The Secret Dawn

by Solomon Carter

  “That’s a relief,” said Palmer. “Bonnie and Clyde, eh? Who would have guessed?”

  She sipped her drink. “And what would Liv say?” she joked.

  “Who knows?” said Hogarth, draining his glass. “A little bit of jealousy might even push us past the flirting stage.”

  Palmer smiled and thought about the paperwork in her bag. The position she’d seen advertised was with the other CID unit at Basildon. The post would stay open for a while yet. There was no real hurry. And in the meantime, it would be interesting to see how Hogarth fared with Liv Burns. Like he said. It didn’t sound like a hot romance. Not that that counted for anything, Palmer told herself. She and Hogarth were strictly professional. It couldn’t be any other way. But she was interested all the same.

  Hogarth finished his pint and put the empty glass on the table, the froth sliding down the sides.

  “Heybridge still hasn’t called,” he said.

  Palmer shrugged and sipped her drink.

  “Well we know there’s no deceased to worry about,” said Hogarth. “Be sure to keep that under your hat.”

  “Of course.”

  “If Heybridge is out of reach, maybe we can enjoy the rest of this Saturday too. Fancy another one?” said Hogarth.

  “Not if I’m your designated.”

  “Oh yeah. Good point.”

  “Have one if you like,” she said.

  “I prefer to drink in company. So then, Designated. What about a curry and a bottle round your place?”

  Palmer blinked at him and kept her face blank.

  “Guv, it’s not even four ’o’clock ’yet.”

  Hogarth looked at the sky out of the window. “Yeah. Suppose it is a bit early.”

  “The curry idea could still work. Later on.”

  “No. I think you’re right. We’re Bonnie and Clyde at the office. Clever girl, Sue. Don’t blur those lines, eh?”

  “That wasn’t exactly what I meant—” she said.

  “No. It’s fine. Don’t worry. It’s the beers talking, that’s all. Okay. You up for a spot more work tomorrow?”

  “If the case needs it,” said Palmer, forcing any regret out of her voice.

  “It needs it. I’d like you to talk to Yvette George for me.”

  “Yvette George?”

  “One of Grant Dawn’s employees. Listen to what she says, and what she doesn’t say. I get the feeling she’s got a foot in both camps.”

  “Which camps?”

  “The side which loathes Grant Dawn and the side which loves him. But no man can serve two masters. Doesn’t the good book say something like that.”

  “Probably,” said Palmer.

  “Then let’s find out which way she’s leaning. And see what else you can pick up.”

  “I don’t know anything about the woman.”

  “But you’re a woman, Sue. Miss George is bound to open up more to you than to me and Simmons. You should have seen Sabine Dawn with us this morning. She was defensive and suspicious the whole time. And then she ratted me out to Melford. I dare say you’d have had better luck.”

  “And you’ll be wanting a lift home now then?”

  “I wouldn’t say no.”

  Palmer looked regretful as Hogarth stood up and set his jacket in order. A curry and a bottle sounded like a good way to spend a Saturday evening. But Hogarth was right. It was probably better it never happened at all.

  Seven

  Sunday.

  Hogarth woke up on Sunday morning with a head like no other. The entire circumference of his skull ached as if someone had seized it with a giant pair of midwife’s callipers and squeezed tight. With great effort, Hogarth hefted his body up in bed and heard his phone buzzing from the floor. Buzzing yet again. Bzt-bzt-bzt. Not a phone call then. A message or some other kind of notification. Then an unwarranted and intense sense of worry and shame flooded his chest and tugged at his memory. He’d done something wrong, he knew it, but couldn’t for the life of him think what. The empty single malt bottle sat by his smartphone, staring up at him, giving him something of a clue. He remembered the confrontation with Melford which burned deeper still, but it wasn’t that. So what was it? He knew it was connected with his phone. So what had he done? Bloody hell! In a fresh panic, Hogarth groaned and reached down for his phone, and looked at the screen. There was a message from Liv Burns waiting for him, as well as several notifications from… Instagram? What?

