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

by Solomon Carter

  “You hope,” said Simmons.

  The big cop looked round at Simmons. “He doesn’t know. Trust me. But where’s he going?”

  They watched the car swerve left at the roundabout and disappear towards leafy Hockley.

  “Hurry up Dawson, or you’re going to lose him,” said Simmons.

  “Simmons, chill. Honestly, it’s fine,” said Dawson. “Look. He’s just turned off onto a 30 mile per hour road. He’ll be stuck behind some old pensioner before he even knows it.”

  Simmons tutted. “That man could be our murderer.”

  “If it is murder,” said Dawson. Simmons looked across until Dawson met his eye.

  “The rumour mill, Simmons. It hears everything.”

  “Orton, you mean?”

  “He’s just one cog, but yes.”

  “Just keep after that car,” said Simmons. But Simmons knew he couldn’t boss the man around. They were the same rank after all, and he knew Dawson still commanded greater respect at the station among the rank and file. Simmons put half of that down to his bulk and tattoos alone, the rest down to his reputation as the man who stood against the old corruption.

  Dawson hammered the accelerator and the Ford shot left off the roundabout towards the green trees and fields on the outskirts of the middle-class Hawkwell and Hockley beyond. As they passed over a smaller, white-painted roundabout, Simmons leaned forward in his seat and squinted at the car in front. It was green. And the car in front of that was blue. He gritted his teeth and turned to Dawson.

  “You’ve bloody lost him.”

  “Then he took the turning at the little roundabout back there, or he pulled in at the pub. It’s okay. We’ll get him.”

  Simmons’ face darkened. Dawson turned onto the driveway of a garden centre and pulled the Ford into a sharp U-turn, sending gravel spraying up past the window and spattering over the shell of the car. Before Simmons could complain, his car was soaring down the road in the opposite direction. Dawson pushed the car up to forty, then fifty miles an hour. He took the turning and the road ahead kinked with a chicane-like bend as it passed houses and other side turnings.

  “You’ve lost him,” said Simmons. “Haven’t you?”

  “Not yet, Simmons… hang on. That’s him there…”

  He watched the car waiting at a traffic light ahead. A small burgundy Golf with smoke churning out of its exhaust. The light turned green, but instead of pushing the Golf forward, the car turned left and took a track which ran parallel with the road. The Golf disappeared.

  “What now?” said Simmons.

  “Hang on. I know that road. There’s a rugby club down there…”

  “A rugby club?” said Simmons.

  “Hold tight,” said Dawson. As soon as the burgundy car turned off the road, the light changed back to red. But Dawson hit the gas again and the Ford surged through the red and took the turning, narrowly avoiding an oncoming car.

  “There,” said Dawson. “There’s your boy, right in front of us.”

  The burgundy car slowed to a halt ahead and parked at the edge of the track. Dawson slowed up too. Simmons saw the big white painted sign of the local rugby club, and through a sparse line of leafless branches he made out the goal posts and crossbars of the rugby pitches.

  “What’s all this about?” said Dawson.

  “Who knows? But I think it’s time we found out. Thanks for the lift, Dawson. You can hang back now, I’ll take it from here.”

  Dawson pulled up the handbrake. Simmons jumped out before Dawson had the chance to say a word. He shook his head and watched Simmons jog up the muddy track, straightening out his shirt collar as he went.

  “It’s your funeral, Simmons,” muttered Dawson. But as soon as the words passed his lips, his face changed. After what Simmons had been through, Dawson realised he simply couldn’t let the man go on his own.

  Simmons walked along the tree-lined track, head angled down to the floor like any walker minding his own business. He slowed as he got close to the parked line of cars and peered through the back windows. The Golf was second in line behind an old Volvo. Simmons tensed as he got ready to approach the Golf. But as he reached it, Simmons froze. The Golf was empty. Spooked, Simmons looked around. Then he saw the small face reflected, looking at him from the wing mirror of the third car in the line. The driver’s face – bearded with cropped hair, staring at him with hard eyes. The man was talking to someone with him. Simmons heard the passenger door pop open and at the same time, the engine started.

