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

by Solomon Carter

  “Good to see you too, Dickens,” said Hogarth. “With a bedside manner like that, it’s easy to see you’ve been hanging around with Marris too long. Dr Ivan Marris was the police forensic expert. Marris was often brusque, yet managed to stay just on the friendly side of coldly offensive.

  “So, what have we got, Dickens? It doesn’t look like suicide, that’s for sure. I wouldn’t want to end it all by diving into a woodchipper.”

  “Normally, I’d appreciate the sense of humour, DI Hogarth, but as I need to concentrate at gathering flecks of flesh and bone, I’d prefer if we could postpone it. This hay all over the floor isn’t exactly making my life any easier.”

  Hogarth swallowed again.

  “Can’t you move it out of the way?”

  “Some of the hay grasses might contain evidence. Marris wouldn’t thank me if I binned it. We have to be thorough and extremely careful.”

  “I can see all the evidence I need already. Mr Grave got tossed into the woodchipper. It must have been the worst possible way to go. The poor bastard got minced.”

  Hogarth’s eyes traced to the production end of the chipper, where the long metal tray was spattered with gore. It seemed the more solid remains had been removed.

  “The coroner’s team must have had their work cut out. No pun intended.”

  “Yes. Took them a good long time to remove the bulk of the body. The pathologist better be good at jigsaw puzzles.”

  Dickens returned his eyes to the ground and started scanning the floor while his colleague continued similar probing behind him.

  “Any idea what you’re looking for?”

  Not yet. We’re doing our ABCs, Inspector. Assume nothing. Believe nobody. Check everything,” said Dickens “I’m only looking for what’s there. Assumptions are dangerous.”

  “I couldn’t agree more,” he said. “And I’m right with you on ‘Believe nobody.’”

  Hogarth kept his distance, but edged a little further across the hay-strewn floor. He sensed someone edging towards him. PCs Orton and Jordan had been shut up, so he guessed it was Palmer catching up with him.

  “You see that?” muttered Hogarth, without looking up. He hoped his voice was audible to Palmer but not to Dickens. If Dickens was going to get possessive about the crime scene Hogarth knew it was best he kept quiet. But Palmer didn’t reply. Hogarth glanced back over his shoulder and saw two men in puffer jackets and beanie hats standing behind him. They looked dark skinned, but ashen. From the look of their eyes – red, small, watery – at least one of them had been weeping.

  “Who are you and what are you doing here?” said Hogarth. One of the men shrugged. The man in blue looked Hogarth in the eye. “He was our boss. More than that. He was our friend.”

  “You work here?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes. For two years now.”

  “Name?”

  “Igor Krescek.” He pronounced his name Kres-chek.

  “I’ll need a word with you later. But please move away now. This is a crime scene. We need to keep it clear. Understand?”

  The men nodded. Staying close to one another they made off.

  “But don’t go too far. I’ll need to interview you,” said Hogarth. Palmer passed the men by, nodding at them as she went. She joined Hogarth’s side.

  “What was Orton and baby Jordan’s problem.”

  “Orton was taking the piss out of Jordan for losing his lunch all over the field.”

  “Jordan threw up?”

  Palmer nodded.

  “Who can blame him?” said Hogarth. “Orton’s a prat. What happened in here is beyond wicked.”

  “Hardly says accident, does it?” said Palmer.

  “Not in a million years.” Hogarth edged forwards a couple of feet.

  “Keep clear!” called Dickens. Dickens didn’t look at Hogarth. He just raised his hand. But something caught Hogarth’s eye. He ducked down to the floor. On some pale hay he saw a few pieces of black. Like small black dots. They could have been blood, flesh, or animal dung. He saw a few more of them dotted around. Hogarth took a risk. There was enough to share, surely? Dickens and Marris wouldn’t miss out if he took a few. Hogarth needed to satisfy his curiosity. He reached down and pinched at a few.

  “What are you doing?” said Palmer, tense but quiet.

