The Darkest Deed_A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery

by Solomon Carter

  “Lies. All of it. Tell him,” said Regent.

  King looked from Darryl Regent to the face of his trusted deputy. Her face was dark and flushed.

  “It’s not lies, Mr Regent. That’s why you’ve been worried about our presence here. You were worried that your house of cards was about to come crashing down. And now it has. That’s why you kept calling and texting Miss Aubrey the whole time we were here. Making sure she was on top of things, keeping us looking the wrong way. Commissioner, when we check Lana Aubrey’s phone, her phone will show a huge amount of contact from Darryl Regent. If these allegations were untrue, Mr Regent would have had no reason to contact Miss Aubrey whatsoever.”

  “Miss Aubrey…” Hogarth drifted towards the woman. Her eyes, once shining full of promise, now looked half-dead. Under Hogarth’s gaze she panicked and looked to Darryl Regent. “Darryl?”

  But the big man knitted his thick hands together. He wouldn’t look at anyone.

  “Mr Regent can’t help you any more, Miss Aubrey,” said Hogarth. “Soon, he won’t be able to help himself. This whole thing is over. Just like Aimee Gillen had wanted. Shame she had to die to make that happen.” Hogarth stared into the woman’s amber eyes framed by those expensive glasses. “Lana Aubrey, I am arresting you for the murder of Aimee Gillen. You do not have to say anything. But it may harm your defence if you do not mention, when questioned something which you may later rely on in court…” Hogarth’s voice trailed away as he finished reeling off Lana Aubrey’s rights. He looked deep into Lana Aubrey’s pretty eyes and saw her tears coming. Lana Aubrey’s life was almost as finished as Aimee Gillen’s. And it looked like she finally knew it.

  Thirty-two

  Palmer watched as DI Hogarth walked away from the X-L building with a spring in his step. He’d broken the rules more than once, but because of him, they’d caught another set of villains who had made it their life’s work to avoid justice. Once again, Hogarth had shaken her understanding of the rights and wrongs in policing, he’d crossed red lines there and back again and tied the thin blue line in knots. And yet the Aimee Gillen case was all but closed. Gillen had been murdered, just like Hogarth had always said. And on the back of the murder charge, they’d exposed Darryl Regent too. In Hogarth’s car, Palmer had managed to collect an emotional statement from Chrissie Heaton. The dam had broken and the truth had come out. She hadn’t known that Aubrey had killed Aimee, but she had suspected. Then she’d admitted the countless times she’d been submitted to Regent’s will, only to be told her future was ‘in the movies’. The case had cracked both ways. The murder was sewn up. And Darryl Regent’s sick sex scheme had been exposed. But the truth was it was all down to the DI’s tenacity. Hogarth surprised her. Sometimes Palmer doubted him, and at the time, her reasons always felt justified. Sometimes she was confused by him and his moods. But against the odds, and the constraints of the system, Hogarth had done it yet again. Palmer supposed it was time she stopped looking for reasons to doubt the man and learned to trust him. There was a chance Hogarth wasn’t just a good detective, but maybe the best she had ever worked under. The idea filled her with the same foolish excitement she had felt just a few weeks back before Hogarth went off on leave.

  She watched the silver machine of DCI Melford’s Vauxhall Omega glide into view at the back of the X-L car park, with PC Dawson driving his standard marked police car behind. Palmer waved at Dawson, then looked to see how Hogarth would react at the DCI’s arrival. The DCI had put him under so much pressure lately, Palmer wondered if things would now change. But Hogarth seemed oblivious. He just kept on walking and strode away towards the distant fringes of the car park like a man on a mission. Palmer wondered where he was going. Then she saw DC Simmons beckoning him. Simmons was waiting for him. Palmer’s smile faltered. Odd, she thought. And then her mind started again, gnawing at the same old doubts, but for now Palmer shook her head and closed it out. It was nothing, she told herself. Just a moment of blokey camaraderie as a case was closed. It was nothing. But still – what if she was wrong?

