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

by Solomon Carter

  Dawson nodded. Hogarth saw he wasn’t pushing.

  “Let’s put it this way, it’s not just Melford. Hassle from the DCI is a symptom, not the cause.”

  Hogarth changed tone. He stretched out his spine and tried to shake off his hangdog air.

  “The immigrant workers, Igor and Borev. Are they still here, Dawson?”

  “No, sir. They’ve been transferred to IRC Harmondsworth this afternoon.”

  “Eh? That was bloody quick?”

  “It’s politics, sir. It turns out they’re Syrian, not Eastern European, sir. So, the immigration boys were called over sharpish. Their nationality earmarks them as a terrorist risk, so they were fast-tracked to Harmondsworth.”

  “Terrorists? But I got the idea they were over here running from the terrorists.”

  “Shame, that. Harmondsworth will be their last port of call before deportation back to the war zone.”

  Hogarth nodded. “They call these detention sites Removal Centres now, don’t they? Harmondsworth, hmmm. Sounds like I’ve got a long drive ahead of me.”

  “Why?”

  “New evidence has come to light, Dawson. But before I go to Harmondsworth, I think I’d better have a chat with a certain vet.”

  Hogarth walked into the CID room, and found Palmer busily making notes for the files on her desk.

  “Got a lot on, Palmer?” said Hogarth.

  “When haven’t we?” she said.

  “Fair point. So then… fancy a day out of the office?”

  Palmer closed the files and turned in her chair, curious.

  “Sightseeing, Palmer. Sightseeing.”

  Hogarth could feel Palmer reading his eyes for news about the Melford meeting, reasons for the bitterness behind his humour.

  “Sir?” she said. “How did it go?”

  “If ever there was a cause to quit this profession, Palmer, it’s being undermined by your superior officers and all the petty political bullshit which frightens them to death. There. I think that sums it up nicely. Now, are you ready?”

  Palmer offered a lopsided smile and gathered her things. “I am now.”

  There was a handwritten sign on the door of his surgery recommending another vet for emergencies, with an apology to everybody else. Venky was ill, but Hogarth was undeterred. He knocked and rang the door until the tall man’s shadow darkened the glass on the other side. When he opened the door to them, his eyes betrayed a great deal of pain and he walked slowly. Venky seemed much paler than the last time they’d seen him. Even so, the man made a good fist of smiling at them.

  “Visitors,” he said, as if pleased, which of course, he wasn’t. “Do forgive me if I don’t play the host very well today, I’m a little under the weather.”

  “Yes, Mr Venky. We’re sorry to disturb you, so I’ll make this as… quick as I can.” Hogarth nearly used the word ‘painless’, but managed to avoid it at the last second.

  They sat down in his cosy lounge. With Palmer present, the room seemed too small for the three of them.

  “Mr Venky, it’s come to light that there was a serious altercation between the two migrant workers and Nigel Grave last month.”

  “An altercation?” said the man. He shook his head, confused.

  “So, I’m told,” said Hogarth. “I’m told you saw it happen. It happened in and around the barn where Mr Grave was killed. Curiously enough the argument centred around the woodchipper machine. Does that ring any bells?”

  Venky looked away, racking his memory. Slowly, he began to nod.

  “Why, yes. There was a row. Igor and his chum can get quite lively, you know. They don’t mean any harm, but they are still young men. The work on the farm dies off around Christmas time. The crops are done, and there isn’t much in the way of livestock to manage at Grave Farm these days. I was there that day to run some health checks on the sheep. Those two men were mucking about around in the barn by the hay bales, chucking stuff around. There were plenty of logs to be chipped, and they were making a great bloody racket throwing them around. I think they threw a couple into the chipper for sport, like they were playing basketball. Neville warned them against it, but Neville’s still a bit soft and those boys didn’t take him seriously. Soon they were doing it again. When old Nigel cottoned on, I saw him march down that track like he was on a mission. He gave them what-for, I can tell you. Nigel was a quiet man, but when he lost it, he lost it alright.”

  “How do you recall the argument? Was it angry? Violent?”

