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

by Solomon Carter

  “James, who is this?” As Hogarth looked at the woman, he couldn’t help shaking his head.

  “It’s a policeman. He’s come to check that Alison is okay…”

  “Oh,” said the woman, assessing him.

  “Okay, Mr Hartigan, no problem” said Hogarth, trying to adopt a breezy tone. “I’ll keep a look out for you. And if I catch this stalker scumbag hanging around, you can be assured that I’ll handle it. But if anything else happens in the meantime, please call it in as soon as possible, okay? I’ll make sure someone comes as soon as the call comes in.”

  “I’m afraid I’m rarely here, Inspector. Duty calls and all that. But I’ve already had a chat with your Chief Superintendent and he assures me we are a priority.”

  “The Super? That’s all well and good. But If I were you, Mr Hartigan, I’d add in an extra layer of protection. You’re an MP. Considering the situation, you must warrant some kind of extra support.”

  “My support and protection is the police, just like everyone else.”

  Hogarth bristled. “And after what’s happened you think that’s enough, do you?

  “Now, look here…” said Hartigan. “What’s your name? What’s is your interest here exactly?”

  “My interest is protecting people, Mr Hartigan. But I think I already know what your interest is.” Hogarth’s eyes flicked to the blonde in the suit. Her hand self-consciously traced to her throat under Hogarth’s gaze.

  “Excuse me?” said the MP, in a shocked tone.

  “Forget it, Mr Hartigan. I think you’re far too busy for the likes of me.”

  Hogarth turned away and stormed off towards the street. The MP and the blonde lingered in the doorway watching him, muttering to each other as he got into the car. Hogarth doubted he’d heard the last of the matter, but he was past caring. The scumbag’s wife was upstairs in her sickbed, while his mistress was downstairs taking dictation… and the rest. Unbelievable. Hogarth still needed to see her, but tonight was a write-off. Instead, the only thing that beckoned was half a bottle of single malt to drown a head full of questions. Drink was going to be essential this evening. Which meant a workday hangover was on the cards. Hogarth started the engine, and sighed. His visit to the Hartigan household had become a messy mistake and he was going to pay for it one way or another. But he’d still enjoyed having a pop at the man. Hogarth had to hope it was worth the price he would soon have to pay.

  Chapter Nine

  “DI Hogarth, I’d like a word with you please.”

  Hogarth was about to cross the threshold of the CID room to start his day at work when DCI Melford called to him from across the open plan office. PC Orton raised his eyebrows and offered PC Jordan a sneery little grin to go with it, but PC Stephens was older and wiser and looked away as Hogarth passed their desks. Even young Jordan knew better. As soon as Melford had turned away to walk back to his office, Hogarth passed Orton and elbowed him in the back. Orton dropped a slosh of coffee over the forms waiting for completion on his desk.

  “Messy paperwork, Orton,” said Hogarth. “Tut-tut. You’re setting Jordan here a very bad example.”

  Orton’s face turned beetroot red as Hogarth marched on, but Jordan snorted with laughter.

  Hogarth adjusted his shirt collar and tie. It was just a shame he couldn’t adjust his head. He did indeed have the hangover he’d predicted, and now he had a feeling he was going to get the carpeting he had predicted too.

  He walked into the oppressive room and felt Melford’s eyes rake over his face. Melford wrinkled his nose as if he could smell the alcohol on him.

  “Close the door please, Hogarth.”

  “Sir.” He shut the door and met Melford’s dark eyes.

  “What is it with you, DI Hogarth? I gave you an upbraiding during the Club Smart case, and it paid dividends. You got the man before he hurt Simmons or anyone else. But here we are again, and look at you. You were late in yesterday, so now what?”

  “I was in late, but I was working., sir.”

  “On what? I know DS Palmer went out to get you. I observe a lot more than people give me credit for around here, Hogarth. Don’t let the fools out there convince you I’m just some old dolt you can do over at will. I paid my dues and worked through the ranks. I know how it goes and I know what the job does to people. Don’t let yourself down. And don’t blow your career for… for… whatever it is…”

  “Sir?”