  ***

  “Simmons?” said Hogarth. The afterglow of the arrests was keeping him going, just about. After Chrissie Heaton’s statement to Palmer, Chubby Regent was going down too. And for a very long time, hurrah. Hogarth guessed his job was safe, but in many ways the worst part of his day was yet to come. From the furtive look on Simmons face, Hogarth guessed it was about to start.

  “Simmons, stop looking so shifty,” said Hogarth, looking over his shoulder. “And if you can’t do that, just get it off your chest quickly. Melford’s here, see?

  Simmons nodded. “Yeah. I guess I’m not too good at the cloak and dagger stuff, guv.”

  “Hey. This isn’t cloak and dagger. This is a favour, that’s all. Get that straight in your head right now.”

  Simmons nodded. “Right. Just a favour, yeah.”

  “Well?”

  “Red Mobile came back with something. I got the call earlier when I was in the car with Chrissie Heaton, but there wasn’t time to bother you with that.”

  “No… so what did they say?”

  Hogarth felt his heart pounding ever harder. It had been a long day. He needed to know now.

  “There wasn’t much, to be honest, guv. The records were there, but not in the same detail as for the Aimee Gillen calls. I guess it’s the time lag. They don’t archive everything that far back, just the basics. But I suppose you’re lucky they had anything at all.”

  “Simmons, what was there?”

  “They sent me a call log. There wasn’t much on it. Just numbers. They’ve sent a PDF to my email address. I’ll forward it to you as soon as I can. I had a quick look on my phone already. It mostly looks like calls to and from one particular London number, as well as about ten or twelve different mobiles.”

  “Right,” said Hogarth. He nodded and shut his mouth firmly, though his brain was already whirring on the possibilities. He needed to check those numbers as soon as he could. But first he had some formalities to go through.

  “What is it, guv?” said Simmons.

  “Eh?”

  “This RIPA inquiry. Is there anything I can help you with?”

  “No, Simmons. This one’s personal. The best thing you could do all round is forget about it and delete that email. Forget this ever took place.”

  “It’s okay, guv. There won’t be a footprint. Not our end, anyway.”

  Hogarth nodded. “Well that’s something… I guess.

  “Hogarth!” came a booming voice behind him.

  Hogarth looked round sharply to see DCI Melford. He saw the tall man standing by the steps of the X-L building, with Palmer and even PC Dawson dwarfed by his lanky frame. Melford beckoned him over with an ape-like wave of his arm, and Hogarth took a long, deep sigh. Then he stuck his hands in his pockets and started walking. From this distance it was difficult to determine whether Melford was smiling or not. But the closer he got, Hogarth felt miracles did actually happen. Melford was grinning at him.

  When he was close he received a respectful nod from PC Dawson. He returned the nod and noticed the weak smile on Palmer’s face. As Hogarth looked at her Palmer’s smile brightened for a time, but with effort. Something was bothering her, but that would have to wait. There were other matters to attend to. And the first was Melford’s unseemly joy, “Well done, Inspector!” the tall man slapped his arm and that didn’t seem enough, so he added a firm slap on his back as well.

  “You got them. And not just the killer, but Regent as well. I hear that Chrissie Heaton gave DS Palmer a full statement in the car – that’s murder and a history of sexual assault charges against Darryl Bloody Regent. Hogarth, you carry on like this and they’ll be using your work for case studies at the police college.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, sir,” said Hogarth, deliberately catching Palmer’s eye. “I’m hardly orthodox, am I?”

  Melford’s moustache twitched. “Ah. No. Oh well, their loss is our gain. You’ll be glad to know th
at the Police and Crime Commissioner called me on the way over here. He said he was thoroughly impressed with you and says he will write a glowing testimony about what he saw here today.”

  “I believe what Roger Johnson says about as much as Darryl Regent.”

  “Hhhmmm,” said Melford. “Let’s pretend you didn’t say that, yes? I think it’s good the man has changed his tune. Which means we’ve got some much-needed breathing room again to get on with the day job.”

  “Yes,” said Hogarth. “Some breathing room would be nice, sir.”

  Melford frowned a tad and stepped back. he rubbed his temples as he looked at Hogarth.

