“See? There.”
Marris nodded. “Ahhhmmmmm. Yes. I see them,” he said, keeping his voice low. Goodwell was still nearby, trying to eavesdrop. “These are really not the best circumstances for this kind of work. If you believe there is something here I think we should impound the car.”
Hogarth frowned. “But do you believe there is something?”
“Hard to say,” said Marris. “Without analysis those fibres could have come from anywhere. They could have even originated at the car factory.”
“But they look like the black dots we saw in the barn,” said Hogarth.
“But at the microscopic level – they could be entirely different. That’s what counts. And then there’s any traces of DNA. Those would be the clincher.”
“You don’t seem convinced,” said Hogarth, rubbing his jaw.
“I’m not convinced about anything until it’s been analysed. If you want me to do this, we should do it properly. I’d work as fast as I could.”
Hogarth grimaced. “Come over here, Ivan.”
The tall man walked past Goodwell, who looked pale and wary. He watched as Marris ducked under the garage door, and Hogarth led him directly to the bike.
“This is ludicrous!” said Goodwell.
“You keep away,” said Hogarth. “This is police business. We need space.”
“This is my home!”
“And you’ll have it back shortly, Mr Goodwell, now back off.”
Goodwell tutted and backed away, but only by a few feet.
Ivan dropped into a crouching position beside Hogarth. “What am I looking for here?”
“Black fibres again,” said Hogarth. “The neoprene. The bike’s been well cleaned, just like the car, but with a little less care. The murderer would likely think to clean stuff used directly after the kill… but the same care might not have been applied to the stuff used before, will it?”
Ivan Marris clicked his pen-torch into life and pointed it at the underside of the bike handles. The spotlight lingered on the grubby-patches and stayed still over the darkest spots by the rims of the wrapped white tape.
“Well?”
“Hmmmm,” said Marris. He lowered his torch beam to the pedals and shone the light on the flecks of mud caught around the edges of the metal.
Hogarth watched the man’s methodical movements with bated breath.
“I’ll need access to the car and the bike away from here. I need more than a few samples to be sure of what I’m looking at.”
“Fine. Let’s do it.”
“Are you sure?” said Marris.
Hogarth thought about the ton of shit he’d be under if he was wrong. But he had to make the call. He squinted at Palmer, then at Goodwell and then back to Marris.
“I’m sure. I’ll call it in and have the vehicles impounded.”
“I can arrange that, Inspector,” said Marris. “Perhaps you’d better square it with those two over there.”
Hogarth nodded to the Goodwells. The pensive couple were standing together by the edge of the garden path.
Hogarth walked towards them.
“Mr Goodwell. I’m afraid we’re going to have to borrow your bike and your car for a short while.”
“What? You can’t do that!”
“In this instance, I assure you, we can.”
The man’s face quivered and his expression darkened.
“You’ll lose your job over this.”
“Life’s a gamble, Mr Goodwell. But then I think you know that. You’ve had all your dice rolls already. Now it’s my turn. We’ll need your bike and your car for no more than a couple of days. Will you object, or will you let us take them?”
The Goodwells looked at one another.
“If you’re as good at cleaning as you think you are, you won’t have anything to worry about, will you?” said Hogarth.
“Take the car and the bike,” said Goodwell, his eyes flashing with anger.
“That’s the spirit,” said Hogarth.
“But when this case has been solved – and we’re proved innocent – I’m going to have you sacked, Inspector. Just so you know.”
“I wouldn’t doubt it for a second, Mr Goodwell.”
Chapter Twenty
“Anything yet, Marris?” said Hogarth. Hogarth was sitting at his desk in the CID room he shared with Palmer. He leaned over his knees with the phone in his hand, brogues tapping on the floor, his eyes looking down at the grey office carpet.
“Come on! I’ve only had the Porsche and bike here for the last hour. I need time.”
“But we were there hours ago, Ivan.”
“They weren’t dropped off until two-thirty. I’m good but I can’t work miracles, no matter how much you need them.”