  Hogarth grumbled and groaned as he squinted at the screen and dabbed at the various notifications.

  The unopened text from Liv Burns came first.

  You sound a little fresh this evening. Let me guess. You’ve been drinking. Okay, Romeo. Let’s arrange something for next week.

  Next week? Now that sounded good. But what in the blazes had he said?

  He scanned the message thread and saw he’d texted Liv several times and she had replied twice. Liv was right. The tone of his texts had been flirty to start with, but the last one was a bit strong. He groaned again. At least Liv had responded well. Next week was sounding good indeed…

  Then he squirmed more deeply when he saw the other notifications.

  He clicked one of the notifications and opened a new app on his phone. Instagram. And there were five notifications attached to it. Five!

  “I’ve got a very bad feeling about this,” he muttered. He opened the app and it filled the screen. Right there, front and centre, the profile of a woman with glamorous sun-tanned looks, flowing brown hair and an expertly made-up face. It was Emily Flount’s profile. Influencer, Fashionista, Trend Setter and Go Getter. That was how she described herself. He scrolled down and found an endless stream of photographs of the woman in various styles of dress, and in some images, she was wearing next to nothing at all. There were maxi dresses on a palm tree beach. Then she was dressed in winter duds like a cute Eskimo in big sunglasses. And there was more than one eye-opener of the woman in stringy bikinis. He scrolled to these, lingered, then quickly scrolled away. He also found a few posts to do with Grant Dawn Social – about the quality of the work, and the company’s involvement in taking Emily Flount to the next level, whatever that meant. It was all social marketing. Proof that GDS worked – and it had been going on for a while. Looking at the number of followers and likes Emily’s Instagram posts were getting, it looked like she was probably worth her pay. But looking again, it was the messages which concerned him most.

  He opened the direct-message conversation and swiped to look at the whole thing as quickly as he could. Very bad medicine always had to be taken quickly.

  Hogarth: Hello, Miss Flount. Found your profile here. Just to let you know we are taking the case.

  Damn… What the hell had he been thinking? But seeing those bikini shots gave him a solid clue.

  Then Flount had replied.

  Emily Flount: That’s really good news. And you contacted me via IG? Cute. Now you can see what I do for GDS. Like what you see?

  Hogarth blushed and scanned his next line with trepidation.

  Hogarth: Yes. Very colourful.

  Phew. At least he’d managed to keep it neutral. Even after a bottle of malt he had retained a grain of common sense.

  Emily Flount: Colourful. You mean my outfits?

  Hogarth: Yes, your outfits. Send me your number to arrange meeting. I’ll be in touch.

  Emily Flount: Meeting? Private or personal? I don’t mind either way. Feel free to contact me here.

  Hogarth’s face was red. He dragged a hand down it and shook his head. He found Flount’s number was enclosed and her last message ended with a smiley. He read the last line again and took a long breath.

  Drunk texting! Damn it. The first line was the worst one. A policeman reaching out to a possible suspect via her social media account – an account which showed said female suspect in an array of suggestive poses. Nothing pornographic, mind, but modern fashion photography often had a way of stepping close to the mark, leaving little to the imagination. He couldn’t de
ny it, the woman looked good in a bikini. Anyone surveying those messages would have had several impressions as to why Hogarth had reached out after seeing those images. And the case would have been only one of them. Chances are, anyone would have been right. Seeing those images, reading those texts, Hogarth knew he had been tempted. But the rest of the texts showed he had pulled back from the brink. Colourful? What a fantastic euphemism that was. And when the woman had suggested a private meeting, Hogarth knew the worst, most drunken version of himself would have replied in a heartbeat. Thankfully, he must have gone to bed before he saw it. But not until after he’d shot a last flirty text to Liv Burns.

  Hogarth shook his head.

