The
Darkest
Deed
A Gripping Crime Mystery
The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Book 3
Solomon Carter
Great Leap
One
Aimee Gillen turned up the volume on the stereo and caught sight of herself in the mirrored wardrobes. She leaned close to the glass and pressed a finger against the bags beneath her eyes. She traced a long baby-blue painted fingernail along the crescent line wrinkles and pulled at the crow’s feet from the side. She tutted, then stood well back from the mirror. But even standing a couple of feet back Aimee could still see the fear in her reflection. And nothing aged a woman like fear. All she wanted was to see the Aimee that people outside would remember and know best. She stepped back from the glass, one step then another. She put on a smile and dropped her silken dressing gown to the floor. Avoiding her strained eyes, she took in the rest of her body. She traced down the line of her neck – not sinewy yet, not like her mother – gazed at her generous breasts, and down past the jewel stud in her navel, down over her hips and thighs. Still pretty good. She wasn’t fat. She was still athletic and supple. The cellulite hadn’t yet taken over her backside and thighs like it did with Maggie Mason when she was the oldest studio girl before her. No, she was still more than good enough. Provided things remained fair. Provided they hadn’t turned against her – provided they hadn’t found out. And that was out of her hands. Aimee left her gown on the floor and turned the stereo so high that the air seemed to vibrate, then she danced around the edge of her bed, her charged up body twisting in time to the beat. This was a favourite tune, a dancy number from Ibiza, a time before wrinkles, self-loathing and everything else. A time before any of this shit was even a remote possibility. A time before fear.
“You’re freeeeeeeee!” She sang as loud as she could in an attempt to blot out the angst inside. But Aimee’s eyes couldn’t help flicking to the clock. It was almost ten pm. In the old times, she would have been working by now, but they hadn’t called her in weeks. They must have known she’d been meddling. That was the only possible reason to leave her out in the cold. Which meant things were even worse than she thought. Aimee sang on and swallowed the panic. She blinked away the tears. Even if she was wrong, if things carried on like this, it would only be so long before they stopped her pay. And Aimee couldn’t afford to go without money. If there was even a remote chance of losing pay, she would have to act. Be proactive, cut her losses and get out now. In the short term she’d need to find another gig. A tall order, yes, but that was okay, wasn’t it? If the new people didn’t look at her eyes too closely or at those wrinkles, and if they overlooked her little vices… well, Aimee had a few more years in her yet. But the longer term depended on what happened in the here and now.
Aimee dropped her backside onto her double bed and opened the bedside drawer. It was time to calm her nerves. All the furniture in the complex was built-in and screwed down. The whole place was built like a cheap hotel - some place where no-one would ever want to stay. How long had she lived here now? As long as any of the others, she reckoned. By now she was institutionalised. It was crazy, but true. Back at the beginning, staying there had been a choice. But now, when the place scared her the most, it wasn’t anything like home. It was a prison. A prison dressed in the illusion of devil-may-care living it up. She could come and go as she pleased, so long as she always came back. She could do whatever she liked, so long as she didn’t break the rules. The rules, like no talking to the others. Like pretending things were A-okay. Aimee smiled bitterly as she pulled the old-fashioned tobacco tin from the side drawer. It was the same old green and gold tin her father had used to roll his ciggies – back before he died. If her old man saw her now, he wouldn’t have been proud, but then Aimee had never been very proud of him either. She popped the scratched tin lid and gazed at the yellowy-white powder inside. She smiled. There was enough chalky stuff left in there to fund a quick move if she really needed to. But only if she could stop herself from snorting it all. Aimee used a shaking blue fingernail to scoop up a load of powder, then turned her finger down and dragged her nail across a grey slate tile in a perfect straight line. With efficient skill, she made a white line, and looked upon it as a thing of beauty. Thin, bright and perfectly straight. But the high lasted all too briefly, and afterwards things were always far worse.