  “It wasn’t an argument. It was a stern telling off.”

  Hogarth raised an eyebrow.

  “The migrants didn’t take offence or start gobbing back at him?”

  “Not that I recall, no. They seemed quite meek and contrite as I recall. They took their medicine, and Nigel sent them back to the other field to do some digging.”

  “Let me get this absolutely crystal clear. There was no argument.”

  “Not unless there was something I didn’t see. It could have had consequences later, I suppose.”

  Venky had a point. But Goodwell had said Venky was a witness…

  “Considering this telling off, do you think it was likely that there would have been any consequences? I mean, was the old man out of order? Did he go over the top?”

  “Not at all. That chipper machine was very expensive. He didn’t need them breaking it. He told them off in strong terms, then he calmed down and sent them on their way.”

  “Did they seem upset, resentful, angry, anything like that…?”

  “No. I’ve told you that already. Inspector, are you asking me if this ticking off – which was given more than one month ago – was grounds for these two men to kill Nigel?”

  “I suppose I am, Mr Venky.”

  “Then I’ll make it plain for you. Those two men would have to have been mentally unhinged to think of killing anyone for that. That telling off was no grounds for his murder, no grounds at all. It ended amicably.”

  Hogarth nodded.

  “You’ve been very helpful, Mr Venky.”

  “Good. Now tell me, Inspector, where did you hear about this?”

  “Trevor Goodwell passed the information to my superior earlier today.”

  “How odd. I remember laughing with Nigel, Neville, and Trevor about this over Christmas. That’s the only time I ever mentioned it. I suppose Trevor must have got the wrong end of the stick. It was never an altercation. He’s completely misunderstood the situation.”

  “Then I’d say Mr Goodwell seems to have grabbed the wrong end of this stick pretty forcefully,” said Hogarth.

  “Then he’s just plain wrong.”

  Hogarth nodded and stood up.

  “Is there anything we can get for you, Mr Venky. Fruit. Groceries… painkillers? I couldn’t bring it back until tonight, mind.”

  “Painkillers, you say,” said Venky, with a flicker of a smile. “You don’t happen to have a stash of opiates, do you?”

  “Not on me,” replied Hogarth.

  “Then I’ll have to pass. Thanks all the same.”

  They let themselves out and Venky waved at them from his chair.

  “Goodwell’s a troublemaker,” said Palmer.

  “Have you ever watched that Blue Planet programme at all, Palmer?”

  “Can’t say that I have. I didn’t have you down as a nature watcher, sir.”

  “Didn’t you? Watching human nature is all we do. Goodwell strikes me as a squid. He’s slimy. Totally unpalatable. Doesn’t show many human characteristics. And the moment a predator starts to close in on him, he shoots a cloud of ink out of his backside to muddy the waters, while he jets off to safety.”

  “You think this stuff on the immigrants is his way of muddying the waters.”

  “Yes, I do. And I think it shows he’s worried. He’s worried we’re getting close.”

  “And are we, sir?”

  “Not yet, but we will. But first we need to clear the water. Next stop, Harmondsworth.”

  Hog
arth got into his car and Palmer joined him.

  “Harmondsworth?”

  “The immigrant removal centre. The powers that be have decided to send Igor and Borev back home to whatever smoking crater they crawled out of. I’m sure the boys will be keen to thank me when they see me, aren’t you?”

  Chapter Eighteen

  Harmondsworth IRC was a stone’s throw from Heathrow Airport. The airplanes taxied above in vast wide circles as they waited for landing slots. The swooping metal underbellies of the passenger airlines were a constant sight as Hogarth manoeuvred around the IRC’s visitor car park. Having never been a huge fan of air travel, Hogarth found the sight of the planes unnerving. How the hell did those metal monstrosities hang in the air like that, let alone take off? It was a miracle he preferred not to contemplate. Which made his infrequent holidays to the Costas a particular ordeal. Palmer watched Hogarth’s flinty eyes turn skyward as he closed the car door. She misread the pensive look on his face.

  “I’m sure they won’t blame you, sir,” said Palmer.

