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

by Solomon Carter

  “I’m not unhappy, Mr Goodwell. I’m just inquisitive,” said Hogarth. “Nice street, eh?”

  “It’s nice enough,” said Goodwell, frowning.

  “Nice enough, but for someone of your standing, your status, if you will, would probably like something just that little bit better. Maybe a fully detached house with a big garden like a moat, all the way around the house. Tall privet hedges. Four bedrooms to host your friends for the night after a dinner party. You know what I mean?”

  The man’s face darkened. “What is this? You’re insulting me now? Calling me a snob?”

  “No, sir. You know I’d never dream of it. I was wondering, that’s all, if maybe you might think you’ve settled for less than you deserve. I mean, your car certainly speaks of ambition and wealth… but this neighbourhood, well. It’s nice enough, eh? Those were your words, not mine.”

  “My social status and economic standing is not on trial here.”

  “Quite right,” said Hogarth.

  “And neither am I.”

  “Definitely not,” said Hogarth, supressing his smile.

  Goodwell jabbed a finger at Hogarth. “I’ll make a formal complaint about this. I’ll speak to my solicitor as soon as you’re gone. I could even call them now if you like.”

  “No, sir, that really won’t be necessary. Call them in a little while, if you like. I haven’t quite finished yet. Now, sir, can I take a look at your bike?”

  “What?”

  “You have a racing bike, don’t you?”

  “That’s what they used to call them. But it’s a road bike, Inspector. Now what the blazes do you want with my bike.”

  “Because you suggested that the migrant workers might have been the killers, I’ve been to visit them. I interviewed them earlier on, just like you wanted.”

  “Well? You should have done that the first-time round,” said Goodwell. “Surely they must be suspects.”

  “Everyone is a suspect, Mr Goodwell. Can I see your bicycle? Those migrant workers mentioned it and I’d like to see it for myself.”

  “They mentioned it? How?”

  “Put it this way. They said it showed another aspect to your multi-faceted personality, Mr Goodwell.”

  Goodwell gnashed his teeth as he turned away from the front door. A second later he returned with a handful of jangling keys. He stepped outside and opened the garage door, flipping it up into the ceiling space. Inside, the garage space was dim but perfectly neat, a place of tidy wall racks and empty space. In the back corner was the shiny black bullet-shaped capsule of the car’s roof box. Against the side was the lilac coloured road bike Igor had described. The saddle was white, like it was making a statement. The old-fashioned question-mark handlebars were white. The rest of the bike was lilac with a streak of purple. By modern standards, Hogarth decided it was garish.

  “Do you mind?” said Hogarth.

  Goodwell’s eyes were sharp and alert. He shook his head and they stepped inside the garage space together. Palmer followed, feeling almost as confused as Goodwell looked.

  “Very colourful, Mr Goodwell, just like the boys said.”

  “Colourful?”

  “Yes. Not quite as sleek and futuristic looking as the bikes the cyclists ride these days. This is more tubular shaped. A classic style, I suppose.”

  “That’s because it is a classic, Inspector. It’s twenty-five years old, and it’s immaculate. I have it serviced each year and I do the basic repairs myself. I used this one at La Rochelle Triathlon in ’05.”

  “Very nice. I see you must have adapted it too.”

  “Eh?” said Goodwell.

  Hogarth pointed down at the pedals. “The pedals – don’t the serious cyclists have shoes that clip into special pedals?”

  “Some do. I don’t go in for all that nowadays, but it doesn’t mean I’m not a serious cyclist. I just prefer normal shoes.”

  “Normal shoes?” said Hogarth.

  “Trainers. I don’t compete much these days, so I wear trainers. I prefer them.”

  “What do you wear with this. One of those Lycra suits?”

  “Everyone does. A helmet, shades… gloves, trainers…”

  “And are they classics too? I mean, are your cycling clothes from the same vintage?”

  “What? Twenty-five years old? Of course not, man. In fact, I just upgraded my shoes and gloves a few days back.”