  “Nothing, of course,” said Hogarth. He picked up a few of the specks and dropped them into the tiny watch pocket on the front of his chinos.

  “Keep up the good work, Dickens,” said Hogarth. Hogarth lifted a hand in farewell and left it hanging in the air as he turned away back down the track towards the farmhouse.

  “What was all that about?” said Palmer.

  “Dickens is one of those territorial types. Very procedural, methodical.”

  “That’s because he’s crime scene. Marris is just the same, isn’t he?”

  “Ed Quentin too,” said Hogarth. Dr Ed Quentin was the pathologist. “And all these professionals have their place, Palmer, but sometimes I like to dance in the moment.”

  “Dance in the moment, sir?”

  “I mean have a bit of a nose around. That black stuff didn’t look right to me.”

  When he reached the other side of the crime scene van Hogarth stopped walking. He stuck his fingers into the tight watch pocket – tight enough to make him wonder if he needed to get back in the gym – and pinched hold of the black specks he’d taken from the crime scene.

  He held them out in his palm and prodded at them with a bitten-down finger nail.

  “There. What do you make of that?”

  The small black pieces were bigger than sand grains, but much smaller than beads of polystyrene. One or two of them contained a strand of similarly black fibre.

  “I haven’t got a clue, guv. That’s for Marris to decide, isn’t it?”

  “Yes, but there’s nothing wrong with getting ahead of the curve. Come on, Palmer. Just risk an observation. Use those fine detective skills of yours.”

  Palmer pinched up a black grain with a strand from Hogarth’s palm and lifted it to her eye. The texture was malleable, and the strand felt like cotton.

  “I think it feels like… nylon, sir. Or… well, it’s almost like rubber but not quite.”

  “Nylon. That would explain the strand, maybe, but not the other part.”

  “Actually, it could explain that too.”

  “How?” said Hogarth.

  “Once upon a time I used to go swimming in the great outdoors.”

  “Skinny dipping? You’re not going to confess you were a nudist or something are you? I don’t think I could work with a nudist.”

  “A nudist?! What? I said I liked swimming. How did you ever…?”

  “Never mind,” said Hogarth, with a mischievous grin. “My mind works in mysterious ways, Palmer. Carry on.”

  Palmer shook her head. “It was a long time ago. The wet suits we used were made of neoprene which is basically synthetic rubber.”

  “That doesn’t sound much better if I’m honest, Palmer. But go on. Tell me more.”

  This time Palmer ignored him.

  “Divers wear it. Surfers. All water sports, basically.”

  Hogarth scratched his chin and frowned.

  “So… you think this could be wet suit material? Hmmm. That doesn’t help us much now does it?”

  “It was a guess. You’re asking me to do Marris’s job in ten seconds with no analysis.”

  “Yes, I suppose so. Never mind. It was worth a go. Maybe it’s from the farmer’s wellies, then.”

  “I don’t think so…” said Palmer. She dropped the crumbs back into Hogarth’s hand. “But whatever they originated from can’t be in the best condition.”

  Hogarth replaced the crumbs back into his pocket started the trudge towards the house. He eyed the silhouettes watching them both from the country-style windows. “Okay. Here we go. Grieving family and friends… awkward and uncomfortable, but then you know the drill by now.”

  “Yes. Keep an eye on al
l of them,” said Palmer.

  Do our ABCs, thought Hogarth. As he recalled Dickens words, his mind drifted to Ali Hartigan’s stalker. He wondered if he applied Dicken’s maxim to that matter, whether it would help him find the culprit? Woe betide the scumbag if he did. Justice came in many forms and Hogarth could issue more than one.

  When they were near the back door of the farmhouse, Hogarth paused. Palmer stopped at his side.

  “John Dickens says assume nothing, believe nothing, check everything.”

  “I’ve heard him say that before,” said Palmer.

  “I like it. I think it applies to most kinds of police work, except interviewing witnesses and suspects” said Hogarth.

  “Why not?” said Palmer.

