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

by Solomon Carter

  “Help with what?” said Dawson.

  “Why do you think our killer chose the back of SavaPenny to stage his kill?”

  “What?”

  “Don’t worry. That’s a question I’m chewing over. But there must be a reason. We’ve asked the store if we can look at their CCTV footage. I’m going to get Palmer on it, but you two have got ears close to the ground. We heard there was a whisper of a disturbance there a few nights back. I’m wondering if that was the same night as when Drummond was killed…”

  “If DS Palmer is on it, what can we do?” said Rawlins.

  “Rumours come from people, Rawlins. And you bobbies mingle with enough of the rabble to get something. Have a word with the people on the street. See what you can find, will you?”

  Hogarth had given them a rough ride on occasion. But now he needed their help. He gave them a nod of thanks, stuck his hands in his pockets and went on his way.

  “DI Hogarth asking for a favour?” said Dawson. “Melford must have put a proper rocket up his backside this time…”

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The first murder got attention, but the second murder was off the scale. Killing Jake Drummond had been fodder for the local rags. But the national media had given it no more than a mention. But putting an end to DJ GG worked out even better than he’d hoped. From luring the man to his death, to the epic coverage. The local news interviewed distraught club-goers, friends, and hangers-on who were in tears. They were people who never gave a damn about him in real life. People who actively didn’t like him, and their crocodile tears made him angry. He liked the coverage and the attention, but those liars made him furious. They made him so angry that his eyes passed over the blade on the mantelpiece more than once.

  He’d never been a killer before Drummond… and after Drummond he’d never intended to kill again. But Grayson had been a useful kill – and pulling the man’s trousers down by his ankles had been another nice touch. Yes, he could be smart when he wanted to be. But deep down he also knew he was kidding himself. He was becoming hooked. Smart people got addicted too.

  The killing had become fun.

  The hiding. The sport. Just like the thrills of old, when simple pleasures were all he needed. But after the release of removing Drummond, he’d needed to get another high. So, he’d planned it well. But it turned out Grayson had already done most of the plotting for him. Why did he take that slut behind the bins that night? Because Grayson knew the street cameras and knew the bins would hide his exploits. Grayson was another kind of addict and he had made it his business to get away with philandering on an epic scale. And because Grayson was an expert in choosing the best secluded sites to have his way, he had known the place was perfect for the kill. It was so easy to arrange. A handwritten note from an unknown girlfriend left where he would find it. A sex-junkie with a chance of getting some cheap thrills behind the shops. Even when he was sober, even on a cold grey day, Gary Grayson was always up for it. Easy. He’d taken the note back from the body, so it had never existed. Easy. The killing added a layer of confusion and misdirection he was proud of. Yes, proud.

  But he didn’t like the sense of need in him returning so soon.

  He couldn’t become an out-and-out killer. He had too much to do. He was a businessman. A smart man. He wasn’t a psycho. So why was the urge coming to him again, so soon? But as a smart man, he already knew. It was all about the highs. The adrenaline. He had always loved his highs, and this one had taken him as high as he could get. The thrill of the kill. The words brought a smile to his lips, but now he felt as much fear as he did joy. And the fear was what he was capable of. Once the taboo had gone, what was left to stop him from doing it again? He was becoming a big game hunter, beginning to get a taste for hunting the biggest game of all. But he was scared of being caught. It fuelled his study of the media, and made him analyse every single word.

  He flicked the channel to the local news to watch the police press conference. A tall, thickset man with receding brown hair and an old-school police moustache sat at a desk holding some stapled sheets in his big hands. He looked up at his audience with a glassy eye. As the cameras flashed and the journalists coughed in the audience, the policeman’s words came out slow and heavy with police authority.

