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

by Solomon Carter

  “No, but I can’t say I was looking,” said Palmer. “And Trevor Goodwell and the son weren’t exactly wearing the sort of clothes which go with trainers. Goodwell is the smart type, all fifty quid shirts and forty-pound slacks, that kind of thing. But I’d put Neville down as a high street shopper. But more Topshop than Armani – he wasn’t wearing trainers though.”

  “Maybe they did it and changed their shoes.”

  “Or it’s someone else entirely,” said Palmer.

  “Now that is the idea I like least of all. Because that would mean starting from scratch.” On their way out of town they drove past the stately red brick building of the crematorium. Hogarth noted Grave Farm and the crem looked similar. Both were remote. Built well away from the road. Both were tall and made of red brick, too. Only, the crem looked in better order, because at the crematorium business was always booming.

  “One more thing to consider, Palmer.”

  “Yes, guv?”

  “The time-window for the murder. In this case it’s critical. If our killer is from that house of sharks – then which one is it? They provide each other’s alibi. Neville Grave was there the whole time. He was seen by all the others from beginning to the very end. Physically, there’s no way it could have been him. It’s just not possible. Then we’ve got Goodwell and his missus. Those two remind me of the snooty couple next door on the Good Life. Wasn’t she called Marjorie, too?”

  “I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, guv,” said Palmer with a grin. “The Good Life was well before my time.”

  Hogarth gave Palmer a hard look, softened by a thin smile. “You’re no spring chicken any more, Sue.”

  Palmer chuckled.

  “The old woman isn’t what she seems, but she couldn’t have done it either.”

  “Not what she seems, guv?”

  “Definitely not. I think old Nigel should be made a posthumous saint for being so long-suffering. It sounds like Mrs Susan Grave had been a nightmare of a woman for decades. But either way, she didn’t do it. Mr and Mrs Good Life were there the whole time, so it can’t be them. Venky went out to see why old Nigel was taking so long to fetch the wood, which does give him opportunity to make the kill, but he didn’t do it.”

  “You say that as if you’re certain. How do you know?”

  “Because I know the man is dying, Palmer. Cancer. He has months, maybe only weeks, to live, so he can have no real motive.”

  “Really?” said Palmer. “But what about revenge? Revenge is a motive that never fades away,” said Palmer.

  Hogarth toyed with the idea. He tilted his head left and right. “Maybe. But I don’t see it. These old boys had more in common than they had differences. Which leaves…”

  “Nancy Decorville.”

  “The one and only naughty Nancy. Did you get anything on her?”

  Palmer shook her head.

  “Not much, guv. I found out she’s the top earner and go-getter for Crispin and Co, the commercial property firm based in Rochford. She’s been Crispin and Co’s golden girl for the last two years, finding them gold-card development opportunities in Thurrock, Leigh, and Chelmsford. The press reports on all those land buys suggest Crispins are set to make a killing on those land buys whether they develop them or not. That woman has a nose for an opportunity alright.”

  “Crispins – are they a big concern? I can’t say I’ve ever heard of them.”

  “Not really. Looks like a big money outfit with a low profile. It’s run by the Crispin brothers and a staff of five including sales negotiators, land finders and buyers like Miss Decorville, and has links to an Essex building firm, GMA.”

  “Our Nancy is as shrewd as she is pretty. I’d say she uses those looks to her advantage,” said Hogarth.

  Palmer gave Hogarth a look. “From what I’ve seen, I couldn’t disagree.”

  “So, is there any clear sign that she’s using our man Neville? My gut agrees with Trevor Good Life. She’s a parasite waiting for the right time to strike… but the woman would have to be pretty desperate for success if she was prepared to kill for it.”

  “I got all the info from Social Media,” said Palmer. “Crispin & Co’s Twitter feed is pretty full on. George Crispin seems to spend more time on Twitter than the US President. And I checked out Nancy Decorville’s Facebook, Twitter and IG.”

  “IG? You what?”

  “It’s Instagram, sir. Keep up,” she said.

