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

by Solomon Carter

  Hogarth nodded slowly.

  “Did Aimee get close with anyone else?” said Hogarth.

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Did you ever see her talking to any other young girls?”

  “Chrissie Heaton is the youngest in the studio.”

  “Then what about any of the girls who work next door? The girls from the gym.”

  “What? Chrissie used to work there. She knows them… it could have happened, but I never saw it. Aimee was cut off. She kept herself to herself. She wasn’t exactly the outgoing type.”

  “And that’s the truth, is it?”

  Marvin shuffled in his chair.

  “The truth, yeah. That’s the truth. And you want to know the other truth?”

  “Oh, me? I’m all ears, Marvin. Come on. Tell me,” said Hogarth.

  “The truth is you’re going to charge me with whatever you want to charge me with no matter what I tell you. Am I right?”

  Hogarth stayed silent. The kid was full of emotion and teetering on the edge of something. A confession perhaps. Hogarth saw it coming, welling up from inside Marvin’s shaking body.

  “The truth is I knew that Aimee Gillen was going to get laid off and kicked out of the studio. I knew it alright. I overheard the whispers. And I knew it was going to kill her, man. She was so weak by then, she was desperate and distraught. By the end, she was so bad, it was like she knew, man. All she needed was someone to talk to. She asked me to listen to her. She said she had something serious to tell me, that she needed my help in a personal way. But I thought she was going to make another pass at me, so I stayed away from her. I didn’t let her get near me, man. I paid my little visits, yeah. Did my deliveries, but in her last days, I avoided her just in case she tried to make a grab at me. I even blanked her, man. I blanked her. And now that woman is dead. I slept with her. We shared a bed, then I blanked her. All that woman wanted was for me to listen to her.”

  “What do you think she was going to tell you, Marvin?” said Hogarth. He watched a single tear roll down the young man’s cheek. Hogarth leaned forward. “Marvin?”

  “The truth is I don’t know. I’ll never know for the rest of my life. Tell me, man… how the hell am I supposed to live with that?”

  Hogarth sighed. “You will, Marvin. Because people do. I’ve got one last question for you, Marvin.”

  Marvin sniffed and tried for some composure. He nodded.

  “Did you know that Aimee had some top-drawer coke? Really good stuff. Did you get it for her?”

  “No. I knew about it. She gave me a line, once. But it wasn’t the stuff I got. It was her personal gear. Like her own little personal savings account. But, yeah, it was good.”

  “You know where she got it from?”

  Marvin shook his head. “She had it since the moment I met her.”

  “Before we finish…” said Hogarth. “We found a line of that coke left out on a slate right beside Aimee’s little metal snorting straw. It looked barely touched at best. You knew the girl. Do you think it’s likely that Aimee could have left a line like that without snorting it?”

  Marvin frowned. “Not really, man. That stuff was like treasure for her. She raved about it. She never left it open or anything like that. If she set up a line, she tooted it, end of story.”

  Hogarth nodded with grim satisfaction. He eyed Simmons.

  “Thank you, Marvin. We’re done for now.”

  Hogarth stood up and Simmons joined him.,

  “You’re still going to throw the book at me, right?” said Marvin.

  Hogarth looked at Simmons and saw a hint of pity in the DC’s eyes.

  “Oh, the book must be thrown at you, Marvin. There’s no way out of that. But I think you just made that book a little less heavy. We’ll see, eh?”

  “Yeah,” said Marvin, his voice full of cynicism as Simmons and Hogarth walked out of the interview room.

  When the door was closed, Hogarth turned to face Simmons.

  “We need to know what Aimee Gillen was thinking – what she wanted to tell Marvin there. We need to know what she was going through.”

  “Guv?”

  “Simmons, we need that RIPA report now. Chase it, will you?”

  “Okay, guv. Right away. Did you believe any of what he said?”

  “Some of it rang true, Simmons.”

  “Which part?” said Simmons, with a cynical tone.

  “We’ll see, eh?” said Hogarth. “We’ll see.”

