“Start with the IOPC, sir. Always a good start for a complaint.”
“Who are the IOPC?” said King.
“I’m sure Miss Aubrey will be able to Google it for you,” said Hogarth.
“IOPC. Did you get that, Lana?” said King. “Write it down.”
The little man turned away cussing under his breath while Lana Aubrey scribbled a note on her clipboard. They walked away, back through the double doors and left Hogarth and Palmer standing by the washrooms.
“The IOPC, guv?” said Palmer.
“Well, he asked, didn’t he?”
“You could have said something else.”
“Why bother? Writing that bloody complaint will keep Harry King off our backs for a while and I think that’s a good deal, don’t you? Come on, let’s see if there’s anything else around here…”
As Hogarth scanned the area, his eyes returned to the glinting glass at the back of the cracked tile.
***
But the first interviews only served to reinforce what they’d been already told. After a couple of hours, even Hogarth had the sense he was flogging a dead horse. But after having declared for murder, he could hardly give up now. He knew his life would have been easier if he changed his mind. But easy wasn’t the point, was it? The job was about doing the right thing, even when it hurt. But the less evidence they found, the more Hogarth saw his decision was going to hurt. While brooding, Hogarth watched Dickens emerge from the sauna cabin and decided to grab a moment of his time.
“John, what do you make of that?” said Hogarth, invading Dickens’ space as he walked out of the sauna. Hogarth nodded to the broken tile at the side of the sauna. Dickens was dressed in his white plastic overalls, but had abandoned the breathing mask. Dickens stepped around the corner, and his gaze followed Hogarth’s down to the cracked tile.
“Yes, I saw it, but the place has been bleach cleaned,” said Dickens. “Whatever evidence is there will have been eradicated already.”
Hogarth frowned. “But I’m pretty sure that crack was made on the night of the murder.”
Dickens blew out a long breath and stepped around the corner of the sauna.
“Was it?” said Dickens. “And you think this is important?”
“It could be.”
“Then we should have known about it at the start,” Dickens shook his head and knelt down by the tile.
Hogarth narrowed his eyes and followed suit beside him. “There were two fragments of glass down there. But today there is only one. The rest have been cleaned up. Can you see it?” Hogarth pointed towards the fragment. Dickens leaned in and teased the piece away from the wall with his gloved hand.
“I think something was dropped on this tile, and it broke. It could have been related to the murder,” said Hogarth.
“You hope,” said Dickens. “It’s just a shame you didn’t tell me before.”
Hogarth grunted. “So you said… but can’t you use it at all?”
“A mop and bleach tend to cause problems in my line of work…” said Dickens in a smarmy tone which Hogarth didn’t like. But Hogarth kept his mouth shut. Dickens leaned closer to the wall and ran a finger along the edge by the skirting board.
“Hang on… there is a trace of something there,” said Dickens. “It looks like the cleaner’s mop couldn’t quite reach the edge here…”
Hogarth couldn’t see a thing, so he leaned in closer and noticed the faint difference in surface texture which Dickens was talking about. He saw a line of opaque crust, a line so thin and faint it would have been easy to miss. It followed the edge by the skirting board.
“What is it?” said Hogarth.
Dickens prodded the fragment of glass. “Glass, eh? Then maybe it was a booze bottle, and the contents dried onto the tile surface. The glass itself could be from the bottle. I’m sure we’ll find out when we run a few checks. But I wouldn’t get excited about it, this could be nothing.”
Dickens glanced at Hogarth and caught the bitter look in his eyes.
“We all make mistakes, Hogarth,” said Dickens.
“So why do mine have repercussions?”
“Now, now, Inspector. I’ll see what I can do.”
Hogarth nodded and sighed.
They left Dickens, irritable as ever, to his work around by the sauna, while Ivan Marris got started on the forensics in Aimee Gillen’s living quarters. Hogarth didn’t bother to bid either man goodbye. It would have been risking even more unsavoury comments. Instead he led Palmer up the steps, past the bored and curious eyes of the athletic looking actors and actresses who now occupied the corners, alcoves, and seating areas around the building. Evidently, Harry King had stopped filming for the day and his actors were at a loose end, cluttering up the place.
