He looked at Palmer and saw a grim look come over her face.
“I’m sorry, but there’s been a development, Marris. I’ll have to call you back.” He hung up the phone.
“Sue?” said Hogarth.
“Milford’s got Simmons.”
“How do you know?”
“Simmons wouldn’t do that to Marris unless he had no choice.”
“But he could have lost the signal,” said Hogarth.
“You know he didn’t.”
Hogarth’s eyes narrowed, and he nodded once. The situation was turning from a crisis to a total disaster.
“We’d better go,” said Hogarth.
“But where do we go?” said Palmer.
“You’ve got a list of contact information for the case back at the station. Milford’s address will be in there somewhere.”
“Isn’t that the trouble?” said Palmer. “He could be anywhere.”
Chapter Thirty-four
“PC Dawson?” said Hogarth. He was driving at speed along the tree-lined boulevard of Prittlewell Chase. And he was breaking the law – his phone was pinned to his ear as he drove but Palmer didn’t say a word.
“DI Hogarth. What’s up?”
“Have you seen or heard from DC Simmons?”
“Not since he left the station.”
“When was that?”
Hogarth’s Vauxhall reached the red tail lights of the cars queuing for the hospital car park. He accelerated and pulled past into the adjoining lane, receiving a blare of car horns behind him.
“About twenty minutes ago, sir. Maybe a bit more. He was in a hurry. I’ve not seen Simmons like that before.”
“Did he mention anything? Say where he was going?”
“Hold on, sir.” He could hear Dawson speaking to the officers around his desk before he came back on the line. “PC Orton says he saw him heading into town.”
“Club Smart maybe?” said Hogarth.
“No. Orton said he was round the back, opposite Warrior Square park.”
“Warrior Square? What the hell would be doing there?”
“What did you find at Dalton Drive?” said Dawson.
“Nothing, Dawson. The house was a ghost ship. A woman and two children live there, the daughter and grandchildren of one of our key witnesses from Club Smart. It looks to me like they’ve been abducted. And now DC Simmons has done a bloody flit too. If he’s done something stupid…”
“Do you need assistance?” said Dawson.
Hogarth was about to refuse, but stopped himself.
“I need to know where John Milford lives. The man who owns Club Smart.”
“That should be easy enough. It was me and Rawlins who took down the names and addresses that night…”
Hogarth listened with bated breath. He heard Dawson rummage through the mound of papers on top of his desk.
“Here we are. Milford lives at twenty-five Warrior Court.”
“Warrior Court!” said Hogarth. He looked at Palmer.
“Then that’s where Simmons was going. To John Milford’s place. Dawson, Simmons could be in trouble. We’re heading to Warrior Court now. I think John Milford is our man.”
“Milford? Why, sir?”
“Drummond was leaching off everyone at that club. We don’t know the specifics yet. But the evidence against him was mounting and I think he knew it. If Milford is our man, he could have a woman and two young children trapped with him. If Simmons is there, it could get worse. Do me a favour, Dawson. We need a police presence at Warrior Square but keep a low profile. Bring a couple of others, but only people who have their heads screwed on. Make sure you leave PC Orton and Matthews out of it.”
“What shall I tell the chief?” said Dawson.
“Leave all that to me,” said Hogarth. He cut the call dead and dropped the phone into his lap. Simmons disappearance was on him. He had told DC Simmons to find Milford’s address, to start looking at Milford as the last suspect. If anything happened to Simmons it would be his responsibility. There would be an inquiry. Someone would get carpeted. There would be a scapegoat because when the shit hit the fan there always was. And Hogarth was under no illusions. He would be the man to go. Reaching the red traffic lights by Prittlewell Park, Hogarth flicked on the blue police lights hidden in his headlamps and the siren too. As the siren wailed he swung his car out into the oncoming lane and cut a diagonal across the junction, almost scything into an oncoming car.
“Simmons is at Milford’s place?” said Palmer.