  “Don’t move!” said Simmons. He knocked the back of the car window. The white reverse lights blinked on and Simmons launched out of the way fast. He leapt forward and saw Marvin running for the trees. Simmons saw something in his hand. A small bag or wallet.

  “Marvin! Stop right there!” shouted Simmons. He watched the young man jink through the line of trees and break out onto the grass rugby fields. The trees blotted him out of sight.

  “Where is he?” called Dawson running from behind, but Simmons ignored him. He saw a splurge of movement through the denser branches ahead. If the kid knew a way out through the rugby club, Simmons knew he would lose him again. He thought of the hours and days waiting for Marvin to surface, and of Hogarth’s mean-eyed disappointment. Simmons gritted his teeth and caught a glimpse of movement to his left. Marvin was running out of puff. Simmons hurled himself between the trees, arms outstretched ready to smother Marvin and drop him to the ground.

  “Gotcha!” he said. But his arms swept through empty air. Simmons found Marvin looking at him as he stepped aside out of his grasp. He watched as Marvin balled a fist and launched it at him. Simmons’ confidence drained away as he realised he couldn’t block the blow. Marvin twisted on his hips and hammered his fist through Simmons’ face and knocked him flat onto his back. Pain filled his senses and tears filled his eyes. He wiped the tears away from his eyes and blood from his nose. As Simmons rolled to his feet, he watched as Dawson threw himself at the young man’s waist. Wrapping him up in his muscular arms, Marvin went down, and Dawson bounced safely over the top of him. Irritated, tail between his legs, he walked across the pitch to Dawson. Beneath Dawson, Marvin the runner had lost his fight. Simmons reached down and grabbed the crumpled paper bag from Marvin’s fingers. He opened it and found a set of different tightly wrapped packages inside. A bounty of different drugs, brown lumps, bright green leaves, and parcels of white powder, all shrink-wrapped in shiny cling film.

  “Nice tackle, Dawson,” said Simmons, grudgingly.

  “Think I was remembering my school days on the pitch.”

  Simmons knelt down in front of Marvin’s face and lifted the young man’s head with his bloody fingers. “You’ve been a very naughty boy, haven’t you, Marvin.?”

  The kid knitted his eyelids together and Simmons dropped his face down on the grass.

  “Did you get the reg on the other car?” said Dawson.

  Simmons shook his head. “No. But Marvin is going to tell us all about it. Aren’t you, mate?”

  Twenty-one

  “It’s part of the deal. I swear it is,” said Marvin.

  Hogarth sipped bitter coffee from a plastic vending machine cup. They were in Interview Room 1. Hogarth hadn’t much fancied coming back to the station, but Simmons’ collar gave him no excuse to stay away. But in good news, Hogarth hadn’t seen DCI Melford, PC Orton or beardy Roger Johnson since he’d arrived. Hogarth hoped his luck would continue to hold. He sipped the coffee and offered Marvin his customary sneer, though much of the sneer was about the taste of the coffee.

  “Part of the deal, eh? Do you mean, as in part of your job, Marvin? Because I doubt very much that it’s in the job description. I’m sure Harry and Lana Aubrey would be able to dig that out for me, and I sincerely doubt the wording contains any references to drug running, or breaking and entering into the rooms of his other employees.”

  “Hey! I’m on the minimum wage. Friends my age pull in double what I do selling overprice coffee on the
high street.”

  “But you didn’t sell out like them, did you? Because you’re suffering for your art in the movies, aren’t you, son? The life of a struggling creative, eh? Was the film industry all you dreamed, Marvin? Hollywood this ain’t.”

  Marvin folded his arms and sat back in his chair. He put on the air of a hardened and resilient villain Hogarth wouldn’t be able to crack, but Hogarth knew the veneer was less than skin deep.

  “You’re screwed, Marvin. You know that, don’t you?”

  At his side, Simmons nodded. The kid looked at Simmons’ bruised face. His nostrils still carried the taint of earlier blood.

  “He was chasing me, man. I was scared. He could have been a psycho. How was I to know it was him?”

