in the DI’s voice. Somewhere nearby he smelt blood in the water. And with the pressure coming from the top, there would soon be a feeding frenzy. Palmer hoped Hogarth could win out before Melford scented blood of his own.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Palmer drove out to Crispin and Co by herself, rather than conduct the matter by phone. She believed it was always easier to elicit the truth face to face. The pressure of a face-to-face interview reduced the temptation to minimise or dress up the truth. It was a brave person who lied as they looked a seasoned CID detective in the eye.

  Crispin’s was situated above the old town square in Rochford. The small town on the edge of Southend which still looked a lot like a village. Rochford had old streets, cobbled paths, and even a tea room, but it wasn’t a place Palmer had spent much time. Work dominated everything. Rochford was a ‘one day’ place and that day had never come. She parked on the little square and noted the sedate air, feeling a hint of resentment at her busy existence. She saw the sign for Crispin’s above the big TV shop. She went to the side door entrance and climbed the steps.

  “Good morning,” said Nancy Decorville, with a hint of the ice queen about her. It was all in the eyes.

  “Hello, Miss Decorville.”

  Palmer’s heart sank. She hadn’t wanted to deal with her again so soon.

  “So, you’re here to check up on me, are you? Perhaps you want to damage my reputation at work?”

  “Not at all, miss,” said Palmer. “It’s a matter of procedure. I have to check your alibi. I’ll have to check on the others too.”

  Nancy Decorville readjusted her face at the news. “Oh. But I don’t think Mr Crispin can help with that. You should try the private investigator instead.”

  “You never know, though, do you?” said Palmer. “Is Mr Crispin in, at all?”

  Nancy Decorville sighed. “Yes, he’s in. Very well. Come through.”

  Palmer looked around as Decorville led her into the spacious office. It was far plusher than the exterior had promised, Evidently, property was still a big paying business. And the way Decorville worked it, it was probably the best business in the world. Decorville knocked on a glass door at the back of the office, then opened it onto a fancy private office.

  “Mr Crispin, this woman is one of the police officers I mentioned. She wants to ask you about my whereabouts for Monday. I told her I dropped in here for five minutes just around lunch time.”

  “Some time between eleven-fifty and twelve-ten to be precise,” said Palmer.

  The man at the big desk had short-cropped silver hair which was very thin on top. His red-framed half-moon spectacles suggested a liking for flamboyance.

  The man peered at Palmer from behind a large white laptop. He sat back.

  “Now, that could prove difficult,” said the man.

  “See I told, you,” said Decorville.

  “But you used the office as part of your alibi, Miss Decorville. If it can’t be proven that you were here, then you’re back on shaky ground.”

  Decorville shook her head in disgust.

  The man at the desk raised his finger. “Ah. Now, I said difficult, but not impossible,” said the man. “Please sit down.” He gestured for Palmer to take the seat in front of his glass-topped desk. Palmer took the seat.

  “Nancy, if you don’t mind,” said Crispin. He nodded her towards the door. Decorville didn’t look happy, but she acquiesced and closed the door behind her.

  The man typed and stared at the screen for a moment before he turned the laptop towards Palmer. “Here… we… are,” he said.

  “I think this might be useful to you. It certainly gives me peace of mind.”

  Palmer studied the screen, unsure of what she was looking at. There were three images framed by one white box. The images looked a lot like CCTV footage. They seemed to depict an area in Crispin’s outer office, with its pale wood floors and the edges of the desks she’d passed outside. Next there was an area with a bank of filing cabinets and cupboards. Finally, the third image, was of the door to the very office she was standing in.

  “I do have a standard CCTV system here, but I like technology, Inspector. This is another layer of surveillance, and I’m the only one that knows about it.”

  “Sergeant, Mr Crispin. Detective Sergeant Palmer.”

  “Of course,” said the man, without caring. “I had these installed myself. Hidden cameras. You could stare at the locations of these lenses and still not see them. I had it done on a whim, I suppose. But it does give me a sense of peace. It’s like an insurance policy, I can check on the office any time I like, just using an app on my phone.”

  Palmer nodded. The man clearly didn’t trust anyone. But then again, she wasn’t too far behind him. “And with these, we can look at the day in question? And the time in question?”

  “We can scroll back to the exact times you mention very easily, yes. Like this.”

  The man rolled a mouse across the smooth glass surface of his desk, dragging the play-point across a line at the bottom of the white box on screen. The images jerked as the man played with the timings.

  “Ah. Here we are, I think.” Crispin let go of the mouse and the images started to move. The first high-angle-view image showed Nancy Decorville still wearing her jacket as she entered the office. Palmer eyed the time and date reading as the images showed Decorville hurrying about the office. She appeared in each of the three images, before she eventually walked back to the main entran
ce and reappeared with a man. The man was middle-aged with dark iron-grey hair. He looked small and solemn. They sat down at one of the outside desks and started to talk.

  “Now, I haven’t the faintest who this man is, but this the time slot you were after. See. The time is shown down here.”

  Crispin pointed a well-manicured fingernail to the time clock. 11:58am.

  “And this is Monday?”

  “Yes, it is,” said Crispin. “So, you see, she was here, and I can prove it. Nancy is not your killer, detective. She’s one of the crown jewels of our business.”

  Palmer looked at the man over his half-moon spectacles.

  “You didn’t sanction her hiring of a private investigator, Mr Crispin…?”

  “Excuse me?”

  “It seems that Nancy Decorville hired a private investigator to look at some of Nigel Grave’s relatives. Miss Decorville suspected they were going to try and obtain Grave Farm for themselves, which would have prevented any plans Miss Decorville and Crispin’s had for Grave Farm. You didn’t instruct her to do that?”

  The faintest smile appeared on the man’s face. He leaned his chin on his soft hands.

  “One of the reasons Nancy is so good at this business is because she thinks like a self-employed person. She’s a strategist and she always wants to win. I can imagine she wanted to remove any unfair advantage the other party had in this situation.”

  “But Miss Decorville shouldn’t have had any part in it, should she? She’s a property buyer. She’s in a relationship with Neville Grave. That’s a conflict of interest.”

  “Isn’t it odd the situations we sometimes find ourselves in? But I’m certain everything is above board. There was no conspiracy, detective. Nancy is going to be a stellar success, I know it. Why? Because opportunity always seems to come her way.”