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

Page 46

by Solomon Carter


  They men offered him nothing but a long brooding stare.

  “Have they told you how long you’ll be in here?” said Hogarth. He took a seat and Palmer sat down next to him.

  The one with no English hissed and sucked his teeth. The other man, Igor shrugged and sat back in his chair.

  “They are creating a case for us,” said Igor. “If we are lucky, our stay here could be indefinite. If we are lucky. Lucky! You know in this place they kill themselves just to be free.”

  Hogarth knew about the suicides. It wasn’t everyone. It was a percentage, and that was bad enough. There was no response worth giving. He knew he could offer no comfort to anyone in the room.

  “If I can add anything to your appeal, I certainly will.”

  “I think you’ve done enough already, don’t you?” said Igor.

  “You can blame me if you like, that’s fine,” said Hogarth. “But you should also blame the man who killed Nigel Grave. If old Nigel was still alive none of this would have happened. You know that as well as I do.”

  “Of course,” said Igor. “The old man helped us. He protected us. He gave us work and money.”

  They were angry and defensive, and Hogarth couldn’t blame them. But he needed to get past that as soon as possible. It was time to change tack. Time to stir the pot.

  “Do you know Mr Venky? The vet?”

  Igor shrugged. “Yes, of course. But not very well. He comes to the farm, treats the few animals. He talked to the old man. They were friends.”

  “Yes, I think they were,” said Hogarth. “Before Christmas Mr Venky said you were told off by the old man for messing around with the woodchipper machine. You were throwing logs around, chucking some of them into the machine.”

  The men looked at one another. It seemed the one with no English could understand more than he let on. The other man shook his head and frowned.

  “Well? Did it happen or not?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes, it happened.”

  “The son told you off.”

  “He’s a young man,” he said. “He can’t tell us off very well.”

  “So, you didn’t listen to him. Then the old man came out and saw you messing about with his new machine and gave you a reprimand. Then what? Did it make you angry? Did he offend you?”

  “Stop, stop, stop…” said Igor. He shuffled in his seat and gave Hogarth a nervous smile. “You know we didn’t kill him, already. The only reason we ran was because we imagined you would have us deported. And here we are. You see we were right to run.”

  Hogarth didn’t deny it.

  “You didn’t kill him,” said Hogarth. “But I need to know who did.”

  “The vet blames us?” he asked.

  Hogarth sighed and shook his head.

  “No. I think he believes you are innocent. But your row got discussed by the family. I had to come here and check it out. It’s part of the process.”

  “That family! Come on, Mr Policeman. You know it has to be one of them. The Neville boy is weak but ambitious. His girlfriend is far, far worse. The old woman is spiteful and drunk. Then there are those other two fools…”

  “Fools?” said Hogarth.

  “Trevor and Marjorie. The snobs. They look at us but never say a word. They don’t like foreigners.”

  The other man humphed and made a bitter face at the mention of their names.

  “I’ll agree, they’re not exactly my cup of tea either,” said Hogarth. “But neither one strikes me as a fool. Quite the reverse, I think they’re as sharp as they come.”

  “They are vain fools. They show off their money, their car, his clothes, her dresses. And he is the most vain of all.”

  The foreign men looked at one another, spoke in their native tongue, and then laughed out loud.

  “What are you laughing for?” said Hogarth.

  “The first time we met the man we saw him with his bike. Dressed like an idiot. We saw him wearing his black Lycra and his sport sunglasses, helmet, and gloves. He was dressed like an athlete but looks no more than a fat old fool in women’s clothing.”

  Hogarth’s eyes narrowed. His mouth turned pinched.

  “Trevor Goodwell?” he asked.

  The men carried on laughing, sharing words in their own tongue.

  “Yes, Trevor, the world champion of fat old fools,” he added. “And then he always cleans that car. He cleans it so much I wonder if there is any car left under the wax.”

  Hogarth’s eyes flicked to Palmer. He bit his cheek as he processed what he’d heard.

  “Guv?” said Palmer.

  “Gentlemen…” said Hogarth, sitting forward. “This is important. Have you seen him wearing that stuff often?”

  “What?” said Igor.