  “Today police discovered the body of a local man dumped behind one of our high street shops here in Southend. We can confirm another man has been murdered. The victim, Mr Gary Grayson, was a local nightclub DJ, a man well known in the town, and well loved by people in the local club scene and friends and family alike. Police are now investigating the time and circumstances of his death and we wish to communicate to the public in the strongest terms that we will stop at nothing until the man who killed Gary Grayson is brought to justice. Initial reports suggest that this second killing was very probably carried out by the same person who killed Jake Drummond just a few days ago at a local nightclub. These murders are very local to each other. Within a couple of hundred yards and the same method was used for the killing. It is possible these victims knew one another. Today, we have a very simple and very clear message to the person carrying out these heinous crimes. You may think you are being clever. You may think you are getting away with it. But you should be aware that with every act you are providing us with information that is leading us to you. We have reports of a man in a dark hood walking away at pace across the square towards the high street around the time of the murder between 3pm and 4pm yesterday afternoon.”

  The warnings had bothered him. What had he done that he hadn’t considered? Someone had seen him walking away from the scene, but no matter. He had been well disguised. No one would have really seen him. But what about the forensic evidence? He recounted the scene. There had been no struggle. Just a chat. A cosy little chat – and then the knife went in, and he had taken back his note. Grayson’s face appeared in mind. More shocked than pained. Then then man fell down, and it was over. Fingerprints? None. He was sure of it. He had been careful. Blood on his clothes? Not possible. They had been cleaned and washed and tumble dried. So, what else? Nothing. The police were bluffing. They would never find his knife. So why did the senior cop seem so confident?

  He couldn’t kill again. He saw it now. They were triangulating the murders. They were drawing inferences from the locations. If he did kill again, it would have to be somewhere far away. No! No more killing. The proximity of the killings had given them hope, and given them ideas. But that was all they had. Which meant they had nothing. But the fear was rising in him. He thought about killing. Maybe another kill would do it? To lure them away?

  No. He was becoming addicted. The addiction was misguiding him, and he needed to resist. The man got up from his seat, and scratched around the dark living room for a pad and pen. He sat down, and began to think. Then he started making notes of the things – and the people – who he needed to be prepared for. The curveballs he couldn’t control. One by one they surfaced in his mind. He started to list them and with each one he felt an idiotic spike of fear. Damn him, he’d not been thorough enough. But at least he could be thorough now. He wrote their names. He rated the risks. Thank God, he was smart and streetwise. Yes, he was still ahead of them. And he would make sure that he stayed ahead all the way. Because if he didn’t stay ahead, there would be hell to pay. And he wouldn’t be the only one to pay it.

  Chapter Thirty

  Alison Craw was pale faced and drawn. Gone was the look of the modern day Boadicea. The fire had gone out of her eyes. The moment Palmer brought her into the interview room, Hogarth saw there was hardly any point interviewing her. But she was a busy woman and he respected her. She had older children. She was trying to set up a business. Hogarth didn’t want to confirm he had wasted her time by sending her home too soon. “How are you?” said Hogarth.

  “How do you think?” said Alison Craw.

  “Fair point,” said Hogarth.

  “Why am I here?” she said, as she sat down at the interview room table. “You s
till can’t think I’m a suspect?”

  “It’s part of the process, Mrs Craw. We’ve got a man who’s killed more than once. He could kill again unless we get hold of him. We have to be thorough.”

  “You should have caught him before this,” the woman snapped. “It’s too late now, isn’t it?! Whoever did it has ruined what was left of my life.”

  Hogarth nodded. “I understand how you feel, Mrs Craw, but I still need your help.”

  “My help? What help can I possibly give you now?”

  “I need you to think about who Gary knew well. Who he knew best of all. People he liked and people he didn’t like.”

  The woman shook her head and offered a bitter smile. “Why would any of that help anyone? You should be out there looking for him, not in here interviewing the people left behind.”

  Hogarth frowned as he thought about how to say it. Palmer was with him. Shame she couldn’t read his mind. Hogarth had no choice but to say it himself.

  “Look, Mrs Craw. People have many reasons to commit murder. I don’t believe the motives in this instance were the same as the killing of Jake Drummond.”

  “Of course they weren’t. Drummond was a blackmailing bastard. The only thing Gary was ever guilty of was being a drunken idiot.”

  Hogarth sighed and got ready to say it. His eyes settled on the glint of light he saw there.

