Hogarth stepped forward, hands raised. “Tell me. Go on. Tell us all.”
“That it couldn’t be you instead.”
Milford kicked the laptop aside and swiped at it with his free hand. He struck the laptop and sent it sliding down by Simmons side. Milford dropped down, and pinned Simmons down with a knee on his chest, then raised the blade. This time Milford had a clean aim at his chest. Simmons blinked and struggled as the blade began its final descent.
“No!” Hogarth dived at Milford and seized his blade arm with both hands. The knife slowly lowered, and Hogarth heard Simmons scream. He couldn’t look. Milford was strong. Hogarth used every ounce of strength to pull the man away until he threw Milford back toppling against the coffee table. Hogarth looked down to see Simmons struggling on the floor. There was blood on his shirt and it glistened on the floor. Sandra Deal was whimpering with a low-level panic attack.
“I’ll kill you as well!” said Milford.
He held out the blade as a warning and began to pull himself to his feet. In a few moments, Hogarth knew he would have lost any advantage. And Simmons was bleeding badly. Hogarth watched and waited, picking his moment. He waited until the man was on one knee, and then sent in a smashing fist. Hogarth knocked the blade hand out of his way and the knife spun down to the floor. The man looked shocked. Hogarth gritted his teeth and sent his all into a downward fist, smashing it through the side of Milford’s head. His head lolled but he was still upright. Hogarth growled and sent another punch into him. Sandra Deal screamed as Hogarth drew blood. By the third punch, a voice called at Hogarth’s back.
“Sir. You need to stop…” He aimed another fist and it crunched against the man’s face. “Sir!”
Hogarth saw the blood and balled his fists again., “Sir,” called Palmer. He was about to strike again. “Joe!” Hogarth stopped at the sound of his name. He looked back and saw Palmer. She looked pale faced and afraid.
Hogarth looked down at the bloodied face of John Milford. Dazed, yet still grinning with bloody teeth. Hogarth pushed back the coffee table and kicked the knife clear away from them. He looked back at Palmer and nodded, and she dropped down to Simmons side. As Palmer checked Simmons, Hogarth jabbed a finger close up into Milford’s bloodied face.
“John Milford! I am arresting you on suspicion of the murders of Jake Drummond and Gary Grayson, and for the attempted murder of my colleague, Detective Constable Simmons…” Hogarth seized the man’s wrists and cuffed him. Then he moved to Palmer’s side. Simmons lay beneath her. He coughed and winced in pain as he raised his head up. “I think he missed…” said Simmons, faintly.
“I think he did too,” said Palmer, with a smile.
Hogarth steered Milford towards a corner, and pushed him down to his knees, facing the wall. Hogarth leaned over the cop and put on a stern face.
“Simmons, we haven’t got enough decent coppers that we can afford to lose one to some knife wielding psycho, do you hear me? I need you fighting fit and back on the team as soon as possible, okay?”
“Yes, sir,” said Simmons.
“And, Simmons… you’re a better copper than I gave you credit for,” said Hogarth. He gripped the man’s arm once and let him go. Simmons smiled, and Hogarth took it as a good sign.
Epilogue
It was the middle of the day. Lunchtime, in fact. Which was how Hogarth had been able to use a flimsy excuse about meeting an old cop friend for a bite to eat. When DCI Melford had asked who he was meeting Hogarth had used an unlikely bluff. “Oh, you wouldn’t know him, sir.”
And Hogarth knew the only reason Melford hadn’t challenged the assertion was because the DCI was in a very good mood. Today, The Record’s lead story was ‘Cops Face Down Nightclub Killer’. The killer had been found, been given a catchy name, a face, and a history. Now the press would feed off the story for weeks to come. And no matter which angle the trouble-making journos took, or how much they tried to spin it, Hogarth knew it was only a good news story as far as the police were concerned.
And it wasn’t just Melford who was pleased.
It was lunchtime and Joe Hogarth lay in a bed which wasn’t his own. It was too fresh, too warm, and too comfortable for that.
