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

by Solomon Carter

  “Nev, honey…” the woman in the driving seat beside him grabbed his big hand to bring him back to the present. The softness of her touch prompted sensual memories of recent afternoons and evenings. The memories were good enough to distract him for a moment or two. He looked across at the woman with the expensively cut hair, and well made up face. Nancy was about his age, maybe just a year or two older, but seemed so much more sophisticated. Looking at her glossy eyes, her beauty almost stunned him. She held his chin to make sure he looked even closer. It was as if she knew the power she had over him.

  “Nev, remember. It’s all going to be okay. You and me. The farm. Everything that must be done. It’ll be okay.”

  “But he won’t approve, Nancy, I know he won’t.”

  “Don’t talk like that. You have to be confident about this from the very start or it won’t work.”

  “Okay, then,” he said, controlling his smile. “It’ll be okay.”

  The young man opened the door and got out of the car and straightened out his big torso. “You’re sure you don’t want me to come with you, Nev? This has to be done right. I could help you.”

  The young man leaned back down into the car and tried to look confident.

  “I know you want to, Nancy. But you can’t. If you come along now, it’ll look all wrong. He’ll think bad of me. Besides… you said you had something else to do first.”

  “Yes,” said Nancy. Something flashed across her eyes. Neville didn’t know what it was. “You’re sure you don’t need me?” she said.

  He nodded but at that moment Neville wasn’t sure about anything. But he knew what needed to be done. For the future. For everyone’s future.

  “I’ll be along later, then,” said Nancy, and blew him a kiss with her lustrous red lips. As soon as she closed the car door, Nancy picked up her leather business portfolio and dumped it in the warm leather seat where Neville had been sitting. She turned on the radio, and waved goodbye as she pulled away into the road. She started whistling to a tune on the radio. Behind her, Neville Grave lingered on the edge of the grassy lane. His feet were leaden, and his chest was tight. But he had made a commitment, and it had to be fulfilled.

  Flames licked over the charred remains of the three black logs the old man had picked for the morning fire. His wife sat behind him in the oak chair beside the dining table which already bore six plates and two bottles of wine, one white, one red. There were two large bowls of French bread cut into pieces, most buttered, but some not, and a bowl of country salad. The old man looked round to see his wife sawing another baguette as she hunched over the edge of the table, her long silver hair draped over her shoulders. He thought he could smell aniseed on the air, but refrained from passing comment. Instead, the old man opened his mouth to say she’d cut enough for two gatherings already, but stopped himself. The old floorboards creaked, and he looked up to see Marjorie, his younger sister walking into the room. She still had some of the old blonde colour in her hair and life in her eyes. Whether the hair colour was bottled or not, the colour suited her. He saw Marjorie take in the bowlfuls of bread and the third loaf cutting underway, and Nigel gave his sister a weary nod. They shared a knowing glance but kept silent. Who cared if there was too much bread? There was no point upsetting his wife now.

  “Hello, Nigel,” said his sister, as if seeing him for the first time. She was wearing her big coat and wrapped his stick-like body in a soft embrace. The man was surprised by her warmth. He patted her on the back and drew away. Wherever Marjorie went, Trevor wouldn’t be far behind.

  “How can you walk around wearing just that thin shirt and trousers in harsh weather like this?” she said, giving him a sisterly look he knew of old.

  “Because the weather isn’t harsh, Marjorie. It’s merely cold. It’s called winter. I think you’ve forgotten what harsh weather is like. That’s too much soft living with that husband of yours.” He looked to the doorway and on cue, came Trevor. Trevor was aging now, but even so, he had the kind of looks which women used to describe as ‘dashing’. And he worked hard to keep in shape. The man was about the sixty mark but looked ten years younger. Nigel reckoned his own face showed every single one of his seventy-one years. If anything, Nigel knew he looked far older than his age. Too much weather, too much living. And the Reaper was creeping in. Yes, it was time for change before changes were forced upon them all

  “Nigel, how the devil are you?” Trevor seized his arm and pumped his hand, then slapped him on the back. It was his businesslike way of dealing with people. Trevor hadn’t shaken off the boardroom since retiring from his career in the city. Nigel offered a half smile in response. It was the best he could. Especially seeing the way Trevor looked at Nigel’s wife. Nigel saw the doubt and the pity in the man’s big eyes.