  “Really now? How long ago, exactly?”

  “Um. Well…” said Goodwell. “I’m not sure. A week. Maybe more, maybe less.”

  Hogarth’s eyes pinned him to the spot. “Fine. But I’d be grateful if you would confirm that for me. I’ll need you to be very precise on this.”

  “But why?” said the man. Hogarth scanned him for signs of panic. If there were any, they were very well disguised. Hogarth didn’t answer his question.

  “Your old cycling gear… did you happen to keep it? Because I know what I’m like. I hate to throw old stuff away. My old trainers are still kicking around at home somewhere and I don’t think I’ve even worn them in two years.”

  “I threw out my old ones, Inspector. I’m not the sentimental type. I’m efficient. And as you can see, we like to keep the place clean.”

  “I can see that. Not sentimental and very efficient. Very good qualities for business, eh? But those qualities could prove quite contentious in a family setting.”

  “What? What are you saying now?”

  “Nothing, sir. Just an observation. So, when exactly did you throw your trainers out?”

  “The same time as I got my new ones, obviously.”

  “Obviously,” said Hogarth. “Did you put your old ones out with the rubbish?”

  “No. I’m not sure. I can’t remember. I think I dumped them when I was on the move somewhere. A public waste bin, maybe. I’m not sure exactly.”

  “Where though?” said Hogarth. “Did you dump them in Southend?”

  “I told you. I can’t remember.”

  Hogarth nodded.

  “And what about your gloves?”

  “Eh?”

  “Your cycling gloves. Are those new too.”

  “As a matter of fact, yes they are. Is it illegal for a cyclist to update his kit now and then?”

  “No, Mr Goodwell. But let me get this straight. You updated your cycling kit in the last week, maybe less. And you specifically replaced your trainers and your gloves. Did you buy anything else to go with them? A new helmet? New top? Shorts, maybe?”

  Goodwell’s eyes narrowed to match Hogarth’s.

  “No. I only replaced what was needed.”

  “I see. And your trainers and your gloves happened to get tired at exactly the same time, and you dumped them at exactly the same time. Maybe at the same place?”

  “I never said that. Did I ever say that?” said Goodwell.

  “It’s odd how they got so worn out at the same time.”

  “Not at all. People always tend to batch things when they replace them, don’t they? When I need a new pair of trousers, sometimes I might buy a shirt as well. It’s not remarkable in the least.”

  “But these were very, very tired items, were they not? They were almost falling apart. Particularly the gloves,” said Hogarth.

  “What? But you know nothing about my kit. Nothing at all.”

  Hogarth kept quiet.

  “Where did you dump the gloves? The same place as the trainers?”

  “I told you. I don’t recall.”

  “I’d like you to try and remember.”

  “I said I don’t recall. Look, this is ludicrous. Absolutely ludicrous…”

  Hogarth stared at the man and scratched his cheek.

  “Mr Goodwell, if it’s alright with you, I’d like to have a look inside your car.”

  Hogarth felt like he was gambling again. He was out on a limb in a high stakes game. It wasn’t that he thought Goodwell was innocent. Far from it. But he was playing a game where Goodwell might still come out a winner. If so, Hogarth
knew he would become an extreme loser. His career was on the line again.

  “My car? Why? Have you ever been inside a Porsche Cayenne before, Inspector? If you like I could take you out for a little spin,” said Goodwell, with fake levity.

  “I’ll admit I’m curious,” said Hogarth. Goodwell turned away to retrieve his car keys from the hallway. He watched husband and wife exchange a momentary glance and tried to read them. Was it fear he saw in Marjorie Goodwell’s eyes? There was certainly none in her husbands and that bothered him. Hogarth glanced at Palmer. She was looking right at him, warning him of something. She looked unsettled. She doubted his approach and was worried for him – for his job. But he couldn’t be swayed by her, not now. DS Palmer was good, but at times he could read her like a book. At other times she was a closed one,a mystery, but her unsettled look wasn’t helping. Hogarth turned his head so he couldn’t see her appeals. Goodwell returned waving the little black key fob with the Porsche badge on it.