Hogarth held a soft, warm, and naked Ali Hartigan at his side. The plush bed was in a hotel beside the airport. Being with Ali like this was a risky business, but after facing down a killer, risk had been put into perspective. Being with Ali was exquisite. But now that the moment was over, Hogarth felt an odd mixture of elation and guilt.
“You took too many risks to set this up, Ali,” he said.
She leaned up on her elbow and draped her blonde hair over his chest. He couldn’t help but look at her. Her eyes were bright, and her cheeks were pink with the heat of passion. She traced a finger over his hairless chest and Hogarth felt a little self-conscious. How could a woman that bloody gorgeous be in bed with him? He tried to put the thought aside, while she looked into his eyes.
“But I could have lost you to that psychopath and it made me think… life’s too short and too fragile to go on living without doing the things you want to do.”
Hogarth smiled, and Ali rolled her eyes.
“It’s not just about the sex, Joe. Though, admittedly, that was pretty damn good too…”
“Pretty damn good?! It was better than that. If I didn’t have to get back to those nitwits at Southend I’d make sure you got your money’s worth from this hotel room.”
She kissed Hogarth’s chest and looked up. “I already have. Believe me.”
“But aren’t you worried James will find out?”
“Of course, I am. But I was very careful about this. I used aPayPal account attached to one of my old bank accounts. He won’t know.”
“But you’re sure he’s not, you know, suspicious…?”
Ali Hartigan sighed and rolled away from Hogarth. He knew he’d spoiled the moment, but he couldn’t help it. “Suspicious? Of me? From all the odd hotel charges I’ve seen on his credit card bill I’d say he’s too busy bouncing around with that awful secretary of his to notice what I’m doing. These days I’m surprised he’s got time to attend the House of Commons…”
Ali sat on the bed and slowly pulled on her underwear.
“Sorry,” she said. “After your ordeal, here I am moaning about my awful husband.”
“No, I should be sorry,” said Hogarth. “But your husband is still a disgrace. You’re in danger and he still does nothing about it…”
“No. But at least I’ve got you to protect me.”
“But I have my job. I do my best, but I can’t be there all the time. The man should assign someone to protect you. A proper security guard.”
“But then… we couldn’t have done this.”
Hogarth sighed. “But I want you to be safe.”
“And I want you to be safe,” she replied. “But you can’t do that either, can you?”
Checkmate. Hogarth got up and reluctantly grabbed his trousers and underwear.
“Why did that man turn into a killer?”
Hogarth shrugged. “He was a bad apple.”
“Do you think everyone can become so evil, deep down?”
“John Milford was pushed to kill the first man. If he hadn’t killed Jake Drummond, someone else would have done it eventually. It wasn’t right, but it was going to happen. Milford planned it meticulously. He knew how to strike so as not to be seen and how to avoid CCTV. He’d been planning it for months. But the second kill, that was emotional. He said it was because of a promise he’d made to his girlfriend, but I think that was a lie.”
“Then why do it?”
“He got a thirst for it, Ali. He crossed a line which should never be crossed, and he enjoyed himself. He found a reason because he wanted to kill again.”
“Do you think all people are so bad?”
“No, Ali. There are a lot of dark souls out there. We both know that. But I also know a few very good ones,” he said, smiling. Ali nodded at the co
mpliment.
“What about the policeman who was hurt?”
“DC Simmons will live. If he still wants to be a cop after that? Well, only time will tell. Like you said, Ali. It was a happy ending.”
If only they could have had their own happy ending, he thought.
“I wanted to be with you, Joe, but this is a one-off.”
“I know,” he sighed. “But I’ll wait for you,” he said. He watched her for a moment, studying her beauty. She leaned in and kissed him. The kiss lasted a few seconds, and then she pulled away and grabbed her bag.
“Give me ten minutes before you leave. We can’t risk being seen leaving together.”
“I know the drill, Ali. I’ll watch you from the window.”
“No. Don’t. Someone could see you.”
Hogarth sighed. “I need to be sure you’re safe.”
“It’s broad daylight. I’ll be fine. I’ll get a cab.”
