The Darkest Lies: A Gripping Crime Mystery Series - Two Novel Boxed Set (The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Boxed Sets Book 1)

by Solomon Carter

  The old-fashioned shop-door chimed as Hogarth walked in.

  “To what do we owe this unexpected pleasure?” said Dan Bradley, grandstanding as usual.

  “As if you didn’t know,” replied Hogarth.

  Eva Roberts looked up and Hogarth couldn’t help but appreciate those green eyes. “The nightclub murder,” she said.

  “Club Smart, yes. A big bully called Jake Drummond got topped. Either of you heard of him before?”

  Eva leaned back in her chair. “No, it doesn’t ring any bells.”

  Eva looked back at Dan. Dan shook his head as he sipped his coffee.

  “Any suspects yet?” said Dan.

  “It’s not clear cut, but I have at least two people in mind. Two men who may have been bullied or blackmailed by the victim. They disappeared from Club Smart just before Jake Drummond was killed. And it seems they’ve done a moonlight flit. I need to track them down. I know you’re pretty good at missing persons.”

  “But there’s usually a fee involved,” said Dan with a smirk.

  “Usually maybe,” said Hogarth.

  “What are their names?” said Eva.

  “Andy Cruddas is one. He’s a rich mummy’s boy who dabbled at selling insurance. And another lightweight by the name of Dan Picton. Picton lives in Leigh above the posh bakers on Leonard Road. You know it?”

  Eva nodded. “The pricey place.”

  “That’s the one. Andy Cruddas lived at home with mummy in Chalkwell.”

  “You think they disappeared together?” she said.

  “They might have, that’s as far as I can go.”

  Eva Roberts put the end of a biro between her teeth while she thought about it. “We can look into it for you, but I can’t make any promises.”

  “You don’t have to make promises, Miss Roberts. This is a murder investigation and we’re up against it. If you could do anything it would help.”

  “Okay. Leave it with us. I’ll call you if we find anything.”

  Hogarth nodded in thanks. For a moment he considered sharing his private matter. Having someone like Eva Roberts on side to help Ali Hartigan would have taken a load off his mind. But that meant sharing, and DI Hogarth knew he couldn’t risk it. It was madness to even think it.

  “Is there something else?” said Eva, as he hesitated in the doorway.

  “No. Nothing else. Cheers for your help.”

  Hogarth steered himself out of the door and smoothed down his hair as he sped up the walk towards his car. He got into his Insignia and rubbed his forehead. His phone started to ring. This time it was Palmer. “The post mortem on Jake Drummond is at one o’clock.”

  “Just after lunch. Nice timing on Quentin’s behalf.”

  “You want me there?”

  “To share the pleasure, Palmer. Of course.”

  “Fine,” she said. The call ended and DI Hogarth started the engine.

  Chapter Seven

  The pathology lab was at the back of Southend Hospital beside the chapel of rest. Hogarth had been there many times by now, and had a love hate relationship with the tubby pathologist, Dr Ed Quentin. Quentin was a stiff-mannered type, sometimes officious and stuffy, and at other times surprisingly funny. It was like there were two different Quentins and Hogarth never knew which he was going to get. The thought added an extra tension to his thinking. Hogarth walked into the reception area where DS Palmer was standing looking at a large and dour still life painting of a vase of flowers in a gilt frame. The rest of the room was plain and clinical, and lined with information posters, hand gel dispensers, and little else.

  “Have you seen him yet?” said Hogarth.

  Palmer shook her head. “Did your magic pay off?”

  “Not much. I’ve asked around. I might hear back later. What about you?”

  “A little. They were seen leaving the club. Both men left Luker Close on foot and headed through the residential streets towards Westcliff. After that, we don’t know.”

  Hogarth was more than frustrated. A set of double doors opened, and Dr Quentin appeared. He was decked out in his white coat, blue gloves, and blue shoe covers.

  “Are you ready?” he said, raising his eyebrow.