  “We’re very well, thank you,” he said firmly. Trevor nodded.

  “Well, what’s all this in aid of, eh?” said Trevor.

  “What’s wrong with a family gathering and a spot of lunch, Trevor?”

  “But Christmas wasn’t long ago…”

  “Christmas is for Christmas, Trevor. The new year is for new things.”

  “New things? Hmmmm. How very mysterious. Finally taking my advice about the farm?”

  “Oh, not necessarily…” said Nigel. He allowed himself a hint of smile as he turned away.

  Through a side door, another tall man appeared. His face was big and ruddy, and he wore the agricultural uniform of checked shirts and wellingtons. He had steel grey hair and spectacles. “Pete!” said Nigel. “Glad you could make it.”

  “Well, you said to be here, Nigel. And who I am to argue with a free lunch…?”

  For the first time his wife, Sue, looked up from her bread cutting with a laugh that soon turned into a cough.

  “Hello, Sue,” he said, and leaned in for a kiss.

  Trevor leaned past his wife’s ear, keeping his voice low and his mouth small and tight. “Isn’t he the farm vet?”

  “Yes,” his wife muttered. “Peter Venky.”

  “What’s he doing here?” said Trevor.

  Marjorie shrugged. “He’s Nigel’s friend.”

  “What has your brother got in mind here?” he whispered.

  “I told you, I don’t know,” she whispered, playing with her necklace. The vet, Peter Venky, seemed to know he was being talked about. He glanced at Trevor and Marjorie and nodded at them. “Hi,” he said. It was all he said.

  Nigel used a metal poker to prod the fire. He watched the last flames take hold of the logs he’d brought in earlier. He shook his head. “We’re going to need more firewood to keep this going.”

  “Firewood? Nigel, I’m surprised you haven’t used the woodchipper to turn all those cut logs into gold,” said Trevor.

  The old man rose up from his haunches and threw the iron poker down on the hearth with a clank.

  “The chippings are selling. And what won’t sell we can use for compost. I’ve saved some logs back for winter. As for Neville’s woodchipper, it was worth trying, Trevor.”

  “Worth trying. Yes, I’m sure,” said Trevor. Marjorie gently nudged him in the ribs.

  Old Nigel grimaced. “I’ll fetch some more wood now. Neville should be here soon with his girlfriend. Then after lunch I’ll put you all out of your misery…”

  Trevor and Marjorie wore thin smiles as the old man ambled past them. They watched him leave through the back door and walk away towards the distant barn.

  A deep clunk echoed through the hallway. Everyone looked at the kitchen doorway as the footsteps approached.

  “So, he’s finally turned up,” said Sue, looking up from the dining table. Neville appeared at the door and looked around with a pinch-faced smile. “If all the guests have arrived, we can get on with this farce.” said the old woman. The young man walked in and embraced his mother with his big arms. The woman didn’t resist the embrace but neither did she respond. Neville barely greeted the others but offered a warmer smile to Venky the vet. Venky raised h
is small glass of wine. “Hello, Neville.”

  “Hi Peter, where’s Dad?”

  “Gone to fetch some wood. You know how restless he gets when there’s company.”

  “He’s restless full stop,” he said.

  “So, does anyone actually know what this grand lunch meeting is all about?” said Trevor.

  “Not a clue,” said Venky.

  Neville shook his head.

  “I’ll tell you what it’s about…” said his elderly mother. She looked around with glee in her bright hazy eyes. “It’s about the future. And it’s a surprise… he’s got something up his sleeve.

  Trevor stiffened and raised his eyebrows at his sister-in-law’s comments. Peter Venky smirked into his wineglass.

  “Now, Neville, make yourself useful. Why don’t you help me butter some bread? We must make sure there’s enough to go round.”