“It’s that obvious, is it?”
“It is, yes. I’ll do my best for you, Hogarth. But I’ll need more time.”
“Fine, Ivan. I’ll leave you be for a while.”
“Very good,” said Marris and hung up.
Hogarth sighed and put the phone back in the cradle. He looked up to find Palmer’s face a mirror of his own internal concerns. Her eyes looked large and worried. She looked almost mournful. And for a moment, he noticed that she was pretty. Palmer. Pretty. But she was a sad kind of pretty. It wasn’t often he noticed Palmer’s looks, but even so the worry on her face irked him. He decided to ignore it. He didn’t need to be under any more pressure, but of course he asked anyway.
“What’s the matter, Palmer? You look like you think my goose has been cooked already.”
“No. Of course not. But I know the strain you must be under. And we’re not exactly close to finding the culprit yet.”
“We know who it is. And even if I am wrong about this, the murderer is someone we’ve already spoken to. They were around that bloody house on the day of the murder. It’s smoke and mirrors, Palmer. That’s all this killer has got to hide themselves with. Smoke and mirrors. We just need Marris to come through… but maybe there’s something else. Something we haven’t considered yet.”
“Sir, I think you’ve looked at everything.”
“No. There’s always more.”
“Like what?” said Palmer.
“Don’t become a fatalist, Palmer. That’s my job. This office needs an optimist. And Lord knows we haven’t got much comedy without Simmons as the butt of my jokes.”
“He’ll be back soon,” said Palmer with a smile. There was that look again. Pity, fretting, and those eyes. Hogarth shook his head and turned away.
“Yes. And no matter who wants me gone, I still intend to be here when Simmons gets back.”
There was a knock at the office door. Hogarth stiffened and felt the buzz of his mobile in his jacket pocket. He knew who that would be. Unfortunately, he had also guessed who was at the door. Melford’s moustachioed head leaned through the doorway and nodded at Hogarth. The single nod was a summons. If Hogarth had to endure one more meeting with DCI Melford, he was going to have to hurt someone.
“Yes, I’ll be right with you, sir,” said Hogarth.
Melford withdrew and Hogarth raised his eyebrows at Palmer.
“Told you I need an optimist on the team,” said Hogarth.
“I’ll do my best,” said Palmer.
“Then that better be good enough,” said Hogarth. Melford was out already long gone by the time Hogarth left the room, so he took his time. He took out his mobile, ignoring the uniforms who passed him by, and scanned the mobile screen, slowing to a halt in the half-light by the vending machines.
“Sorry for what I said, Joe. I was wrong. I mean it. I can’t do without you. Will you forgive me?”
A smile flickered across Hogarth’s grim face. Ali had dumped him, and now she wanted him back. It was barely more than a twice consummated affair. In the old days, he wouldn’t have counted that as anything more than a roll in the hay, worth nothing more than an idle boast to the lads down the pub. But he was getting long in the tooth. The old Joe would have told her where
to go then blanked her altogether. But, he knew he was caught with this one. There was no way he could abandon her, and he knew it
Of course. I’ll be here as long as you want me.
He thumbed the text then pinged it on its way before he could change his mind. “You bloody sap,” he chided himself. But the smile still crept around the corners of his lips looking for a way out. But Hogarth tamped it down. A smile would never do – not in Melford’s office beneath his antique clock.
Hogarth knocked.
“Come in, Hogarth.”
In he went. There he was, reclined and resplendent in his authority, ready to dish it out once again.
“You do recall our chat about the word harassment, don’t you?”
“How could I forget, sir.”
“And you didn’t happen to forget about it, did you?”
“Sir, your words are indelibly imprinted on my mind.”
“Cut the facetious bullshit, Hogarth. You know damn well why you’re in here.”
“The Goodwells have complained again, I take it.”
“Right after what we discussed, you went straight round to their house and have given them even more grounds to claim that they’ve been victimised.”
“But they are not being victimised, sir. They are suspects. Key suspects.”