  “I don’t know what’s up, but I know you have an issue. We can leave it there, if you like.” Melford shifted in his chair and prodded a long bony finger at the corner of his desk. “This is off the record because you handled the Club Smart case very well. But, going from zero to hero and back again is not my idea of a useful copper. With DS Simmons out, you’ll be under more pressure than ever – for a time. Listen. If you need someone to help get you through a tough spot, you can borrow someone from the other team, as a temporary support, that is.”

  Hogarth shook his head in thinly veiled disgust. Taking a member from another team was like waving the white flag. The tiredness was closing in on him. Hogarth needed to yawn but didn’t dare. Something as trivial as a yawn could have him in deeper trouble if Melford was in the mood. Instead Hogarth’s eyes tracked to the old tick-tock clock above Melford’s head. It was hard to avoid. The presence of the ancient clock, as well as the DCI’s height meant half the team called him Long Melford, after the Norfolk town well-known for its antiques.

  “No…” said Melford. “I didn’t think you’d want that. But if you’re going to continue working on this farm murder – as just you and DS Palmer – then you need to pull your head out of your backside sharpish.”

  “With due respect,” said Hogarth. “I am getting on with it, sir. I worked late last night to make up my hours. But yesterday morning couldn’t be helped.”

  “But you were out all morning, Hogarth…”

  “And the Club Smart case has only just finished, sir. I worked day and night on that.”

  “You’re CID, man! You knew what you signed up for.”

  “I’m still here, sir.”

  “But it doesn’t look like it…” Melford sat up in his seat. “This farm murder, are you on top of it or not? Who do you have in the frame?”

  So, it was a test, was it? And Hogarth hadn’t even drunk his first coffee of the day. Melford was on a stitch-up this morning. Hogarth wondered if Mrs Long Melford had denied the man his oats.

  “Sir,” said Hogarth. “I’m waiting on news from Marris regarding footprints from the barn where the old man was killed and on some unusual fibres we found on the floor there. They could be significant depending what we get back. I’ve spoken to all the witnesses and suspects yesterday bar two migrant workers who were the first on the murder scene.”

  “First? And you left them till last? Was that wise? By now they could have run off back to wherever they came from with blood on their hands.”

  “These men were very well known to the victim. They won’t run. They’ll be interviewed today.”

  But Hogarth’s heart sank. Melford was right. He’d prioritised the family because of sensing they were a brood of vipers, but learning about the family’s dark history with the migrants had changed all that. The migrants could have been involved. But no matter. He’d grill them soon enough.

  “That family are like sharks circling around dead meat, sir. Nigel Grave had summoned them together to make an announcement about the future of the farm, but it turns out that the family had been onto him for weeks, if not months about their own plans for it. The son wants to diversify into new areas of the business. The brother in-law wants to bring in partners and has some sort of agenda. Meanwhile even the family vet wanted to put his two-penny’s worth in.”

  “They’re after the farm then? You think that’s the motive?”

  “It stacks up for me. I’ll need to look at those foreigners too, but I hope it isn’t them. The last thing Southend’s immigrant population need is a to be turned into
worse bogeymen. You never know how that rag The Record will play it.”

  “Come on. You always know how The Record will play it. The lowest common denominator every time. Expect the worst and you’re never wrong. But why might these foreigners have done it?”

  “There could be many reasons. But one is history. Turns out the farmer’s wife had got around a bit in her time. I thought she had bats in the belfry at first. I had her down as suffering dementia. But it seems she might have just been a randy drunk. Years back she had an affair with another of the farm’s migrant workers – back in the early nineties. To cut a long story short, it seems that the only son, Neville Grave, was a product of the affair.”

  “Messy, eh? And she’s still a drunk?”

  “From the look of her, I don’t think she’s ever been sober.”

