The Darkest Deed: A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery (The DI Hogarth Darkest series Book 3)

by Solomon Carter

  “As soon as his schedule permits,” said Hogarth.

  “Look, I’m sorry… if there’s anything else I can do for you…”

  “Yes, thank you, Miss Aubrey.”

  The woman nodded and turned away putting her phone to her ear. “Lana Aubrey speaking…”

  Hogarth couldn’t help eye the woman’s hour glass figure as she walked away. But even as he did, he shook his head. This time Simmons was watching him.

  “Guv?” said Palmer.

  “That white line bothers me.”

  Palmer sighed. Simmons dropped down into a crouch position at the side of the big double bed and threaded his hands underneath it. He slid his hand along, searching the whole time.

  “But it’s not just the white line, Palmer. Where’s the suicide note? Eh? If that girl killed herself, there’d be a note. Like I said, there’s more questions than answers in this one.”

  “Hang on…” said Simmons. “What’s this…?” His fingers teased at the edge of an object beneath the bed and pulled until it slid free. “A mobile phone,” said Simmons. The phone was in a pink cover case.

  “But why hide it under there?” said Palmer.

  “See?” said Hogarth. “Another question. Simmons, see if you can start it and have a look at her contacts and last calls. If you can’t do it, then find someone who can. Her last calls might tell us something. Palmer, you look at those tablets. Marris might need to run an analysis on those.”

  “It still looks like suicide to me,” said Simmons.

  “And it might be. But we’ll need pathology to give us a definitive answer on that one.”

  They had seen all there was to see in Aimee Gillen’s apartment. It was time to let Crime Scene start their phase of the job. As they left Aimee Gillen’s room, they watched Marvin escorting John Dickens and an unknown man past the end of the corridor. The unknown man was probably a doctor called out to declare life extinct. His gut tensed at the thought of talking to Dickens. It was his first day back at work and Hogarth was not inclined to deal with Dickens yet. He let them walk by before he led Palmer and Simmons back towards the reception.

  “Shouldn’t we be talking with Harry King?” said Simmons.

  “Yes, but I don’t think that’s necessary yet. Genius like his shouldn’t be disturbed lightly,” said Hogarth with a grin. “Besides, I’ve got a feeling we’ll be back down here soon enough. We’ll speak to Dirty Harry then.”

  Hogarth nodded a goodbye to the orange-tanned young blonde behind reception as he pushed out into the wide lobby of the X-L building. As soon as he opened the doors, he regretted it. If he’d stayed just two minutes longer, he might have avoided a confrontation altogether.

  The large humpty-dumpty figure of Darryl Regent stood face to face with the smaller, grey-bearded Police and Crime Commissioner, Roger Johnson. At the sound of the door opening, both men turned to face Hogarth. Regent’s eyes barely stayed on Hogarth’s face longer than a second. There was no recognition on his part. But when Roger Johnson saw Hogarth, his eyes flared and his mouth became a thin, crooked line before it twisted into a polite smile. It was the kind of insincere smile Hogarth loathed. Hogarth turned rigid. Simmons and Palmer to his back. He was far too old for this naughty schoolboy shit, but Simmons and Palmer didn’t know a thing about his troubles. Melford had seemed content to keep it under wraps for now. Hogarth had to hope Roger Johnson felt the same way. But ultimately Johnson was Southend’s Police and Crime Commissioner. As an elected commissioner, Johnson held the police purse strings for the next three years and had developed the latest plan for getting more out of the police while cutting their resources to the marrow. In short, Johnson was a police VIP. So what was he doing with Darryl Regent? Maybe the fat man was about to launch a political comeback after all.

  “Detective Inspector Hogarth,” said Johnson. “What brings you here?”

  “You didn’t see the SOCO then, sir?”

  “No,” said Johnson. Then Hogarth wondered whether the commissioner even knew what a Scenes of Crime Officer was. Hogarth didn’t know much about Johnson, only that his background wasn’t in policing. Which made him ideal for such an important police role, of course.

  Darryl Regent raised an eyebrow and looked at Hogarth. He seemed intrigued.

  “The body of a young woman was found in the sauna at Harry King Studios.”

