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

by Solomon Carter

  “Soya! Yes. My father was a thinker. I should have known he’d come up with a solution. But he was getting weaker. I didn’t think he had it in him any more to be even just the brains.”

  Neville and Hogarth stopped walking before they reached the edge of the barn where the old man had been murdered. They looked at one another, and Hogarth saw that look in Neville’s eyes.

  “You knew he was dying, didn’t you?” Hogarth saw his words caused no shock.

  Neville nodded mildly. “He was getting weaker and spending more and more time alone. He insisted on driving himself to his appointments without telling us what they were about. I got a little suspicious. In the end I found he’d run a couple of web searches on cancer symptoms, treatments and the like. But that was all. He never told us a thing.”

  Hogarth nodded. “It’s not my place to say anything more, Mr Grave. But I don’t think he had long. I think he was trying to get his house in order before he died.”

  Tears bloomed in the younger man’s eyes.

  “I wish I could have spent some of his last months close to him. Trevor’s robbed us all of that.”

  Hogarth nodded and looked at the frozen earth beneath his feet. There was no comfort he could give for that. After a moment had passed, Neville sighed and wiped his eyes on the back of his sleeve.

  “Still… I won’t let him down. You can be my witness on that, Inspector. So long as my mother doesn’t do anything to deny my father’s wishes.”

  “I don’t think she will. In my opinion, she doesn’t have it in her anymore. Her malice comes from nowhere but the bottle, and has been encouraged by Trevor. She’ll depend on you now.”

  Neville nodded and his eyes drifted away.

  “You know, I was dreading that announcement,” he said. “I couldn’t have cared less about the farm in the end. I thought he was going to tell us he was dying.”

  Hogarth nodded. “That would have made sense. But I think his death was a secondary concern to him. He cared more about the farm, the legacy, and he wanted you to be a success. So, then,” said Hogarth, changing tone. “I suppose you and Miss Decorville will start enacting your grand plans for the farm when everything calms down.”

  “Nancy? Oh no. She won’t have any part of it. Not anymore.”

  Hogarth raised an eyebrow.

  “Oh?”

  “That stuff with the private investigator – she never told me about that. Like Trevor said, she had her own agenda all long. You said there were more agendas in the house than at a townhall council meeting. I don’t think Nancy’s agenda was much different to Trevor’s…”

  Hogarth’s lips formed a wry grin. “And I thought you were head over heels for the girl,” he said.

  “So did I,” said Neville. “But if she thinks I’m going to let her tear this farm apart on the back a few heated moments, she’s got another think coming.”

  “Plenty more fish in the sea, as they say,” said Hogarth.

  “Except I don’t think I’m going to have much time for fishing from now on.”

  “Hard work helps with grief of all kinds, Mr Grave. Hard work and whisky.”

  “Thank you, Inspector. I’ll remember that recipe.”

  Hogarth looked up to the crisp cold sky and watched the steam of his breath curl away above him. He gave Neville a final curt but friendly nod. As he turned away the young man called him back.

  “Inspector?” said Neville.

  “Yes?”

  “You did my father proud. Thank you.”.

  “Pleasure, Mr Grave.”

  Hogarth walked away, hands deep in his pockets. He avoided the back door, instead he passed the kitchen window and looked in on his way. The old woman didn’t see him, but Nancy Decorville did. For all her good looks, there was no denying the bitter look in her eyes. The farm had moved beyond her grasp. The game had changed, and it was far too late for her to swap her cards.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  This time Hogarth closed the door of the DCI’s office to face Long Melford with relish. This time his heart beat slower, and the angst was mostly gone.

  Melford watched him quietly. Hogarth kept his poise.

  “I just don’t know how you do it,” said Melford, eventually.

  “Do it? Do what, sir?”

  “You know what. You saved your own bacon. And mine too, I might add. The pressure from on high has gone ever so silent since you brought in Goodwell. And it stacks up well. The evidence is good. Forensics came through.”

  “And his alibi is broken.”

  “Yes, it’s solid enough for a prosecution.”