“I asked him to track down his address,” said Hogarth. “Simmons was probably there when he called Marris, so he must have found something. Which means Milford is definitely our man. Then the call went dead. He was interrupted. Probably by Milford.”
“But how did Simmons work out it was Milford?”
“Simmons has more of a brain than I gave him credit for. And who knows what he found there, Palmer. The long-lost knife, maybe? We just have to get there before something bad happens…”
Racing the wrong way across a busy town-centre junction Hogarth flicked off the sirens and police lights, then dabbed the brake. He parked the Vauxhall on a side street beside Warrior Square and looked up at the grey concrete block. High above shop level Warrior Court looked a little like a multi-storey car park with added windows.
“Where’s the way in?” said Hogarth.
“Round here,” said Palmer. “There’s an entrance door by the bus stops.”
Palmer led the way. She looked as tense as he felt. Palmer was pale, and her eyes were deadly serious. They jogged past the people at the nearby bus stops and opened the glass door which led into Warrior Court.
“What if he’s armed?” said Palmer.
“But we have to do something. Besides Simmons, there’s Sandra Deal and the children.”
They came face to face with the option of the small steel lift or a very narrow staircase. Beside the lift was a plastic sign with list of apartment numbers. Flat numbers 23, 24 and 25 were shown as being on the top floor.
“We’ll take the lift to the floor underneath. I’ll try and deal with Milford. But I want you safe. Out of the way.”
“Sir!” said Palmer, trying to resist.
“That’s an order, DS Palmer. I need you to be a witness to everything that happens. This bastard has got to go down for a very long time.”
The lift pinged and the door slid open. They got into a space barely bigger than a biscuit tin, only to face their reflections in the mirrored walls. Their fears were written all over their faces, inescapable.
The doors opened on the fourth floor. Hogarth got out and gave Palmer a nod.
“This is it,” he whispered. “I lead the way.”
“Sir, we should call this in. We should get armed back up.”
“I don’t want to ensure this turns into a siege, Palmer. Not if I can help it. Just do what I ask, and I’ll carry the can, okay.”
Palmer could see the fixed look in his eye. Brave was a word she had never associated with Hogarth. Dogged, determined, a bastard at times, but never brave. Yet here it was. They climbed the steps to the top floor carefully, quietly, then Hogarth paused at the top step. From their angled view, they could see the third door down the short corridor was ajar, showing a strip of darkness inside. The door jamb was cracked and splintered.
“Okay…” said Hogarth. He pointed at the top of the stairs and Palmer nodded in acceptance of the order to stay put. Hogarth started to creep forward. He moved past the first closed apartment door, then the second. With every step the tension in his body grew tighter, gripping at the sides of his head. He felt sweat dripping from his forehead. As he got closer, he could hear a mumble of words from within. A stink of cigarette smoke and rank stuffy air hit his nostrils as the voices started to make sense.
***
Simmons was on the sofa, hands on his knees to show he was following orders. Simmons wasn’t armed. But his eyes were everywhere. He looked at the newspapers, the laptop,
and the blade flashing in Milford’s hand. Milford held the knife by his hip. He looked comfortable with it. Like it was an extension of his hand. As if it was a part of him. His hand covered the handle, and looking at the blade, Simmons reckoned it was six to eight centimetres long. It fit the bill of the weapon Ed Quentin had described almost exactly. There was no need to look any further. Simmons was nervous. In a quandary. Would talking help delay the violence? Would it help or harm them all? But as the aching dryness of his throat took hold he felt the need to speak. To lessen the tension. Besides, Simmons was a cop. He’d already been a cop for six years. He couldn’t help being curious.
“No wonder we never found the knife…” said Simmons, with a shaky voice. “You kept it all the time, didn’t you? You must have hidden it when you were body searched.”
Milford looked at him like he was pathetic. He smiled and nodded.
“It’s my club. I knew where to keep it. I wasn’t going to let you lot have it, was I? Forensics and all that. I’ve watched those CSI shows before.”