  “Let me show you, Inspector. It looks even better on the inside, believe me.”

  “I can’t wait,” said Hogarth.

  Goodwell opened the doors and pulled them wide open, both front and back.

  “As you can see, there’s plenty of leg room and a luxurious interior.”

  Hogarth’s eyes raked the floors, and the carpets. There was not a single trace of dirt in sight.

  “And it’s been very well looked after. You’ve must have had it cleaned. Recently?” said Hogarth.

  “You already know we like to keep things shipshape, Inspector.”

  “Did you clean it yourself?”

  “No. I had a mini-valet done. One of those Eastern European car washes you see around.”

  “Oh? Which one?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  “You don’t remember,” said Hogarth.

  “Yes. There are so many of them around these days.”

  “And there I was thinking you had something against migrant workers. Good to see you supporting their businesses. Now let me guess. You had the car cleaned at some time in the last week?”

  “How did you ever guess?” said Goodwell, folding his arms.

  “I’m no genius,” said Hogarth. “It fits the pattern, that’s all.

  “And what pattern is that exactly?” said Goodwell.

  “I think you know what kind of pattern, Mr Goodwell. Don’t you?”

  There was a momentary silence. The man’s face became inexpressive, refusing to be reveal any emotion.

  “I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. I think my solicitor should bring this up with your chief superintendent.

  Hogarth kept firm. “Palmer. Look in the footwells, will you?”

  “Yes, guv. What am I looking for?”

  “Anything at all,” said Hogarth. “Tell me if you see anything at all.”

  “It was a very thorough clean,” said Goodwell. “There’s nothing for you to find here.”

  “There’s always something, Mr Goodwell.”

  “Sorry, Inspector. This time there really isn’t. You should stop wasting your time on me and look at those migrants, or at that gold-digging tart that Neville has got himself involved with, the poor fool.”

  “The trouble with that one, Mr Goodwell, is that Nancy Decorville has an alibi.”

  “As do I. You are you still ignoring alibis?”

  “No, I never ignore alibis, Mr Goodwell,” said Hogarth, blinking at him.

  “You tell me, Mr Goodwell. Do you think it’s plausible that Nancy Decorville picked up Nigel Grave and threw him into the woodchipper – a man who had worked in the outdoors all his life? Do you think she was strong enough?”

  “Well,” said Goodwell. “Nigel wasn’t the force he was. He’d started to look weak…”

  “But he was still a fighter, wasn’t he? He refused your ideas to change the farm. He ignored Venky. He’d rejected his son’s ideas too. He was stubborn. I’m sure he would have put up a fight if anyone tried to hurt him.”

  “So?”

  “With due respect, I doubt Miss Decorville had the physical strength to subdue the man.”

  “Then maybe she had help.”

  “From who exactly?”

  “From the migrants.”

  “And why would they help her?”

  “Use your imagination, Inspector,” said Goodwell. “I think it’s plain for all to see what she is about. Marjorie saw through her from the very beginning.”

  Palmer stood up from the side of the car. She shook her head. “The footwell’s been well cleaned and vacuumed sir. I can’t see anything there at all.”

  “It was a very good valet for the price,” said Goodwell, smiling. “But then again, you wouldn’t have found anything in the first place, would you? Because I’m not guilty.”

  “They offer a very good valet, but you’ve forgotten where the car wash is…?”

  “Yes. I picked the place at random.”

  “Of course, you did. Open the boot, Mr Goodwell.”

  Goodwell glared at Hogarth. “You’re going to regret this visit, you do know that, don’t you?”

  “I’ve had far worse regrets, I can assure you. Now please, open the boot.”

  “Of course,” said Goodwell. “I’ve got nothing to hide.”

  Goodwell popped the boot and lifted it high. The vast boot interior was spotless and immaculately clean.

  “What were you hoping to find, Inspector? I told you. I disposed of all that junk last week… long before poor Nigel was killed.”

