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

by Solomon Carter

  “Now?”

  “One minute fifteen left.”

  “Out of how much?”

  “Twelve minutes, which is what we worked against last time.”

  “And the real window could have been longer – up to twenty minutes.”

  “No. He couldn’t have used all that time on the butter run. There was leaving, stowing his equipment, getting into position in the barn…”

  “Yes, yes, I get all that. And here we are. We’ve done it. We’ve cracked his alibi! Goodwell did it, as sure as eggs are eggs.”

  Hogarth clapped his hands in delight, but he saw his enthusiasm wasn’t matched by the look in Palmer’s eyes.

  “What?” he said.

  “But you could time it again and fail. You could do it again and fail five times in ten.”

  “But Goodwell wouldn’t. That’s the whole point. Goodwell would drive on the bloody pavements if he had to.”

  “It won’t stand up in court, guv. The CPS might consider it, but only as throwing a degree of doubt on his alibi. But it won’t absolutely disprove it.”

  “Doubt is the beginning, Palmer. A while back they all had cast iron alibis – but Goodwell’s isn’t cast iron any more. And we’re not done with this yet. Let’s take it a stage further. How long did we have left?”

  “One minute, fifteen seconds.”

  “Okay. Go towards the chipper. Let’s pretend you’re the old man. Take your time, go over there, head towards the wood pile…”

  Palmer shrugged. She started the timer and walked towards the woodpile. As she moved, Hogarth moved past her, and slid into the gap behind the hay bales. He looked at the dried trainer print. When Palmer was in position, Hogarth slid out again, and stalked towards her.

  “The man moves in…” said Hogarth, narrating his moves so she would know what he was doing. “He seizes the old man… they struggle.” As Hogarth lightly grabbed Palmer by her shoulders, they simulated a struggle. “Goodwell dominates him… picks him up…” Hogarth lifted Palmer clean off her feet. “And tosses him in.” Hogarth looked Palmer in the eye, his grim smile faltered, and he dropped her back down to her feet. “Yes… sorry about that.”

  “Um. No problem,” said Palmer, with awkward eyes. There was a momentary silence which Hogarth quickly quashed.

  “How long now?”

  “Thirty-five seconds.”

  “Keep the timer going. Follow me outside.”

  Hogarth broke into a slow jog, running along the edge of the track until he reached the side of the house and then his car. He opened the door, counted a second slammed it shut. He opened the boot, counted a few seconds and closed it again. Then he ran back to the corner of the house near the kitchen door.

  “Stop the clock!” said Hogarth. “Now what’s the time?”

  “You’ve got three seconds to spare.”

  “Three seconds? Then even being tight with the time, it fits. It really does fit.”

  “But no one saw him – surely someone would have seen him from the window.”

  “Goodwell was careful. He knew the lay of the land very well. And in the kitchen, they were busy, tense, distracted.”

  “And when he returned – no one reported that Goodwell was red-faced or out of breath.”

  Hogarth felt Palmer’s eyes tracing over his face.

  “That’s because Goodwell is a darn sight fitter than me. He wasn’t red–faced at all, that’s why it wasn’t mentioned. He did it.”

  Palmer met Hogarth’s eyes and nodded once. But she gave it nothing more than that.

  “It’s still not enough.”

  “Maybe not. But you know it’s him, don’t you?”

  Palmer shrugged. “Yes… I think so…”

  “Where the hell is Marris when you need him?” said Hogarth. He took out his phone and kicked at the gravel with his brogues.

  “Marris said he would call us, guv,” said Palmer.

  Hogarth’s brow dipped over his eyes in confusion. “Did he now?”

  Palmer bit her tongue.

  “Well I’ve had enough of waiting.” With drooping shoulders, Hogarth walked away. She heard him greet Marris before his voice faded out of earshot. Palmer’s heart thudded in her chest. She recalled the strange moment where Hogarth forgot himself and lifted her off the ground. He was desperate, caught up in the moment, wanting to prove his theory. A good few other female officers she knew might have reported the incident, especially as it involved the prickly, and occasionally sexist DI. But Palmer knew he’d meant nothing by it. And somewhere inside, she had been taken aback by her own response to his sudden manhandling. She’d felt vulnerable – not a feeling Palmer was comfortable with – but had she almost enjoyed it? Palmer shook her head and winced at the thought.

