“Why not?” said Hogarth. Was this a confessional? Maybe Ali had read his thoughts ahead of time and was telling him that she didn’t intend to manipulate him as she had done with James Hartigan. And even if she had once been an escort – even if that were true but she was trying to tell him that part of her life was finished and done with – then maybe he could forget everything else and enjoy what they had together. Maybe. The internal struggle distracted him until she spoke again.
“Because I love you,” said Ali. Her hand trailed across his neck as she put the dish down. Hogarth looked into her eyes, searching. In his head he heard the echo of every time Ali had ever used those words on another man – on Hartigan and the men before him. But what if it wasn’t true? What if this was all the workings of a Vic Norton quick earner? He hadn’t yet proved that the business card was real had he? He looked at Ali, his mind caught in a precarious balancing act. He was on the edge of a cliff.
“Joe?” she said. “Did you hear what I said?”
Hogarth nodded. A knot of words twisted in his throat. But they were stifled and strangled. He wasn’t sure he could ever say them now. But looking at her beauty, he couldn’t help himself.
“I feel the same,” he gulped as soon as he said it.
Ali shook her head at him but smiled. She gathered him to her and pressed his head to her body. He lay his head against her chest and felt her softness and smelt her perfume. Every bad word he had thought of, every barracking word he had rehearsed for her fled from his mind. Instead, he was filled with urgent, heated want. His hands slid around her hips joining at the small of her back. Ali backed away and steered him from the table, then dropped down to sit on his lap. Her eyes fixed on his – deep, compelling, and insistent. Hogarth couldn’t discern their every meaning, but he knew one thing they were saying to him loud and clear. Hogarth didn’t fight anymore. Ali leaned towards him for a kiss and the fire inside him took over. He gathered her close, his hands kneading her shoulders, touching her smooth arms, enwrapping her, claiming her, until they were joined in a hard and passionate kiss. Soon, her fingers teased open the buttons of his shirt. His poisoned mind noted her smooth, practised movements, and wondered how many men she had seduced like this. But he still didn’t stop. He slid off her black top and gazed at the curtains to check they were firmly closed. There was a small fine line gap. Ali noticed him looking at it.
“It’s okay. No one will see us…”
Hogarth nodded and watched her lips come for him again. He tossed her vest to the floor. She reached for his hand and placed it on her chest, and the recriminations in his mind faded. He felt only the pressing need to take what was on offer and to pretend everything else didn’t exist.
The delicious smelling beef didn’t get touched for another hour, by which time Hogarth was lazy-bodied, aching and spent. The beef became a late-night meal eaten cold, side by side, as they nestled on the sofa. And it was still delicious. As Hogarth ate his cool meal, drank red wine, and enjoyed the caress of the most beautiful woman he had ever been with, he felt a deep self-loathing. The wine couldn’t erase the feeling no matter how much he drank. He remembered the business card. One way or another, the matter couldn’t be left alone. He had to know. Hogarth had an idea of how he could find out. And as ideas went, he knew it was a bad one.
Nineteen
Hogarth was back in the car park outside the X-L building. His hair was dishevelled, his eyes shrunken dry by red wine, whisky, and a bad night’s sleep. The fleeting looks from Simmons confirmed that he must have looked like shit, but Hogarth pretended not to notice. Hogarth sipped from an isotonic sports drink, knowing Simmons would now be sure that he was hung over. Only athletes and functioning alkies drank isotonics first thing in the morning, and no one would have ever believed Hogarth to be any kind of athlete.
“Any word on that RIPA request yet?” said Hogarth. His voice sounded unusually gruff.
“No, sorry, guv. Most of the networks play ball on these, but Go3 make you work a little bit harder. They don’t give automatic access to the info. They’ll still give it to us. They just go through the motions of protecting their customer confidentiality a bit more than the rest.”
“But the other networks are easy-going?” said Hogarth.
“Yes, guv. It’s usually a cinch,” said Simmons. Simmons looked Hogarth in the eye then looked away again. Good. His hangover was at least good for something. Hogarth didn’t want Simmons pondering his question too much. He changed tack.