  Twenty-two

  The door of the CID room clattered open. Simmons walked in and he looked in a hurry. Hogarth jerked up in his chair and looked over his shoulder, relieved to see Melford wasn’t at the door, and annoyed Simmons had made him jump. The bitter vending machine coffee was keeping him going, but it was doing nothing for his mood. Hogarth felt like a zombie pumped full of angry adrenaline.

  “Did you have to open the door like that?” said Hogarth, rubbing his eyes. “I’ve got a headache as it is.”

  “Sorry, guv, but I thought you’d want to know. I got the RIPA report in from Aimee Gillen’s mobile network.”

  A few of the extra furrows on Hogarth’s brow faded.

  “And? Have you looked at it yet?”

  “A brief look, yes.”

  “Come on then – what have we got?”

  Hogarth pressed a forearm to the surface of his desk and swiped it clean in one move. The stacks of messy case files, printed emails and telephone messages collapsed to one side of his desk. He took the printout from Simmons’ hands and spread it out on the cleared space. Palmer leaned in from her neighbouring desk, and Simmons leaned close over Hogarth’s shoulder.

  Hogarth suppressed his annoyance. It was the coffee. Just the coffee.

  He flicked through the few sheets until he came to the paragraphs detailing the names and numbers of calls made and voicemails, text messages – both sent and received - and their contents.

  “This number here. It’s a Southend number,” said Hogarth. “Look. It appears on the report here twice in the last week. Palmer, can you check that number. It could belong to a boyfriend, or maybe the dealer where she got that coke from. Those calls could prove very important.”

  “I’ve already checked that number, guv,” said Simmons.

  Hogarth turned his head to Simmons.

  “How did you check it?”

  “I called it.”

  Hogarth blinked. “And?”

  “The number belongs to a firm called Gunther and Harland.”

  “What? Sounds like a bad folk band. Who are they?”

  “Solicitors,” said Palmer.

  “That’s right,” said Simmons. “I’d heard of them too.”

  Hogarth frowned. “So, let me get this right. Between snorts of coke, drug binges and late-night saunas Aimee Gillen was calling her solicitors? Do me a favour. Gunther and Harland. What are they? Ambulance chasers? Employment law maybe? I suppose Aimee was after filing a claim against Harry King for unfair dismissal?”

  “No guv. Gunther and Harland are a criminal law firm,” said Palmer. “I’ve known the odd suspect who’s had them as their brief. But not in a long while.”

  Hogarth shook his head. Another thing that didn’t make sense.

  “Okay, and this one…” Hogarth ran his finger along by the next number on the sheet. He recognised it as soon as he saw it. It was one of the community police lines the local force supplied to the public. It wasn’t the number police were to use these days, but the old line still appeared on a few tired old posters in the doctors’ surgeries and the lesser community centres.

  “Aimee Gillen called the police on Saturday. The woman knew she was in trouble,” said Hogarth.

  His eyes roved down past the only other unrepeated number he saw Gillen had called in the last week, then down to the text messages.

  The content of the text messages was shown alongside the number.

  “Please please call me. This is urgent.”

  The previous message r
ead.

  “Hi. This is Aimee Gillen again. I called you about the problem at the studio. Please call me.”

  “True to form, these texts sound needy and desperate,” said Hogarth. “That fits what everyone has told us about her so far. I think we’re getting closer to something. We need to call all of these people and find out what Gillen told them. We need to know if she got through to anybody on those community police lines too. Look at the times of these calls. They all happen on the Thursday, Friday and the Saturday before she died. Before that, nothing. Something happened to this woman shortly before she died. We need to know what that was. Did you notice anything else, Simmons?”

  “No. the same as you, guv. But there were a couple of other texts back here. I think these could be to Chrissie Heaton. Look.”

  “You can talk to me any time hun. I’m here for you.”

  “What’s the matter? Haven’t seen you for days. Has anything happened?”

  “Bloody hell,” said Hogarth. “If she’d said a little bit more we wouldn’t be chasing shadows. And if Chrissie Heaton did fabricate what went on between them, one of these text messages could have exposed it. But these messages can be read any old way. The defence could even argue those as evidence of the woman harassing Miss Heaton. They don’t prove anything,” said Hogarth.