Aimee picked up her chrome straw and ducked her head towards the white line. She was about to snort when there was a loud knock at her bedroom door. Aimee stiffened and sat upright. She saw herself in the mirror, her long bottle-blonde hair, her ageing, frightened eyes with their pin-prick pupils. She turned cold and felt the goosebumps prickle up on her skin. At the second knock, she stood up, laid the tiny chrome straw down beside the white line and hid the tile in her bedside drawer. Another knock at the door made her hurry. She left the drawer half open.
“Just a minute!” she called and checked her eyes again in the mirror. What if it was Harry? Oh, yeah! If it was Harry everything would be alright again. Aimee forced a smile and grabbed her gown. She wrapped herself in it, arranged her hair just so and made her lips do the old Harry pout. She pulled the gown open enough to offer a good view of her cleavage, and then she was done. No matter what had happened in the last few weeks – no matter how bad things had gotten – Aimee still needed a little more time before she was ready to get out. And by then, she would have done what she needed to do.
Aimee opened the door and looked out into the corridor and her smile instantly fell away. Her eyes lost their hope. It wasn’t Harry after all. Aimee turned away and left the door hanging open behind her. She tried to compose herself. She didn’t want to show her fear because it would have confirmed everything they probably believed about her. Letting them see her fear would have been the absolute worst thing of all.
Or so Aimee thought.
But on that score Aimee was wrong. Very badly wrong…
Two
Two weeks ago…
“Promise you won’t hit me,” said Norton.
Hogarth shifted on his feet and looked around in the darkness. His puffy eyes were narrow with suspicion. His head still ached from the beating he’d sustained in the seafront car park outside Uncle Ron’s café. He’d let the painkillers wear off because he intended to medicate with whisky before the day was out. It turned out that ibuprofen and neat malt whisky weren’t a very good mix – so he’d been told. The breeze picked at Hogarth’s unkempt hair and blew it back, exposing his high-lined forehead and the start of a widow’s peak.
“I don’t get it, Vic,” said Hogarth. “Why are we standing out here in the cold and not drinking slops in that piss-hole you call a pub?”
“Because some things are so sensitive that I’d rather not have others listening in.”
“Sensitive. Really now? But that’s never bothered you before, Vic. I thought your arse had been permanently superglued to that chair in there. What’s the real reason for meeting out here?”
“I told you. This is sensitive. Besides, if you do decide to take it out on me, I don’t want to get a beating in my own boozer. That pub is my home. It’s my living room. So, before we go any further, will you promise not to hit me?”
Hogarth’s throat was closing up. His temples were throbbing, his heart racing with all kinds of raw feelings. Getting kicked around in a car park could do that to a man.
“But I don’t know what you’re going to tell me, and now you’re saying I actually might want to hit you for it? And if I do want to hit you, maybe I shouldn’t make that promise.”
Hogarth and Norton looked one
another in the eye, considering each other. Hogarth was dressed in his usual navy-blue blazer and chino ensemble, Vic Norton was wearing his latest shell suit while holding a carrier bag which looked made of the same flammable material. Hogarth watched Vic Norton squirm. The old rogue looked like he was regretting the meet-up after all.
“Yes…” said Norton. “I thought about that. So, seeing as I might well take a hit for telling you the truth…”
“Vic Norton. The rent-a-grass who stands for truth, justice and the alcoholic way…”
“Because I know you might hit me,” said Vic, “I’ll need fifty up front, as a down payment.”
“Fifty quid?! Without even so much as a bloody word? What do you take me for? A charity?”
“Charity. Fat chance of that. I take you for a man who’s got himself in a tight spot and doesn’t even know it.”
Norton blinked at his cuts and bruises. “Not until recently, that is.”
Hogarth blinked. “And you expect me to believe you have all the answers, do you? You’re a blagger, Vic. You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I know enough this time. Look at you. You’ve been beaten to a pulp.”