  “Always,” said Hogarth. “You first, Palmer.” He added with an animated smile.

  They gloved up and put on the masks as directed by Palmer then walked into the lab. The young pathologist’s technician was tinkering with equipment at the back. Hogarth met his eye and nodded at him, but he didn’t quite trust him for some reason. His gut told him the man was slippery. The man offered the slightest nod back. They were an odd breed, pathologists. Odd but extremely necessary.

  “Here we are…” said Quentin. The naked body of Jake Drummond lay facing up on the slab under the bright lights. The bulk of his body was like a range of white and blue fleshy hills, with the mountain of his stomach reaching highest of all. His dead skin was pale blue-white. His eyes were open and glassy. Hogarth looked at the puncture wound in the man’s chest as Quentin’s gloved fingers probed around the wounds. He pointed at them with a ballpoint pen, though it did not touch the dead man’s skin.

  “I think the wound would have been instantly fatal, but we can check now. Quentin picked up a scalpel and pressed it to the top of Drummond’s mountainous gut. Hogarth and Palmer looked at one another. There was no need to stare at the gory detail. All they needed were the facts. Little by little, Quentin slopped guts and organs into an enormous steel bowl at his side. Soon, he located the heart. “Here. There it is. The blade punctured the heart muscle and on exit cut the left ventricle. He was virtually dead on the spot.”

  Hogarth swallowed and tried not to think about the blood and guts. Even after all these years it was hard work.

  “What do you think did it?” Hogarth looked at Palmer. She looked pale, but these days she generally did.

  “A blade of between five and six centimetres long, and a relatively narrow one. Something like a stiletto. If it wasn’t for the cut of the ventricle, I would have even said a tool like a beadle. But it had to be serrated, which means a knife. But we’re not talking a hunting knife here. We’re talking a typical modern knife, like the youth gangs regularly use these days. Easy to conceal, and easy to use. The incision suggests this blade was particularly sharp. It went in like a knife through butter.”

  “Any indications about the killer?” said Hogarth. “Does the angle suggest the killer’s height, strength, gender, anything?”

  “The cut is very direct – almost a straight line into the heart. The killer intended to do maximum damage. They were aiming for the heart and they got it. This was a very intentional kill.”

  Hogarth nodded. It wasn’t just an angry, vengeful act. It was a determined kill.

  “What about the killer?”

  “Probably of a similar height to the victim., just under six foot. The killer might have held the blade like this.” The pathologist balled his fist and held it up with the bottom of his fist facing Hogarth. “The blade could have protruded from the fist, and the killer could have hammered through the chest wall. It would have given the force needed, and if they wanted to be quick and unseen, they could have hidden the blade very quickly after the stabbing action. That way the blade would have been concealed from people even relatively close by.

  “That would have meant the killer was close to the victim. Very close.”

  Quentin nodded.

  “Maybe they were close enough to embrace…”

  “You think it was a woman, Dr Quentin?” said Palmer.

  “It’s not my sphere, DS Palmer,” said Quentin.

  “But an embrace would have been easy to pick up. The CCTV doesn’t show anything like that.”

  “But the CCTV is dark and inconclusive,” said Hogarth. “We need to keep checking. This wound suggests the victim knew the killer, then?”

  Quentin nodded. “It’s very likely, given the necessary proximity for the kill. It certainly doesn’t seem as though Drummond defended himself.
I’d say he could have known the killer.”

  “Then we can rule out a psycho… which is good. The local rag must have been praying they’d land a serial killer. They sell papers like hot cakes.”

  “What about forensics? Have they given you any pointers?” asked Quentin.

  “Not so far. I didn’t hold out much hope to be honest,” said Hogarth. “The scene was packed with punters. It was like a stampede when he was attacked. Any evidence would have been messed up long before we got there.”

  “Shame. But at least you now know the kind of knife you’re looking for. The weapon always turns up in the end.”

  Hogarth nodded. “Sooner the better.”