  “You’re turning into a bloody perv, Palmer…” she whispered to herself.

  She straightened her back and looked at the ground with a sigh. Palmer hoped the new hints and hues of this juvenile attraction would simply fade away. They had to – before Hogarth noticed – before the rest of the nick did too.

  In the distance, she saw Hogarth turn around.

  “Okay… fine… thanks, Ivan,” she heard him say. But Hogarth’s face looked shadowy and downcast. Much less than fine. She watched him end the call and slide the phone into his jacket. In his customary style, Hogarth stuffed his hands into his chino pockets and paced towards her. His shoulders were hunched, his face serious. As she watched him she had the feeling of them both standing on a knife edge, though in truth, only Hogarth’s fate hung in the balance.

  When he was halfway towards her, Palmer could bear it no more.

  “Guv?”

  Hogarth looked up. His voice was low and quiet.

  “You were right, Palmer. The alibi wasn’t enough.”

  Palmer nodded and blew out a long, gutted breath.

  Then Hogarth’s grizzled face cracked a smile which grew wider with every passing moment. His eyes narrowed but let loose a glint of light.

  “But now there’s evidence too. Marris found a trace of blood – a minute amount of blood – in the boot lining of the Porsche. The mini-valet vacuumed the carpets, but they didn’t clean away the fibres. The blood is a match for Nigel Grave. I think we’ve just found a very good example of how Trevor Goodwell’s penny-pinching might have just landed him in jail for murder.”

  “What?” said Palmer, smiling in shock.

  Hogarth nodded. “Murder, Palmer. It was him. If he’d had a proper valet, those carpets would have been cleaned. There’d be no DNA to find.”

  “Are you sure? I mean, Goodwell could still argue the blood got there another way…”

  “Hold your horses. The fibres in the boot space were neoprene. They contained sweat particles and skin particles which almost certainly belong to Trevor Goodwell. They are from neoprene cycling gloves. And they are the very same fibres as we found in the barn. And there’s more. There is the ghost of a shoe print in the boot. We couldn’t see it, but Marris has the tools to see what we can’t. There’s also a similar fractional trainer print in the footwell below the pedals. The stuff the vacuum left behind.”

  “But we don’t have the shoes…” said Palmer.

  “We don’t need them, do we? Marris has a print out of every training shoe sole pattern ever made in the last thirty years. Can you believe it? It’s true. He says those shoe prints belong to a pair of budget running shoes, Fiafora Speed Lites, which haven’t been made for over six years. Whatever. And guess what? Those match the fractional prints Dickens found in the barn.”

  “Then we really have got him?”

  “There’s one more thing, Palmer.”

  “What?”

  “Marris.”

  Palmer maintained a blank face, but her cheeks started to turn pink.

  “Marris told you not to call him back. Not me. I just got my ears burnt for not following his strict instructions. Next time, Palmer, leave Marris to me. You know what he’s like.”

  “Yes,
guv. Sorry.”

  “No harm done. We’ve got him, Palmer and I can’t wait to see his face…”

  From the side of the house, they heard the modest chunter of a small car engine pootle through the tall gates onto the driveway of the house.

  Hogarth walked to the front corner of the house and watched a red two-seater city car dawdle along the driveway. The vehicle had the name of a car rental firm emblazoned on the side. Valu-Rents.

  “Who the devil is this…?” said Hogarth. Then he rose up on the balls of his feet. “Or should I say speak of the devil…?”

  Palmer’s eyes followed Hogarth’s as the light of the cold grey day reflected off the glass and hid the identity of those inside. But as the car moved, the light faded, and Palmer saw Marjorie Goodwell’s pinched face and stringy turkey neck, pressed awkwardly close to the ageing brawn of her husband.

  “Okay. Let’s get out of sight,” said Hogarth.

  “Why?” said Palmer.