“It’s a few cuts and bruises, Vic. And I’m still here, ready to give it back when I see them.”
“Now who’s the blagger, eh, Inspector?” said Vic.
“Just spit it out or I walk away. I don’t need you wasting my time on top of everything else.”
“Fifty quid,” said Vic, sticking out a bony, tobacco-stained hand. “Now.”
Hogarth shook his head and turned away towards the vast, empty black car park behind the Sutland Arms. He started walking.
“This is about her, Hogarth.”
Hogarth kept walking.
“The MP’s wife.”
Hogarth stopped dead in his tracks. He grimaced at the sound of his secret being spoken out loud. He turned around and looked around. Vic Norton started to wither on the spot.
“How do you know?” said Hogarth. He kept his voice calm.
“Eh?” said Norton.
“How do you know?” Hogarth shouted, and Norton stepped back. Hogarth launched across the tarmac and grabbed Norton by the zip-up collar of his tracksuit. He dropped his bag on the floor and the bottle inside cracked open.
“How do you know about her?”
Norton was wide-eyed and shaking in Hogarth’s grasp. His rotten breath filled Hogarth’s face, but Hogarth refused to let him go.
“Fifty pounds,” said Norton, quietly. “Or I tell you nothing.”
“Norton, do you know how flammable shell suits are? Do you know, if I so much as light a match and put it near that outfit of yours, you would go up like a firelighter on bonfire night. Not a pretty sight, Vic. And think about all the noise you’d make, too. It’s enough to make my eyes water.”
“You don’t scare me.”
“Then you’re a bloody fool, man!” Hogarth flung Norton towards the white wooden-slatted wall at the back of the Sutland Arms. “Because these days, Vic, I scare myself…” said Hogarth. “Before I give you a penny. Why should I believe you?”
“Because it’s true.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“Because my source is close to the husband. My source has had dealings with him for a long time.”
“If it comes from him, it might all be lies. Lies trumped up to discredit her, or hurt her… and I won’t pay a penny for that.”
“No, Hogarth. These aren’t lies. Because if any of this stuff ever came out, it would hurt the husband as well. And you must know how politicians can’t stand having their careers affected by dirt. Especially other people’s dirt…”
The ferrety old sod was back in his comfort zone, dangling carrots laced with poison. Hogarth watched the confidence returning to Norton’s old watery eyes.
Hogarth opened his jacket and took out his wallet. He pulled it open and found the two twenties he had planned to spend on a quick jaunt to restock his cupboard with tinned pies, frozen chips, and another bottle of malt.
“I’ve only got forty on me.”
“Not enough,” said Norton, shaking his head.
“Then it’s a down-payment. You’ll get the rest. Here, take it, before I change my mind.”
Hogarth pulled the notes free and folded them between two fingers. He held them up in the air, and Norton came and snatched them like a jackal stealing meat from a lion. Norton backed away as soon as he had the notes in hand.
“Wise move, Inspector.”
“Don’t get carried away with yourself. Just tell me what you’ve got to say,” said Hogarth.
“Are you ready for it? The truth I mean?”
“I’ve bloody paid for it, haven’t I?”
Norton checked over his shoulder and took one step back.
“Okay,” he said, wheezing with nerves. “It’s about your girl. You don’t know, do you? I mean, there’s no way you could know. But she’s got a past. And the MP knows all about it. I mean, how could he not know? It’s the very reason they got together in the first place… and it’s the reason they haven’t got any kids too…”
Norton stopped and stared at Hogarth. “No. She really didn’t tell you… Mrs Hartigan is a woman who gets what she wants. No matter what the price.”
“Careful,” said Hogarth. “You don’t know her in the least.”
“I don’t need to. I know what she did…”
As the old man began to tell him what he knew, Hogarth’s body began to tense of its own accord.