  “So, who are we looking at?” said Palmer.

  “Everyone. Especially everyone who knew the man well enough to get close. A little dickie bird told me Drummond had progressed from extortion to out and out blackmail. We need to find out all those he was blackmailing and bullying, list them, and work through it, one by one. If we do that, we can find our knife and our killer… good job, Dr Quentin. Thank you.”

  The big man nodded and pulled the sheet back over Simmons’ body.

  Hogarth walked out of the mortuary with DS Palmer, both of them taking lungsful of fresh air like deep-sea divers just reaching the surface.

  “It feels like we’re getting somewhere, but much too slowly,” said Hogarth. “We should be further than this. If our killer can strike and disappear like this, then we need him off the streets. This is a balls-up.”

  “What?” said Palmer.

  “That’s what Melford will say, and he’ll be right,” said Hogarth.

  “Why?” said Palmer.

  “The knife must have been there at the club. It had to be. The doors were shut right after the man dropped down dead. Even if Picton and Cruddas didn’t kill him; whoever did – had to be there with the knife. The critical piece which forensics could have nailed for us. But we didn’t find the knife. By now it could be anywhere…”

  Chapter Eight

  It was Palmer’s turn to drive. Hogarth said his head was starting to hurt. It was easy to see why. They dropped his Insignia back at the station and Palmer took up driving duty in her less than regal Corsa. Trouble was, without the steering wheel in Hogarth hands, he fidgeted in the front passenger seat like a child. Palmer tried not to notice him bouncing his knee up and down like someone with ADHD. She stayed quiet about it. Hogarth was distracted, and probably in a bad mood, chewing over the missing murder weapon. It was a real problem. Hogarth’s mobile phone broke the silence. He answered it keenly.

  “Dawson?” he said. Palmer kept her eyes on the road and tuned in as best she could. Dawson worked harder than most, and showed far more promise than some of his more senior colleagues.

  “And you’re sure about that? Who told you?” said Hogarth, his voice suddenly energized and excited.

  Palmer gripped the wheel tighter and tried to listen in, but she couldn’t hear Dawson’s words at the other end.

  “I don’t believe it,” said Hogarth. “And you know why that happened? Because Cruddas was born with a bloody silver spoon in his mouth. We should have known this was coming right back at the start. Still, at least we know now. Well done, PC Dawson. Now, listen, we still need to find that knife. I want you to go back to Club Smart and run a thorough check over the toilets and the cloakroom. I want you to check anywhere the killer could have stashed a weapon. You couldn’t find it before, so go back and check again. Provided you did your job well enough there’s got to be another reason we didn’t find that knife. Go over the whole place with a fine toothcomb. And if you don’t find it in the public areas, insist on getting into the staff areas. You never know. Good. See you later then.”

  Hogarth ended the call and Palmer gave him a look.

  “What was that about?” she said.

  “Dawson has found out that Andy Cruddas has some secret previous.”

  “Previous? But his record is squeaky clean. I checked it myself.”

  “That’s because it was secret. It turns out that Cruddas was involved in a ruckus at Ryan’s Bar just around the corner from Club Smart only six months back.”

  “So, if it was off the record how come we know about it?”

  “Because PC Jordan had a quiet word with Dawson in the canteen. PC Orton was the man who swept up after the ruck at Ryan’s Bar. Jordan said Andy Cruddas was blind drunk, swearing and swinging his fists like a wild man but for some reason PC Orton kept him out of trouble. He didn’t even issue a caution. I wonder why, don’t you?” Hogarth gave Palmer a deadpan look, and raised an eyebrow.

  “Orton is a bit of a beast,” said Palmer, “but he’s not corrupt.”

  “Corruption is a very emotive word in Southend, Palmer. It’s more likely he thinks of it as a spot of beer money. I’m only surmising, by the way. I could be wrong, but Orton strikes me as a loafer. What matters is that Jordan shared what he knew, which gives us much more to go on concerning Cruddas.”

