The Secret Fear

by Solomon Carter

  “Yuck!” he said. “That bloody vending machine is on the blink again. This stuff tastes like battery acid.”

  Hogarth didn’t wait for a reply. As ever, his appearance showed he hadn’t bothered with a hairbrush. His sandy hair was unkempt, but somehow it suited him. And at least his navy blazer and tan chino ensemble looked vaguely neat. Hogarth must have dry cleaned them sometime since the millennium. He waltzed through the open plan office where a few of the more obsequious uniforms greeted him with a nod or a ‘sir’ while those who knew him best ignored him altogether. He walked into their side office – CID Team 1 – and let the door shut behind him. Team 2’s office was around the corner, but lately, that room had been empty. The other CID unit had been shifted to Basildon to concentrate on the rising gang crime causing problems at that end. Which suited Hogarth down to the ground. He didn’t need rivals and he certainly didn’t want friends. Hogarth hadn’t allowed them close enough to become either.

  Palmer smiled and followed the gaffer into the office. Hogarth dropped his heavy frame into the cheap office seat behind his paper-strewn desk. He was supposed to be catching up on things after his extended time away, but he’d not done any paperwork. He said he preferred to hear it from the horse’s mouth. In this case, the horse’s mouth was DS Palmer. Flattered, for sure.

  “Guv,” said Palmer.

  “Here it comes...” he said, preparing a practiced frown on his lined face. Hogarth folded his arms for effect. He waited.

  “It’s DCI Melford.”

  “It’s always bloody Melford. What have I done now? Or does one of his clocks need winding?”

  “No. I think you’re in the clear on that score,” said Simmons.

  “So far, so good...” said Hogarth.

  “But he did mention some threats to local businesses... I didn’t quite get what he was after.”

  “Threats?” said Hogarth.

  “Unspecified threats,” said Palmer, taking a seat at the absurdly small meeting table in the centre of their compact office.

  “And this came from Melford? Maybe he’s been eating cheese again before bedtime. Cheese late at night does things to the mind.”

  Simmons and Palmer glanced at one another. Hogarth noticed. “Come on. You’ve seen how tired Melford looks lately. He’s beginning to look like one of the waxworks from the London Dungeons. Or maybe he’s stressed because I’m back on the job. Was he like this while I was away...?”

  “Not really...” said Simmons.

  “Well, there we are then,” said Hogarth with a flourish of his hands. “It is me. Oh well. I always knew the man couldn’t stomach me, but that’s his problem, not mine.”

  “He said the threats to local business thing came from an internal bulletin that’s been doing the rounds...” said Palmer.

  Hogarth heard Palmer’s inquisitive tone and met her eye. Palmer was short-haired – he sometimes wondered if all that blonde was natural or whether she had resorted to the bottled stuff for a top up. She was pretty enough for CID, but there was always a hint of something sorrowful there behind those eyes. Hogarth sensed she was fishing and shrugged again.

  “I’ve not seen anything. But Long Melford will be privy to more intel than me. I’m not in with the in crowd. Or perhaps he heard the rumour from his friends in the Masonic Lodge,” said Hogarth. Simmons looked serious at the suggestion, so Hogarth gave him a wink to calm him down.

  “Even if they sent you that email, I doubt you’d have read it,” said Palmer.

  “Now, now, Sue. No need to question my faultless professionalism.”

  “I know how you love all those emails.”

  “Emails are just pretend work, that’s why,” said Hogarth. “They don’t get anything done in this life. Although I am considering sending an email to the vending machine people. A very colourful one... anyway, what kind of police intel could be so vague as to mention unspecified threats to unspecified local businesses? Like I said, emails mean nothing. Somebody at HQ is getting paid for writing emails full of nothing. But what’s new there, eh?”

  Hogarth pushed the coffee away and turned his chair to face his desk. He cricked his fingers like a great pianist about to begin a famous performance, his eyes becoming weary as they returned to the stack of files by his laptop. As his fingers touched the first manila file in the pile his office phone line started to ring.