  Hogarth humphed.

  “Her Facebook profile says she’s in a relationship with Neville Grave, but I’ve got to say it all looks pretty recent. I saw lots of luvvy pics after a short barren spell. Not long before that there was another man on the scene, and he was a very different guy. The older, suited and booted variety. Quite probably minted too, from the look of him.”

  “Maybe naughty Nancy sees our Neville as being minted too. And she didn’t show up at the house until later. If I’ve got my facts straight, she showed up after Venky the vet went out to check on the old man. Which means she could be a possible killer…”

  “Her social media certainly shows that she’s a very fit and capable girl,” said Palmer. “There are lots of images taken while running or at the gym… but I still doubt she’d be strong enough to lift the old man and dump him in that chipper.”

  Hogarth nodded, like he wasn’t committed to deciding either way just yet.

  “But you did get one detail wrong, sir. I asked some questions too, and according to my notes, Mr Goodwell did leave Grave Farm during the critical time window.”

  “Did he now?” said Hogarth, with a wicked grin.

  “Did you notice all the buttered French bread?”

  “You couldn’t fail to notice them. It looked like the woman was about to feed the five thousand.”

  “She sent Goodwell out to grab some more butter. My notes say he was gone for between ten and fifteen minutes, depending on who you listen to.”

  “Goodwell went out? When the old man was attacked?”

  “Yes, it does seem that he did.”

  “Oh dear, oh dear, Trevor,” said Hogarth. “Maybe Life isn’t so Good after all. We need to know where he went. We’ll need to verify it and look at the timings.”

  “Yes, sir. I’ll start as soon as we get back to the nick.”

  “Good work, Palmer.”

  Palmer ventured a look at Hogarth and waited. Soon enough he met her eye.

  “Marris was right, sir. You do sound below par today.”

  “Well thank you for that little confidence booster. I was beginning to forget about Marris’s little jibe until then.”

  “You had trouble with the DCI this morning, too.”

  “Long Melford. But you know what he’s like. Everyone does. He wants blood from stones and he wants them to feel terrible if they don’t bleed freely enough.”

  “But I don’t remember him being on your case like this before,” said Palmer.

  “Then maybe he’s found a new hobby – besides collecting antique clocks.”

  “Are you sure everything’s okay, guv?”

  “Yes, Palmer,” said Hogarth with an exaggerated grin. “Everything’s just peachy and tickety-boo. And don’t worry. I’m not about to shed my clothes and run into the sea. I wouldn’t leave you in the lurch, no matter who would like that to happen.”

  “That wasn’t what I meant, sir. I was concerned – about you.”

  “Well then, thanks for your concern, but do yourself a favour and save it for the case. Don’t waste your time worrying about me, sergeant. I’m honestly not worth the trouble.”

  Palmer felt put in her place. She looked out on the flat green fields to the airport for half a minute before she spoke again. They were almost at the farm.

  “Those case photographs, guv. Of the victim. You shouldn’t hide them on my account.”

  “What?”

  “The murder pics.”

  “Oh, I was only joking Palmer. I was more worried about spoiling my breakfast than yours. I’ll put them up
alright. I just didn’t see the point until we have a proper meeting at the station. It’s only the two of us after all.”

  “Putting those pictures up might show the DCI you’re on top of things. He’s always sticking his head through the office door.”

  “I never just want to do things just for appearances sake, Palmer. Not for Melford, or anyone else. Thanks all the same.”

  Palmer sighed. Hogarth started to speak, slowly at first.

  “I know you meant well, Sue. Sorry if I snapped. This will come good. I promise.”

  Palmer couldn’t tell if he meant the case, or his own situation, whatever that was.

  Hogarth turned his car between the tall red pillars of the Grave Farm entrance and slowly crunched along the gravel drive until he pulled to a halt.

  “Ooooh, I can’t wait for this little chat,” said Hogarth, with plenty of irony in his tone.

  Chapter Ten

  “Good morning Neville,” said Hogarth.