“Okay. Fine” said Hogarth. Ali opened the hotel door and gave him a wave. Hogarth nodded and watched her go. Two minutes later he stood at the window, watching her walk out into the cold grey day. He lifted the net curtain so he could enjoy the full view of her until she was gone
“You’ve got it bad, Joe. You’ve got it bad…” he said, turning away. It was time to get back to the cop shop. Ali Hartigan was his oasis. But part of him wondered how long it could last.
***
Ali Hartigan climbed out of the taxi in North Shoebury.
“And tell Mr Hartigan he needs to do something about the cyclists too,” said the taxi driver. “They’re always getting in my way. They think they own the bloody roads these days!”
“Yes, yes. I’ll be sure to mention it…” said Ali, as she gave the man a ten pound note. She told him to keep the change just to shut him up. Ali Hartigan was happy. Joe Hogarth was a good man, a real man, and a hero. He was tough and austere on the outside, but soft and warm when it really mattered. He was the kind of man she had always needed. Ignoring all her many problems, it was good to be alive. Ali smiled up at the gloomy clouds. A short way behind her, a second taxi slowed to a halt. A door opened and a man in a long grey raincoat handed over his money to the driver. He was in a hurry. The driver thanked him, but the man didn’t say a word. He was focused on the slim, well-dressed blonde walking up the hill further ahead. The man pretended to look at his watch until the taxi drove away up the hill. Once it was out of sight, the man in the long grey coat started walking. His mouth was narrowed. His temples rippled with intent. He walked quickly and quietly, gaining on Ali Hartigan with every silent step.
Continued in book 2, The Darkest Grave…
The
Darkest
Grave
A Gripping Crime Mystery
The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Book 2
Solomon Carter
Great Leap
The Darkest Grave
Prologue
MP’s Wife Attacked Outside Family Home
Exclusive by Alice Perry
The wife of Southend East MP James Hartigan, was rushed to hospital after sustaining unspecified injuries yesterday in a frenzied attack outside the MP’s North Shoebury home. The violent attack took place at the house on North Lane around 1.25pm Tuesday afternoon as Mrs Hartigan returned home from a shopping trip at the Airport Retail Park, in Rochford yesterday. Police say that the attacker approached Mrs Hartigan undetected until she reached the driveway of the MP’s home. Alison Hartigan is believed to have noticed her assailant in the moments before she opened the door to enter her house. Police say the attack would likely have had far worse consequences if the attacker had been able to follow Mrs Hartigan into her home. Police have yet to confirm whether a weapon was used in the attack and whether the attack is politically motivated, although police have already stated they do not believe the attack to be connected to terrorism. MP James Hartigan was in Westminster at the time of the attack on his wife, taking part in a debate on the mandatory parliamentary vote on the European Withdrawal Bill. Mr Hartigan was not available for interview last night, although Mr Hartigan’s parliamentary secretary, Honor Fulman last night issued this brief statement on his behalf:
“James would like to thank his constituents, colleagues and all those well-wishers who have sent him kind messages of support. He wishes to assure everybody that his wife Alison is in a stable condition and will soon make a full recovery. James does not intend to let violence win. James does not intend to let this threat affect his responsibility to the people of Southend or the freedom he and his wife have enjoyed up to now. Although it is not known if this attack was politically motivated, James wants to assure everyone he will not be cowed or swayed by violence. He and his wife will continue to bravely stand up for the residents of Southend undaunted and unbowed. Bullies and extremists of all kinds must never win and James Hartigan is sure that if we stand together we will ensure they never will.”
This morning the Prime Minister said she wished Mrs Hartigan “a swift recovery” and hoped that “the culprit of this reprehensible and heinous crime” would be “found and brought to justice very soon.”
Neighbours of the Hartigan household said they had noticed some unusual visitors in recent weeks. Mrs Hartigan had also recently voiced concerns to friends prior to the attack, yet it is believed no police presence had been assigned to protect the Hartigan house right up to the time of the attack.
Mr Hartigan’s parliamentary secretary declined to comment on the issue of police procedure.