  “Saved by the bell,” said Hogarth. He picked up the phone and turned to meet Palmer’s eye. “DI Hogarth speaking...”

  Hogarth’s eyes stayed bleary for a fraction before Palmer and Simmons saw him stiffen. He turned in his chair, didn’t find what he was looking for, so snapped his fingers across the table. Simmons hurried to find a clean page and tore it from his notebook, and Palmer gave him her biro with the snapped end.

  “Authentic Kebab. Hamlet Court Road...” he spoke as he scribbled.

  Then Hogarth turned and fixed his eyes on Palmer.

  “Murder? You’re sure about that? Any idea how? And when?”

  Hogarth frowned.

  “Okay. We’re on our way.”

  He dropped the phone down into the cradle and stood up. Palmer watched and grabbed her bag.

  “Looks like we’re back in business. Unlucky for some, of course.”

  “What is it, guv?” said Simmons.

  “I’m sure you heard the word murder, didn’t you, Simmons. I’ll let DS Palmer explain what that means.”

  Palmer gave Hogarth a softly withering stare which told him not to patronise their subordinate. Simmons could be a bit of a plum sometimes, but there was no point rubbing it in. Hogarth took great pleasure in ignoring the meaning of Palmer’s gaze. It was time to head out.

  HOGARTH AND PALMER trudged past a trio of suited women standing just past Fauntleroy’s bar on the edge of Hamlet Court Road. One of them had a camera around her neck. As soon as Hogarth saw that, he knew the word was out. He recognised one of the hacks from the local rag. The blonde one from The Record. She tried giving him big doe eyes, like butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth, and yet at the very same time, those innocent eyes were saying she was game for anything. Yeah, right. Hogarth had been born a cynic and knew the score. The girl was trouble. But then journalists always were. He gave her a cold stare and pointed to the female photographer’s big black DLSR camera.

  “I don’t want that thing anywhere near this kebab shop until we’re done, okay? That thing comes any closer and it’ll get dropped by accident.”

  “All we want is a few shots of the shop front. A simple image for the story,” said the blonde with a honeyed voice. Hogarth didn’t even turn his eyes her way. He kept them on the photographer instead. He waited until she understood he was serious. She gave him a tame nod.

  Hogarth led Palmer and Simmons in through the front door of the glass shopfront. One of the uniforms was already setting up a fabric screen to block the view through the entire front window. There was the smell of fermenting chicken and frying grease on the air. And there was another familiar and unpleasant smell beyond it. The faint stink of faeces and death. It was enough to put a man off his doner. At least until Friday night. Hogarth took in the scene. He saw the strange blue ceramic evil-eye thing hanging over the door to the back areas. The door was draped with one of those ugly plastic-stripped curtains. Hogarth remembered his nan used to have one of those in the freezing porch toilet. His eyes passed over the other uniforms. PCSO Rawlins and the new girl were consoling a thin foreign guy with long dark hair at one of the tables. He looked shocked, his eyes pink with tears, but both PCSOs were good looking and he suspected the lad was milking it. Always a cynic. Beside him was a bigger broader version of the same man – much bigger and a generation older with shorter hair. Both men looked washed out with grief and shock.

  He walked across the exotic tiles and behind the counter to peer through the garish plastic-strip curtain into the kitchen. Hogarth hated the damn things, and he saw another set of them hanging over the door at the back of the kitchen.
Crime scene manager, John Dickens, was already busy at work, crouching around the small bald corpse, in his plastic suit and blue shoe covers. Dickens was focused, looking at the tiled floor around the body, noting the scattering of coins, and the mess of vast dented cooking oil drums.

  “Morning, John,” said Hogarth. Shaven-headed Dickens looked up from the floor. “The runes telling you anything yet?”

  The man looked at Hogarth and he nodded back in greeting.

  “Give me a chance, DI Hogarth,” said Dickens, turning his attention back to the tiles.

  “Marris been in?”

  Ivan Marris – forensics.

  “Yes. Ivan’s been in. He might still be out back by the van, putting the samples away.”

  Hogarth looked around, taking in the superficial details in the big steel kitchen and behind the counter while he bided his time.