  Neville Grave was again the one to open the large front door of the farmhouse. The man’s face grew stiff and awkward the moment he saw DI Hogarth and DS Palmer standing on his doorstep. Hogarth watched his reactions unfold, but then he had come to expect nothing less. Cops had that effect on people, and as far as Hogarth could tell, his own hard-bitten face had the effect more than most. Today the young man was wearing another fashion ensemble. A blue checked shirt with his sleeves rolled up to expose strong forearms. He wore skinny jeans shaped like carrots, the kind which made plenty of men look ridiculous, but such was fashion. Hogarth could still remember his trendy sunglasses from the eighties. The ones which looked like Jackson Pollock had attacked them with correction fluid. As far as Hogarth was concerned fashion was for the birds. He was getting old. Neville Grave was holding a tea towel in his hands.

  “Hard at work, I see,” said Hogarth.

  Neville glanced at the towel and dropped it to his waist.

  “I’m here for my mother. It’s far too early to leave her yet.”

  Hogarth looked at the man’s eyes a little too deeply, probing for the truth. He quickly looked away.

  “I’m sure you’re doing the very best you can,” said Hogarth. “Can we see your mother?”

  “She’s not feeling her best this morning.”

  “I’m sure. That’s why we’re here early. Before her particular condition gets any worse…”

  Hogarth gave a nod to signal that he knew the woman’s problem.

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea, Inspector.”

  “All the same, I have to speak to her. And my guess is that mornings are best.”

  Neville didn’t argue. “Very well. If you insist.”

  “That I do, Mr Grave.”

  Neville led them back towards the kitchen. Hogarth wondered if they were all still in situ, like some moving exhibit on the horrors of country life. Hogarth listened to Neville announcing their arrival. A moment later, Neville appeared at the kitchen door, beckoning them in.

  “Come through. Actually, she’s not too bad today.”

  Hogarth walked through, and Palmer shut the sturdy wooden door behind her.

  They found the kitchen much as they had left it. The range was hot and there was the smell of bread baking in the oven. Odd, thought Hogarth, that the woman had found the inclination to bake after the death of her husband. But nothing about these people was run of the mill. Underlying the scent of bread he smelt that same old sickly aniseed wafting on the air. Pernod perhaps? Or a breath freshener to hide the booze of choice. Hogarth knew he would soon work it out.

  “The police again” said the old woman. Her eyes were guarded and glazed as ever, and her mouth looked pinched. Somehow, there was a wicked look about her. In the eyes, maybe. If it was a hangover then Hogarth knew the feeling.

  Neville Grave lingered by the door behind them.

  “We need to speak to your mother alone, Mr Grave.”

  Neville frowned.

  “Is that okay with you, Mum?”

  “It’s better than you hawking around here interfering, wouldn’t you say?”

  Neville blushed. “You’ll soon see what she’s like, Inspector.”

  Hogarth waited until the man was gone, then he grabbed the back of one of the old wooden chairs from the dining table and pulled it to the centre of the room.

  “Don’t mind, do you?” he said.

  “Help yourself. And the lady. You too,” she said, pointing to Palmer. “Sit down. It isn’t often I get to meet new people round here.”

  “You do remember we were here yesterday, Mrs Grave?”

  “Course I do. I’m not senile, yet. Though, I know some of them like to pretend I am. Nigel liked to play that game. It made him feel better about everything else.”

  Hogarth shot a glance at Palmer. He sensed ripe pickings from this conversation.

  “Everything else?” said Hogarth. His eyes roamed across the leaded-light windows towards the police vans and the white tent towards the end of the track. The tent had been set up as an awning over the open side of the big metal barn, and Hogarth could see John Dickens was still on his knees in the shadows. Days like this, frosty and bitterly cold, Hogarth was glad he had never become a SOCO.

  “You want tittle tattle? Is that what you’re after?”

  “No, madam,” said Hogarth. He glanced down at the distinctive Pernod bottle on the floor, hiding behind a table leg. “I’m here to try and find out who killed your husband. If you answer a few questions it would certainly help.”