Simmons nodded and licked his lips. He looked right and scanned the young woman with the lank hair and the frightened eyes sitting at his side. There were deep, dark rings around those eyes. She held both children in her arms. She was shaking while she held them and she never took her eyes off them. The kids had their eyes closed as if they were sleeping. They looked unconscious. But it was daytime. Their sleep wasn’t natural. He wondered what the man had done.
“Those kids are very quiet,” he said.
Milford leaned on the mantelpiece as he stared at him. Like a fox looking at a piece of chicken.
“Sandra knows I can’t stand the noise – not at a time like this. I love Sandra, don’t I sweet? And I can tolerate the kids, but not their incessant noise. A situation like this requires my full concentration.”
“What did you do to them?” asked Simmons.
Milford grinned. “Don’t worry. I’m not a monster. You can tell him, Sandra…”
The girl looked at him. Her smooth skin said she was in her twenties, but her eyes looked at least twenty years older. “He drugged them…” said the girl in a whisper. “A double dose of anti-histamine. It’s too much for them, really… but what could I do?”
The girl was shaking now. Just about holding on.
Simmons nodded. Drugged. That made sense. So, Milford and the girl were together then. His cop brain chewed on it, while Milford stared at him. Milford seemed amused to watch his mind so busy.
“Sandra Deal, eh?”
The girl looked at Milford for permission to speak. Milford shrugged.
“Yes,” she nodded. “That’s right.”
“You know then. But how do you know?” said Milford. “Did you get that from her old man? Did he tell you Sandra was his?” His voice started to rise.
Simmons swallowed on his aching throat. He shook his head.
“No. Peter refused to tell us a thing. We had to work around him… we had to guess.”
Milford grinned. “Good for him then…”
“So, you’re together?” said Simmons.
“Perceptive little man, aren’t we?” said Milford.
“I was just wondering, that’s all…” said Simmons, his voice rasping.
“Wondering?”
“Drummond. I get that,” said Simmons. “I know why you killed Drummond, near enough everyone wanted that man dead. He was an out and out villain… scum. But why Gary Grayson? Surely not just because of his past relationship with Sandra here…”
“Nosey little man, too. All these questions are a bit risky for someone in your position. But hey. I’ve never done last requests before. That is what this is, right? Your last request?”
Simmons refused to answer.
“Please don’t…” said Sandra but her voice was like a whisper. Milford chuckled.
“Sandra used to be very upset with Gary, and for good reason, I’d say. He knocked her up once and she decided to keep away. But then he saw her again and made her promises as long as your arm. He even got engaged to her, just so he could get her into bed. Soon as he found out she was pregnant with number two, he cut her off. Ignored her. The full blank. He never returned her calls. He blanked her in the street. For a while she sent him letters and pictures to try and trigger something paternal in him, but the bastard never reacted. He could have organised maintenance payments, but that would have involved Gary admitting he was the father. I knew he was the father. I saw those photographs. He knew he was the father, but he wouldn’t ever admit it. He left Sandra with nothing but stress. I felt sorry for the girl. But after I got talking to her, I liked her. She deserved better. She’s a beautiful girl and the man ruined her life.”
“But he worked for you…” said Simmons.
“I didn’t know about her until later. Until I met her myself,” said Milford. “Sandra denies it now, but she once told me she wanted to have him hurt for what he’d done to her. You know, to get a bit of revenge for all the horrible things he’d done to her. We only spoke about it once. But it got me thinking for a while after that. I watched his behaviour, and I soon started to dislike him too. Gary worked for me, yeah. He brought the customers in. But I hated him anyway.”
“I still don’t get it,” said Simmons.
“You killed Drummond because of…”
“He was leaching off me. Roaming around my club like it was his own private kingdom. He tried to bleed me dry! As if I should have worked hard all my life to make him rich and me poor! Screw that. He pushed me too far. It was only a matter of time. Drummond always went to the same bar to drink. He gathered people around him like he was a film star or something. I watched him. I knew his whole bloody routine. All I needed to do was pick my moment…”
“But we saw the cameras. They never showed the moment he was killed. They never showed anything.”