  “But the problem with that, Marvin, is that DC Simmons here is a policeman. And you saw him. PC Dawson vouched for that. You had time to recognise Simmons here, and when you did, you fled. And when he caught up with you, you hit him. That’s at least two very black marks against your name. Then there’s the breaking and entering. Black mark three. Then there’s the small matter of your party pack of illegal drugs. If you set out aiming to collect as many criminal charges as you could in one morning, then you’ve made a bloody good fist of it. As it stands –– we only have you for possession. But this could very easily get a hell of a lot worse for you.”

  Marvin rubbed his temples and looked down at the scratched surface of the interview room table.

  “Worse?”

  “Yeah. Worse. We could throw every single one of those charges at you and throw in intent to supply, and it will stick. You attacked a copper. Judges don’t like that, son. Juries don’t either. And neither do I.”

  “Come on, man. I’m the runner. You know why they call me that? It’s not just about my role in production, man. It’s because I do the running to help the actors get by. They’re stuck in that X-L building and more than half of them are from out of town. If they went out to get their fixes themselves, they’d get turned over.”

  “You mean that you’re providing a useful social service, is that it, Marvin?”

  “Look. I know how it sounds, but I’m doing what they need someone to do. Half of them have got habits, others are just recreational. I get what they need. I make a very small profit to top up my earnings.”

  “And Harry King knows about this?”

  Marvin turned quiet.

  “I’d be surprised if he didn’t.”

  “What about Lana Aubrey?”

  “Lana Aubrey puts on a front, but deep down she’s just one of the girls. She knows.”

  “What are you saying? That you supply Lana Aubrey as well?”

  “Forget that! I never said that! All I said was I’d be very surprised if she didn’t know.”

  Hogarth stared at the smug glint in the kid’s eye.

  “So, if I phoned Lana and Harry right now and asked them about it, what do you think they would they say about this?”

  Marvin looked up from the table and met Hogarth’s eye.

  “They’d hang you out to dry, son, and you know it. This is your mess and yours alone. They might have turned a blind eye, as you’re implying, but you built this and you ran with it. You own this one yourself.”

  Marvin shook his head and looked at the wall.

  “I’m not getting hung out to dry for anyone.”

  “If I call them it’d be seconds before they ditched you, believe me. But the ball is in your court, Marvin. You could prevent a worst-case scenario,” said Hogarth.

  “Worst case scenario?” said Marvin.

  “Yeah. Worst case. The best part of ten years inside, playing a sissy to the hardened ogres who rule the roost. You know what I’m talking about, don’t you Marvin. They’re not just in the movies, Marvin. Ten years, or maybe six if you behave yourself. But what kind of person would you be after that? Hollow, that’s what. A shell of your former self. And you can’t wipe away that kind of regret. And with a record like yours, you’d be finished. Twenty-five years old and finished. Dear oh dear, Marvin. I’d call that much worst-case scenario.”

  “So… how do I stop that?” said Marvin, in a small, weak voice.

  “You can start by telling me everything you know. All of it. But first, why were you breaking into their rooms? You’re already making money out of them, and then you’re nicking from them on top?”

  The kid shook his head.

  “It’s not like that. I’m the runner. If they’re busy, I go in and take the money that they’ve left out for me. I have spare keys from the regulars. I go in, take their cash from the side and off I go.”

  “But when I saw you, you were sneaking around, making sure you weren’t spotted,” said Simmons.

  “I’m taking their orders, man. It’s drugs, right? I still have to be careful.”

  Hogarth held up a hand to stop them.

  “There’s another problem, Marvin. Bigger than that. You told me you finished your errands at nine pm. But you were seen as late as ten pm on the night Aimee Gillen died. Can you see why that’s a problem?” said Hogarth.

  Marvin sighed, blowing out a long deep breath. He nodded.

  “Now you may think you can give me any old toffee, Marvin, but I want you to think very hard. Aimee Gillen was quite possibly murdered on Sunday night and I think you fed me false information, which puts you firmly in the frame as a killer…”

  “What?!” said Marvin. He leaned forward and laughed out loud, but his eyes were full of panic.