  “Hmmm. But the son of an affair… now there’s motive alright. A son who finds out his father lies to him and loses the plot.”

  “I’m with you sir, but it’s hard to make it stack up.”

  “Why?”

  “Looking at the approximate time of death, the son was in clear view of the family the whole time. He never left the room when the old man was killed.”

  “So, who does that leave us?”

  “Everything happened at lunchtime, from eleven-fifty onwards. The family were all together in the kitchen for most of it, with the exception of young Mr Grave’s girlfriend, the vet, and the migrants who were always outside. We could be missing something there though. I’ll run through the timings again today with Palmer. We’ll nail it down before we progress things.”

  “It’s the foreigners, isn’t it?” said Melford, with a groan.

  Hogarth had a nagging fear his superior was right – and without knowing a damn thing about the case. After working so hard, Hogarth felt he was getting lost in the details. Ali Hartigan was getting to him, and the indulgence in the single malt surely hadn’t helped.

  “Anything on the body?”

  “Nothing from Quentin yet, sir.”

  Melford sighed and leaned back in his chair. “Well you at least sound like you’re on the ball. The migrant thing was a slip-up, but you can handle that. But sounding like you’re on the ball and being on the ball are two different things. This is friendly advice. Get your house in order and shut this case down quickly. Do that, and you won’t be doing your reputation any harm at all. It might even get rid of the other questions marks I’m beginning to see around.”

  Hogarth frowned.

  “Question marks?”

  “Let’s not speak of it now, Hogarth. Speaking of it now makes it real and I don’t really want to go there unless it becomes a problem. Which it won’t, will it?”

  “Sir?” said Hogarth, feigning confusion.

  “You know exactly what I’m talking about. Whether it’s politics, fanaticism of some kind, or some other special interest, make sure I don’t hear of you around North Lane, Shoebury again. Don’t you think that MP has enough on his plate?”

  “I only wanted to help, that’s all.”

  Melford looked at him doubtfully.

  “Even if that were true, it’s misguided. Leave it alone. You’ve got a full plate too. Don’t pile it any higher.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Hogarth left the office. Outside in the corridor he closed his eyes to compose himself.

  “He’s not on your case already, is he?” Hogarth’s eyes blinked open and found Palmer standing in front of him.

  “What?” said Hogarth. She’d caught him off guard – this time not just by her interruption but by something in her eyes. Hogarth knew Palmer was pretty, underneath her hard, weather-beaten cop exterior. The job did that to everyone. But he was surprised at himself for noticing. Like Melford said, he didn’t need any more problems, and in his present plight even a hint of attraction to Palmer was unwelcome. Hogarth humphed and looked away.

  “Guv?” said Palmer.

  “Don’t worry. Melford’s got a beef with me but it won’t affect the case.”

  “What was it about then?”

  “He just likes to keep me on my toes, that’s all. Have you heard from Ed Quentin yet?”

  “No,” said Palmer. “He said he’ll call us back. Did you want me to go to the post-mortem, sir?”

  “Not this one. We’re shorthanded as it is. Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “We’re going back to Grave Farm. If results will keep Melford off my back, then that’s what he’s going to get.”

  “But I don’t understand why he’s on your back in the first place, guv. You delivered on the Club Smart case. You’ll deliver on this one. We only got landed with the case yesterday,”

  Hogarth looked sideways at Palmer and nodded. At least someone still thought he could deliver. But it was a good thing she didn’t know about his visit to the Hartigan house, or Palmer’s faith might have been short-lived.

  “Let’s hope so,” he said, as he walked. “Listen. I spent some time with Venky, the vet, on my way home last night and I learned more than I bargained for, I can tell you.”

  “Oh?”

  “I’ll tell you on the way. But what about you? Any news on our friends, Neville and Nancy?”

  “Neville’s pretty much off the radar as far as I’m concerned,” said Palmer. “There’s no criminal record or anything like that. Nancy Decorville doesn’t have a record either, at least not in the way you’d think.”