“Of course they didn’t! I knew those cameras better than anyone. I knew what you people needed to see and what needed to stay hidden. You saw me behind the bar, right? So, it couldn’t have been me, could it? Only I slipped out from the double doors, came back round and passed through the punters in the crowd. It was dark. It was busy. And all they want is a drink, and they’re all fighting to make sure their drink is served before the man next to them. It’s so easy to kill a man who’s waiting at a busy bar. Everyone was looking the wrong way. The lights were flashing. I was out of there before Drummond dropped down dead.”
“So, Drummond was blackmailing you. Killing Drummond made sense… but Grayson?”
“Grayson made sense to me. Once I’d started out, it was a lot clearer what needed to be done. You lot were so slack, I knew I could do what I liked. And dear old Gary finally got what he deserved.”
Getting answers didn’t make Simmons feel any better. He looked away, his eyes trailing to the floor.
“But I didn’t want you to kill him!” snapped Sandra. “The kids might have wanted to know their father when they were older.”
Milford shook his head. “That pillock didn’t deserve them.”
There was the faintest creak of the front door hinges. A very subtle noise, as if the door had been caught in a draught. Milford looked back over his shoulder and he stared out into the darkness and the hallway beyond.
Then he looked at Simmons.
“For what we’re going to do next, we’ll need that door secured.”
“Come on. You’re not a killer. You don’t need to do this. You’re a businessman with a future, Mr Milford.”
“But unless I deal with you, my future will be over…”
Milford turned away for the door. He walked towards the hallway. Simmons looked across at the girl on the chair beside him. He tried to get her attention, but her eyes stayed on her children. Simmons got it. They were the only things now which mattered. He was on his own. Simmons pushed himself up out of the chair, slowly and quietly. Now the girl’s head flicked up and she looked at him. Simmons stared back for a split second. Her eyes were
big and wide, and her pale lips fluttered. But she didn’t speak. As Milford left the room, Simmons looked for something to defend himself with. He scanned the room for anything he could use, but the only thing he saw was an empty beer bottle left by the sofa. As he moved in the dark, his shin scuffed the coffee table and made a noise. Simmons froze, and Milford reappeared at the living room door. Their eyes met across the room. Milford’s face turned dark. He ran across the room, the shining blade swinging at his side. Simmons was in trouble. He would have to fight for his life. As Milford came at him, the beer bottle was still well out of reach. Simmons stepped back, putting the coffee table between them. Milford grinned.
“You blew it. You knew everything there is to know. You found me. It’s me. I did it. And even then, you know what? You still blew it. And now I’m going to kill you too…”
Simmons got ready to defend himself. Milford swung the blade at him in a wide arc and Sandra Deal whimpered in her seat. Simmons bobbed back out of range and Milford used the moment to dart around the table. Simmons moved to avoid the knife. He scrambled past the coffee table, but Sandra Deal’s legs were in his way. He pushed himself over her, but ankles got tangled and he started to fall.
He was done for. He was dead. He knew it. He turned over, and found Milford breathing heavily as he leaned over him, the knife in his hand, a toothy smile on his face.
“I never knew killing could be this much fun,” he said. As Milford leaned in, there was a noise in the hallway. But Milford was focused. He held the knife up high and took aim. In desperation, Simmons swiped the laptop down from the table and dragged the newspapers over him. The knife plunged down and struck the hard, plastic shell of the laptop. Milford growled and pulled his stabbing arm back again, ready to plunge a second time.
“No!” shouted Hogarth. He stood in the living room doorway, his hands raised, palms flat. Part appeal, part order.
“Milford. That’s enough,” said Hogarth. “You’ve gone far enough.”
Milford looked at Hogarth. “Really? Because I don’t think I have. You know my only regret in all of this?”
The Darkest Lies: A Gripping Crime Mystery Series - Two Novel Boxed Set (The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Boxed Sets Book 1) Page 25