“How? The man has an alibi and you have no evidence.”
“I think we may have found some evidence.”
“You’ve taken his car and his bike off him…”
“To try and locate the evidence. Sir, if this man is the killer, I think he used his car to transport the clothes he wore during the murder. He would have had nowhere else to put them.”
“But you didn’t find the clothes.”
“The gloves and trainers he wore have been disposed of. He told me so. And he’s had the car valeted. He’s cleaned the bike too.”
“So, you’ve got nothing, then. Square one.”
“Not quite. I saw some black fibres in the car, just like at the barn. It’s him, sir. It’s Trevor Goodwell. It stands to reason.”
“Black fibres.”
“Yes.”
“You went back and insinuated the man was the killer and found some black fibres for your trouble.”
“Most likely belonging to the gloves the killer wore when Nigel Grave was killed.”
“And? What does Marris think?”
“He’s running the tests now, sir.”
“You’d better hope those tests come out in your favour, Hogarth.”
“No matter whose buttons Goodwell is pushing, sir, I know this man is the killer.”
“With an alibi and no evidence?”
Long Melford was turning into a stuck record.
“Sir, what’s going on here?”
“What do you think is going on?”
Hogarth’s eyes shimmered with a few thoughts, but he held his tongue. It was better to be quiet than sacked.
“Come on, speak your mind. I know you’re sharper than most,” said Melford.
“I think Goodwell knows someone in the force, someone on high. From the way he uses the Super’s name like he’s a get-out-of-jail-free card, I’d guess it’s him.”
Melford nodded. “Not that the Super would admit it. And I won’t be the one pressuring him on that front, either,” said Melford. “But no matter who this man knows, I can assure you no one has a get-out-of-jail-free card with me. I’m under pressure as well, remember. That’s the job these days, as you know. But you’re not helping matters. Every time you go out and undermine my orders, the pressure on me goes up another notch, and you make me look like a complete idiot before my superiors. I don’t like these Goodwells any more than you do. They’re troublemakers, and threatening the force with legal action won’t endear them to anyone.”
“So, where does that leave me, sir?”
Melford glanced up at his clock as if it would give him the answer. He looked at Hogarth and considered his response. “Well, DI Hogarth… after all the fuss you’ve caused, you’d bloody better go and prove this bastard did it, or we’ll both be in deep trouble. Is that clear enough?”
“Crystal, sir.”
“Be honest with me, Hogarth. Do I need to be worried?”
“No, sir.”
“Good then,” said Melford. “Now bloody well prove it.”
A faint smile crept past the defences of Hogarth’s stoic mouth. Melford noticed but didn’t respond. It seemed Melford could play the bastard in a variety of ways and he did so with aplomb. But this variety – honest, understanding even, was one Hogarth had never seen before. Hogarth nodded. “Thank you, sir. I’ll get right on it,” he said. He shut the door and let out his grin. PC Orton passed by Hogarth and saw the strange spectre of a smile on the DI’s lips. It was such a rare sight that Orton shook his head in confusion.
Hogarth leaned through the CID room door and watched Palmer snap up from her desk. “How did it go?” said Palmer.
“Let’s call it a stay of execution. Or one last try. Whatever it was, Goodwell is connected in police circles and he’s making it count against us.”
“So, what can we do?”
“Do what we do best, Palmer. I think it’s time we proved this scumbag is our killer, don’t you?”
“Isn’t that what we’ve been doing already?”
“Don’t dampen my enthusiasm, Palmer. It’s usually short-lived at the best of times.”
“So, where to?” said Palmer, standing up.
“Where do you think, Palmer?”
“Grave Farm…” she said.
“Spot on,” said Hogarth.
Palmer shook her head.
She was pleased to see the return of the gleam to Hogarth’s eyes, but she couldn’t help wonder at its source.
Chapter Twenty-one
Hogarth parked up by the farmhouse. He got out and dispensed with the customary front door greeting at the house, instead walking down the track along the side of the house towards the back garden. When Hogarth and Palmer reached the barn, he saw the blue and white police tape flapping in the breeze and the tyre ruts left by the crime scene vehicle. The police vans were gone. The case was in a make or break state. They needed to break the impasse or it would soon be taken out of their hands.