  “They found Gary with his trousers round his ankles, didn’t they?” she said.

  “Yes… but how did you know about that?” said Hogarth.

  “I watched the press conference with your DCI Melford on TV. One of the journalists asking questions said they’d heard about it. She wouldn’t leave it alone. Forget the fact he’d been killed, it was his bloody trousers she was interested in…”

  Hogarth knew who that was. Alice Perry from The Record, it had to be.

  “It hurt, but not any more than losing him. I knew Gary was a louse. I knew he was a stupid, cheating sod but somehow I managed to pretend to myself that it wasn’t happening.” The woman looked at DS Palmer sat beside him.

  “Now you think I’m the stupid one, don’t you? But for all his many, many faults… he was my idiot. I loved him.”

  “Please, Mrs Craw,” said Hogarth, “we need your help. Tell us about the people in his circle. Who did he tell you about? And who did he hate most of all?”

  Alison Craw sniffed and covered her mouth with a hand before she composed herself.

  “Gary liked to impress people. He was friends with everyone. The bouncers, the bartenders, the cleaners… you name them, he was friends with them.”

  Hogarth nodded for her to go on. “He got on well with the other DJs, and the club owner John Milford.”

  “Milford,” said Hogarth, looking at Palmer. “We should speak to him, Palmer. Make a note. And the security too.”

  Palmer made some quick jottings at his side.

  “The only person apart from Jake Drummond – the only person I remember he didn’t like was Peter Deal.”

  “Peter Deal?” said Palmer, looking up from her pad. “But why? He seems harmless enough.”

  “Does he? Well seems harmless and being harmless are two very different things.”

  “Can you explain?” said Hogarth.

  “Peter Deal was always trying to make an earner here or there, never satisfied with his lot. I don’t know the ins and outs, but the man was always on at him about some past business they had together. Something that went wrong between them. I never knew what, but from what I heard about Peter Deal, it’s likely to be with one of his previous wheeling and dealing operations.”

  “Mr Deal has a history of starting new businesses then, does he?” said Hogarth, catching Palmer’s eye.

  “I met Peter on the only night I went to that awful club. He was there, talking about how he was going to get rich. Gary told me that the man was always talking like that. That he was an idiot and it would amount to nothing. Later on that night, I saw them having words. It looked heated alright. I asked Gary about it later and he told me it was about one of his past ventures. I guess Gary had to have been involved somehow…”

  Hogarth nodded and narrowed his eyes. “Thank you, Mrs Craw. That’s been most helpful. Is there anything else you can think of, before we let you go?”

  The woman shook her head. “I don’t know why he killed Gary, but believe me, it had nothing to do with an affair. The trousers round his ankles was more of an insult to me than anything else.”

  “An insult to you?” said Hogarth.

  “Not to me directly. They did it to shame him and because of that, they shamed me. You should start with Peter Deal. He’s the only man I know who didn’t like Gary.”

  “Peter Deal. We know they didn’t get on, Mrs Craw, but do you really think Deal had any reason to kill Jake Drummond?” said Hogarth.

  “Come on. Who didn’t?” said Alison Craw. Soon after that, they let her go, but Hogarth and Palmer stayed talking at the interview room table.

  “What do you make of that?” said Hogarth.

  “Peter Deal couldn’t have done it,” said Palmer. The man’s a fool. He would have left clues all over the place.”

  “A wise man can appear a fool when he needs to,” said Hogarth. “Which could mean DC Simmons is a genius in disguise.”

  Palmer smiled.

  “But back to Peter Deal…” said Hogarth. “Alison Craw suggests the man is a serial entrepreneur. That’s certainly a new take on the man. But if so, this arrangement with Drummond could have just been his latest gambit. Deal paints himself as a mechanic who struck lucky, not a late-blooming Alan Sugar. Whatever his problem with Gary Grayson, it clearly didn’t play out well. If Peter Deal had learned that Jake Drummond was taking his money with no prospect of return, Deal would have had plenty of reason for doing in Drummond. But Grayson? That sounds extreme to me, even if they didn’t get on. But Deal was caught on the CCTV footage at the bar. Not in the act of murder, but he was right there when it happened.”