  The till had been broken into and there was no hard cash in sight. The cash drawer was sprained and broken... The big catering-size oil cans were knocked all over the kitchen floor. The large chopping knife had been cast on the floor – bloodied. He saw there was a dent in the blade... but from what? From opening the till? Maybe. Hogarth took it all in, and then he saw the big red blot of blood on the dead man’s bald head, and the hint of a half-hidden shape beneath the clot – like a watermark just visible in the congealed gore. Hogarth’s stomach tightened and he grimaced.

  “You must have had a chat with Marris, John... professional interest and all that.”

  “You mean you want me to speculate,” said Dickens. He didn’t look up. He seemed to be looking at the spread of the coins.

  “It’s called help, John. If you don’t mind.”

  Dickens nodded towards the two members of the victim’s family behind Hogarth and took a long breath. He stood up and approached the doorway then lowered his voice and again looked at the family to make a point.

  “I’ll tell you everything I know soon enough. I’m not even halfway done here yet. But seeing as you’re pushing...”

  “You know me, John. Always pushing.”

  Dickens frowned. Hogarth noted the overgrown stubble on his jawline. Dickens needed a shave, and he needed to lighten up. Palmer lingered behind Hogarth’s shoulder, ready to glean any scraps of info without incurring any of Dickens’ ill humour.

  “So, early signs then,” said Dickens.

  “Early signs,” said Hogarth.

  “There was a struggle. The lights had been turned off – probably just before the attack because the man had been busy cleaning. There’s cleaning agent all around and the floor had been mopped. The attacker probably turned off the light just before the attack. The kitchen looked neat, so I think the man was about to leave. It looks like he was about to put out the rubbish when he was interrupted.”

  “How did he get in?”

  “There’s some fresh rubbish in the bin out back. I think the victim was halfway through putting the bins out. He probably left the back door open – people often do. When we came in the radio was still on. I can’t comment too much on the injuries, that’s Quentin’s department. But it looks as though the man was the victim of a brutal robbery. Extremely violent, in fact. His nose was broken, cheekbones fractured too from the look of it, and there’s some bruising to the neck too. But you’ll have to wait for pathology for the rest.”

  “How long ago did it happen?”

  “Hard to say exactly, but early morning. The blood on the knife and the state of the wound on the head gives me a rough idea. The blood is not quite dry. But if he’d just wanted to rob the poor man, why did he go to all this effort? He beat the man to a pulp, then cut his head like that for kicks? Why?” said Dickens. “With all these knives around, if he’d wanted to kill the man, he could have done it a lot quicker. Especially that mess carved into the poor man’s head.”

  Hogarth glanced towards the corpse. He tried to block out the red badge of gore on the man’s crown and instead imagine the man’s face as it had been. Yes. He had eaten from here before. He’d even been served by the victim too. Friendly-faced, ever smiling. He’d been in once after a few whiskies down the Old Naval Club on the sea front and one night after a police drinks do at the Hamlet Court pub. Hogarth had noticed that the guy seemed to be friendly with all his customers. Chummy even. He’d had a good way about him. But not anymore. Hogarth glanced at the evil eye hanging above the door curtain. Whatever superstitious protective power it was supposed to offer hadn’t worked. Palmer followed his eyes.

  Bored of the whispering, Simmons slipped away to join PC Dawson and the PCSOs by the men of the victim’s family.

  “Did the killer leave us anything? Any traces? Clues?”

  “I’m still looking,” said Dickens. “But we’ve got bruising. Marks on the man’s head. And clues to be gleaned from the way the cut was made. Which hand he favours, that kind of thing.”

  Hogarth nodded, urging Dickens on.

  “You need to speak to Marris and pathology for more – at least until I’m done.”

  “But you always see what they don’t, John,” said Hogarth.

  Dickens’s shoulders slackened a degree at the flattery. He knew Hogarth’s methods, but gave in anyway.

  “The tiles were wet in places. I think we might find some footprints, but they’re not obvious yet – especially with all the activity in a place like this. It’ll take time.”