“Okay then. Call Go3 and get on their back. Use the words ‘murder investigation’. That should do it. That usually gets most people doing the right thing.”
“Okay, will do,” said Simmons. “Now what about Marvin?”
Palmer was standing with them, giving him the same fleeting glances. Compared to him, his subordinates looked cold eyed and fresh. Hogarth felt like he was living in slow motion. He knew he needed to keep away from Melford until he felt better. If the Long Man gave him a rollicking in this state he didn’t know what he’d do. But Hogarth hadn’t drunk enough to warrant feeling this bad. Half his problem was a rough night’s sleep, bad thoughts and bad karma. He had told the woman he loved her. Even if it was true, it had been the wrong thing to do. One way or another he had set himself up for a fall.
“Guv?” said Simmons.
Hogarth snapped back to the moment. “Yes, Marvin. You’re sure the lad was stealing from those rooms?”
“Well,” said Simmons with a shrug. “He was definitely sneaking into those rooms. And after that he took off in a hurry. If I could have followed, we’d know for sure.”
Hogarth nodded. His gaze flicked to Palmer.
“And we’ve got his inconsistency on the time he stopped work on Sunday night. The lad said he left at nine, but Lana Aubrey said she saw him at ten. I reckon Chrissie Heaton would vouch for that too.”
“Marvin lied on the time, and he’s sneaking into actors’ rooms too…” said Simmons. “He’s as dodgy as they come.”
“That’s an assumption, on both counts,” said Palmer.
Hogarth chewed his lip, Palmer had a point. But so did Simmons. “Simmons… do you think you can stay low profile and follow him again?”
“I brought my car for that express purpose, guv,” said Simmons with a smile.
Hogarth nodded. “Fine. See if he does it again and this time follow him. But do me a favour, Simmons. See if you can get someone to go with you.”
Simmons frowned. “Someone with me? But why?”
“Because you don’t know what you’ll be following him into, that’s why.”
“I really don’t need the baby-sitting treatment, guv. What happened in John Milford’s penthouse is all in the past.”
“Yes, it is. I don’t baby anyone Simmons, least of all you, so see it as me taking care of my team. Now, call and get some back up. Call PC Dawson, see if he’s free. He’s got enough muscle for the pair of you. Okay?”
Simmons nodded hesitantly. “Okay…” he said. “I’d best call him now to get ready. But I don’t need the help, honest.”
“Humour me, Simmons.”
Simmons nodded and stepped away as he put the phone to his ear.
“You are babying him, guv,” said Palmer.
“Yeah. And what’s wrong with that? I want him to be phased in, not thrown in at the deep end as shark bait. If he gets another knock too early it might knock him off course.”
Palmer nodded. “Fair enough. And what about you, guv? Are you okay?”
Hogarth saw those big, half-sad, pretty eyes again. Hogarth sighed.
“Yeah, I’m okay, Palmer.”
“Because you look a little frazzled, if I’m honest.”
“Please… let’s just focus on the case. If I can keep DCI Melford off my back for twenty-four hours, I’ll feel a hell of a lot better, believe me.”
Palmer nodded.
It was a quarter to nine. A few small, old cars started to pull into the bank of staff spaces outsi
de the gym. Hogarth watched them idly as Palmer stood beside him, processing his remarks. One by one, as the cars parked, they emptied and a group of young women in turquoise X-L gym uniforms gathered from them, quietly chattering with their heads down as they went to start another day. As they got near the complex, Hogarth watched the front doors open before they reached it. A young woman in a hooded sweatshirt walked outside, jogged down the steps and started speaking to one of the gym girls at the back of the bunch. They slowed away from the rest.
“Is that who I think it is?” said Hogarth.
Palmer looked at them. The other gym girls waited a moment for their colleague. The girl in the sweatshirt had a hint of silver in her hair. “Yeah, that’s Chrissie Heaton alright.”
“Intriguing, wouldn’t you say?” said Hogarth.