  “But they do prove Aimee Gillen cared about the girl, one way or another.”

  “Exactly. They don’t work for us,” said Hogarth. “We’ve got to get something out of this. Let’s make a start on following up Gillen’s phone calls. And Palmer, double-check those texts were sent to Chrissie Heaton, will you? We could be making poor assumptions here.”

  “Okay, guv.”

  Hogarth raked his eyes over the numbers, and the details provided with them. He wondered how far the scope of one of these RIPA reports extended back. Clearly, the report on his desk went back no longer than a fortnight. If that was the extent of it, they weren’t the magic bullet he was looking for. But if he could set the search parameters much further back, well then maybe a RIPA report would reveal everything he needed to know about his personal dilemma.

  “Simmons, how far do these reports go back?”

  “How do you mean, guv? The parameters on that search were pretty tight. Just the last couple of weeks. Why? Did you want longer?”

  “That’s not what I meant, no. The Regulation of Investigatory Powers Act came along in 2000, I know that much. But mobile phone records… how far can these firms go back?”

  “They’re only required to keep a year’s worth of call data, guv. That’s the extent of the law. But it’s possible the network firms store much more than that. It’s not as if electronic data takes up much space, is it?”

  Hogarth nodded. He took out his wallet and kept it close in front of him. He slid the edge of the old white business card up in his hand, just enough to show the number.

  “Simmons…” Hogarth tried to keep his voice level and light as he spoke. “Can you check what network this number was on? Find out if they are able to run a check without too much fuss…”

  Simmons picked up a pen and Hogarth called out the number. As soon as the number was written, Hogarth discreetly slid the card away. “Whose number is this?” said Simmons.

  “It’s from a cold case. Just something bothering me, that’s all. Get me the network that number was on and tell me if they can do it, will you?”

  “Then do you want me to run the RIPA check?”

  “No, Simmons. That can wait. Call this Gunther solicitors outfit first. Aimee Gillen is our priority.”

  Hogarth scanned Gillen’s RIPA report. He had to admit, the level of detail was tantalising. If he could obtain the RIPA on that old number, the truth would finally be out. But for now, he needed to concentrate on the task at hand. Hogarth picked up the phone and squinted at the telephone number alongside the text on the Aimee Gillen RIPA report. “Please call me, this is urgent.”

  Hogarth dialled. A long phone ring kicked in which made him expect an answer any moment. Then, half way through the last ring, the line went dead and produced a long blank tone. Hogarth took the phone away from his ear and tried again. The long ring kicked in once again. It rang ten times. This time the call was answered. He heard a rushing air noise like the inside of an airplane cabin. Then he heard a car horn. Whoever had answered him was driving.

  “Hello?” said Hogarth. But no one spoke. Hogarth was about to speak again when a distant female voice came over the line. Distant though she was, Hogarth could tell she was shouting.

  “I can’t take the call. Sorry. I’m driving. Call me later.”

  “Wait, who is this?” Called Hogarth.

  But the line went dead, the same as before. Hogarth took the phone from his ear and stared at it like he intended to smash it on his desk. Beside him Palmer laid her phone aside too.

  “I tried that number, guv. It was definitely Chrissie Heaton.”

  “Oh. And what did she say?”

  “Nothing,” said Palmer. “She hung up on me, but not before saying hello. I recognised the voice right away.”

  “Hanging up on us seems to be fashionable at the moment. Any result from that solicitor, Simmons?”

  Simmons used his cheesy business voice as his call was answered. “Oh, Good afternoon. This is Detective Constable Simmons from Southend Police. Is that Gunther and Harland? It is. Oh good…”

  Hogarth shook his head and turned away.

  “Come on…” he muttered to himself. Oblivious to Palmer studying him from the side, Hogarth picked up the phone again. He refused to take no for an answer.