  “Think hard, Marvin. Now, I want to know everything you know about Aimee Gillen. Everything you know, because that’s the only thing that’s going to save you from ten years of trouble inside. The truth.”

  “But I told you about Aimee before…”

  “So, tell me again.”

  “Aimee was depressed, I told you. You didn’t need to be a psychologist to see it. It was in those eyes of hers. They looked dead. There was no joy there. I mean, even when she was high and joking around, she still had that same joyless look. The spark had gone.”

  “And you remember a time when there was a ‘spark’ do you?”

  “Yeah,” said Marvin. He paused and scratched his chin. “I’ve been working at the studio almost a year now. I remember Aimee much happier.”

  “Then come on, what made her so sad?”

  “I don’t know… but I think she was scared.”

  “Scared?” said Hogarth. “Scared of what?”

  “It’s hard to say. But she acted like she was scared. She had no friends at the studio, and I mean literally none. So, I felt sorry for her. Now and then I spent a bit of time with her, mainly out of pity to be honest. We shared a joint, had a laugh, snorted a line…”

  Hogarth’s eye widened.

  “Any other drugs beside the smoke and the coke?” said Hogarth.

  “Nah, she liked the stuff she liked, and kept clear of all the rest.”

  Hogarth narrowed his eyes in confusion. What of Quentin’s ‘traces’ of unknown drugs past. Maybe Dr Ed was only covering his backside after all.

  “Did you sleep with her, Marvin?”

  “What?”

  “Come on. A young lad like you, and here’s this lonely blonde, and you’re alone with her in her room, sharing your drugs, making her feel better. It sounds almost romantic to me, what do you think, Simmons?”

  “Almost, guv,” said Simmons. Simmons stared hard at Marvin.

  “Once, okay. Once,” said Marvin throwing up a hand. “But I knew she was needy, so I drew the line there. It didn’t happen again. I didn’t need anyone doing the bunny boiler bit on me. The studio is my life. Well, it was my life…” he said.

  “You felt sorry for Aimee, so you slept with her then cut her off. What a guy. That must have done wonders for her self-esteem,” said Hogarth.

  “I didn’t cut her off. I was there for her. I still chatted with her, but I never allowed her to get too frisky ever again.”

  Hogarth nodded and changed tack. />
  “You chattered with her. You got close. Did she ever tell you what she was scared of?”

  “Not really. When we, you know, did it, she said she wanted to tell me something. But I was worried she was getting too close to me. After I shut her down, she didn’t mention it again. But a couple of times I did see her freak out when the door was knocked. Once she freaked out when I was with her, and it turned out just to be one of the other girls asking to turn the music down. Another time, it was me knocking at the door. When I opened, Aimee looked proper petrified. I guessed she was just coming down after a heavy session. People on a come down can overreact and freak out like that.”

  Hogarth looked at Simmons.

  “You’d say she was afraid of a visitor, then?”

  “I don’t know,” said Marvin. “Maybe.”

  “Did you ever notice that Aimee was forming friendships with other people? You said she was alone, friendless, and all that, but we already know she had formed an attachment to Chrissie Heaton. And maybe other girls. Tell me. What do you know about that?”

  “An attachment? What does that mean?” said Marvin.

  Hogarth looked him in the eye and blinked.

  “Oh. What? You mean she fancied them? Or like she was having sex with Chrissie or something? No way, man. No way! I knew Aimee Gillen better than most. She was edgy and needy, but she was no dyke, man.”

  “How can you be sure, Marvin?”

  “Because I’m sure. Look. I saw her with Chrissie Heaton once. But there was no kinky dynamic between them. No flirting, nothing. I know what that looks like, believe me. I’ve seen a couple of the older girls cut loose, but this wasn’t like that.”

  “Then what was it like?”

  “When I saw them Chrissie and Aimee were just talking. Chrissie was upset, and Aimee looked like the stronger one of the two. It wasn’t about sex. It was like a sisterly thing, I know it.”

  Hogarth’s brow dipped low over his eyes.

  “So, what were they talking about?”

  Marvin shrugged. “I think Chrissie had a problem. She looked upset to me. I can’t tell you what it was about. I don’t know.”