“What are we looking for?” said Palmer.
“Who knows? Something new. Something Dickens didn’t see. We’re still doing our ABCs, just like Dickens said. This is letter C. Check everything.”
With her hands on her hips, Palmer surveyed the barn. The evidence of murder had been cleared away, but she could still detect a faint smell of bodily decay. Or maybe it was her imagination.
“Where do we start?”
“The hay bales over there by the chipper. And behind the chipper too – who knows. We’ll only know what we’re looking for once we see it.”
“Sounds like a long afternoon,” said Palmer.
“I want Goodwell. He did this, Palmer. If he gets away scot-free it’ll only be because of a lack of evidence. Then it’ll be me in the dock instead of him.”
Palmer glanced back at the house and saw a shadowy shape watching them from the kitchen window. It was hard to make out exactly who it was, but Palmer suspected that it was the old woman drinking at the dining table.
“Okay. Where shall I start?”
“By the chipper. I’ll check the hay bales.”
Palmer trudged towards her task. Hogarth walked briskly towards the pyramid of black shrink-wrapped hay bales, and the shadows at the back of the barn. He slid to the back and peered into the darkness behind the vast stack. Yes, the gap was big enough for a man to get inside. It was a dangerous hiding place, especially if the bales collapsed. But it would have been a great place to wait for the right moment to strike. Hogarth took out his phone, flicked to torch mode and shone the light deep behind the bales. He saw a layer of straw on the floor, deeper than everywhere else. He trailed the light across the back of the bales and saw a muddy smear on the lowe
st in the pile. The mud stain looked dry and it was faintly patterned. Hogarth nodded to himself. It looked like the print of a sports shoe, but with the original shoes disposed and lost, the shoe prints offered nothing which would stand up in court. Hogarth bent down and raked at the straw with his fingers. He teased the straw away and scanned the concrete. There were a few black dots on the floor, but he had more than enough of those. He needed something new. But if something new was to be found, its wasn’t behind the hay bales.
Palmer decided to stop breathing through her nose. Imagined or not, the smell of death seemed thicker than ever. As a murder weapon, the woodchipper should by rights have been removed. But the size of the contraption must have prohibited it. The imported machine was nothing like its smaller, mobile counterparts, at least not in scale. Essex Police didn’t have a facility for storing something like this. But looking at the blade area, she saw that most of the blades had already been removed. The blades which had killed the man were gone. But the minute organic particles of body matter were still around. Palmer wasn’t too bad with death, but the smell of it was always too much. She kicked at the straw around the floor by the machine and squinted at the dried mess of prints beneath. By now, all of them would have been photographed and catalogued. Double-checking like this made her feel useless. They were stuck, and she knew it. But it was no use telling the guv, because deep down she felt he knew it as well.
Palmer looked up from the floor and found him looking at her. The weary look in his eyes matched her thoughts.
“Nothing new here, eh? I suppose we should try the shed… that’s where the old man tore up his notes, after all…” said Hogarth.
Palmer offered him a nod and hoped it looked enthusiastic. They walked out beside the overgrown garden and picked a diagonal path towards the battered old shed.
“Look who’s turned up,” said Hogarth, nodding towards the house. Palmer glanced towards the kitchen window, but the old woman had barely moved. Then Palmer looked up and found Neville Grave was leaning on the windowsill. He looked impassive, unreadable. When her eyes met his, the young man lifted a hand in a half-attempt at a wave. Palmer nodded back. She saw Nancy Decorville appear at his side, nestling catlike against his shoulder. And if Neville Grave’s eyes conveyed nothing at all, Decorville’s couldn’t have been more different. They sparkled and burned through the glass.
The Darkest Lies: A Gripping Crime Mystery Series - Two Novel Boxed Set (The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Boxed Sets Book 1) Page 48