An old Fleetwood Mac record came on the radio and reminded her of her mum back in the old days, dancing around the kitchen, singing at the top of her lungs. Palmer tried to shake Hogarth from her mind and turned up the radio. She hummed along to the tune, thinking about the easy frozen pepperoni pizza and garlic bread waiting for her at home, when her car settled behind a red light half way down the busy Southchurch Road. She tapped the steering wheel in time to the music.
“You can go your own way… go your own way!” she sang, and her eyes turned right towards the white Sutland Arms. She looked through the old-fashioned square windows and caught a glimpse of two men’s profiles. Their faces were half-lit in brassy light and half cast into darkness. But she knew those two faces far too well to ignore them. Hogarth was sitting opposite Vic Norton, the dirtiest snitch on the books. Both men looked engrossed in deep conversation, and Hogarth looked as pissed off as ever. Palmer frowned in confusion. Hogarth had said he was going home. Why bother to lie if he was on police business? The answer came quickly to mind. It was obvious enough. Hogarth wasn’t on police business. Secrets. Secrets were bursting from his seams. Palmer shook her head with irritation and pity. Poor Hogarth needed a good talking to. And more than that, she suspected he needed help.
Horns blared in the traffic behind her and Palmer remembered where she was. The traffic lights had flicked to green. DS Palmer hit the accelerator and shot down the street. Inside the pub, the sound of the car horn drew Hogarth’s eye, but he didn’t see a thing.
***
“I know why you don’t believe me, Inspector. She looked a perfect match for the MP, didn’t she? Elegant. Classy and all that. About the right age, too. Well, maybe a bit younger, but what man doesn’t like his girl to be younger than himself… eh, Joe?”
“Don’t use my first name. That’s not for the likes of you. Not ever. We’re not friends,” said Hogarth.
“But you use mine.”
Hogarth didn’t reply.
“She’s no angel, Hogarth.”
“Yeah. You said that before. I heard all that. But I need to know more. Why should I believe a bloody word you say?”
“They met in 2008,” said Norton, like he was beginning a story. “I hear they were both very much into one another back then. He was brand new into the House of Commons. A bright prospect, probably in line for a ministerial career. And she… well, she was sharp. Her sharpness matched her beauty, Inspector. They got together properly, a year later, made it official and moved in together.”
“There’s nothing weird about that. That’s exactly what men and women do.”
“He was an MP, Inspector. The type who likes to indulge himself. The wrong dinner parties. He played with fire. And he got himself burned.”
Now Hogarth felt he was getting somewhere. Maybe the old sod would give him some ammo he could use against Hartigan when the time came.
“He was a single man, young for an MP too. And curiously single.You know, some people used to think he was a poof. A single professional man always makes people think that. But that wasn’t it at all. He had special interests, but not in men.”
“Of course not. He got with Ali.”
“Yes, he did. I’ll spell it out. They ended up together because James Hartigan had a thing for hookers.”
Norton’s eyes sparkled as his mouth lingered on the final word.
Hogarth stared at Norton. He controlled himself. He sipped his beer, then hammered the glass back onto the table. A slop of lager flew over the side and landed on the surface.
“You’re a very sick man, Vic.”
“It’s true. I tried to tell you before, but you wouldn’t hear me. Hogarth, I’m telling you now, she was a hooker. But not just any hooker. Oh no, men like James Hartigan think they are people of breeding. They like a classy screw. He didn’t pick her off the street. He got her from recommendations from the other boys in the Commons. She was said to be reliable. Discreet. And very good at what she does. That’s what he wanted.”
“How the hell are you supposed to know about what goes on in the House of Commons, Vic? You’re Southend street vermin, not The Sunday Bloody Politics.”
“I know, because I know…” said Vic.
Hogarth could no longer hold back. His hands flew across the table and he dragged Norton forwards knocking the old man’s pint tumbling aside.
“He married her, Vic. And you still want me to believe she was a hooker?”
“Only because that’s what she was, Inspector…” he whispered, looking into Hogarth’s eyes. “That’s what she was. She was a hooker. Now… let… me… go.”
Hogarth let go of him and Norton withdrew to the other side of the table. Norton gave a thin smile and raised a finger, asking him to wait. With his other gnarled hand he dipped into his jacket, and picked something from it, but hid it from Hogarth’s view it by pressing it to his chest.
“This is where it costs you, Inspector. Honestly, one day I think you’ll thank me. I’m sparing you a lot of pain… you’ll see that soon enough.”
“Pain? I’ll show you pain you little…”
“Fifty quid, Hogarth. Not forty this time. Fifty or no deal. It’s worth it, I promise.”
Hogarth stared at the hand pressed against Norton’s chest.
“It better be,” said Hogarth. He took out his wallet and peeled off two twenties and two fives and slid them across the table.
“Proof, Inspector. This is your proof.”
Vic Norton laid a small white card onto the surface of the dark wooden table and slid his hand away. In the same motion he grabbed up the money before it could be taken away from him. Hogarth blinked at the business card on the table. It was a neat card with calligraphy style print. There was one large word, followed by smaller print beneath, printed in the same typeface. The card was old. The corners were bumped and peeling, and there was a crease line across the front. But the writing was clear and easy to read.
