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

by Solomon Carter

  The man smiled at her but sealed his lips. The implication was clear. Decorville’s play for Grave Farm wasn’t his responsibility. Only her successes were his interest. And if Nancy Decorville wanted to play her own games in order to win, who was Crispin to stand in her way?

  “She’s innocent,” said the man, as he took back his laptop.

  “Innocent of murder, maybe,” said Palmer. “But I wonder about the rest of it.”

  “Innocent of murder is all that matters, isn’t it?” said the man.

  “For now, yes. Could you forward those videos to me, Mr Crispin?”

  Palmer took out one of her police business cards and pressed it to the desk in front of him.

  Crispin gave it a cursory glance.

  “Yes, fine, fine. I hope you find the real villain, detective.”

  “Yes, sir. We will. We get them all in the end.”

  Palmer didn’t mind if her words sounded pointed. Crispin was protecting his assets and nothing more. Palmer walked out into the outer office and Nancy Decorville stood up from her desk.

  “Well?” said Decorville.

  “Seems like you’re in the clear,” said Palmer. The woman smiled back. “But I wouldn’t get too excited just yet. Detective Inspector Hogarth wants us to look at everyone more closely. Just in case there’s anything we’ve missed.”

  “What?” said the woman.

  “Sorry, Miss Decorville. I’ve got to go. I’ve got an appointment with some friends of yours.”

  Decorville narrowed her eyes.

  “Trevor and Marjorie Goodwell. I’m meeting them at Grave Farm.”

  “Does Neville know about this?” she snapped.

  “That’s not my concern, Miss Decorville. See you soon.”

  Palmer walked down the steps back towards the town square. When she was halfway down she glanced back up. As expected, she caught sight of Nancy Decorville on the phone. Palmer smiled, shrugged, and carried on her way.

  Chapter Sixteen

  Hogarth and Palmer regrouped at the end of the driveway at Grave Farm house. They parked their Vauxhalls side by side, Palmer’s looking the poor relation to Hogarth’s Insignia by a large margin, while Hogarth’s car in turn looked inferior to the Porsche estate. As Hogarth locked his car he glanced at the Porsche. It had been cleaned recently and looked good, but those bloody racks needed to come off. They were an eyesore.

  “Who wastes that much money on a bloody Porsche and sticks ruddy great utility bars all over it?” said Hogarth.

  “People with more money than sense.”

  “Good answer. And with no taste. They’re greedy bastards, Palmer. I’ve smelt greed here all along. There’s been an attempted carve-up ever since that man died. I think he was the only good man near this bloody place.” Hogarth blinked at the black metal roof and cycle racks on the back of the Porsche. His eyes softened as he got lost in thought.

  “Sir?” said Palmer, reading his eyes. “What is it?”

  “Nothing much, Palmer. Just more questions popping up in my head. That’s all I get lately. Questions – and I can’t find the answers for toffee.”

  He looked at those racks one last time before he made his way along the long gravel drive.

  “So, did you check Naughty Nancy’s alibi?”

  “Yes, guv. It looked a bit leaky at first, but her boss showed me some CCTV footage. It shows her at the Rochford office at the time of the murder. She was with her with her private investigator too. She didn’t do it. Shame, eh?”

  “People like that one never get their hands dirty. She’s a manipulator, Palmer. If she had Nigel Grave killed, she would have got someone else to do it for her…”

  Palmer nodded. “But Neville didn’t do it either.”

  “Which leaves us with a lot of nothing. Let’s hope we get something here.”

  By the time they reached the big wooden front doors at the end of the driveway, the noise inside alone suggested they had something. Loud raised voices, male and female – an argument at the higher end of the spectrum.

  “Crikey. They’re going at it hammer and tongs in there. They’ll probably never even hear the doorbell,” said Hogarth. But Palmer saw the mischief on his face. He stepped away from the front door and instead walked around the side of the big old house. The voices grew louder and more distinctive the closer they went.

  “I’ll do whatever I bloody well please!”

  “You can’t! You mustn’t do that. Dad’s only been dead, what, two days, and you want…”

  “Stop! Stop your whining! This was never your farm in the first place. It was ours.”