  Hogarth ignored him. He looked around the interior, his eyes tracing over the top of the wheel arches, the neat boot carpet, into every nook and cranny. The metal gleamed. The boot lining was spotless.

  “Your valet seems to have been very thorough, Mr Goodwell. I hope you tipped them well.”

  Hogarth stood away from the boot and left it open. He walked past Goodwell back into the interior of the garage, heading once more for the lilac bike.

  “The bike looks clean too… though I do wonder…” Hogarth bent down and leaned his face low and close to the handles. The tops of the handles – coated in white binding – were pristine. They had been well cleaned. Hogarth dropped to a lower crouch and studied the underside of the handles.

  “Now what, Inspector?” said Goodwell.

  The cleaning had been good, but the underside of the handlebar curls showed a grubbier colour. It was ingrained. And where the binding was wrapped over and over across the handlebars, the edges showed fine traces of black colouring.

  “What is it, man?” said Goodwell.

  “Not much, to be honest” said Hogarth. He needed more. Just a little something. More from despair than anything else, Hogarth walked back to the open car boot. Goodwell let out a faint titter of amusement. Without asking Hogarth reached in and peeled back the bottom layer of rubber-linin at the bottom of the boot.

  “What are you doing, man. That’s my car!”

  Hogarth didn’t listen. He looked at the bare metal of the boot cavity beneath. In the centre of the metal floor was a red-coloured metal spare wheel. Hogarth leaned close, inspecting the metal surface. There had been no cleaning under here, but whatever dirt had collected over time was minimal. Hogarth closed the compartment and pulled back the carpet. Just as he was about to give up, he saw something. On the very edges of the flimsy carpet were the merest fragments of black. The carpet was a tight weave grey and the loose black fibres didn’t match. Hogarth suppressed his new faint hope. He needed to play it careful. He dropped the carpet lining down into place and followed its edge with his eye. There. He saw a few more black dots. Slowly, he leaned back out of the boot, raised his hand and closed the boot gently.

  Goodwell studied Hogarth’s face but Hogarth stayed blank.

  “Well. What is it?”

  “I don’t know, Mr Goodwell. But I’ll be delighted to let you know as soon as I do. Palmer?” said Hogarth.

  “Guv?”

  “Keep an ey
e on that bike and on the back of this car. Make sure no one touches them until Marris gets here.”

  “Marris?” said Palmer in surprise.

  “Look here. Those are my belongings. You can’t tell me what to touch and what not to touch.”

  “I really don’t think you’d want to interfere with a murder investigation, would you, Mr Goodwell.”

  “Investigation? This isn’t an investigation. This is harassment, pure and simple.”

  “You can plead harassment if you like. Yes, it might frighten the PC brigade, but it doesn’t bother me in the least. And if forensics find anything here, you can pick any bloody word you like, or any solicitor you like, and the result will still be the same.”

  “The result? What do you mean.”

  No, thought Hogarth, it was too early yet to share his thinking.

  “You’ll know when I do,” he said.

  Hogarth walked to the roadside and took out his phone. He turned and watched Palmer guarding the bike, while ignoring the Goodwells altogether.

  “Ivan, yes, yes, it’s me. Listen. I’m going to need a favour. And this one is urgent. I have something for you on the Grave Farm case, but it’s out of area, I’m afraid. It’s in Upminster…”

  “Upminster?” said Marris into his ear.

  “Don’t worry. I’m sure our hosts will make you a cup of tea when you arrive.”

  Hogarth gave him the rest of the address.

  “Damn it. Okay, Hogarth. I’ll be there in an hour. Just keep everyone away from that evidence,” said Marris.

  “Oh, with pleasure, Ivan,” said Hogarth. Hogarth ended the call and gave the Goodwells a bright smile. The smile was much brighter than the truth. Hogarth had gambled on a hunch.

  ***

  “You see those black dots?” said Hogarth, whispering.

  Ivan Marris moved his pen-torch along the boot lining, slowing every time he found a stray fibre.