“What do you make of these people?” said Palmer, quietly, eyeing them as she passed by.
“I wouldn’t want to make anything of them, Palmer…” said Hogarth. They reached the double doors leading to the studio reception desk. “But I know what I make of that. Trouble.” Hogarth nodded to the men by the reception desk. Little Harry King stood with his back to Hogarth. King was talking. Beside him stood the wide-load bulk of Darryl Regent. “No prizes for what those two are talking about. Or who…” muttered Hogarth. He sucked in a sharp breath and pushed open the exit door with a sharp, toothy smile.
He breezed past them, aiming for the exit.
“There he goes, now,” said Harry King, speaking loudly. “These bloody cops act like they own the country.”
“Yeah,” said Regent. “And some do. But not this one. Not by a long chalk.”
The big man’s Yorkshire tones trailed after Hogarth as he walked out into the street. He was normally a man for the last word, but Hogarth decided to hunker down and see what cards the case would deal him. But from the sound of Regent’s last coded words, Hogarth suspected that Darryl Regent had shuffled the deck himself.
***
Hogarth and Palmer took a few inexplicable looks from the uniforms as they walked towards the CID room in the corner. PC Orton and Jordan occupied part of a huddle in the far corner. Orton turned his head and Hogarth didn’t like the look of the smug, cheesy grin pasted all over it. By contrast when Jordan saw them, his eyes widened with shock. Hogarth shook his head. One of the PCSO team, big Gill Penner walked past.
“Gill,” said Hogarth. “What’s up with the keystone cops over there.”
Penner looked across at them and shrugged. “Search me,” she said, and breezed off.
Hogarth didn’t like it. PCSO Penner knew what was going on – but didn’t want to say.
“Hey, boys,” called Hogarth. “Haven’t you got a job to do?”
“Actually, we have, DI Hogarth. Have you?” said PC Orton, before he broke into a wheezy laugh.
Hogarth’s face turned dark, but he held his tongue. He walked into the CID room and found Simmons leaning back in his chair, telephone planted firmly against his ear. Hogarth looked at him and Simmons raised a finger to say, ‘I’ll be one minute’.
Hogarth grimaced and fidgeted before he sat down. Palmer took a chair beside him. She suddenly seemed as edgy as he was.
“Okay. Thanks,” said Simmons. “You’ll call me when it’s done then? Great. Cheers.” Simmons ended the call and sat up in his seat.
“Any joy on Aimee Gillen’s phone details yet, Simmons?”
“That was it just now, sir. There’s been a hold up with the RIPA request response from the mobile network, guv. But they know it’s an official police request, so it won’t be long.”
“Good. We need something out of that,” said Hogarth.
“You’re still sure it’s murder then?” said Simmons.
“I don’t see it any other way…” said Hogarth. “Do you know what PC Orton and the others are sniggering about out there?”
Simmons made an awkward face. “As it happens, I think I do, guv.”
Hogarth recalled Darryl Regent and Harry King standing at the reception of the
X-L building.
“Spit it out then,” he said.
“Roger Johnson came in a while ago,” said Simmons “I heard he’s been in with the Super, and now he’s in with the DCI. Johnson didn’t look happy, guv.”
Hogarth stared long and hard at the clock on the office wall. He willed the hands of the clock around towards the earliest acceptable leaving time. But then Hogarth wasn’t exactly looking forward to going home either. It seemed the highlight of the day was going to be a pint of barely drinkable filth with Vic Norton at The Sutland Arms. And by the time of that drink, Hogarth wondered if he would be toasting a suspension from the job. Or worse. Palmer seemed to read his mind.
“Go home now if you like, guv. We can cover for you until morning,” said Palmer.
Hogarth offered a sour grin. “It’s got that bad, has it?”
Palmer shrugged. “By morning this could have blown over, you know what Melford’s like,” said Palmer.
Hogarth sighed. He saw the sympathy in Palmer’s eyes, and felt the detestable pity coming from DC Simmons. The buggers didn’t know the half of it. But accepting their help to escape from Melford would have been the beginning of a weak and slippery slope. It would have compromised him. Favours could later be called in. Small favours had the potential to undo what was left of his remaining authority. Hogarth shook his head.