  The dynamic was clear. Old Susan and the son were arguing with gusto.

  “Sounds like Neville knows about her wanting to change the will. The drunk old biddy probably only told him to wind him up,” said Hogarth.

  “You have no right to try and intimidate Susan like this, she’s your mother for heaven’s sake.” The new voice was deep, condescending, and male. It was Trevor Goodwell. Hogarth grinned and rubbed his hands.

  “Oh, that bugger just can’t resist sticking his oar in, can he? Come on, Palmer. Let’s gatecrash the party.”

  Hogarth walked past the kitchen window while the argument was still in full flow. The raised voices became stifled as they passed, and a second or two later as Hogarth knocked on the kitchen door, the voices stopped altogether.

  When the door opened, it was Trevor Goodwell who stood in the doorway, with a hard smile stretched across his face.

  “Inspector Hogarth, good to see you.”

  “Yes. You being here has saved me a journey, but it doesn’t sound like everyone is happy about it.”

  Hogarth watched the man bristle but Goodwell kept his smile in place. He stepped back and the others looked his way. The old woman was still in place at the dining table, and the unmistakable scent of booze was strong on the air. It smelt so strong Hogarth wondered what would have happened if he’d lit a match.

  “Neville,” said Hogarth, with a nod of greeting. “Mrs Grave.”

  The woman’s eyes were distant and glassy but like a typical hardcore drunk, he saw the woman was able to veer between spit-flying rage and smiling innocence at the drop of a hat.

  “You went to see Nancy at work,” said Neville.

  “Did you? Jolly good” said Goodwell, with a smile.

  “All part of the process,” said Hogarth. “And it seems Miss Decorville’s alibi stacks up,” Hogarth’s eyes roved the room, but there were no clear give away responses – no signs of irritation or panic.

  “I told you, Inspector,” said Neville. “She’s not the woman these people have painted her to be.”

  “Oh, I wouldn’t go that far, Mr Grave,” said Hogarth. “But it still doesn’t look like she killed your father.

  “Not on her own, anyway” said Marjorie Goodwell.

  “You should mind your own business” said Neville. “We know all about what you were up to. It’s out of the bag now. You can’t deny it anymore.”

  “What’s there to deny, dear boy?” said Goodwell, with a laugh.

  The son turned his eyes to Hogarth.

  “I bet you don’t know yet, do you, Inspector? If you want to find the motive for killing my father, then here it is in spades.”

  “Poppycock! You’re off your head, Neville,” said Trevor Goodwell. But Hogarth wasn’t listening. His eyes were trained on the son.

  “They’ve come to some sordid arrangement with my mother. An arrangement, can you believe it? My mother who can’t even arrange to be sober for a half day, can suddenly arrange the whole future of the farm.”

  “Neville! You’re speaking out of turn,” said the old woman.

  Marjorie Goodwell, who had been quiet, moved into the centre of the room.

  “Your mother is right. There’s no need to discuss this with people outside of the family. And certainly not with the police. It’s our business and has nothing to do with what happened to your father.”

  �
��If you don’t mind, madam” said Hogarth. “I’d like to listen to what young Mr Grave has to say.”

  Marjorie Goodwell gave Hogarth a scornful look then withdrew. Neville’s face was full of barely contained emotion.

  “They’ve begun to arrange a deal with Crump Agricultural Industries. Can you believe it? Admit it!” Neville turned and jabbed a finger at Goodwell. “Admit it!! He cried.

  It wasn’t the news Hogarth had been expecting. Maybe the son didn’t know a thing about the changes to the will, after all.

  “Admit it? Like it’s a sordid secret? This is for the good of the future of this farm, it’s not a sell off. They are investing, not buying it out.”

  “That’s how it starts. I know about them as well as you do. Before you bloody well know it, Grave Farm will be nothing but a franchise skimming the profit off the top of our earnings. It’ll be their farm. It’ll be gone.”

  “That’s backward thinking, Neville. And if you can’t see the virtue of the deal, then at least your mother can.”

  Goodwell looked at Hogarth. “He’s not right, Inspector,” said Goodwell. “It’s not a sell off. Crump wouldn’t even use half the farm. They’d come in and use the dormant or failing areas at first. It’d bring life and capital back in.”