  “Because we need to consider the context too, Palmer. The old man was turfed into that machine. But why kill him at all? That’s context.”

  Palmer shrugged. “A grudge, perhaps? Murder as vicious as this demonstrates anger, don’t you think?”

  “Possibly. Or frustration. He was an old man. Maybe someone feels he should have got out of the way and given them their inheritance by now.”

  “Money then?” said Palmer.

  “One of the oldest motives there is. But there are a few others. It could be a crime of passion, even.” An image of Ali flicked through his mind.

  “What kind of passion could cause that?”

  “A sick one, Palmer. But besides money and lust what else is there?”

  “Hate.”

  “Good. Yes. Hate, passion, or greed. And then there’s this old farm to think about too. Keep it all in mind, Palmer. One of those will likely be our motive.”

  Hogarth narrowed his eyes then flipped into business mode. He struck the brass knocker on the stable door and rapped it three times. The door was opened before he had even let go of the thing.

  “Good afternoon. I’m Detective Inspector Hogarth and this is Detective Sergeant Palmer. May we come in?”

  By the time he had finished talking, Hogarth’s eyes had performed their first fly-by of every face in the room. And he was intrigued by what he found…

  Chapter Four

  “Mr Venky. In what capacity were you here?” said Hogarth.

  “I’m the farm vet. But more than that, I’m also a family friend. I’ve been coming to help treat the livestock on this farm since Nigel and Susan first took over. There’s not much left in the way of livestock now, of course. But it’s been a privilege to know them.”

  Hogarth saw the emotion in the man’s eyes and nodded. “Yes. You were close, then? And you were the one who first found Mr Grave’s body?”

  Venky took off his spectacles and rubbed his eyes. The rest of the family members watched as Hogarth started off. This was the time for soft questioning, not nitty-gritty detail. That nitty-gritty would soon come. This was a time for assessing and exploring the dynamics between these people. It was entirely possible the killer was among them. Any telltale reactions, slips of the tongue, or other signs would be seized upon and gratefully received.

  Venky nodded idly, but then seemed to hear the question again. “Actually, no, Inspector,” he said.

  “Yes? No? What do you mean?” said Neville. “Did you find the body first or not?”

  The young man sat pressed close to his mother. The woman looked bewildered, her eyes glassy and expressionless. There were tear tracks left drying in her pale wrinkled skin. Her long silver-white hair had been just about tamed but showed signs of dishevelment. Hogarth pondered if he could smell drink on the air. He was something of an expert on the matter, after all. It wasn’t unusual for bereaved family members to reach for Dutch courage in such times. But the old dear looked like she might have had one too many.

  Hogarth’s eyes fixed briefly on the young man in the red and black checked shirt, a style more about fashion than farming. He was broad shouldered and fit looking. His clean face suggested he was in his mid to late twenties. The good looking young woman standing behind him had her hands on his shoulders. Her fingernails were painted bright red, the same shade as her lipstick. Hogarth looked at those neat feminine hands. The girl wore a smart work dress, the type worn to office jobs by girls who still wanted attention. She didn’t look impoverished, either. And the way her hands were set on the young man’s shoulders suggested a proprietary air. Like she was laying claim to him. Why? Was it insecurity in a family crisis? She was an outsider after all. Or was it something more? Hogarth logged the details as the woman blinked at his suspicious eyes. Interesting. Meanwhile the middle-aged couple at the other side of the room offered a mixture of scowls and blank looks. The woman’s lips were pursed shut.

  “I meant I wasn’t the first one to find him. The two migrant workers were there first.”

  “Igor and Borev,” said the old woman. “Nigel loved those two. Especially Igor. A very hard worker, and a very good man. That was his opinion, not mine.”

  “I think you should let the police be the judge of their characters,” said the young man.

  The old woman’s face showed a hint of a scowl at her son’s remark.

  “Mr Venky – how do you know they were first?” said Hogarth.