  “Trevor Goodwell’s cycling outfit. Have you seen him wearing it often?”

  Igor shrugged, “Many times, yes.”

  “Many? How many? More than five or ten?”

  “Ten at least. He lives near the city. He comes to Essex to cycle near the coast.”

  “So, you must remember what he wears?”

  “Yes. It has left a mark in my memory,” said Igor, with a grim smile.

  “And he wears gloves… what colour are they?”

  “Black.”

  “The fingerless type or the ones with fingers? Can you remember?”

  “He does everything with a flourish. I remember. They are not fingerless.”

  Hogarth nodded with enthusiasm.

  “And what shoes does he wear for cycling?”

  Igor shrugged. “I don’t know. I never paid attention.”

  “Think, please think. This is an important question.”

  Igor spoke to his companion. The other man looked at Hogarth and pointed to his feet. His spoke with enthusiasm, but everything he said was in Syrian. Hogarth waited for the translation.

  “Grey… my friend says he wore grey trainers. Not a famous brand. But he could be wrong about the colour, of course. The trainers could have been white and become dirty.”

  “But you say he was vain? Surely Goodwell would have cleaned his equipment if he is that vain?”

  “Vain, but also, how you say? Tight, with his money. The only new part of his cycling clothes was that black cycling top. It said Sky on the front. But his bike was a much older road bike. The colour was bad. It was purple and the bars were thin. They don’t make those types of bikes anymore.”

  “You know about cycling, do you?”

  “Only because it’s on TV. I know as much as anyone else.”

  “So, you think Trevor Goodwell’s equipment was old. Well worn? Out of date?”

  “Like the man, himself. Yes,” said the Syrian, grinning.

  Hogarth decided one good last stir might be helpful.

  “Trevor Goodwell is the one who said I should interview you about the argument with Nigel Grave. The way he described it, he said it almost bordered on a fight.”

  “What?! What would he know?! The man wasn’t there. If there is a killer in that house, it is him. The greed and vanity of those two stinks far beyond anything else at Grave Farm.”

  Hogarth stood up, a faint smile appearing on his face.

  “Gentlemen, thank you for your time. It’s been very, very enlightening.”

  “Good. And now you’ll leave us to rot, yes?”

  “No. I’ll do what I can, I promise,” said Hogarth.

  Hogarth gave each man a nod. “You’ll be hearing from me again.”

  “Make it before they send us back to Syria. Or before we hang ourselves like the others.”

  “Because of your help your deportation will be far less likely now,” said Hogarth.

  “Why?” said Igor.

  “We’ll need you here for the duration of the murder trial at the very least.”

  “What?” said Igor, with panic in his eyes.

  “Don’t panic. We’ll need you as witnesses.” Hogarth nodded a goodbye and left them in the cell. The security man who had been watching the
interview leaned out of the door after them.

  “Wait,” he called. “You should wait for Mr Abberetz!”

  “Tell him we’re leaving,” said Hogarth.

  “The gloves, the trainers,” said Palmer. “You think it really could be Trevor Goodwell?”

  “I’d be overjoyed… I’d love it if we could nail the bastard for this one. He’s too smug and smarmy. And it’s beginning to look like being thrifty could be the man’s downfall. If we can find those old cycling gloves and trainers…”

  “He must have got rid of them by now. Goodwell isn’t stupid. You said so yourself.”

  “True. Trevor Goodwell is smart. But even getting rid of evidence is a clue in itself. And Goodwell hasn’t got the secret weapon that we have.”

  “Secret weapon?”

  “Ivan Marris, Palmer. Trevor Goodwell thinks he’s got me in hot water, and side-tracked me with the Syrian boys. Hopefully that means we can catch him off guard…”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Trevor Goodwell lives in Upminster. That’s about an hour’s drive from here, maybe a little more. If we head over there now, who knows what we might find? Hopefully, the man is so tight he didn’t throw anything at all.”

  The nervous, smiling face of Abberetz appeared through the porthole window of a security door dead ahead. Abberetz looked in a hurry. He opened the door and clasped his hands together.

  Hogarth could barely look at the simpering little man.