  “They will turn the farm into a factory. A bloody factory!” Neville was shaking, his face was red. “How could you do this? We’re not done grieving and you’ve already persuaded this poor, drunk old woman to give up the farm my father worked so hard to keep.”

  “Don’t insult your mother,” said Marjorie.

  “As if you care! You’re only here to scavenge and steal what you can. I was trying to safeguard my father’s heritage. You’re a bloody thief, Trevor.”

  “Heritage, you say?” said Goodwell. “And what heritage do you think that is, exactly? Because I think you’ll find your heritage here is a lot flimsier than you think.”

  The words hung in the air like a guillotine blade ready for the fall. Goodwell had presumed Neville was ignorant of his origins. Hogarth’s eyes flicked to the son, and his mouth dropped open, ready to speak. But it was too late. Neville Grave roared and leapt across the kitchen, his arms flailing at Goodwell. He seized the man and punched him full in the face. Goodwell stumbled back, but quickly recovered. He flung his arms out and knocked Neville back on the floor. Hogarth intervened. He pulled Neville Grave away and pushed him toward the table. “Calm down, Mr Grave, for your own good.”

  Hogarth turned to Trevor Goodwell. “You want to watch your mouth, Mr Goodwell. Comments like that don’t do anyone any favours.

  Goodwell wiped his lips checking for blood.

  “I think you’ve just seen all the evidence you’ll ever need of who the violent one is in this family. I suppose he must get it from the other lot.”

  Hogarth jabbed his finger at Goodwell.

  “I told you, that’s enough!” he snapped.

  Goodwell stiffened and closed his mouth and rubbed a hand on the back of his neck. For a man of his age, he was in good nick. In better nick than Hogarth, he had to admit, who was between fifteen to twenty years his junior. Hogarth took a quick look at Goodwell’s thickset torso. His tucked-in shirt showed little fat. And he had big, thick legs. And after the way he virtually threw Neville Grave across the room, Hogarth knew he had strength.

  “I didn’t kill my father, detective. No matter how much they try to discredit me, about this farm, about my work on it – or about my history, I was my father’s son. This man is the robber, here.”

  “It’s not robbery. It’s an agreement, man. It’s been arranged.”

  “But when?!” said the son. Hogarth kept quiet and looked at Palmer. It was a good question. Marjorie Goodwell stepped up once again. Right on cue.

  “In recent days, of course. Your mother clearly is in no fit state to think about the future. And you know it can’t be left like this. Grave Farm needs managing properly. Come on, Neville. Your recent business decisions hardly merit you as being the one left in charge.”

  “It was not your choice to make,” he snapped.

  “No,” said Trevor. “But it was your mother’s. Just reflect for a moment. You bought the instrument which led to your father’s death. Think, about it, man. How could you be left in charge?”

  Hogarth stared at Goodwell and shook his head. “Mrs Goodwell, let’s be clear.” said Hogarth. “Are you saying you arranged this deal since Mr Grave was murdered?”

  The woman’s eyes flicked to her husband then back to Hogarth.

  “Of course.”

  Hogarth looked at Neville. For once, the young man looked defiant and confident at the same time. Hogarth nodded.

  “What would you say if I could prove you had been dealing with Crump days, maybe even weeks before Mr Grave’s death?” said Hogarth.

  “I’d say you were mistaken,” she said, but her voice trailed away quietly.

  “He can prove it,” said Neville. “Nancy knew you were both up to something. She had you put under surveillance. You were seen with Crump, Marjorie. You were seen. How long did you have to court them to arrange this? Now who’s devious and lying?”

  Marjorie Goodwell’s face darkened and she looked away.

  “Your girlfriend had us watched, did she? I think it’s you who need to be careful, Neville. You think you’ve got a catch there, don’t you, eh? But she’s got you by the short and curlies. Soon as she realises she can’t get her mitts on this place, you won’t see her for dust. Mark my words.”

  “You were seen,” said Neville. “You planned this before my father died and now he’s gone you’ve stitched it up just the way you wanted it. Does that sound suspicious to you, DI Hogarth?” said Neville.