  “A body?” said Regent. The man looked aghast.

  “Oh dear,” said Johnson. He looked more upset about it than Hogarth had expected. “You don’t suspect foul play, do you?”

  Foul play? Like they were inside a bloody Agatha Christie novel, for crying out loud!

  “No, sir,” said Hogarth. “But we’ll know a lot more about it once the SOCO and the pathologist have had their say.”

  Johnson and Darryl Regent shared a look and Regent tutted.

  “That’s not good at all,” said Regent. “Not good for the poor young lady, and not for my gym, let alone Harry King,” said Regent in his faint northern accent. Hogarth had him down as a Yorkshireman. “The studio is a low-key affair. It hasn’t damaged my gym because nobody really knows it’s there. But a body? That’ll put a cat amongst the pigeons. Any chance this incident can stay low-profile?” Regent looked at Hogarth and Johnson in turn.

  “I’m sure there’s no need for a mighty fuss, is there?” said Johnson. Hogarth ignored the question and looked at Regent. “Excuse me, Mr Regent, but you said it’s no good for King?” said Hogarth.

  “Of course it’s no good for Harry King. No doubt the bloody health and safety mob will blame his sauna and haul him across the coals for it. Still, that’s Harry’s look out, not mine,” said Regent. “I know it sounds bad, but I’m just glad the woman didn’t pop her clogs in my gym. Who needs that, eh? You can’t justify the membership fees when you’ve got dead bodies and coppers all over the shop.”

  “Yes, I see your point, Darryl,” said Johnson.

  Hogarth bristled while he maintained a good poker face. He looked through the glass windows into the pristine blue gym with the girls behind reception.

  “Don’t your punters mind the neighbours, Mr Regent?”

  “Excuse me?” said Regent, looking at Hogarth properly for the first time.

  “The porn studio next door.”

  “Oh. I doubt any of them know what it is. What they pay for here is exclusivity and a feeling of opulence and luxury. So long as they get that, who cares about the neighbours. There won’t be too much fuss, I hope…?” said Regent, eyeing Johnson.

  “We hope not,” said Hogarth. “So how does it work here, Mr Regent? Do you have a stake in Harry King’s business?”

  Darryl Regent frowned and shook his head. “Why’s he asking that?” he said to Johnson. “Of course I bloody don’t.”

  “Inspector…” said Johnson cutting in while giving Hogarth a firm look.

  “Why would I own a stake in King Studios? Old Harry has been doing quite well enough without my money. No, Inspector. I own the building. The freehold. Harry owns the lease on that quarter, and I own the rest of it. But the truth is I’ve never had any trouble out of him in ten years.”

  “Seems like a strange neighbour to have though, eh?”

  “What exactly are you implying, Inspector?” said Regent, as he looked to Johnson for help. Commissioner Johnson shuffled on his feet.

  “I think the Inspector is just expressing his innate curiosity, aren’t you, Inspector Hogarth?” said Johnson. “After all those years in the job, questions become a second nature.”

  But Regent looked offended. His jowls tremored as he looked at Hogarth, along with Palmer and Simmons behind him.

  “If you’re suggesting something untoward about my moral integrity, officer, I think I should remind you I’m no longer involved with politics, and I have never sought to portray myself as a holier than thou type. But to be clear, Harry King is a neighbour here, and that’s all they are. And as Roger here well knows, my business caters for people who pay a lot
of bloody tax in this town. Those are people who pay your wages, Inspector.”

  “So long as they pay their tax,” said Hogarth, regretting the words the moment he uttered them.

  Regent’s face turned dark. He looked at Johnson who winced and nodded at the same time.

  “It’s okay, Darryl. I think our friend Inspector Hogarth has been misinformed and overstepped the mark without meaning to do so.”

  “Damn right he has,” said Regent.

  “Just let me have a word with him. I’ll sort it out, okay?”

  Regent didn’t say a word. Roger Johnson laid an unwelcome hand on Hogarth’s upper arm and nodded towards the exit doors. Hogarth stiffened and walked with the man, resenting every second. He nodded at Simmons and Palmer as he left them behind. They looked like nervous kids caught in the crossfire.