  “Everything went well, I take it?” said Abberetz.

  “They’re not the killers, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

  “Oh,” said Abberetz. “That’s good.”

  Hogarth walked on and Abberetz walked with him, using his lanyard to wave them through a set of electronic barrier doors.

  “Were there any other problems?”

  “No, Mr Abberetz. And there won’t be…” They reached the reception and Hogarth turned around to face the man. “Provided you keep those men well fed and happy.”

  “No problem at all. That’s the Mertie way.”

  “Funny? I heard suicide and hunger strikes were the Mertie way. I need those two as witnesses. Keep them well and keep them happy.”

  Hogarth stuffed his lanyard into Abberetz’ hand and walked out under a sky full of roaring planes hanging in the air like zeppelins. He turned to Palmer, and spoke as he started walking away.

  “Call the station. Get Goodwell’s home address. We’ll go there and surprise him, see what we can find before the smarmy bugger can try hide anything.”

  “Guv? But where are you going now?”

  Hogarth walked away with his phone in hand.

  “I’ll only be a minute, Palmer. I just need to check on something. Back in a sec.”

  Hogarth dialled Ali’s number and put the phone to his ear. The phone rang on for a good long time before the call went to voicemail. He didn’t leave a message. Instead he thumbed a quick text.

  “Ali. You called me. R U ok? Please let me know.”

  He turned back towards the car park. When he reached Palmer, she was busy talking.

  “Thanks, that’s great.” She hung up. “Okay. I’ve got the address.”

  Hogarth unlocked the car. “Then off we go.” He looked up once more at the full skies, before dipping his head under the safety of his car roof. He couldn’t wait to leave.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It took just over an hour to get to Upminster from Harmondsworth and the place surprised him. The only part of Upminster Hogarth knew at all was the A127 corridor as it cut its grey way though Essex in a hurry to reach the heart of London. But if Champion Lane was anything to go by the A127 view had failed to give a true impression of the place. Champion Lane was a road of well-set semi-detached houses, three and four bed places from the look of them, all doubled glazed and well cared for. It wasn’t exactly a dream-home street. It wasn’t even leafy. But it had the look of self-satisfied achievement about it. Which suited someone like Trevor Goodwell down to the ground, but if anything, Champion Lane made his pretensions seem even more ridiculous.

  “Goodwell’s house will be the one with the Porsche, then,” said Hogarth, slowing to a crawl as he nosed his Vauxhall down the street.

  “The Goodwells live at Number thirty-eight,” said Palmer.

  “Hmmmm.” Hogarth didn’t bother to look at the door numbers. He scanned the cars on the driveways. He saw the Nissan Qashqais, the BMW estates, the Mazdas.

  “It doesn’t strike me as a Porsche kind of road,” said Hogarth.

  “No. Goodwell and his wife do seem a little flashy. She has all the jewellery. He wears the Aquascutum shirts. Could be that it was all for show.”

  “It doesn’t impress me,” said Hogarth. “In fact, quite the opposite. And I get the feeling old Nigel would have felt the same way… there!” said Hogarth. He dabbed the brake as he saw the back of the Porsche Cayenne overhanging the driveway. The bike rack was prominent past the hedge, but there was still no sign of the bike. Hogarth pulled over and parked at the side of the street, still a way off Goodwell’s home.

  “Okay, then,” said Hogarth. He turned off the ignition and clapped his hands.

  “How are you going to play this, guv?”

  Hogarth showed Palmer his narrow, glinting eyes.

  “There’s only one way to play someone like Goodwell, wouldn’t you say?”

  Palmer looked uneasy but gave a nod.

  “Sir, just remember what Melford might say if we push too hard.”

  “Melford? He’s the last person I want to think of. I’m thinking about Nigel Grave, his son, and that drunken old biddy back at the farm. Come on. Let’s see how this goes.”

  Palmer let Hogarth get out first, so she could take a moment to sigh alone in his car. Once finished, she got out and followed Hogarth as he marched across the street, dragging a hand through his unkempt hair.