  “Suspicious? There’s no crime involved, is there, Inspector?” said Goodwell. “Just wisdom and good business sense. And you shouldn’t worry about your future, either, Neville. I’m sure we’ll find a place for you here, working on the farm.”

  “Scum!” said Neville.

  “That’s enough!” snapped Hogarth. “All of you – that’s enough… Mr Goodwell, Mrs Goodwell, I think we need to talk.”

  Hogarth opened the stable door to the garden and held it open, waiting for the Goodwells to join him. The sound of the traffic from the country lane mingled with birdsong and the whisper of the breeze. Compared to the blazing row in the kitchen, the outdoor world sounded like a heavenly retreat. Shame Hogarth had to spoil it by taking the Goodwells with him.

  It was cold and when they joined him and Palmer, he was glad to see the pinched, cold looks on their faces. Hogarth intended to put them through their paces.

  “I’m going to ask you some questions – both of you.”

  “About the meeting with Crump, I suppose? That was just common sense. We had meetings with them to plan ahead. Who doesn’t plan ahead?”

  “But planning ahead for something that wasn’t ever likely to happen? Can you explain that to me, Mrs Goodwell? Nigel Grave shouldn’t have died like that. The farm was his and eventually his son would be the heir. So why would you plan for something which was, in all likelihood, never going to happen.”

  “But it has happened, hasn’t it?” she said.

  “Yes. It has. Because someone made it happen. So, it seems very fortunate that you had a plan ready for such an outcome.”

  “Of course, detective,” said Goodwell.

  “Did you know in advance about Mr Grave’s announcement?”

  “No. How could I?”

  “So, you didn’t find any of his torn-up notes?”

  “No,” said Goodwell, looking confused. “I didn’t know they existed.” Hogarth nodded. He led them along the track by the old back-garden allotment, leading them past the long blue corrugated barn. Dicken’s white crime scene van had gone, and the tent was slowly being taken down. Only the blue and white police tape sealing off the open barn remained. But looking carefully, Hogarth could still see a faint spattering of gore left on the chipper machine. Eventuall
y nature would see to those marks, and then all traces would be gone. The man. His legacy. And now his farm too.

  Hogarth dismissed the torn notes. They were an aside. An old man’s aide-memoire, signs of a note making habit.

  Hogarth’s blazer pocket vibrated as he walked. He took out his phone and peered at the screen. Beside him, Palmer glanced at it too. He saw he’d missed a call and received a voicemail. The call was from Melford. Not good news. Hogarth’s jaw tightened, and his temples rippled, and Palmer saw all of it. Hogarth took a deep breath and slid his phone away.

  “We’ve looked at every person in connection with this family, and we’ve looked at them in depth,” said Hogarth. “We’ve looked at the family history, at Susan Grave’s past. We’ve looked at Neville Grave in detail. And we’ve checked all the alibis given by family members for the time of Nigel Grave’s death, and they stack up. Which should tell us that none of you committed the crime. That it had to be someone else.”

  “The migrants, maybe?”

  Hogarth shook his head. He stopped walking when he reached a spot outside the open barn as the cold winter wind blew across the miles of flat fields, whipping at Marjorie Goodwell’s grey-streaked hair, and making all their faces radiantly pink with cold.

  “The current migrants Igor and Borev, had no relation to the past, if that’s what you mean. We’ve looked at the stories circulating in the press from 1991, about Susan’s allegations of being sexually assaulted by a migrant worker. Now I don’t think there’s any need for us to rake over that nasty past any more, do you? That incident caused a lot of damage to this family already. But let’s just say I know the details…”

  “Then you know Neville was fathered by one of them?” said Marjorie.

  Hogarth nodded. “And in this particular situation, I don’t believe it made a rat’s arse worth of difference to anyone except those with an axe to grind against Neville and his father.”

  “And that’s your objective point of view as a policeman, is it?” said Goodwell.

  “It’s more objective than anything I’ve heard at Grave Farm since I took this case on. The last two migrant workers who remained were here under Nigel Grave’s care. Do you know why they stayed while everyone else had gone?”