  “Such as?”

  “He’s got form for violence, that’s what. It won’t help the CPS form the prosecution one bit, but it helps us see who we’re dealing with. Who knows how he could have pulled off this murder, but I think he really could be our man.”

  Hogarth frowned and chewed his lip.

  “We’ve got to find him, Palmer.”

  A second later his phone was back in hand. Hogarth dialled and put the phone to his ear. He glanced at Palmer from the corner of his eyes as he spoke.

  “Yeah, hi… this is DI Hogarth again. Did you manage to find anything on Cruddas or Picton?”

  Hogarth tapped the dashboard in front of Palmer and pinched his fingers to ask for a pen. Palmer delved a hand into a messy dashboard pocket and handed him a broken biro.

  “You did? Brilliant. Where? Okay. Very useful. Yes, of course. What goes around comes around. Come on! Do I really need to promise? Thanks again.”

  Hogarth dropped the phone onto his lap and scribbled some notes on a tiny pad from his jacket. Palmer couldn’t read his spidery scrawls at all, so she would have to wait for him to explain.

  “Okay. We’re heading for the Grange Estate, around the back of town. Do you know it?”

  “The dilapidated place near The Greyhound?”

  “That’s it.”

  “Why there? It’s half empty and virtually derelict.”

  “Virtually. But not quite. It turns out our man Picton was spotted there only a little while ago.”

  “Dan Picton? But who spotted him.”

  “Outsourcing, Palmer. I asked some other brains to join the hunt. They checked Picton’s contacts and it turns out he knows people in the car trade. They have a garage on that estate. If someone wants to disappear in this town, where better than a decrepit industrial estate like the Grange? You never know, Cruddas might even be there with him…”

  Hogarth clearly wasn’t going to reveal his sources and Palmer decided not to push it. She didn’t want Hogarth venting at her because of one question too many. She hoped the Grange Industrial Estate would reveal all the answers by itself.

  Chapter Nine

  To Hogarth’s eye, the Grange Industrial Estate was a very odd looking-place. It was tucked away in the labyrinthine guts of Southend, a relic of the past just about repurposed for the present. He walked around with his hands in his trouser pockets, and looked at the flaking whitewash on the concrete buildings, and the weeds breaking through ancient concrete wherever he looked. The whole place was built out of concrete and asbestos, but held together by no more than spit and wishful thinking. “What a wreck…” said Hogarth.

  “It used to be a train station, apparently.”

  “In the steam age? These buildings look bloody dangerous to me.”

  “But the tenants pay a pittance, which keeps their overheads low.”

  “What tenants?” said Hogarth, eyeing the grey, dusty windows of the nearest buildings.

  “The garage is round here. Come on.”


  “You know the area, do you?”

  “I think I used it to fix my Corsa once. It was so cheap I wondered if they’d actually done the work but was too afraid to ask.”

  “Looks like your Corsa needs a spot of work again.”

  Palmer winced. She was happy with her car. It was reliable and cheap and on a police salary she was hardly likely to upgrade any time soon. Cheeky sod. Palmer huffed and led Hogarth along the second back lane of the Grange Estate. Halfway down she could see the largest building of the estate. The garage was big enough to drive a bus inside. But something was amiss, the big steel roller shutter was closed, pulled all the way down, and there was none of the usual radio music or banter to be heard.

  “They’re shut,” said Palmer. “That’s odd. You’re sure your information was sound, sir?”

  Palmer looked up at the huge shutter and stood back slowly, reading the faded paint sign above it. Her eyes widened as she read the business name.

  Hogarth grunted. “Usually, yes. They said Picton was around here, so he will be. The garage is a detached building, right?”

  “Sir…” said Palmer.

  “What?”

  “Look. It’s called Deal’s Garage. Didn’t Grayson say Peter Deal was a mechanic…?”

  “Yes, he did. Well I never… small world, eh?”