  “Blame me?” said Hogarth, catching on. “The immigrants? Of course, they’ll blame me. Who the hell else have they got to blame? But I didn’t know they’d get fast-tracked like this. Those poor buggers will probably get shot as soon as they step off the plane. But at least the government immigration targets will be met, eh?”

  They walked towards the entrance security checkpoint. The front of house area looked bland and unintimidating enough. The front of the building was a pale beige brick four-storey affair, much like a Quality Lodge motel – the kind you’d find tucked behind a petrol station on a semi-rural A-road. But the signage told a different story. There were lots of signs giving instructions with accompanying diagrams, as if pictures were necessary. But the biggest giveaway was the security checkpoint with its red and white barrier gate. The Quality Lodge motels hadn’t installed those yet.

  Hogarth’s phone buzzed in his pocket as they walked towards the security guard window. It couldn’t have been Melford. It was far too soon after his last rollicking. He took the phone out and glanced at the screen. The letter ‘A’ was on screen. Hogarth felt his eyes flare and his heart start pounding. He slid the phone away and hit call-reject in his pocket, hoping Palmer hadn’t seen the screen. Even though the letter ‘A’ was innocuous enough, he also knew it would pose a mystery, and cops had an inquisitive mind. People like Palmer – and Hogarth too – couldn’t help but try to solve any puzzles put before them. Hogarth reckoned he should have changed the name to ‘Terry’ or ‘Dave A’. No one would have cared about that.

  “Do you need to take the call, guv?”

  “No,” said Hogarth, all the while wishing he could. Ali had called off their… what? Their romance? He couldn’t think of a suitable name for such a fleeting affair. It was an almost-thing. And yet she had called him again. What if she was in trouble? Hogarth winced at the thought and pushed it aside. It was too late to help now, he was miles away and busy. He’d be sure to call her as soon as he got the chance.

  “Anyway,” said Hogarth, changing the subject. “I won’t have to worry about those two getting shot in Syria just yet.”

  “The situation is supposed to be getting better over there, or so they say,” said Palmer.

  “That’s not what I mean,” said Hogarth.

  “Oh?”

  “These Syrian boys have got to survive Harmondsworth, yet.”

  There was a glint of curiosity in Palmer’s eye.

  “You don’t know, then?” said Hogarth. Evidently, Palmer didn’t.

  “There are suicides, Palmer. Who knows what these places are really like? We’ll never know for sure. But I think we might just get a glimpse…”

  A man in a peaked security cap looked up from his desk behind the glass window. He was an old duffer wearing a uniform with a corporate logo on it. MERTIE. Hogarth had never heard of them. Last time he’d been near the place, a different outfit was running it. G3P. Another bunch of corporate jokers fleecing it for all it was worth.

  “Hello. We are Detective Inspector Joseph Hogarth and Detective Sergeant Sue Palmer, from Essex Police. We’re here to see two of your recent inmates. Two Syrian gentleman.”

  “Righto. Names. Do you have their names?”

  “Yes… I believe so…”

  Hogarth looked at Palmer in hope. Palmer hurriedly fiddled with her phone and took half a minute to dredge up the names from her emails.

  “Here they are. Khaled Al Maghout and Salim Saqqal…”

  “Not much like Igor, then,” said Hogarth.

  “Pardon?” said the security man.

  “Nothing,” said Hogarth. “We need to see those two men urgently. It’s in connection with a murder investigation.”

  The man wrote the names down on a pad, then picked up a phone. The look on his face suggested he was struggling with something.

  “Did you phone ahead?” asked the man, carefully.

  “Did you hear the words ‘murder investigation’?” said Hogarth. “We need to see those men now. If not, there will be repercussions, please ensure you pass that on to your bosses. Okay?”

  The security guard nodded as his call was answered. The old boy stood up from his desk and turned away as he spoke down the line.

  “Did you really need to be that harsh?” said Palmer.

  “With these outfits, yes, every single time… incompetent bureaucracy comes as standard.

  They waited for the guard to finish his call before sitting back in his seat.