“James trusts the police will have done their level best. Any discussion about any police failure to respond to perceived threats is an internal matter for Essex police – and James is certain it will be dealt with in an appropriate manner.”
Southend police chiefs and senior detectives have been unavailable for comment.
Chapter One
Nigel Grave’s tall, withering body had become stoop-shouldered with age. The tired old farmer trudged down the track towards the blue barn, wearing one of his usual checked baggy shirts and corduroy trousers tucked into his muddy wellington boots. The long blue metal barn wasn’t far from the back of the farmhouse.
The summer fruit and vegetable pickers usually thought the man was gruff and unapproachable when they first started work on Grave Farm, but those first impressions of old Mr Grave were always short lived. His gruff exterior had been carved by decades of outdoor life and toil, but inside the brittle shell was a warmth which burnt brightly. It was hard to see from the outside, but once seen it was hard to ignore. The summer was long gone, and so were ninety-five per cent of the seasonal work force. All that was left now was bare earth and plenty of cold. Nigel walked into the large blue shed where the potato sorting machine was being cleaned by some of his longest serving men. The foreign ones he liked to keep around for their old-fashioned ways and good humour. They loved work, as he once had. He watched them cleaning the machine with care, not knowing their boss was watching them. He admired them, and he feared for them now that this whole European immigration nonsense was going crazy. One of the men looked up and stopped. The man had soft eyes, his face wrapped in a hood and a scarf because of the January weather. He stopped work and his friend looked up to see why.
“Mr Grave,” said Igor, the first man.
“Good to see you chaps working so hard even in this cold snap.”
“Work is better than staying at home, Mr Grave.”
The old man smiled. “I wish they made more like you. Is anyone else about? On the fields maybe?”
“No. The others have gone now. It is just us.”
“Fine then. You might as well hear it too. Come up to the house this afternoon, will you?”
“Which house?” said the other man.
“Why, my house, silly. Grave House.”
“What for?” said Igor.
“I’ve got something I’d like to say. It’s about the future.”
“But we’re only the farm labour, Mr Grave,” said Igor, loo
king confused.
“The kind of people which make the farm tick. You’re as important as any other. Come up to the house. Susan is going to make a spot of lunch, if she remembers, that is.”
The men looked at each other and shrugged.
“What time?”
“Call it one o’clock. And don’t forget will you? You two haven’t got age as an excuse for that.”
They watched the old man look around the shed with an almost nostalgic air. He breathed out slowly and a wisp of vapour wafted from his lips.
He walked away from the men along the long shed, with his big gnarled hands swinging slowly at his sides. He stopped at the vast pile of logs laid at the back of the shed which stood beside the oversize chipper he’d bought on the recommendation of his son, Neville. He grabbed a few logs and traced a hand over the smooth cold surface of the industrial woodchipper. He’d forgotten how many thousands his son had spent on that contraption. It was one of young Neville’s brainwaves to create new income for the old farm. Old Nigel hadn’t bothered to question if the idea would ever become profitable. He shook his head at the beast and strode back out into the cold. The morning clouds above were the palest grey. Behind him the two migrant workers exchanged glances as the tall, thin old man strode back up the gravel lane towards his huge red-brick country house. Halfway along, unwilling to face the trouble of home so soon, the old man stopped and cast his eyes across the flat fields towards town in the distance. Four miles away were the rectangular black shadows of the town centre office blocks, flats, and shopping centre. Some of those buildings had been there when he took over, but most of them were younger than him. The town had changed beyond description, life had changed, and farming too. Nigel Grave had a feeling that he had outlived all of it. He sighed.
On the other side of the farmhouse, a small shiny red Fiat 500 stopped at the edge of the country lane. The young man in the passenger seat looked towards the red brick house with its vast gated driveway. The gates were always open and the red brick pillars which framed them were spectacular. There was nothing else like it, especially around here. Neville’s heart started to race, and he swallowed as he thought of what was to come.
The Darkest Lies: A Gripping Crime Mystery Series - Two Novel Boxed Set (The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Boxed Sets Book 1) Page 26