  “I watched them enter the shed just before me. Then the screaming started right after that. I knew something terrible had happened, so I ran into the shed as one of them came out. Then I saw him. I saw dear old Nigel stuck in that…”

  His eyes glanced over at Neville and the old woman. Venky cut his sentence short.

  “It must have been an ordeal for you. For all of you,” said Hogarth. “But with your help I believe we can identify and catch the killer.”

  “Who would even conceive of doing such a thing?” said the old woman. Hogarth’s eyes drifted from the woman to her son. But Hogarth found another set of eyes ready to meet his. The man with the steely-grey hair and tanned skin.

  “Susan – Mrs Grave… she isn’t… isn’t, um…” said the man. “How shall I say?”

  “Trevor! How is it any business of yours, anyway?” spat her son. Hogarth’s eyes flicked between them and then angled his head towards Palmer. None of the others seemed to notice, but Palmer did. Hogarth was noting the tension between the men, as if it needed underlining. The atmosphere was tangible and almost explosive.

  “Your name, sir?” said Hogarth. Palmer’s notebook and pen appeared from her pocket, right on cue.

  “Trevor Goodwell. And this is Marjorie, Nigel’s sister… my wife.”

  Hogarth nodded. The brother-in-law and sister of the deceased. From the look of his Aquascutum shirt and the pricey winter dress Marjorie was dressed in, they were the ones who owned the Porsche estate. He laid his eyes on the son. “And your name?”

  “Neville. Neville Grave.” His eyes filled up. “Nigel was my father.”

  “And this is your mother…?” said Hogarth.

  Neville nodded. “My mother’s been a bit forgetful lately, that’s all.”

  From the smell of her, that wasn’t all she was.

  Goodwell tutted and Hogarth took it in. The tall vet seemed like an interloper of sorts. He wasn’t connected to the deceased in the same way as the others. Hogarth wondered what he made of it all. Still emotional and pink-eyed, he seemed like a ghost in the room.

  Hogarth glanced at the endless bowls of cut buttered bread on the table and pots full of food. “You were going to dine together,” said Hogarth. He saw the third and fourth baguette by the woman’s hands. The third baguette was mostly cut, and part buttered. It was excessive to say the least. The meal seemed mostly bread and butter.

  “A special occasion, from the look of it. I’m sorry it’s been ruined by such a tragedy,” said Hogarth. He scanned their eyes for a reaction and found none. Time would tell.

  “What was the occasion, if you don’t mind?” said Hogarth. “An anniversary?”

  Goodwell looked at him. “That’s the problem. We don’t know. It was to be a surprise. We think there was going to be an announcement. We hoped it was g
ood news.”

  “Good news? About what?” said Hogarth.

  “About the future of the farm,” said Goodwell.

  Hogarth’s brow dipped low over his eyes. “The future of the farm?” he said.

  “Yes,” said Goodwell’s well-dressed wife. Hogarth noticed the fancy bead necklace around her stringy neck. “My brother Nigel had been trying to keep the old family farm going for so long, but as you will have noticed, Inspector, it’s become very run-down. Nigel was always a traditionalist when it came to farming, and never wanted to adopt new ways. I’m afraid it was one of the things that was slowly killing the farm.”

  “He was already beginning to turn it round,” said Neville, in a forceful voice.

  “What? With your wood chipping idea? What nonsense,” said Trevor Goodwell, with a grin which was much more a grimace. “There were barely enough trees on the farm to make that project last a month. That machine was never going to pay for itself, let alone create an income for the farm. It was lunacy!”

  “Diversify, Trevor. That’s what farms have to do these days and Dad knew it. He was ready to try anything.”

  “Diversify? With that monstrosity? It was madness. How was he ever going to make his money back?”

  “By hiring it out for use. They could come and chip their garden waste here. By offering to turn wood waste into saleable material. Face it, Trevor. You don’t know anything about how farms work.”

  “And you don’t know anything about business. The chipper was a total folly! Neville, you’re not a businessman. If you took over, it’d be the end of the farm.”