Alison
Escort Deluxe
In the bottom left corner was a telephone number – a mobile phone number. In the opposite corner were three words. The words were remarkably like the ones Vic had used himself. Beautiful. Reliable. Discreet.
“What happened after Hartigan proved the girl wasn’t reliable... But as for discreet, well no one knew about her until recently, did they? Not even you. And as for beautiful, that goes without saying.”
Hogarth’s mouth had turned sore and dry. His pulse was racing.
“How do I know this is for real?” he snapped. “Any idiot can knock up a crappy business card.”
“It’s real. Look at it. It’s at least ten years old. Back when your girl was still in business. Back before she bagged herself a trophy husband instead of another punter. And you want to know how she did that? One word, Inspector. The same word I used before. Manipulation.”
“What? What do you mean?”
“Well, there’s another word for it too. And seeing as you’re all paid up, I’ll let you have this one for free. Blackmail, Inspector. Blackmail.”
Hogarth picked up the card and flipped it between his fingers. “I’ll check on this. All of it. Count on it.”
“I know you will, Inspector” said Norton.
“And if you’re lying, you know what I’ll do to you, don’t you?”
“But I’m not lying – am I, Inspector?”
Hogarth scowled and bolted up out of his chair. He couldn’t stand to hear another single word. He turned away and barged through the mob of ruffians, picking up some standard abuse as he went, and he didn’t stop until he was out in the street. He breathed fast and hard until he was ready to walk again. He looked at the business card, grabbed his mobile phone from his pocket and dialled the number printed on the front. His phone tried to connect, but instead of being put through a robotic, female voice came on the line. “Sorry, the number you dialled has not been recognised, please try again.”
Hogarth hissed. “You better not be lying, Vic,” he whis
pered. Then slowly, he started walking.
It couldn’t be put off any longer. Hogarth had to go home. But he wasn’t going to confront her yet. Not until he was utterly certain that old Vic Norton wasn’t the one doing the manipulating.
***
Across the Southchurch Road, a man leaned in the shadows of a doorway, resting with his back against the cold brick wall. The man looked at his phone screen as if he was reading a text. But he wasn’t. As soon as Hogarth’s head turned away, the man lifted his phone into position and started to photograph the DI as he walked away. When Hogarth disappeared around the corner of the pub, the man pressed the photograph icon of his phone and started to review the newest images in the gallery. Yes, he had taken enough. He had plenty.
Eleven
Day three
“Look at this, guv,” said Simmons.
Simmons handed Hogarth his mobile phone from the front passenger seat. This time Hogarth was doing the driving. It was a quarter past eight in the morning, and they were in the car park of the X-L building. Hogarth had got away from the station as fast as he could. DC Simmons seemed oblivious to Hogarth’s need to flee at the first opportunity, but Palmer seemed to get it alright. Palmer noted the puffy bags beneath Hogarth’s eyes, and the missed stubble spots under his chin left by a hasty shave. She sat in the back and kept quiet as Hogarth stared at the image on screen, squinted, and turned the phone ninety degrees to get a better view.
“What exactly am I looking at here, Simmons?” said Hogarth.
“Can’t you tell? That’s Lana Aubrey, back in her heyday. The nineties That’s her right there.”
Hogarth squinted at an image of a bikini-clad red-head pouting at the camera. The woman looked like a cross between a low-budget Bond girl and in inflatable doll. She looked the type who preferred Lambrini to Martini, shaken or stirred. Hogarth raised an eyebrow and looked at Simmons. “And hang on. Look at this one here…” Simmons leaned across and swiped the phone screen with his finger. An image of a different woman appeared on the screen. A blonde in black lingerie appeared. From Palmer’s position, the image looked like something from a mail order catalogue.
“Can you see who it is?”
“Some little minx down to her drawers,” said Hogarth. “It’s good to see you doing your homework, Simmons. I’ve never known you so keen.”
“No, that’s not it, guv. That’s Aimee Gillen. That’s the victim.”
Hogarth looked at the woman’s face close up.
“So it is. Then this is from a while back too.”
“It’s the same vintage – the nineties,” said Simmons.
Hogarth handed Simmons back his phone. “One more, guv. Then that’s it, I promise.”
Hogarth turned in his seat to show his weary face to Palmer.
“Sorry about this, DS Palmer. I think Simmons forgot all his equal opps training while he was on the sick.”
Simmons ignored them. “Annabelle Marks. That’s her there,” he tapped a finger on screen. The image was apparently a topless shot, though Simmons had shown enough consideration to exclude the X-rated elements by zooming into her head and shoulders.
“Who?” said Hogarth.
“Annabelle Marks,” said Simmons. “We interviewed her on day one. She didn’t seem much in there, did she? But she’s one of Harry Kings superstars. They love her in the States and Down Under too. I’d never heard of her.”
“Calm yourself, Simmons,” said Hogarth. “I’ve only just had the car cleaned.”