  The door-bell chimed, long, pompous and deep. It still resonated as Marjorie Goodwell opened the door. They saw her hands were clad in bright pink washing-up gloves. An upright vacuum cleaner stood in the hallway behind her. Her face moved from welcoming smile to cautiously blank, to full blown displeasure.

  “Mrs Goodwell. I see the housemaid is ill.”

  “What?” said the woman, before she looked at her gloves. “We don’t have a housemaid.” She said, her cheeks blushing with confusion.

  “I’m very glad you’re here,” said Hogarth. “And I’m glad your car is here too. What about Mr Goodwell? Is he in residence?”

  “Who’s asking?” came a voice from deep in the house. Hogarth watched the man’s feet thud down the wooden staircase. Hogarth studied those feet and the old-fashioned diamond-patterned socks they came in. Size tens, maybe. But it was just as likely he wore size nines.

  “It’s the inspector,” said Marjorie.

  “Oh,” said Goodwell, as he finally came into view. “Well, what’s he doing here?”

  “Mr Goodwell,” said Hogarth, giving the man a grin. “Good to see you again. Thanks for putting that little word in for me at the station.”

  Goodwell stiffened, and anger flashed across his face. “You’re well out of your area, Inspector. Off your patch. This is exactly the kind of treatment I was talking about when I contacted your superiors. You’re singling us out. The way you interrogated us beside that barn, the very place where Marjorie’s own brother was butchered – it was unthinkable. It was a sick thing to do.”

  “Murder is sick, Mr Goodwell. I’ll admit, I may have become a little desensitised to some aspects of the crime. Just a little. But what always gets me most is the depravity and the audacity of the murderer themselves. That, I’ll never get over.”

  “Don’t think I won’t be recording every detail of this visit, Inspector.”

  “I’m counting on it, Mr Goodwell. And so will I.”

  There was a moment’s silence between the men as they locked eyes. Palmer noticed the grappling and coughed to break the spe
ll.

  “May we come in, Mr Goodwell?” said Palmer.

  “If you really must,” said Marjorie, standing aside.

  “Actually,” said Hogarth. “I’m not sure that we need to ruin your clean carpets just yet, Mrs Goodwell,” said Hogarth.

  “Why not?” said Goodwell.

  “I’m interested in your little hobby, Mr Goodwell. The one you don’t mind showing off about.”

  “What?”

  Hogarth stepped away from the door. His movement brought Goodwell down the rest of the staircase and out into the porch. Hogarth walked down the front path alongside the Porsche. He pointed at the bike racks on the back of the car.

  “You’re a cyclist, I see. And a keen one.”

  “Yes. What of it?”

  “And what about the roof racks? What are they for?”

  “Why? Because we like to travel. France and such. Very good cycling country, France. The roof rack carries all of our belongings, as well as the cycling gear.”

  “Good for you,” said Hogarth. “It’s good for a man to keep fit as he gets older.”

  Goodwell bristled. “I’ll bet I’m a darn sight fitter than you are at any rate, no matter my age.”

  “That’s a bet you’d easily win, Mr Goodwell, so I’ll keep my money, if you don’t mind. I admire people like you. The weekend warriors. The ones committed to the cause of fighting the middle-aged spread.”

  “I’m committed to living well whilst I’m alive, Inspector. That’s all.”

  “I’ll bet,” said Hogarth.

  “What’s that supposed to mean?” said Goodwell, anger straining his voice.

  “You’ve done well for yourself here, eh? Nice house. Paid off your mortgage too, I bet. Means you can get about and use all your spare time travelling and enjoying the good life, am I right?”

  “My affairs are no business of yours, are they?” said Goodwell.

  “But I’m right though, aren’t I, Mr Goodwell? You took early retirement because that city life isn’t all it’s cracked up to be once you get past forty-five odd, is it? I’ve seen people burn out long before then. I’ve seen people die because of it. And you didn’t want that, did you?”

  “Who the hell does? I’d earned enough money to call it a day, so I did. We paid off the mortgage and down sized, and here we are. We live very well. But I don’t understand why you’re here punishing us for it. I have you down as jealous, Inspector? Is that it? Well, there’s no point in that. We all had the same life choices back at the start. You can’t blame anyone else but yourself if you’re unhappy with your lot.”

 

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