  “I don’t want them to see us until the very last second. That scumbag has put me through the ringer. I want to enjoy this one to the full,” said Hogarth. They stepped back into the shadows at the side of the house and watched as the Goodwells extracted themselves from the city car.

  “Bit of a step-down from the Porsche Cayenne,” whispered Palmer.

  “But it’s good practice. Trevor Goodwell’s going to have to get used to cramped spaces and confinement. Looks like he’s started early.”

  The Goodwells muttered to one another as they walked, hurrying along towards the big front door. The couple were bickering as they pressed the doorbell. A moment later, they were safely inside the house.

  “They didn’t see us,” said Palmer.

  “They were too busy arguing to notice. Maybe they’ve come to try some last-minute chiselling with the old woman. All to no avail, of course. Okay, Palmer. Call in some backup but tell them not to hurry. Goodwell’s a killer, but he’s not the dangerous type. I think five or ten minutes should wrap this up nicely…”

  Palmer observed the glint in Hogarth’s eyes and speculated as to what he had in mind. In the end she gave up trying and made the call. Hogarth enjoyed being inscrutable. With Palmer around, it wasn’t too often that he succeeded.

  Chapter Twenty-three

  Hogarth doubled back and walked past the kitchen window, ensuring his walk was slow and unhurried. This time he wanted everyone at Grave Farm to be aware of his presence. He knocked on the stable door, and Palmer watched him try several versions of the same, mean smile before he settled on the one he liked best. When the stable door opened, it was Neville Grave who answered it, with Nancy Decorville appearing close behind at his shoulder.

  “Mr Grave,” said Hogarth.

  “You’ve been busy, Inspector. Did you find anything out there?” Hogarth’s eyes tracked past the pretty, feline face of Nancy Decorville to the others. The old woman looked as befuddled and vicious as the last time they’d met, and her perfume of Pernod still laced the air. Towards the back of the room, standing as stiff and pale as two mannequin dummies, were Trevor Goodwell and Marjorie. The woman scowled at him. Trevor Goodwell forced a look of imperious calm onto his face and folded his arms.

  “You could say that,” said Hogarth, finally answering the young man’s question.

  “Really? What could you have found out there after all this time? Poor old Nigel was murdered days ago, and you’ve done nothing so far. As far as I can see, the killer is still on the loose,” said Goodwell.

  “Loose?” said Hogarth. “Mr Goodwell. Your favourite suspects are the migrant workers. But they’re hardly ‘on the loose’. They’re banged up in a deportation centre and they’ll be there as and when we need them for this entire investigation. And the coming court case beyond.”

  Goodwell glanced towards his wife, but their eyes didn’t seem to meet. “So then, Inspector, you think it’s possible they did it?”

  Hogarth fixed the man in his eyes. “The evidence suggests not.”

  “The evidence? What evidence? Come on. You’ve been floundering here, haven’t you? Trying to pin the blame on any of us, or all of us, because the fact is you simply haven’t got a clue who did it. Frankly, this whole thing has been a bloody shambles.”

  “That’s certainly what you keep telling my superior officers, isn’t it, Mr Goodwell?”

  Neville and Nancy’s attention turned towards Goodwell. He met their eyes unabashed.

  “Well? What if I did complain? Your father is dead, and all this man can do is throw his weight around and threaten people. I complained because he interrogated me and Marjorie out in the cold – right beside the very place where dear old Nigel was killed. That shows a complete lack of sensitivity to anyone here.”

  “That was your first complaint, yes, Mr Goodwell. Your second was regarding the suspects. You wanted me to interrogate the migrant workers. You suggested I had ignored the fact that Igor and the other chap had been involved in a disagreement with Neville and Nigel Grave about misusing the woodchipper, just before Christmas. You gave me the impression that the incident left a very sour taste in those men’s mouths. Indeed, that it could have even given them motive to want to kill Nigel Grave in an act of revenge.”

  “What?” said Neville. Nancy Decorville’s red-painted lips flickered with a smile and she raised an eyebrow.

  “He’s exaggerating because he’s got everything wrong,” said Goodwell.