  “Now, I am intrigued,” said Hogarth. “And we’re going to need to look at those migrant workers, too.”

  “Why? Anything specific?” said Palmer.

  “Apparently the family had a lot of problems involving migrant workers back in the early nineties. Or depending on your point of view you could say the migrant workers had a lot of problems with the family,” said Hogarth. “I’ll let you be the judge of that.”

  As they drove out towards the flat green land of the Sutland area beyond the north edge of town, Hogarth use the hands-free to call Marris. Hogarth didn’t like the hands-free. When he was on his own he preferred to flout the law and make his calls the old-fashioned way, pressing a phone between his ear and shoulder, but he couldn’t set a bad example all the time. His conscience was playing up enough as it was. There was a beep as his call was picked up.

  “Morning, Ivan.”

  “Morning, Hogarth. I must say, you sound a little rough round the edges this morning.”

  “Thanks for that. I suppose I probably do. Hard work and hard living, you know me.”

  “Yes…” said Marris. Marris wasn’t going to deny it then.

  “Ivan, I’ve got DS Palmer with me here.”

  The two greeted one another over the loud speaker.

  “News, Ivan, what news?”

  “Not much I’m afraid. The DNA which I’ve found so far only relates to the victim. There was DNA everywhere, remember. The woodchipper blades got stuck on the skull and muscle tissue in Nigel Grave’s head. Looks like the soft matter clogged up the blades. It churned the poor man’s head up like an aerosol spray. It’s hard to find anything else down there apart from this poor old man. Crime Scene had the same problem.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “But,” said Marris, “…the boot prints Dickens found are all fresh. There’s a few trainer prints in there too, and plenty of prints which match the old man’s shoes. The boot prints suggest wellington boots – the cheap no-frills kind. Size eleven or twelve for both. The trainer shoe is a bit harder, but it’s a fancy one, and likely a size 10. I’ll have to try and match it to a profile chart, but it could take some time.”

  “Size tens, elevens and twelves, eh?” said Hogarth. “Which rule out a female killer.”

  “Unless the woman planned it to look that way,” said Palmer.

  “Yes, I suppose it’s possible.”

  “What about the neoprene fragments?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes, they do belong to an old garment. I’d say the structure of the garment must
be badly worn. The fragments I looked at seemed to be fractured and broken down from over-use. And there’s no sign of water on them – by which I mean there’s no sign of regular use in water. So, I doubt they were from a wetsuit.”

  “Which leaves us with… what exactly?”

  “Protective workwear, boots or perhaps some other sport. There were some sweat salt particles on the neoprene, but no obvious DNA evidence yet. I’ll keep checking though.”

  “Good work, Ivan. At least now we can rule out a marauding scuba-diving assassin then.”

  “Yes. I’d feel fairly confident about that,” said Marris. Hogarth was glad the man had taken the comment in jest. “Oh, and if I were you, Inspector, I’d check in with Ed Quentin. I take it that you’re not going to the PM on this one?”

  “I’ve seen the photographs, Ivan. I haven’t even put them up on the incident board yet. They’d be enough to put DS Palmer off her bacon sandwiches. Besides, I don’t think there’s much contention about cause of death.”

  Palmer frowned at Hogarth and shook her head. She was hardier than most.

  “You lot are getting soft,” said Marris. “Anyway, Quentin mentioned some preliminary findings you might be interested in. Best call him after the PM to be sure.”

  “Care to drop any hints, Ivan?”

  “No. I’d rather not. I don’t want to steal the good doctor’s thunder. I’ll speak to you later on.”

  Ivan Marris cut the call before he could be pressed further. Hogarth looked at Palmer.

  “Well?”

  “The migrant workers are ruled back in. They have to be,” said Palmer.

  “Yes, agreed. But I’d have bet good money it was one of the sharks in that kitchen It still might be. But the trainers? Peter Venky wasn’t wearing trainer shoes. I’d have noticed. He doesn’t look the type either. Did you see any trainers around at the house?”