  He looked relieved.

  “One of the senior managers, Mr Abberetz, will come and collect you shortly. He says he should be able to accommodate you, but any meetings must not be very long.”

  “Oh? Really now?” said Hogarth. “I can’t wait to meet him. Can you, Palmer?”

  After twenty minutes of waiting at the internal reception, watched by a big bald man in a black Mertie jumper, a set of double doors opened and a man in a steel-grey suit appeared. His hands were clasped together in front of him and he wore a paper-thin gameshow-host smile. His eyes were so small it was impossible to see how fake the smile really was. Hogarth guessed it was ninety-nine point five per cent. It had probably taken him twenty minutes to prepare.

  “Mr Abberetz?” said Hogarth, standing up from a line of plastic seats.

  “Yes. George Abberetz, People Services Director.”

  “People Services?”

  “Yes. Serving people, in the centre and visitors too. Why? Is that a problem?” said Abberetz. His eyes opened a little wider.

  “It shouldn’t be, providing you can provide us a room with those two Syrian gentlemen.”

  “Murder, you say? Are these two a danger?” said Abberetz. “It would have been helpful to have known in advance.”

  “And you should have known in advance, Mr Abberetz. Your people picked them up from Southend, didn’t they?”

  The man grinned and nodded like a nodding dog, but he clearly didn’t have a clue.

  “Are you wearing lanyards?”

  Hogarth flicked his tie out of the way and lifted his lanyard.

  “In here they must be visible at all times.”

  “They’re visible. Can we see the Syrians?”

  “Yes, but you should know that the people in our care…”

  “The inmates, you mean? Or do I say detainees?”

  “We don’t use either of those terms here. They are people to us. The same as you are.”

  “Of course. Just the same as us. Except you’re holding them against their will before you ship them back to hell.”

  Abberetz fell silent but kept his smile in place. He kept his hands meshed together and walked them into a sterile corridor without windows.

  “The people in our care are dependent on us providing positive structure and routine as part of their stay with us. Your visit could have been handled much more effectively if you’d called ahead…”

  “Listen, Mr Abberetz. Your firm’s business operat
ion is not my concern here. I’m not a mystery shopper. You’ve kept us waiting twenty minutes already, so you could put all your skeletons back in the closet. Now stop asserting your non-existent authority over us and let me see those men before I think of raising a complaint.”

  Abberetz finally dropped his smile as fast as penny tossed into a well.

  “Very well, Inspector. But these men really aren’t too happy to see you. So, for your sake, we’re going to put a security man in the interview room, to ensure your safety.”

  “For my safety? Or to listen in, Mr Abberetz?”

  Abberetz didn’t nod or smile. This time he said nothing until they reached a door on the first floor of a neighbouring building. This building smelt of disinfectant and unhappiness. The floors were shiny as if waxed. The walls were white, as if painted every week. Everything was functional and bland and safe. Just like any other modern prison Hogarth had ever been in.

  Abberetz opened the door and led them into a room where two familiar faces sat in stony silence behind a big desk. It was much like a police interview room, but for the addition of a homely pot plant and some very faint classical music coming from the speakers. Without their hats and coats, Igor and the other man looked far more middle-eastern than Hogarth remembered. Their clothes had been changed entirely. Instead of winter wear, they wore plain unbranded sweatshirts. Both men had their arms crossed. And, as Abberetz had promised, neither man looked happy to see him.

  “Are you well?” said Abberetz. The men ignored him. “Very good,” said Abberetz. “Well then, I’ll leave you gentlemen to it.”

  Abberetz nodded to all of them and made his exit.

  Hogarth paused by the door, making his presence felt as he looked around the room. He took his time to feel the vibe from the migrants. They were in a sanitized prison doing its best to feel friendly - and every part of the friendliness felt like a great big lie.

  “I’m sorry about all this,” said Hogarth, gesturing to the room. He advanced to the table.

  “This wasn’t part of the plan. Just a few years back it wouldn’t have been like this. You’d have been set up, given a home…” Seeing the look on their faces, Hogarth stopped apologising.