“Thanks, Palmer. But no thanks. If I’m destined for a rollicking, then I’ll take what’s coming.”
And he didn’t have to wait long. The door knock came soon enough. Hogarth girded himself with a deep breath and opened the door. Long Melford stood in the doorway, dark eyed and serious, brooding with anger.
“You want to see me, sir?”
“Damn right, I do, DI Hogarth. In my office now.”
Melford stormed away, but Hogarth wasn’t going to run after the man. He let Melford walk away before he slowly followed, giving PC Orton and his pathetic crew the chance to gawp at him all they liked. One thing was for sure, whatever the result, Hogarth would one day fix PC Orton. Enough was enough. The trouble was the list of scores he had to settle seemed to grow longer with every passing hour.
Melford settled behind his desk with the air of a grim reaper ready lining up his scythe. He leaned across his desk and steepled his long fingers. At least Hogarth could be grateful that Roger Johnson wasn’t anywhere near. Violence against the commissioner wouldn’t make things any better.
“Do you really need me to tell you what you’ve done wrong this time, Inspector?”
“No, sir, I don’t think I do.”
But Hogarth wasn’t going to get off that lightly.
“You’ve upset Darryl Regent. You’ve closed down Harry King Studios.”
“No, sir. That’s pure exaggeration—”
“You’ve humiliated the Police and Crime Commissioner in front of his important contacts, while he was conducting official business…”
“Official business? The commissioner with chubby Darryl Regent and the local porn king? Lord help us, if that’s official police business what does the man get up to at night?!”
Melford knitted his eyes and bared his teeth in frustration. “Just stop right there! Stop. As Johnson told you himself, no one wants your opinion, DI Hogarth. All we want is for you to attend to police business, quietly, cleanly, and quickly.”
Hogarth looked away from Melford to prevent an outburst.
“Now I also hear you’ve turned Ed Quentin’s verdict of an accidental death into a bloody murder investigation! I’m amazed. Staggered. So, come on, Inspector. Enlighten me. How come you think you know better than a Home Office approved forensic pathologist? Come on, I’m all ears…”
Hogarth grimaced. He knew full well that an abandoned line of a fading porn star’s cocaine, an empty wine glass, and a cracked tile was all he had. It was going to be a hard story to sell. So why the hell did he believe in it? Hogarth floundered, but started where he could.
“It’s a murder, sir.”
“And that’s it? I suppose you’ve picked up word from the ether? Is that it?”
“No sir. It’s murder. There are far too many questions, too many loose ends for it not to be.”
“Loose ends, eh, Hogarth? Funny,” said Melford. “I’m beginning to think you might be one of them…”
Ten
By the time Hogarth pushed through the saloon doors on the corner of The Sutland Arms he was burning for a pint to soothe his pains. Thankfully, it was dark enough outside so that most of the local scum either didn’t recognise him, or were too busy conducting their own shady business to be bothered with him. Melford’s latest carpeting had left him seething about the commissioner, Regent, and Harry King too. It was as if the bastards were in cahoots together. Hogarth strode into the dark wooden bar, his eyes fixed only on the ultra-pale-skinned barman with the goofy spectacles. Vic Norton didn’t matter. Not yet. Drink mattered. Hogarth cleared through the fog of dirty drinkers like Moses through the red sea. They looked at him as he neared, lost their smiles, and moved well out of his way. The lanky barman didn’t look pleased to see him either.
“Oh…” he said, unfolding his arms. “What can I get you?”
“Whichever beer carries the least bacteria.”