  “Commissioner,” said Hogarth, turning to Johnson as soon as they stepped outside.

  “No, Inspector,” said Johnson. “Let me speak first.”

  Hogarth looked down at the smaller man and waited for his rebuke.

  “Darryl Regent didn’t deserve any of that treatment, would you agree?”

  “Sir, he is the man who owns the X-L building. Those questions needed asking while I had the opportunity to do so.”

  “What? When I was talking with the man in my role as commissioner? No, Inspector. That was not appropriate in the least. Darryl Regent once bravely took a stand and he was right to do what he did. His personal tax affairs are no concern of yours and are nothing to do with your official business here. You were out of order.”

  “He said his members were taxpayers. I was merely making the point that—”

  “Inspector, no one wants to hear your political opinions. Not Mr Regent, who has invested in our town, not me, and not your subordinates. In fact, all we want you to do is dispense your duties as a police officer. From what I’ve heard about you – and believe me, I’ve heard far more than I wanted – you seem to have a problem keeping yourself out of trouble, and keeping your mind focused on the job. DCI Melford told me that you get results. But by God, if you wreak this kind of havoc in your daily work, it can’t be very long before the price of your behaviour outweighs the benefit of having you on the force.”

  Hogarth narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t mean to impinge on your meeting, Commissioner.”

  “Impinge? You did far more than that, Inspector. Regent is an important and influential person. Harry King too.”

  “Harry King?!” spluttered Hogarth.

  “Yes. I have dealings with him too. I’m a pragmatist, not a moralist. That’s how I get things done. Now, whatever police matter you have to conduct here, I’d appreciate it if from now on you kept a discreet, low profile, and allowed the X-L gym’s customers to go about their business with the least friction possible.”

  “The least friction, possible. Got it, sir.”

  Johnson stared at Hogarth, double-checking his face. Hogarth stayed impassive.

  “Well, if this is suicide or accidental death, we won’t be here for very long.”

  “That’s good, yes. You said it’s probably suicide.” Johnson gave Regent a wave and a thin smile as he spoke.

  “Possibly,” said Hogarth. “But if not, Commissioner, I’m afraid there might be some unavoidable friction.”

  Johnson frowned. “The woman died in a sauna. Surely you’d know by now if she’d been hurt by someone else. She probably fainted and died in the heat.”

  “That’s the trouble with dead bodies, sir. They’re not alive to tell you what happened.”

  Johnson tutted.

  “Are we finished, sir?”

  “I do hope so, Inspector,” said Johnson. Hogarth nodded and turned back for the door.

  “A word of advice,” said Johnson. Hogarth held the door and looked back.

  “I might not have a police rank, but you must know that in my role I wield a great deal of influence in police decisions.”

  “Yes. You control the funding, sir.”

  “And that’s only part of it. I am aware, for instance, that DCI Melford gave you a cooling off period to get your act together. You’re back so that cooling off period must be over. Whatever business you have here, don’t make a mountain out of a molehill. Whatever is going on here, fix it, close the case and move on. Or one of these days, one of the axes you have to grind might end up falling on you.”

  “Thanks for the advice, sir. I’ll bear it in mind. Oh. As for the friction, sir. Sorry but there’s more to come and it can’t be stopped.”

  Johnson tilted his head and frowned. “Why not?”

  “The coroner will be here to move the corpse soon. I’m guessing dead bodies count as friction.”

  Hogarth didn’t wait for a response. He opened the door and called to Palmer and Simmons. They streamed past the commissioner, who folded his arms and shook his head as they walked away to the car.

  “Remember what I said, Hogarth,” said Johnson. “These are important people.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hogarth. “How could I forget?”

  As Simmons dived into the front seat of his ford, Palmer caught Hogarth’s eye.

  “Sir, I don’t know what’s going on, but you’re only just back from leave. You don’t need to create new problems for yourself just yet.”

  “Thanks for the concern, Palmer. But you’re right. I don’t want to create problems at all. The trouble is problems seem to create themselves well enough all on their own.”

  Hogarth ducked into the front seat and Palmer sighed. Watching Hogarth bump and scrape his way through life was exhausting. And it was still only Monday morning.