  “You did well, Hogarth,” he said with a less jovial air. “You proved a good few people wrong.”

  Hogarth saw that was the closest he was going to get to an apology, so he took it. Melford, Johnson, Regent, Harry King, Lana Aubrey, even Palmer and Simmons. Yes. He’d proved them all wrong. But it didn’t make anything better. Not one bit. The only thing which could make things better was if he could prove that Norton had been wrong about everything he’d ever said. If so, Hogarth intended to shove every word back down the old snitch’s throat.

  “DCI Melford,” said Hogarth. “If it’s okay with you, sir, I need to grab a coffee and some paracetamol. I’ve got a cracking headache.”

  Melford nodded. “That’s fine. Everything’s in hand here, I take it?”

  Simmons and Palmer nodded back at the DCI. “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ll be back soon as I can,” he said, nodding at Palmer. Hogarth walked to his car and drove inconspicuously until he reached the edge of the A127. And from there, he drove flat out.

  Hogarth closed the door of the CID room and booted up his computer. Before the screen flicked to life, someone was knocking on the office door.

  “Not now!” he called. “I’m busy!”

  “Just wanted to congratulate you, sir.” It was PC Jordan. Maybe the smiley little brown-noser wasn’t so bad after all.

  “Yep, thanks, Jordan. Much appreciated.”

  The PC trudged away as Hogarth’s desktop flicked into life. He waited for the email application to boot up.

  Eventually, he found Simmons’ email top of the stack. He opened the PDF attachment from Red Mobile and hit print. As soon as the document printed, he deleted the email, and emptied the recycle bin. Then the document. Hogarth scan-read the list of numbers from 2008 and was amazed by how short it was. Which meant the phone was almost certainly only used for certain calls. If it had been his old mobile Hogarth knew the list would have been as thick as a telephone directory. His heart was racing, his breathing was light. He folded the document and stuffed it in his pocket, and walked out of the CID room, raising his hand in thanks to Jordan and a couple of other nodding uniforms.

  Hogarth walked into the coffee shop and ordered a small filter. He was in a hurry. He sat at the back tables and turned away from prying eyes. Before he started, he popped two headache pills onto his tongue, swigged them down with the coffee then took out his phone. His finger traced over the numbers, wavering until they landed on the most frequent number on the typed sheet. It was an 0207 number. London central. Hogarth sipped his coffee and started to dial the number.

  There was a click as the call was answered.

  “Hello?” said Hogarth. But the line was filled with classical music. Some famous waltz that Hogarth recognised from the TV commercials. He waited for a while, before a well-spoken female voice came over the line. “Elegance London. Can I help you?”

  “Elegance?” said Hogarth. His voice gruff and uncertain. “What is Elegance? A hair salon?” said Hogarth. He stared at the table while the woman at the other end tittered politely.

  “No, sir. Elegance is an escort agency. Are you looking for an escort for this evening?”

  Hogarth blinked. “What? Uh? No.”

  He hung up and stared at his cracked phone screen. “Bollocks,” he said and dropped the phone on the table in disgust.

  He seethed at himself. And at Norton. But wait. It didn’t mean anything, did it? Not yet. Hogarth picked up his phone and redialled. The same thing happened again. The same click. The same waltz Then the well-spoken female voice. This time Hogarth could barely wait.

  “Hello, there. It’s me again, sorry. I just called you.”

  “So, you do want an escort, after all, I take it…”

  “Actually, I’m calling about a particular girl you might have had on the books. She worked for you a long time back. Years ago, as it happens…”

  “Years?”

  “Her name Is Ali.”

  Hogarth waited.

  “Ali?”

  “Yes. She was a beautiful blonde, she was in her thirties then. Has pale brown eyes and a Cindy Crawford beauty spot above her mouth.”

  “Sir, we have plenty of very desirable blondes on our books, and they are aged twenty-one upwards.”

  “Good for you. But do you know the woman I’m talking about? Can you remember her?” Hogarth looked about, in case anyone was listening, but the coffee shop noise drowned him out.