  The woman nodded.

  “Okay… if I must. We loved each other, of course, the way folks of a certain age do. It was comfortable, like an old pair of shoes. Easy. Safe, you might say. But boring as hell. But we were growing old together and well on the way to popping our clogs. I mean, look at me. You wouldn’t believe I used to be a looker back in my day. Better than that girl Neville has taken up with. And Nigel was older than me, you know.”

  “So I heard,” said Hogarth.

  “We were friends, after a fashion, me and Nigel. I never wanted no harm to come to him. Damn it, all I wanted was him to snap out of his silly daze and do a bit better for us all. With a bit more brains, we could have earned much more from this place. We could have modernised before, decades back, when it mattered. But he was so obsessed with the past that he couldn’t move on.”

  “The past?”

  “His family history, and all. Grave Farm used to be huge when his grandfather and great grandfather ran it. It was his father who started to squander it. Nigel, poor Nigel, was content simply to limit the decay. But you can’t stop time, can you? You either move on, or time moves you instead.”

  “You wanted Mr Grave to modernise, then? Did you know about the different ideas your family had to make things better?”

  “Too little, too late. All I heard was a lot of hot air. Trevor wants to turn Grave Farm into a factory, letting in an industrial firm to run the place. Trevor might know about business, it might work, I suppose, but I’m yet to be convinced…”

  “Would you have blocked the idea if Nigel had gone with it?”

  “No. But I would certainly have held him to account if it went wrong.”

  The way the old woman’s eyes shone as she said it left Hogarth in no doubt what an ordeal that would have been. No wonder Nigel Grave had trouble making a decision.

  “And what about your son’s idea?”

  “Neville, you mean.”

  “Yes, your son.”

  The woman’s lips shaped up to release some pinched words, but she held back and shifted on her seat. Hogarth felt he might have missed out on a revealing tirade.

  “But your son had some ideas, didn’t he?”

  The old woman nodded. “Yes. He had ideas of his own before that lipstick hussy showed up.”

  “And?” said Hogarth. “Do you know about them?”

  “He was responsible for ordering that woodchipper, wasn’t he? To make wood chips for sale. Can you credit it? H
e wanted to turn fire logs into waste material for selling to the public. I could never understand it.”

  “People use them on the gardens,” said Hogarth. “I don’t, but people do.”

  “It was a fool idea. And that was the machine that ended up killing Nigel… I do wonder if that fool machine was what they were arguing about.”

  “Arguing? Who? Neville and Nigel” said Hogarth.

  “Yes,” said the old woman. She caught Hogarth’s eyes and stared. “It didn’t happen often, but they argued the day before Nigel died… I saw them out there on the field, having a proper set-to. Neville was the one doing the ranting and raving. And Nigel was shaking his head. Nigel probably refused to listen to the boy’s ideas for the farm. And with good reason, I’d say,” the old woman finished, with a bitter laugh.

  “I’m no expert on the farming business, Mrs Grave,” said Hogarth, “but unless you know something I don’t, I think it would be hard to blame your son for…”

  “Throwing him in?” said the woman. She raised an eyebrow and dipped her hand down for the Pernod bottle. She tipped a good measure into an empty mug. The time for hiding her addiction was over.

  “You’re a man of the world, Inspector. I don’t need to hide this from you, do I?”

  “No,” said Hogarth, though he hated the smell of it.

  “Neville couldn’t have done it, could he?” said the woman. “And do I think Neville did it? Why, those two doted on each other. Two peas in a pod, they were, both as daft as each other. I can’t see it happening. The boy Neville is a nuisance and a fool, he always was. Uncanny really, how much they were alike. Considering…”

  “Considering what?” said Hogarth, quick off the mark.

  The woman sipped her drink and shook her head.

  “It doesn’t matter. He was here the whole time, anyways. Neville was here, trying to pacify me. Silly bloody sod. He’s trying to butter me up now that his father’s gone, I reckon. But I won’t fall for it.”

  “Fall for what, exactly, Mrs Grave?”