  “And it’s the right man, sir. He was using those complaints to steer us left, right and centre – anywhere away from him.”

  “Yes. You did seem convinced of his guilt. The CPS seem confident in the case too. Hopefully there’s enough humble pie being eaten to keep them upstairs from opening their mouths for a while.”

  “Is there ever enough humble pie for that, sir?” said Hogarth.

  “Maybe not, Hogarth,” said Melford. “Besides, you know how it goes. You make your boss eat humble pie, he’ll only want to make sure you’re served a slice too.”

  There was a moment’s silence while this sank in. Hogarth marshalled his face muscles to keep that smile in place a little longer.

  “All that matters is that you’re off the hook, Hogarth,” said Melford, leaning back in his seat. “Well done.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “But you can’t keep up this workload, can you? Any idea when Simmons will be back?” said Melford.

  “Another week at least, sir. He’s healing well. He wants to come back, but I’d rather he came in when he was fighting fit than lose him again if he freaks out on the job. He went through a lot in John Milford’s apartment.”

  “Yes…” said Melford slowly. Hogarth sensed more coming. “But I’m also concerned about your welfare too, DI Hogarth.”

  “Welfare, sir?” said Hogarth.

  “You know what I mean, Hogarth. I asked you to close that case on the double, and you did it. So now, for your sake, I’m asking you to leave that MP’s house alone. I don’t know what it is about. You don’t strike me as the political type, so maybe it’s just down to stress. I don’t know. But whatever it is, make sure you keep away from James Hartigan. Because if you don’t, I’ll hear about it. Just listen to what I’m saying, okay?”

  “I always do, sir. You know that,” said Hogarth.

  Melford regarded him with a steady, cynical eye.

  “That will be all, Inspector.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hogarth.

  The fresh clean air of relief blew through his mind as Hogarth stepped out into the corridor. With every step he felt better, but the sting of the Hartigan warning stayed uppermost in his mind. “Screw you, sir,” muttered Hogarth as he walked away.

  “Cheer up, sir. You won,” said PC Orton, as the thickset copper passed him in the corridor. Hogarth nodded with irritation. He walked out past the hotchpotch of desks towards the CID room which was his home. Young PCSO Rawlins gave him a grin. “Well done, sir,” she said. Even Dawson looked ready to deliver some sort of positive remark. It was all too much for Hogarth.

  He stopped walking and gave Dawson and Rawlins a look.

  “Hold on. Trevor Goodwell is just one scumbag out of how many? Thousands, got to be. Tens of thousands, even. That town out there is full of them. So, thanks for the compliments. But let’s not get carried away. I can’t afford to get too big a head. I’ve got get out there on the lookout for the next one.”

  As Hogarth reached his office, PC Dawson shook his head

  “He can’t afford to get a big head?” said Dawson. “If big heads cost money, he’d need a bloody second mortgage on that one.”

  CID always tended to work later and longer than everyone else, but with a nice big scalp in the bag, and the pressure lessened, Hogarth was looking forward to a few sips of whisky in front of the television. Tonight, maybe he
would skip the news channels. He considered the soap operas for a moment. No bloody way. The comedy channels. The nature shows. A moment later he settled back on the news channel again.

  Palmer looked up from her desk. The pensive eyes and tension seemed to have been wiped away. Melford’s high-pressure antics had spread stress throughout the whole team. Or maybe that part was down to him. Hogarth realised he was still looking at Palmer’s eyes. With the strain gone, the woman seemed brighter and happier than he’d seen her in a while. This was the pretty Palmer again. Funny. Hogarth doubted a woman like Palmer would ever think of herself as pretty. She had probably worked too long in CID to think of herself as anything other than a cop. For her sake Hogarth hoped she could find someone to tell her. Everyone needed an outlet, cops especially. They needed to feel like a human being outside of the job.

  “Did Melford congratulate you?” said Palmer, mischief written on her face.

  “Come off it,” said Hogarth.

  “Surely he had something positive to say. PC Orton is calling you DI Lastminute.com.”