  “You can use it so soak up all the sauce,” muttered Trevor, under his breath. Marjorie gave him a sideways look.

  Neville eyed the bowlfuls of buttered bread and picked up a spare butter knife.

  “Oh dear…” said Susan. “I think we’re going to run out of butter.”

  “That’s okay, Mum. Look,” said Neville. “There’s plenty enough already.”

  “No, Neville,” she said firmly. “You’re wrong. There isn’t enough at all. We need more.”

  The guests looked at one another before Trevor tutted.

  “Okay. I could go down to the shop if you like, Susan?”

  “Oh, that’s very good of you, Trevor,” said the old woman. “Shame everyone isn’t so helpful.” Trevor and his wife exchanged a glance, then Trevor sighed and left the room. Moments later they heard the great front door clunk shut and a beefy car engine fired into life.

  The old woman looked round with a serene smile, pretending to be oblivious to the tension in the room, and the clock ticked.

  “Well, isn’t this nice?” she said. Everyone smiled. But every smile in the room was no more than skin deep.

  ***

  The old man reached the long blue shed and walked inside.

  “More wood boys,” said Grave, expecting Igor and Borev to be where he had seen them last.

  “In this cold, I think we’re going to need a whole tree…” The old man’s voice echoed under the high roof, passing between the black-plastic-wrapped hay bales and around the back of the dormant machinery.

  Grave listened to the echo of his voice and looked around. The long potato sorting machine was shiny and clean. But there was no sight of the men who had been cleaning it. The old man blinked and looked around. “Damn strange,” he said. “Igor?” he called along the length of the shed, wondering if they’d moved on to another machine or gone for a crafty smoke outside. Officially, no one was supposed to smoke around the farm – it was the law – but ever since he’d started employing Eastern Europeans back in the eighties, he’d learned the Eastern bloc boys loved cigarettes like no other people. They simply could not be parted from them. Over time he had turned a blind eye. Grave walked slowly past the potato sorter towards the bales of hay and just before them, the woodpile and the massive red woodchipper. The logs at the top of the pile looked more substantial, certainly big enough to keep the fire burning until he had made his announcement. He wondered how long any of them would stay after that. He grinned bitterly. Yes, there would probably be fireworks as well as a fire. He pulled four logs from the pile, and then reached up to grab one more for luck. The weight of the logs hurt his arms and brought on a touch of back pain. If he wasn’t careful he’d do himself a mischief. But what did he care? He trudged towards the open front of the barn and peered out across the acres of land – those acres which were his and those that used to be part of Grave Farm before the family started to sell up. He wouldn’t be a seller, no way. Not in his lifetime. But he was worried for the future though. If some in his family got hold of the farm, it wouldn’t be long until the whole disappeared for good. The thought near brought him to tears. Farming was changing so fast he could barely keep up. Dairy would send them broke. Livestock was just about okay, but only just. Unless he changed things up, the business would die even before he did. But finally, he had a plan. To save the farm, to make it vital again. To produce enough profit to make it last another generation, maybe more. Then it would be their turn to save it. Nigel Grave’s thoughts were interrupted by a whisper of movement. Then a sudden rolling noise, then a thud-thud-thud behind him.

  Cripes! He’d managed to knock the whole bloody log pile down! Grave turned back and saw a few logs rolling towards his ankles and he tutted and stumbled out of the way. He’d get Igor and Borev to fix that after lunch. It’d give them something to do. He bent over and set down the logs which were in his arms. Just as he laid them he heard the mechanical cough and grunt of a loud engine kick into life. Nigel Grave jerked upward in shock.

  The chipper machine had come to life. It was as if there was a bloody ghost in the barn. No. The barn was too new for that. He looked at the chipper and saw the petrol engine was working full tilt and he could see the machine vibrating from the works inside. Nigel Grave stretched out his spine and looked around the barn.