“Hey, you can’t say that! All our beers are local and of the highest—”
Hogarth raised his hand. “Okay, okay. I’ll take that one.” Hogarth tapped one of the cheap lager taps. Lager was safe enough and it stopped the barman finishing his lie. The lager wasn’t local. It was Australian. But they couldn’t water that down or re-use it, could they? He received the pint glass and put it to his lips. Somehow it still tasted wrong, but then the beer here always did. He paid the man and sank half his pint before he surveyed the rest of the place. A feral looking man with red hair and a bandana was playing pool while giving him menacing looks. Hogarth ignored him. It was par for the course. He looked at another clutch of people in the corner, three women sat clustered around a thin man with a vulture-like head. Hogarth recognised the type. He was a second-rate pimp. But Hogarth wasn’t on duty tonight. As far as he was concerned The Sutland Arms was safe to let it all hang out. He finished his first pint and tapped on the next lager along the bar. It was a stronger European variety. One day, he would discover The Sutland Arms’ drinkable pint. It would be the same day that he won the lottery. Hogarth walked his fresh pint towards Norton’s table. Norton sat at his favourite back table, facing out towards the rest of the pub, as if the table was his desk. The chubby young woman who he knew to be Vic’s on-off girlfriend stood up and moved away as he approached. Old Vic Norton’s eyes were on him the whole time. Hogarth pulled up a chair and sat down.
“Evening, Vic,” said Hogarth.
“What’s the matter, Joe. You don’t look too happy. Don’t tell me. Woman trouble, am I right?”
“But I’m never overjoyed when we meet, Vic. You’ve probably noticed by now.”
“You’re a cruel man. Inspector.”
“So they tell me Are you going to give me the info in here, tonight, or do we have to do the whole back-alley routine again.”
“I don’t think you’re going to hit me tonight, are you, Inspector?”
“I didn’t hit you the first time, Vic.”
“No. Not quite. And this time, I think you believe me.”
Hogarth sipped his pint and gave Norton hard eyes. “No. Not all of it.”
“No skin off my nose what you believe, Inspector. No skin at all. You’re still here, after all.”
Norton was profiting from his pain – from Ali’s too. He wanted to reach out and crush the man with his bare hands. But Norton was a police resource. It still didn’t stop him from feeling queasy in Norton’s presence.
“You said you knew about Ali Hartigan. You told me she was a manipulator. In fact, you told me that she had been a manipulator for a very long time. I don’t know how you know any of that, or whether you just made it up to spite me, Vic, and that’s been bothering me a g
reat deal.”
“I told you a lot more than that.”
“Yes,” said Hogarth with a sneer. “But I’ve got a wicked bloody bullshit detector. It’s built in, Vic. I didn’t believe all of it.”
“That’s not your bullshit detector, Hogarth. That’s your feelings. The woman’s very pretty, isn’t she?”
Hogarth’s eyes flashed with anger.
“So, I’m told,” added Norton quickly.
“That’s part of it,” said Hogarth. “How do you know anything about her?”
“Ah-ah,” said Norton. “I can’t reveal my sources, can I? I have to keep my ear low to the ground.”
“You know about the stalker? Is he your contact?”
A glint of light sparkled in Norton’s eyes. “I know about the stalker. It’s common knowledge. I read about it in the paper. The man battered her, didn’t he?”
“The scumbag could have killed her. And if I get my hands on him…”
“You’d like to kill him, wouldn’t you, Inspector. Yes. I see it in your eyes,” said Norton.
“Then you know what to tell him, when you see him…”
“I told you. I can’t,” said Norton. “I’ve never met him. I don’t know who he is. But from what I told you before., I’m sure you’ve got a few guesses as to why he’s around.”
“Screw you, Vic.”
“But you came here for some more, I take it?”
“I want to know the truth.”
“Absolutely. Just like I told you the truth before.”
Hogarth guarded his mouth and took a gulp of beer. “Then prove it,” he said, in an angry blurt.
***
It was after seven pm when Palmer drove through town wondering how much longer DI Hogarth could last. Hogarth’s return to work had started worse than the week before he started leave. And Palmer wasn’t stupid. His two-week break had begun after a short shouting match with DCI Melford. As holidays went she guessed this one had been compulsory. But just two days back into the job, and Hogarth was already causing ructions with the top brass. He just didn’t know when to back off. He was fiery to the point of explosive, rough, angry, and yet almost charming on an individual level. But Palmer saw that something in him was boiling over. Hogarth had secrets, and they were breaking out in the form of his worsening attitude. The way he was going he was almost certain to lose his job. The only reason he had lasted this long was that he delivered. He cracked cases and brought villains to book. Palmer had worked with other teams, and not all CID could say the same. For that alone she wanted him to stay. Though Palmer didn’t want to admit there were other reasons too.
The Darkest Deed_A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery Page 9