“Yes, I think you’d better put that away now,” said Palmer. “Annabelle Marks happened to be top of the list for questioning this morning.”
“Really?” said Simmons.
“I think we’d better leave him in the car, don’t you?” said Hogarth.
“No,” said Palmer. “I’m sure Simmons can keep his hormones in check, can’t you, Simmons?”
The DC gave them an awkward smile. As they got out of the car, Hogarth shut the door and leaned across the roof. “By the way. That’s not a work phone is it, Simmons?”
“Errm… yes, actually.” said Simmons.
“Whoops,” said Hogarth. “Whatever you do, don’t run another dodgy search on that phone, will you?”
“No, sir.”
“We’re in enough trouble as it is,” said Hogarth.
The three of them started the walk across the car park towards the grand entrance, with Simmons dragging on gingerly behind.
***
Hogarth gave Palmer the lead on the questioning of Annabelle Marks. A good choice she thought, as Palmer was the one least likely to be wowed by the woman’s soft-porn star status. She found the woman resting in her living quarters and she looked bored as hell. In fact, Marks even looked pleased to see her. The woman wore a grey tracksuit with a pink dance logo on the front, along with popsocks and pink trainers. The walls of her room were full of posters of Hollywood men, with all of them musclebound warriors from the superhero movies. All of them had their tops off, oiled pecs and biceps bared for all to see. Naturally.
“Thank you for seeing me, Miss Marks.
Marks shrugged. “At least something is finally happening. The sooner you ask your questions, the sooner we can get back to work.”
“Actually, I thought you might be glad of a break,” said Palmer. “All that… um, work… must get a bit tedious after a while.”
“Seriously? But what else is there to do in this place?”
“Hmmm…” said Palmer. Palmer pointed to the empty seat by the dressing table, and Marks nodded. Palmer took the seat, while Marks dropped her backside onto the bed.
“I’d like to ask you about Aimee Gillen,” said Palmer.
“But I already told you everything about her the other day – she was in a mess, and I think she knew she was on her way out. She was badly depressed.”
“Yes,” said Palmer. “And that was useful, but I want to probe a little deeper, if I may. I’m trying to learn a bit more about Aimee’s background. About her life, her problems, especially the recent ones.”
“I’m not sure I can help you there,” said Marks. “It’s not as if we were friends, either. If anything, I guess she might have even been a little jealous of me.”
“Jealous? Why?”
“She wouldn’t be the only one,” said Marks. “It’s natural.”
Palmer waited for Marks to elaborate.
“I’m one of the main players here these days. Aimee was the main girl years ago. Look, I didn’t have a problem with her, but Aimee was twelve years older than me. I’m at the top of my game right now. I think she was a bit distant and cold with me because of that, but I took it in my stride. The bottom line was we didn’t know each other, but I knew she was a mess.”
“And how did this mess – as you put it – manifest itself?” said Palmer.
“You know she was hooked on coke. She was hooked big time.”
“And did she take anything else?”
“Probably. Anything she could is my guess.”
“But you don’t know for sure,” said Palmer.
“Nope.”
Palmer looked for an angle, but didn’t see one. Maybe Annabelle Marks wasn’t as of much use as she thought. As Palmer struggled for another question, she watched Marks look away in thought. Her pale blue eyes glazed over. “I did wonder though…” she said.
“Wonder what?” said Palmer.
“Huh?”
“You said you wondered,” said Palmer. “What did you wonder?”
“Okay. I heard her talking on the phone a few times. They weren’t always nice phone calls. I’ve never had a row on the phone I’ve tried to keep it under wraps. It’s not good or professional to air your dirty laundry in public. For one, it gives the other bitchy people here something to use against you later on, and secondly, it’s just not very cool. But Aimee didn’t hide it. You could hear the woman in her room. And more than once I could hear her from the washrooms shouting her head off down the phone.”
“How recent was the last time you heard one of those phone calls?”
“Probably no more than a day or two before she died,” said Marks. “Not long ago at all.”
“Hmmm,” said Palmer and made a mental note of it.
“Did you ever overhear or recall any substance of what you heard?”
“Do I know what she was ranting about? Not really. She sounded wild and frustrated. I think she was coked up when she was making those calls.”
“You don’t recall anything at all?” said Palmer.
“Well, all I heard – just once – I heard her say something about struggling to make him take her seriously, whatever that meant. But people rant about all kinds of shit when they’re falling out.”
“Take her seriously. About what, I wonder,” said Palmer. “Do you know what she meant?”
“Not at all. But let’s face it, Aimee Gillen was fading fast. Maybe she was talking about that. Shouting at her boyfriend, blaming him for the fact she was about to crash out and maybe he didn’t care. Who knows?”
“Thank you, Miss Marks, that could be important.”
“You think?” said Anabelle.
“Tell me,” said Palmer. “Can you think of anything else? Anything else at all?”
Palmer watched Annabelle Mark’s eyes drift to the side. This time the young woman bit her lip and winced, as if she was having trouble making up her mind. Palmer scented something.
The Darkest Deed: A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery (The DI Hogarth Darkest series Book 3) Page 10