  “Lastminute.com? Is that what he’s saying?” said Hogarth.

  “It’s true, though. Didn’t Melford commend you for closing the arrest?”

  “Melford never has much good to say. He did share one pearl of wisdom – when superiors have to eat humble pie, they like to share it with their subordinates.”

  “Wow. That’s really encouraging.”

  “Isn’t it?” said Hogarth.

  “But he said nothing aside from that?”

  Hogarth shook his head. He wasn’t going to share the rest – the part about James Hartigan MP was totally off-limits. As far as he was concerned it was off limits to Melford as well.

  “Well, I’m sorry, we can’t have that, guv. You need to be able to celebrate your success.”

  “You think so?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes, I do.”

  Hogarth pondered an extra nip of whisky in front of News 24.

  “Tell you what,” said Palmer. “I’ve got a spare bottle of vino rosso. If you wanted, you could come round and I’d order a takeaway.”

  Hogarth looked at Palmer. The unreadable look in his eyes had her backtracking nervously.

  “Just a glass of wine and some supper, that’s all. Nothing really… or we could just grab a pint down the pub…?”

  Palmer’s cheeks tinged with the merest hint of pink. She looked away.

  “It’s just an idea, that’s all.”

  “And a generous one, Palmer. But don’t worry. I won’t ever put on you again like I did before. I was out of order. It was unprofessional. You hardly need the hassle of having your boss hanging around your home after all these long hours.”

  “Unprofessional, sir? I thought it was funny, actually.”

  “Yes. Funny,” said Hogarth. Funny was a part of the problem.

  “Thanks, all the same. Drink one for me, Palmer and I’ll drink one for you. How’s that?”

  “Spoilsport. But I suppose it’ll have to do.”

  Hogarth grabbed his car keys from the desk. He gave Palmer a wink and slinked out of the door. “See ya. Make sure you have that drink,” said Hogarth, and off he went.

  Palmer watched the door clunk shut behind him and blew out a long breath.

  “Well, that went well,” she said. Then in a whisper, she added. “Stupid, stupid, stupid.”

  Chapter Twenty-five

  Hogarth’s big feet were sprawled on his scratched coffee table beside three mostly empty foil takeaway cartons with traces of neon coloured sauce left at the bottom. He picked a few flecks of egg-fried rice from his shirt, and stuffed them into his mouth. On TV, a stern-faced reporter concluded his dispatches from a blighted middle-eastern war zone. Hopefully Igor and Borev were out of all that for good. These days it wasn’t just the Yanks and the Ruskies on manoeuvres. The Iranians and the Saudis were at it too, playing war games in someone else’s back yard. Same old crap, different decade. Hogarth changed the channel and found an image of a brightly coloured vista filmed from a helicopter. There were snow-capped mountains and crisp blue skies. Cyclists in wraparound shades hunched over their bicycles and gritted their teeth as they staggered up a mountain climb. It was easy bubble-gum viewing – until it reminded him of Trevor Goodwell. “Bastard,” he said, and finished his glass.

  He was about to pour himself another drink when his phone buzzed and bounced on the table.

  He guessed it would be a comradely text from Palmer saying she’d drunk the wine she’d promised him. He grinned at the thought. It was banter, and he would reply in kind. She was a good egg, Palmer, and he wouldn’t risk spoiling their working relationship by being a prat ever again. He needed her too much for that.

  Hogarth lifted his phone to his eyes and lost his smile. He blinked and stiffened in his seat.

  He put the whisky bottle down and read the text over again.

  J This is Ali. I’m using a different number because I have to be very careful now. I think James knows something. I need to see you. Urgently. Meet me at the car park by Uncle Ron’s.