  “Ali, you say?”

  “Yes. This is very, very important… please…”

  “I don’t think it’d be wise to answer that question, do you? But do call back if you want to make a booking. Thank you.”

  “No.”

  But the woman ended the call. Hogarth grimaced and traced the other numbers with his finger. What was the point in carrying on? By now most of the numbers would have been changed, or obsolete. And if he got through to one of Ali’s old punters, what exactly was he going to say? Instead, Hogarth opted for another tactic. He opened the web browser on his phone and squinted at the first number off the top of the sheet. He typed it into the browser, and a web search returned nothing but a list of sites relating to various similar numbers. He typed the next number in and clicked the search button. This time he found the number connected to a mobile oven cleaning business, based in London. The number belonged to an oven cleaner called Morris Thorpe. The business listing for Thorpe’s oven cleaning business was almost as ancient as Ali’s business card – from 2009. But his number being on the list suggested Morris had certain interests beyond ovens. But Morris wasn’t for him.

  Hogarth moved on. One mobile number appeared more than the rest. He considered what it meant. A frequent flyer maybe? A favoured client? A hunch had him procrastinating, wanting to check other numbers before he dared try this one. But Hogarth pushed himself and typed the number into the browser. He hit the search button and a few results were instantly returned. The first was an entry from an old Career-Link profile. But the Career-Link site wanted him to register before it would reveal the info, and Hogarth wasn’t playing that game. He clicked the next link down the list, and found the mobile number was connected to an advertising agency. Hogarth chewed his cheek and clicked through to the site. He found the number attached on the blog section of the agency web site, in the archive. Hogarth clicked on the blog listing which contained the mobile number, and found a short essay stuffed with keywords relating to marketing.

  “The modern-day entrepreneur has to be fleet of foot and focus on his core business. He hasn’t got time to put into marketing because he’s focused on serving his customers. But professional copy-writing for the self-marketing businessman has never been more important than it is now…”

  Oh dear. Yawn. Hogarth scanned down to the bottom of the piece and found the date stamp. November 16 2007. It was ancient. And beside the date stamp was the contributor name. One James S Hartigan.

  “To book a consultation for your business marketing needs please call James Hartigan on 07676 6732….” Hogarth stopped reading. He blinked at the screen and thumbed the image of Hartigan. He found a baby-faced James Hartigan wearing a pair of Harry Potter glasses, with thick dark hair and a smooth pale face. There was no sign of a trendy beard. No wrinkles. No enigmatic smile. The young Hartigan was about to have his life changed in all kinds of ways. He was about to ent
er politics, and soon after he would win the safe Essex seat of Southend, more or less guaranteed to provide him a career for life. And somewhere in the middle of it all, James Hartigan had had found need to call for an escort agency. And there he had met a girl called Ali. And she had changed his life. And now Ali was busy changing his.

  Vic Norton had been telling the truth.

  Everything he knew about Ali Hartigan had been one great lie. The news shouldn’t have been a surprise. He’d been living with the possibility for weeks, but he’d compartmentalised it. Denied it. Now a deep wave of shame and humiliation hit him like fire. He stared at the sheet, for a few minutes wondered what he would do next. He sat empty and stunned. But when the coffee was done, he did the only thing he could. Hogarth stood up, neatened his blazer and went back to work.

  Thirty-three

  Ali Hartigan opened the front door. She smiled broadly, and looked over her visitor’s shoulder, before nodding for him to come in. When he stepped past her, she took a careful look out on the street. She looked left and right. Satisfied, Ali closed the front door. Across the street a camera clicked unseen, rapid-fire. When the door hit the frame the man lowered the lens.

  Ali Hartigan led her visitor to the living room. She had already closed the curtains. She looked back at as she led the man by his hand, smiling at him. She saw there were nerves in his eyes, there always were with him. But in his flickering smile she saw his joy too. She’d changed since the morning, wearing the figure-hugging black top from the other night which had so caught Hogarth’s eye. If it worked once, it would work again.

  Ali dropped herself down slowly to the sofa, letting her visitor get a long look at her body as she sat down.