  Eight

  Day two

  Hogarth walked into the CID office and checked the clock on the wall. Palmer was already sitting at her desk, as expected. The clock said ten past eight. By Hogarth’s own standards, he was late and he felt a tinge of embarrassment. Ali’s charms had got the better of him again. It seemed he couldn’t help himself. Hogarth dropped his car keys and mobile phone onto the desk and saw he’d missed a call. Palmer looked up and saw it too. The screen on his phone was bright, and Vic Norton’s name was on screen. Not a good look.

  “Vic Norton, sir?” said Palmer. “What’s he after?”

  Hogarth grimaced and racked his brains. He needed to be far more careful. “Oh, you know. Probably has some useless tittle-tattle about one of the scallywags on the Talbot Estate. He’ll have run out of beer money, that’s all.”

  “Might be worth a call back, though. You never know, do you?” said Palmer.

  “Good point, but with Norton, if you act too keen, the bastard wants paying extra. I’ll make him wait a while.”

  “Sounds like a plan,” said Palmer. Hogarth let loose a secret sigh of relief.

  The office door opened again, and Simmons breezed into the room. “Got the pathology report back from Quentin,” he said, waving a large brown envelope.

  “That’s quick going for Ed,” said Hogarth.

  “I told you,” said Palmer “It’s been quiet lately.”

  Hogarth slid the report out of the envelope and scanned the neat computer printed sheets. He scanned the information all the way down to Ed Quentin’s signature down at the bottom.

  “What does it say, sir?

  “For the most part it fits, with what we expected…” said Hogarth. “Aimee Gillen 36, was found dead in the sauna at Harry King Studios.”

  Hogarth read passages of the report out loud.

  “There are signs of damage to the heart and arteries which suggest Miss Gillen most probably died of a myocardial infarction. There was a high and evidently sustained level of cocaine found in her blood and liver, suggesting she was a regular user of the drug. The enlargement and deformity of the heart muscle also fits the frequent cocaine user analysis and is a likely reason for the infarction…” said Hogarth, looking up from the sheet.

  “She died from a heart attack after snorting a ton of coke?” said Simmons.

&nbs
p; “Looks that way,” said Hogarth. He turned his eyes down and carried on scanning the rest of the page. He flicked the sheet over, and looked for more information on the second page, but the report ended neatly near the top.

  “But hang on,” said Hogarth.

  Palmer turned in her seat and looked at him. Simmons blinked. “What’s the matter?” said Simmons.

  “We’ve got about the heart enlargement, the cocaine damage, the heart attack – all that jazz. That makes sense. And Quentin also mentions signs of severe dehydration, which shows Aimee Gillen must have been alive in that sauna for a while before she had the heart attack. Corpses don’t sweat,” said Hogarth.

  “Okay…” said Palmer.

  “Quentin concludes that it was an accidental death – a heart attack caused by taking a lot of cocaine over a long period of time, combined with the strain put on her heart by the sauna’s intense heat.”

  “Not a suicide then,” said Palmer, with a sigh.

  “Case closed,” said Simmons.

  “Not quite,” said Hogarth. “What happened with the wine glass in Gillen’s room?”

  “Marris took it in,” said Palmer. “He’s having it analysed, though he confirmed to me that the liquid inside was water. He’s going to check the prints and look for anything else.”

  Hogarth chewed the inside of his cheek. He had an uneasy feeling, a feeling which he had felt before. And in his current predicament, it was a feeling which meant definite, unavoidable trouble. But what was he supposed to do? Ignore it? Hogarth shook his head.

  He slapped the report down on the desk in front of Palmer.

  “Okay. Quentin’s told us about the heart, and the levels of cocaine in the girl’s body. But on the toxicology, he leaves the door ajar. That bit there. See?”

  Palmer leaned over the sheets and started reading the section below Hogarth’s stubby finger.

  “…Miss Gillen’s toxicology shows a range of illegal narcotic substances have been ingested over a long period of time. The damage to brain tissues, the heart muscle and liver, is also commensurate with that of a long-term drug user. The test reported faint traces of toxins in her system likely to be from previous days or weeks, and therefore cannot be directly related to the cause of death. Therefore, I rule out those faint traces as possible cause…”