  “Oh my. That could have been a lot worse.” But the knowledge didn’t spare him an ounce of shame. And as he pulled himself out of bed, his devious mind teased him with two prospects. One was Liv Burns. She was coming to see him – and after garnering a deeper insight into his sordid mind. Very heartening. The second was the offer of a private meeting with Emily Flount. His mind dangled the prospect over his head. Like the lure of fine champagne laced with hemlock. It sounded so tempting, and yet he knew it was all kinds of wrong. It could never happen. It would never happen. Even so, those images were so very colourful…

  Hogarth shook his head and peered in the mirror at the bags under his eyes.

  “An ice-cold shower and two cups of coffee for you, my boy,” he said, and willed himself towards the bathroom. His hand fluttered a moment over the shower’s hot/cold setting. Because he was a man of his word, he flicked it to cold, the water came on and he let out a little shriek as the icy water poured over his skin.

  When he finally walked out of the shower, the band of pain around his head had lessened and his skin was pimpled and white from the cold. He whistled as he dried himself and plucked a box of aspirin from the bathroom cabinet on his way back to dress. He dry-swallowed two pills and tossed the empty box onto his bed. And then he blinked at his radio alarm clock. And swore. Today was Sunday, but it didn’t matter. His weekend off work had been aborted. There was a case on. The clock read 11.58.

  “Shit!” Hogarth grabbed a shirt and another pair of tan slacks from the wardrobe and thudded down the steps towards the kitchen.

  ***

  Palmer stood on the doorstep of an old Westcliff flat, not so very far from the now closed Authentic Kebab. Without his father or his son to help him, Palmer doubted whether Orcun Sen would ever be able to open up his business again. But Palmer hadn’t made any attempt to call the man. The water had been muddied by his son’s arrest, so any sympathy was sure to be misread, and Palmer’s life was complicated enough already. She folded her arms and peered into the big double-glazed bay window of 169a St John’s Road, Westcliff. The living room was modern but looked spartan and empty, without a sign of clutter and no sign of Yvette George either. Shame. She didn’t have Brett Reville’s address to track the woman down there and she would have to make a couple of calls to get it. Maybe PC Heybridge had all the necessary info, but she doubted it. The PC was probably still looking at the incident from a road-traffic perspective. And then he had the coastguard to deal with. All that fun was coming their way. Palmer pressed the doorbell a final time and as the electronic chime echoed behind the door, she heard the sudden approach of rapid footsteps. “Yes! yes! Alright, alright!” muttered a female voice. But when the door was opened, all trace of irritation on the woman’s face had been replaced with a polite smile.

  “Yvette George?” said Palmer.

  Palmer found herself looking at a pretty, but prim-faced redhead. The woman’s hair was the same shocking ginger as the girl from the old Vosene commercials, and just as thick as well. Yvette George was a pretty forty-something with browny-green eyes and a slender figure, bordering on skinny. She was dressed in cosy-looking Sunday attire. Pink Jogging bottoms, a warm violet jumper and a cream scarf. It wasn’t exactly chilly outside but Miss George seemed to be someone who felt the cold.

  “Yes,” said the woman.

  “My name is Detective Sergeant Sue Palmer, from Southend Police. We’re looking into the—”

  “Grant’s disappearance. So? Have you found him then?”

  The woman’s eyes widened in hope of an answer and glistened as though she might shed a tear.

  “I’m afraid not,” said Palmer. “Not yet.”

  “What? After all this time? That’s awful.”

  “Yes, but you can rest assured all the emergency services are doing their level best right now.”

  “I’m sure they are. Then what’s this about? You want to speak to me?” said George.

  “Yes, if you don’t mind, Miss George.”

  “Then I suppose you’d better come in. Actually, you’re in luck. I’ve just put the kettle on.”

  Palmer walked inside and closed the door behind her. The place seemed vast inside. The building was detached – quite odd for a flat – and the interior’s old high ceilings opened out high and wide before her, with several large rooms spilling off a central corridor.

  “This place is big,” said Palmer.

  “Deceptive, isn’t it? Yes. I think I’m rather spoilt here. I couldn’t get a modern house with all this room. But then again, I really don’t think I could afford one either.”

  Palmer nodded. She knew how the woman felt but compared to Yvette George’s home, her own place felt like a shoebox. “House prices have gone silly around here,” said Palmer.