  “What else did you want me to think, Mr Goodwell?” said Hogarth.

  Goodwell pursed his lips and became silent.

  “Makes you think, doesn’t it?” said Decorville.

  “You keep your bloody nose out of it. We all know your game here,” said Trevor Goodwell.

  “Don’t speak to her like that!” said Neville.

  “Neville, Neville, are you the only one who can’t see what she’s after,” said Goodwell. “She’s used her charms to get into your head. You’re not thinking clearly, are you, dear boy? That’s one of the problems we’re here to solve.”

  The old woman at the dining table cackled then coughed. Hogarth wrinkled his nose as a spray of spittle flew through the room.

  “Shut your vile bloody mouth, just for once, will you!” snapped Neville. Hogarth’s eyes glinted in delight, as did Nancy Decorville’s. “I’m thinking clearly enough, thank you, Trevor.”

  Goodwell shifted on his feet, face red, looking like he was about ready to explode. But Neville wasn’t done.

  “You put the blame onto Igor? Seriously? Because of that pathetic argument? Don’t be so bloody absurd, Trevor! I didn’t take it seriously. They were pissing around, that’s all. There was nothing for them to do out there, so they were mucking about. I just didn’t want them breaking the chipper…”

  His words trailed away at mention of the instrument of his father’s death.

  As Neville diminished Goodwell seemed to gain a little succour. But Neville still wasn’t done. This time he spoke to Hogarth.

  “Dad told them to belt up and he gave them some work to do. That was it. It was hardly a life changing moment.”

  Goodwell jabbed a finger at Hogarth.

  “But I only complained because that so-called detective hadn’t even considered the option. The man’s got his own agenda, and that has nothing to do with solving this case. He’s been harassing Marjorie and me because we had the audacity to complain. Listen to him now. He’s ranting about the complaint instead of the murder case. Where are your bloody priorities, man?” said Goodwell, fuming.

  “I’m coming round to that, don’t you worry, Mr Goodwell,” said Hogarth.

  He took his time. Palmer and Hogarth had been lingering on the threshold of the kitchen door, their backs still in the cold.

  “May I?” he said to Neville, nodding towards the interior warmth.

  “Of course,” said Neville. Hogarth and Palmer stepped inside and shut the door behind them,

  “You talk of agendas, Mr Goodwell. Let’s be honest. There are mo
re bloody agendas in this kitchen than there are at a town hall council meeting. It doesn’t take too much imagination to see through it. Poor Mr Nigel Grave is dead. His assets, and the farm he has seen passed down from generation to generation is up for grabs. The farm is an asset, worth what? At least a couple of million in land alone. Then there is the business. It has a value too. I see that. And the farm has value to the family too because it’s also part of their heritage. But then there’s the question of legitimacy, isn’t there? A point you raised and fixated on, Mr Goodwell. Just who should be the legitimate heir to this farm. That’s a mess which has been stirred up by people in this room, probably for their own reasons, because in the eyes of the law the legitimate heir is the legal heir. The one mentioned in the will.”

  “Here you go again,” said Goodwell. “Casting your aspersions…”

  “Wrong, Mr Goodwell. This isn’t harassment, Mr Goodwell. This is analysis. It’ll all go into the court case, where everything I’m explaining now will be opened like a Pandora’s box to the scrutiny of the media. Everything. Every skeleton in every closet will come out into the open, believe me. You can use that harassment buzzword all you like with my superiors, but it doesn’t cut any ice with me – and it won’t work a jot when this case reaches court.”

  “Aspersions. You’ve been the one casting aspersions, Trevor,” said Nancy. “You’ve cast them on me, on those poor migrants… and you have knocked Neville time and again. You’ve made out he can’t fill his father’s shoes. That he’s somehow unworthy because…”

  “Because of my heritage,” said Neville. His words were like a full stop. “I know it was you. You used my mother’s fixation against me.”

  Eyes briefly turned to the old woman, but Susan Grave resolutely ignored them and instead picked up the Pernod bottle.

  “I know about it,” said Neville, nodding. “Whatever doubt there is about my heritage, I was my father’s son. No matter what anyone says.”