  “Uncle Bloody Ron’s?” said Hogarth out loud. He frowned and scratched his head. Uncle Ron’s was the run-down ice cream parlour at the Shoebury/Thorpe Bay end of town, where the beach and beach huts ended and the Ministry of Defence area took over the seafront. It was late. Uncle Ron’s would be closed and the car park would be dark. Hogarth knew the car park had been synonymous with dogging, and other dubious sexual practices in recent years. But these days he was less au fait with it. Surely, Ali had more in mind than a bit of seafront nookie? All the same, with two whiskies in his system if Ali did want a kiss and cuddle, he wasn’t going to complain. He hoped she didn’t mind her kisses tasting of sweet ’n’ sour with a hint of whisky. Then he thought about it again.

  A new phone.

  An urgent meeting.

  Ali was in trouble.

  What if Hartigan had turned against her? Then there was the stalker to consider…

  Hogarth grabbed his jacket and car keys and stormed out of his house. He only remembered the alcohol swimming around his system after his Vauxhall had pulled out onto the busy London Road. But it was too late to worry about that now.

  The seafront was busy along the flashing lights and party music of the golden mile. But beyond that, the seafront road was a long expanse of moonlight darkness occupied by a few late-night runners and cyclists. A few random drunks weaved their paths among them. He tapped the steering wheel and tried to keep his breathing calm as he drove.

  Hogarth pulled into the wide dark car park behind the octagonal shape of Uncle Ron’s, looking for any sign of other parked cars. There was a black van parked on one side by the public lavatories. He saw a kite-surfing logo on its side. Hogarth ignored it and drove around the car park in a loop. He looked into the area beyond, into the triangular field behind the last beach huts. In summertime the field was full of cars. It was used as an overflow car park. Deep into the triangular field, he saw a car. A saloon parked among the beach hut shadows. It didn’t look like Ali’s car. So maybe she hadn’t turned up. Maybe Ali had got stuck – or worse – stopped by her suspicious husband. Hogarth considered his options then started to type a rapid text.

  “Ali. I’m at Uncle Ron’s. Where are you?”

  He sent it to the new number. But there was no instant reply. Impatient and taking a risk Ali wouldn’t like, he sent it to her usual number too. Just in case. If he’d still smoked, Hogarth would have happily reached for a fag. Instead he got out of the car and paced around in the cold. A freezing sea breeze rushed through his jacket and rattled the flagpole on the top of Uncle Ron’s.

  His phone buzzed. He lifted the phone and scanned it.

  “Uncle Ron’s? I don’t understand. What are you doing there?”

  Hogarth checked the sender. It was from A. The text had been sent by Ali’s original number. Confused, he went back to the first text and now he saw the errors. The inconsistencies. She had call
ed him J. When had she ever shortened his name like that before? Never.

  Hogarth stopped pacing and stood stock still. His breath turned to ice.

  “Oh shit!”

  He started to type out a rapid text, to warn her they’d been rumbled. He mumbled the words as he typed them, concentrating to say just the right thing. He only heard the footsteps thudding close behind him when it was already too late. Hogarth spun around and put his arm up to block the attack, but the shadow launched at him with a flurry of punches. There was another shadow too. The second one was bigger and came at him from the side, lashing blows at his back and kidneys, and then his jaw with hard, solid punches. On his best days, Hogarth might have withstood it. But it was late at night. He was shocked with cold, and the food and whisky made him slow. The man in front of him sank a deep blow drilling into his gut. It doubled him over and filled his body with pain. Hogarth leaned down as the blows rained in, nausea filling his whole body. He heaved and vomited, but the pain carried on. The vomit sent the first attacker staggering back. Hogarth had enough energy left to laugh as he wiped his mouth.

  “Scared of a little puke on your shoes… are you?” Hogarth worked hard to stand up as the first man backed away, and watched as he stepped into a pool of light from a street lamp. He was an aggressive looking man with a face like a London brick. Strong. Nothing like the stalker. But the other man was still at his side. Hogarth turned to face him, to try and fight back, but he didn’t have the energy or the time. Hogarth saw the fist coming a half-second before it struck him clean in the face. He went down. He hit the deck, narrowly avoiding the vomit, and then the kicks came again, and plenty of them.

  “That’ll do,” said one, when Hogarth was groaning with pain. Most of it was feigned. If they thought he could take more, he knew they would have gladly given it to him.