As Hogarth spoke, Chrissie Heaton looked up, and froze under their gaze. A moment later, she carried on her conversation, before running back up the steps into the warmth and safety of Harry King Studios.
Twenty
Simmons took one of his work files with him to the X-L building and took up position, sitting on the steps at the bottom of the main stairwell in Harry King Studios. Then he set about the task of making himself look busy. For a while, it proved a fruitful use of time. Simmons picked at some of the paperwork left over from the John Milford/Club Smart case. Most had been dealt with for him. Considerate that. But there was still a thin sheaf he needed to sign off himself. He shifted the papers with pinched fingers, as if they were soiled and might contaminate him. The sad truth was he was afraid of re-engaging with the Club Smart case too much. There was always a chance that he would relive his nightmare on the floor of John Milford’s apartment, with the deranged knifeman looming over him. He couldn’t afford to lose his head. Not at work. If Hogarth and Palmer were going to treat him with kid gloves, he had to prove them wrong. Any sense of inadequacy on his part now wasn’t going to help him at all. He shook his head and picked through the papers, setting a small pile of paperwork aside for the dustbin, but there were a few sheets he still needed to look at. He tore the out of date pile into tiny shreds and felt better for it. He was almost done tearing when the young runner passed him by, shooting between the doors of different corridors. The young man slowed and looked down at Simmons perched on the steps.
“Morning,” said Simmons, looking up.
The young man smiled – the smile wasn’t convincing – before he moved on. Marvin looked back over his shoulder then moved off into the deeper corridors of the building. When Marvin was gone, Simmons picked up his mobile and selected Dawson’s name from the contact list. PC Dawson answered his call inside of two rings.
“Found him, then?” said Dawson.
“Yeah. He just breezed past, looking as shifty as ever. I don’t think he knows I’m onto him.”
“Good. You’ll need to keep it that way.”
Simmons rolled his eyes. He didn’t like the uniforms telling him what to do. He hadn’t signed up with CID for that.
“Thanks for the tip, Dawson. I’m on it. I’ll text you a word when we’re on the way. Time to get ready. This Marvin moved double quick yesterday.”
“Not a problem, Simmons” said Dawson. “I’m always ready.”
Simmons shook his head again.
Simmons hung up and gathered his file. He folded the card file and stuffed it inside his jacket pocket along with his phone, and grabbed up the torn papers, and screwed them up in his hands. Marvin was almost an entire corridor length ahead of him, and he was still going. Simmons moved after him as fast as he could. He kept back at a distance, waiting to see if the young man would swerve up the next set of stairs towards the film studios, or whether he would keep going towards the living quarters area. The clipboard in his hand suggested he was on duty, which meant he would likely go upstairs to work. But Simmons well knew that a decent thief would use any opportunity they had to steal. Work time or not, it really didn’t matter.
Simmons watched as Marvin hesitated by the steps at the end of the next corridor. Simmons wasn’t in the mood to wait around all day for another chance to find out what Marvin was up to. Then he saw why Marvin had stopped. A blonde woman in a sporty sweatshirt had stopped at the foot of the stairs, and they were talking like old friends. Simmons watched as Marvin leaned towards her and gave the girl a peck on the cheek. The girl didn’t respond in kind, but still gave him a hug. Something about their connection was a little off. Simmons’ eyes dropped to their hands. He saw the young man’s hand slip past the woman’s as if they were going to hold hands, but they didn’t. Instead their fingers grazed passed each other then moved apart. It was a move Simmons knew well enough – it was an exchange. But an exchange of what? As he was thinking, the young blonde woman looked up over Marvin’s shoulder and saw Simmons. She stared right at him. Simmons changed his demeanour and facial expression to that of a lost, dumb cop. He smiled and waved the screwed-up papers in his hand as he approached. He watched the girl mutter something to Marvin, who turned and looked at him, blank faced. Simmons knew the drill. The girl had told Marvin to play it cool. Simmons was soon at their side, holding his prop of screwed up papers in hand.
“Where do you put the rubbish in this place?” he said, with a goofy grin.