The old man spoke carefully, quietly, and Hogarth caught the trepidation in his eyes. Before Norton was done speaking Hogarth couldn’t hear any more. Norton wouldn’t stop. The old man’s words were an endless barrage of insults tied to imaginary facts. Hogarth lost it. He charged towards the old man, fists balled tight. Vic Norton spun away in panic, but Hogarth seized his shoulder and pulled the man back.
“Lies!” said Hogarth. “Vicious, bloody, evil lies.” He raised a fist to Norton’s face.
“I couldn’t make that stuff up! How could I? Why? It’s not possible to invent things like that…”
Hogarth stared down into Norton’s eyes. He took a breath. His fist loosened and fell to his side. Another second passed and he let go of Norton’s collar altogether and shoved him away.
“It’s true, Inspector…” said Norton, backing away. “And you still owe me for it. One day I think you might be grateful that you found out like this…”
“Yeah, you’re all heart, Vic…”
Norton slunk away, leaving Hogarth standing in the lane behind the pub. His eyes trailed down to the blue plastic bag and the crushed wine bottle inside it. A blood-like puddle had slicked across the tarmac. The first few spots of cold rain hit his face with the promise of more to come. Hogarth turned away to fetch his car. As he walked, his phone started to buzz in his pocket. He took it out of his jacket and scanned the text on the screen.
I’ve packed my case, Joe. Pick me up when you can. This is it. From now on I’m all yours.
“Ali,” he whispered.
Of course, it was Ali. It should have been the best day of his life. But it had just been ruined in advance by one of the worst human beings he had ever known.
He’d insulted the local MP. A man with contacts and influence.
He’d taken the man’s wife away from him.
And Norton had set the cherry on the cake.
In more ways than one, the shit was about to hit the fan.
Three
The present…
The alarm beeped a long time before Hogarth finally opened his eyes. But he wasn’t the first one to move. Ali Hartigan rolled away from under Hogarth’s heavy arm and stretched across to the other side of the bed. She picked up the digital alarm clock and tapped it hard, then she shook it, but the damn thing kept on bleating. Hogarth found Ali shaking the clock like a fresh polaroid picture. Hogarth smiled and took the clock from her.
“That won’
t work,” he said.
“Nothing works,” said Ali.
“That’s because it’s mine. It only responds to me.” Hogarth laid the clock down on the sideboard and thumped it hard enough to make the plastic shell pop. The alarm stopped. Hogarth looked up at Ali Hartigan and found her watching him with big alluring eyes. Even at six am she somehow managed to look bewitchingly beautiful. She’d been sleeping in his bed, sharing his meals and his home for almost two weeks. It had been gratifyingly sexy, even for a man in his mid-forties. He just couldn’t resist her. His eyes traced the soft bow of her lips, and the elegant line of her nose. He spent a moment looking at the beauty spot by her lips. She was so pretty he wanted to reach out and touch her cheek. A fortnight was the longest he’d ever lived with a woman, at least since he’d failed as a husband. It was almost getting to the comfortable stage. Like a proper relationship. Only it wasn’t. Not yet. "There were two fundamental reasons why his situation with Ali was not yet a proper relationship. First off, their affair remained a secret. It was a secret for practical and personal reasons, including the pathetic don’t-go-public request from Ali’s MP husband. Second, Vic Norton’s words hung over him like a cloud. Whenever he thought he was past caring about the old snitch’s bitter words, they came back to him whenever he looked at her. But Hogarth was a red-blooded male, and not even his vaguest doubts could stop him from wanting her." Her gentle fingers traced over his chest and the fire stirred inside him. He gazed at her with mixed feelings. She leaned up on her elbow and the duvet fell away from her body. His eyes traced over her breasts.
“I’ve got to go back to work this morning…” he said, softly.
“I know. These last two weeks have felt like peace. Like our own little world.”
“Yeah. Like the eye of the storm,” said Hogarth
Ali leaned over him. “What am I going to do now while you’re away playing cops and robbers?” she said.
The Darkest Deed_A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery Page 1