  “Igor!” he called. He looked left and right. No sign. “Borev?” Still nothing. Then how come the bloody machine came on? He was no expert, but surely being struck by a log couldn’t start it. The machine was a Chinese effort. Who knew how these modern imported gizmos worked? Probably at the behest of a bloody smartphone knowing the way of the world these days. The old man sighed and started trudging towards the chipper, his eyes already darting over the controls at the side, looking for the off switch. A shadow moved between the tall black hay bales. It stretched down across the hay-strewn floor, but Nigel Grave was oblivious.

  “How do you work this damn thing?” muttered the old man. The shadow by the hay bales disappeared. Somewhere amidst the growl and shudder of the machinery, the old man caught a hint of sound. A sliding sound. Smooth. He stood up and looked at the black bales. Maybe a sheep on the loose? They were bloody cheeky animals when they wanted to be. There was a scuffing sound on the floor nearby and the old man wheeled around in fright. For a split second he was terrified, then his face settled and he gasped for breath. He was relieved. Clutching his chest, the old man almost smiled “What’s this? A joke?” he said. But Nigel Grave’s relief was short lived. He was shoved back hard against the metal lip of the chipper funnel and he grunted in pain as the metal hit his spine. His heart started to race and his smile disappeared.

  “What are you doing? Come on? Eh? What the hell are you doing?”

  Grave raised a hand to defend himself, but his arms were frail. The old man hadn’t realised just how slight and fragile he’d become as he was seized in two hands and lifted clean off the ground. Finally understanding his fate, the old man cried out in terror, but the noise of the machine was louder still. As he screamed, the old man was turned and flung face down, headlong, into the wide mouth of the woodchipper. His scream was killed by the sound of the machine working at disintegrating what it had been fed. A spatter of unspeakable matter sloughed out of the waste bin and turned into a spray which coated the machine, the walls, the barn floor as it fell to earth. And those industrial blades could only cope with so much. Long before the shredding was done, the machine blades stopped spinning, caught on matter which had no business in a woodchipper. Two frail legs, and arms lolled either side of the feeder. The shadow turned, ran away from the barn and disappeared.

  In the kitchen, the fire embers were flickering faintly.

  “Here’s your butter,” said Trevor, dumping two foil-wrapped packets down on the table. He smiled at the old woman, but his smile waned as his gaze met Neville’s eyes.

  “I wasn’t sure if that was enough,” said Trevor.

  “It looks so cold out there,” said his wife.

  Trevor nodded his head. “That’s because it is,” he said.

  A deep doorbell chimed and reverberated through
the hall. “I’ll get it,” said Neville, eagerly.

  Venky and Trevor watched him go.

  “What’s keeping old Nigel?” said Venky. “I thought he was fetching wood from the shed, not the forest.”

  “You know what he’s like. He loses himself out there. I think he prefers it,” said his old wife as she opened another pack of butter. Venky looked at the old woman and nodded.

  Neville appeared back at the kitchen door, this time smiling. The door opened wider and they saw the glamorous young woman with the blusher, lipstick, and expensive hair-do appear at his side. She was smartly dressed in a stylish outfit. The smile on her face was warm enough to melt ice.

  “Peter, Mother… you know Nancy Decorville, don’t you?”

  “Yes,” said the vet. His mother gave a mixed-up smile.

  “What is she doing here?” said Trevor.

  The smile on Nancy Decorville’s face stayed bright and faultless, but her eyes showed some frost.

  “Neville invited me. You asked your mother if I could come along, didn’t you Neville?”

  “Yes, I did.”

  “You asked Susan?” said Trevor. “Of course, you did. Well, we all know why you did that.”

  “Trevor!” said Marjorie.

  “I’m not going to pretend, Marjorie. The woman works for Crispin and Co. The property firm. I’ve seen her at the auctions, gobbling up land for development, cheap as chips. It’s bloody obvious why she’s here. Insultingly obvious, in fact.”

  “You’re wrong, Trevor,” said Neville. “She’s here because I asked her to be.”

  “Yes. Yes. And the rest,” said Trevor, quietly. Neville surged forward like a dog straining at the leash, but the young woman laid a hand on his forearm to quieten him.