“There’s a bin in the washrooms,” said Marvin. “For the paper towels. Why What are you throwing away.”
Simmons studied Marvin. His eyes were edgy, revealing nerves. He was making conversation, playing along, but he looked worried.
“Just some old paperwork. Nothing special.” Simmons spent an extra moment invading their space, picking up on their vibes. The girl was older than Marvin. She looked like the porn queen type, but the pinched look on her face said she was tense too. Simmons used up his moment and moved on.
“The washrooms…” said Simmons. He nodded in thanks and passed them by, knowing their eyes were on his back. He pushed out of the corridor and saw a cleaning trolley stuffed into a corner. There was a black bin bag hanging from it, covered with a flip lid. Simmons lifted the lid and dumped the papers inside, then he risked a glance back through the door down to where Marvin and the girl were still saying their goodbyes. Then Marvin turned away to move on. Simmons ducked out of the way, turning into the corridor behind him, before making an abrupt U-turn back towards them. The result was their doors opened at the same time. Marvin and Simmons faced one another.
“I got rid of it, thanks,” said Simmons.
“Good,” said Marvin.
Both men looked at each other a moment more. Simmons kept his face light and airy and walked away first. As soon as Simmons was behind the next door, he stopped, turned, and carefully started to follow. He watched Marvin stop in the first living area corridor – the one before the washrooms. As Marvin slowed, Simmons held back, and pressed himself behind the window. He peered around the edge and watched Marvin going through the same old routine. A knock at the door. A furtive glance. The keys appeared in his hands then he opened the door. Today Marvin was in and out within twenty seconds, leaving the door closed behind him the whole time. This time Simmons knew what to expect. He needed to move fast to get back into his original position. Simmons turned away and hustled down the corridor. He reached his perch at the foot of the stairwell, dropped his backside hard onto the steps and opened his card folder. Marvin opened the door and cast an eye his way, but Simmons acted busy and ignored him. But as soon as Marvin opened the next door, Simmons was on his feet. He took out his phone, called Dawson and put the phone to his ear.
“Dawson?”
“You said you were going to text,” said Dawson.
“Did I? Well, I’m calling instead. Start your engines. Our little thief has started early today.”
“I told you. I’m ready,” said Dawson.
Simmons cut the call and moved briskly, holding his file out in front of his face as if he was focused on the paperwork it contained. He passed Lana Aubrey talking with the receptionist and pushed out of the
wooden double doors into the X-L building’s main reception. He watched Marvin skip down the steps and head off towards his burgundy Golf. As soon as Marvin got in, Simmons jogged down the steps towards his blue Ford as it pulled out of its space at the front of the car park. Simmons jogged along and ducked inside his car as the Golf finished turning.
“Turn the corner, Dawson. I don’t want him to clock me, or he’ll know I’m onto him.”
“It’s okay, Simmons. I know what to do,” said Dawson.
Dawson turned the car along a bay of car park spaces as the Golf shot away behind them.
“You saw it?” said Simmons.
“Of course,” said Dawson. “It’s an M reg Golf. Burgundy. Registration M132…”
“I don’t need the plate number. But do you know which car it is”
Dawson gave Simmons a vaguely irritated look.
“Just hold tight,” said Dawson. “I’m on it, trust me.” Dawson swung Simmons’ blue Ford hatchback in an abrupt U-turn then hit the gas. The little Ford bolted up the exit slip lane just as the old burgundy car moved out into the traffic, leaving a nasty black plume of exhaust fumes behind. While Dawson shifted through the gears of Simmons’ Ford Focus like he was playing Outrun 2 down the arcades, Simmons bit his lip to make sure he kept his mouth shut.
The burgundy Golf shot away down the long flat strip of Cherry Orchard Way. Its red tail lights flashed up and the exhaust made a backfire as loud as a shotgun.
“He needs that engine looked at,” said Simmons.
“He needs his licence revoked,” said Simmons. “He’s driving like a nutcase and doesn’t even know he’s being tailed.”
“You hope,” said Simmons.
The Darkest Deed_A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery Page 16