  “Ever since the city folk started coming in,” said Miss George. “But there we are. No point in crying over spilt milk. And I really don’t need to move, do I? I’ve got this.”

  Palmer tried not to feel envious. But she sensed a sadness in the woman all the same. Grief for her boss, maybe. Or maybe for her job. Her future. Her whole world had become uncertain because of a car accident in Paglesham.

  Palmer followed the woman into her kitchen as the kettle clicked off and sent a cloud of steam curling high into the air. She noticed the place was a bit draughty. Palmer shivered and put it down to the high ceilings.

  “Tea? Coffee?” said George.

  “Tea, please.” The safest option. Bad coffee was often undrinkable, but tea was all much of a muchness.

  “So, what do you want from me on a Sunday morning?” said George. Then she added. “How can I help you?”

  The first question was the genuine one, thought Palmer. The second one was merely a polite rephrasing.

  “We just need to establish a few things relating to Mr Dawn’s business. His background. Any problems or issues in his life prior to his accident. That kind of thing.”

  “Why? Do you think it was suicide? I really don’t think that could be the case. Grant was a very happy man. He was a hedonist. A thrill seeker. A bit of a mini Richard Branson without the millions, if you like. I can’t see Richard Branson ever driving himself into a river on purpose, can you?”

  “As I recall Richard Branson has risked his neck more than once and almost paid the price, didn’t he? This is quite informative already, Miss George. This is exactly the kind of information we need.”

  Yvette’s mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. The woman looked quietly pleased with herself. Palmer wondered whether such pleasure was due to being the type of person who liked to please authority – the servile type – or whether she was happy that the questions were turning onto safer ground. If so, it wasn’t going to last.

  “So he was a hedonist, a go-getter, an entrepreneur,” said Palmer.

  “You already speak as if he’s dead,” said Yvette George, forlornly.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t jump to that conclusion. In my experience, it’s always best never to pre-judge anything.”

  The woman nodded as if Palmer had uttered a meaningless platitude.

  “What else was he? Tell me about the business.”

  “Why? How does that help anyone?” said George. She handed Palmer her tea and sipped her own.

  “It can help us get an insight into all kinds
of things. And it’s standard procedure. We can’t rule anything in or anything out. If you don’t mind…”

  “Okay. Grant was not exactly a hands-on boss. He was an encourager. But he never really had an eye for detail. I think when he started out, he just got lucky. He had that about him. Hard work and luck. When he first started in the social media business, it just clicked, and the business took off. Grant knew how to schmooze with clients and build rapport. He had a wild side and lot of interesting stories. The clients always liked that. So he brought home the bacon. The business had been flying for the last few years…”

  Palmer nodded, she felt the ‘but’ coming.

  “Like I said, it all started so well. But the lack of an eye for detail, and Grant’s tendency to get bored easily meant that he frequently withdrew to explore his next big idea, or to enjoy some leisure time. And that’s when the pressure started to land on the rest of us.”

  “Pressure?”

  “This may not be appropriate for me to say, but you asked me about the business, about Grant, so I feel obliged to speak the truth.”

  Yes, the people-pleaser, the rule-follower, the servile type.

  “Go ahead, Miss George. It could prove useful.”

  “Grant was into blue sky thinking more than he was into doing. So, sometimes he didn’t chase the clients for payment. And sometimes he didn’t work so hard to bring new clients in. Pretty soon all he was doing was blue sky thinking with Sabine, his wife, and doing the fun marketing side with Emily Flount. Then the pressure to do all those other tasks fell to Brett. Brett’s only supposed to keep the business running. That’s his job. He wasn’t hired to manage credit control, marketing, client management and business development. Those were four different roles right there. Grant did it all in the beginning, then he let it drift. He was cruising, so poor Brett had to pick it all up or let the business fail.”

  “Brett, as in Brett Reville?” said Palmer.

  Yvette George nodded. She looked coy. “Yes, he and I… well. We became close.”

  Palmer nodded. “I see.”