  “If Deal isn’t a simpleton, he certainly had me convinced,” said Palmer.

  “Maybe he is. But what if his latest business venture included Picton’s drugs business? Drummond could have been blackmailing him about that, too. How’s that for motive?”

  “But you heard Grayson mocking Deal’s arrangement with Drummond back at the start… that doesn’t sound to me like Deal and Drummond had a falling out. As far as Deal was concerned the Drummond business was going ahead.”

  “Agreed. Okay, so Deal didn’t want the man dead. But we still have this bad blood thing between Peter Deal and Grayson,” said Hogarth. “Alison Craw knew about it, but we need to know more. Grayson had a past with Deal. We need to know what it was. We need to get Deal brought in here pronto. I bet you could get him in here. The way you described his reaction to you last time, I dare say he’d follow you anywhere…”

  “You’ve become expert in flattery, I see,” said Palmer.

  “A silver tongue saved for the right moment. Okay. Go and bring in Peter Deal. And take Simmons with you. I think his brain could do with an airing.”

  “Yes, guv…”

  Hogarth lingered in the interview room after Palmer had left. He paced the room with his hands planted deep in his pockets, his thoughts drifting between the murders. The differences and the similarities. The location was still a big factor binding them close together. Forensic evidence had been thin on the ground, and as yet, the SavaPenny people hadn’t provided the CCTV. If one of those things came in, there was a chance the culprit would be unmasked. Until then it was back to interviews and pressure on the suspects. The killer was playing them, disguising himself by sending them in all directions. The bastard was enjoying himself and getting cocky too. Hogarth had the feeling either another kill or some evidence would soon come to light, but there was no knowing which would come first. Either way, he knew his career depended on it. If the case went against them, Melford was ready to hang him out to dry.

  Even s
o, Hogarth found his mind drifting to Ali Hartigan. Her soft face and her lovely brown eyes. Ali was vulnerable and alone while her stalker was somewhere out there with dark intentions unknown. A stalker who might yet kill. Hogarth stopped pacing the room and grabbed up his blazer from the chair. Maybe a drive would make things clearer. Yes, a drive would sort him out. Then he could check in on Ali on the way. Hogarth moved fast hoping to avoid Melford as he left the station.

  ***

  James Hartigan MP lived in one of the big houses on the road winding up from the Thorpe Bay seafront to North Shoebury. As he drove, Hogarth looked out over the roofline of the beach huts towards the wide silver Thames, before he took the left turn up the slope of large houses towards North Shoebury. Hogarth knew the man would be in London. With his government’s narrow majority, James Hartigan would certainly be in Westminster, earning brownie points with the Prime Minister. Or he would be busy humping his secretary. Either way, it gave Hogarth the licence to act. He slowed as he passed the fancy house with the topiary and manicured lawn. He saw they had installed net curtains. They were new. Ali was not exactly a net curtains kind of girl, but at least they would give her some protection from being snooped on. Hogarth doubled back down the road for a last drive-by on his way back to the office. As he glanced at the house he caught a glimpse of movement within. A shadowy jerking movement which disappeared as fast as he had seen it. Hogarth frowned. He slowed the car, pulled over sharply and took a breath. His eyes flicked to the street around him. There were plenty of cars around, but very few pedestrians. He considered leaving it there and driving away. Ali didn’t want him to come knocking like this – in fact, she had warned him against it. But what if she was in danger? What if she was struggling with the stalker while he dallied at the roadside? His worrying was down to the case, of course. It had sullied his mind with thoughts of risk, blood, and danger, but Hogarth still couldn’t risk it. Ali was in his care. Hogarth blinked at himself in the mirror then got out of the car and took another look around. One man was walking up the hill passing Ali’s house. But the man passed it by without looking. There was no one else in sight. Hogarth double-checked the driveway for signs of the husband but his Jaguar wasn’t on the drive or parked on the street.