  But as soon as he heard the ring tone, he knew the mobile had been switched off. He grimaced, about to hang up, when he heard the beep, and a voice recording come on the line. Hogarth snapped the phone back to his ear.

  “Hello. You’re through to Alice Perry, reporter for The Record Newspaper, Essex. Newspaper of the Year. Please leave your message after the beep. I’ll get back as soon as I can.”

  Hogarth blinked in silent shock, leaving a voicemail recording of dead air before he remembered himself.

  “Miss Perry. This is Detective Inspector Hogarth from Southend CID. I have something I need to discuss with you. Please call me. This is rather urgent.” He hung up.

  “Aimee Gillen called Alice Perry? The journalist?” said Palmer.

  Hogarth nodded slowly as he chewed it over.

  “Yes, it looks like she did…”

  The look in Palmer’s eyes said what he was thinking. There was a chance that speaking to Alice Perry could blow the whole case wide open.

  Hogarth’s phone began to buzz. Hogarth put the phone to his ear. He didn’t even need to check the screen to know who was calling. Alice Perry was a sharp little hack – in fact, the sharpest he’d ever known. Hogarth’s heart was thudding fast as he tried to sound his usual, laid-back, cynical self. If he knew anything about young Alice Perry, it was that he couldn’t reveal even a hint of the cards in his hand. If he did, Hogarth knew he would be the one to end up being played.

  “Miss Perry. Thank you for getting back to me. I do hope you pulled over to answer that voicemail. Yes. Of course you did…”

  Hogarth and Palmer shared a silent smile. She saw a new twinkle appearing in Hogarth’s wily eyes. From that little twinkle Palmer realised the case was finally coming to life.

  Barely, yes. But barely was a start.

  Twenty-three

  “There’s a story in this, isn’t there?” said Alice Perry. She flicked her hair and gave him a wicked, yet pretty smile. Alice Perry was less than half Hogarth’s age. But she played hardball like a well-seasoned hustler.

  “There could be, Miss Perry,” said Hogarth, sipping his fourth coffee of the day. They sat in the black, jazz filled ambience of the coffee shop at the top of the High Street. Hogarth was hardly in a high street kind of mood. The combination of caffeine and stress had his eyes flitting around the coffee shop, suspecting people were listening into serio
us police business. Given the matter at hand the venue was a terrible choice, but Hogarth had to play it cool with Perry, or he’d risk seeing the murder case front page on Essex’s Newspaper of the Year. Or worse, his own ugly mug. Then he would be done for.

  “So, that’s why she called, did she? Aimee Gillen told you she had a story?”

  The young blonde sipped her mocha and leaned back in the tub chair. He could tell she thought he was a mess, but there was nothing Hogarth could do about it. As soon as they got through the pleasantries, Perry had reverted to her usual reporter demeanour. She was a flirt of the highest order, worse than her predecessor who he had known only briefly. She was too old to be jail bait, too young to be chased without a dangerous sting in the tail. Even so, she gave him those eyes which he knew were nothing but business.

  “They all tell me they have a story, Inspector. Like every nutcase who phones the police says it’s a matter of life or death. It doesn’t mean a thing, does it?”

  “Maybe not. But in this woman’s case it might have done.”

  “She said she worked at Harry King Studios – a film company in Southend. I had her down as a crank right there. I’ve been the lead reporter at The Record for a year now, and I’ve never heard of it.”

  “Really?”

  The girl played with her hair and swished her legs, crossing them over the other way. She wanted him distracted by her feminine wiles. But Hogarth had enough of those problems already.

  “Harry King Studios does exist, Miss Perry.”

  “Call me Alice, please.”

  “Okay, Alice. Harry King’s is a porn studio,” he said, watching as the shock flicked on her face.

  “What?”

  Perry looked around and sipped her mocha as if it was a stiff drink, all a little theatrical for Hogarth’s taste.

  “Isn’t that illegal?”

  “Filming sex between two consensual adults – or more – it flies close to the wind, but it is legal. Just. And Harry King plays it safe by only filming the soft stuff. Slap and tickle without the close ups, if you catch my drift.”