  Hogarth nodded.

  “Anything else?”

  “I think the victim might have tried to defend himself with one of those grill racks. Hard to be sure, but the dead man has a nick on his thumb, and there’s one grill rack on the floor. He might have hit the killer on the head.”

  “Yeah. So, the killer comes for him and our man tries to defend himself with the rack.”

  “Possibly. The rack has protrusions all along the edge. If the victim did use it, Marris will find out.”

  Hogarth nodded. But Marris took time and Hogarth needed details and some decent first impressions if he was going to get this one tied up before the killer could start thinking he’d gotten away with it. If he faced the killer when he was in fear of being caught, Hogarth felt sure he would see something in the man’s eyes. And it had to be a man. A man strong enough to subdue and batter his victim to death...

  Dickens saw Hogarth’s eyes had glazed in thought. He started to turn away but Hogarth cleared his throat and Dickens turned back. Hogarth looked at the blot-like wound on the top of the victim’s scalp. Something about it struck him as odd.

  “Yes?” said Dickens.

  Hogarth’s narrow eyes glanced up from the victim’s head.

  “That wound on the victim’s head. Is there anything... odd about it?”

  “Odd? The cut? That’s for pathology to explain. But it’s odd, alright. Seems to me the perp left some kind of mark there. That’s what’s caused the blood you see.”

  Hogarth’s frown deepened.

  Dickens turned away. He pulled his mask about his face and returned to crouching on the tiled floor.

  “Some kind of mark?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes... could be a letter or a symbol. Or simply a couple of nicks. Hard to tell at this stage. That’s for pathology, of course.”

  Hogarth strained his eyes at the head wound, but the body was too distant to make out the detail. But the idea had already disturbed him. It reminded him of something...

  “And your lot shouldn’t be anywhere near this area...” said Dickens. He pointed his gloved fingers to a set of small wire A-frame markers he’d left on the tiles in various places around the kitchen. Some seemed to mark out areas of interest.

  Hogarth needed to take a closer look. He pushed through the strip curtains into the kitchen, and grimaced as the curtain strips snagged the buttons of his blazer. Damn greasy takeaway place like this, the curtain was bound to be filthy. He tutted and looked over his jacket. No grease marks in sight, no blood either. Just plenty of invisible bacteria. Not enough to bother with a dry clean, yet.
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br />   Hogarth stuffed his hands into his trouser pockets to avoid touching anything else. The kitchen was big – much, much bigger than the customer waiting area. There were banks of steel chip fryers, a large heated cabinet to store the cooked chicken, the empty rotaries for the kebabs – one for the chicken one for the meat... whatever the hell meat that was. The smell of drying blood filled his nostrils.

  “You need to stay back,” warned Dickens. “You’re invading the crime scene.”

  “I’ll keep back,” said Hogarth. “I need to see that head wound.”

  Dickens shook his head, his anger clearly on the rise.

  Hogarth kept his back against the counter and stared at the wound. There was something in the blood. He could see it. The family were not far away peering from the other side of the counter. He heard their laboured breathing, felt the weight of their grief. One of them started talking at him, trying to get his attention. It happened sometimes. All he could do was listen as he studied the dead man’s wounds.

  “He was a good man, my father. A staunch man...” said the older man, as if unsure what to say next. Hogarth shot a glance back to show he was listening. “He was a good businessman and a good family man. What has happened?” the grief-stricken man demanded. “What this killer has done, it’s an outrage. You must find them. Whoever did this. You must bring them to justice. And I mean real justice.”

  Hogarth gave the man a nod while he took in his words and manner. Grief had many different stages, but the big man was still firmly in anger mode. Emotions always swirled at a murder scene – but the son’s word ‘outrage’ was unusual and specific. He saw there was more than a trace of ‘outrage’ in the man’s dark eyes as Simmons tried to persuade him to move away.

  “We’ll talk again, sir,” said Hogarth. The man said nothing.

  Palmer watched Hogarth analysing the victim’s son for behavioural clues.

  “Too early to say,” said Hogarth in response to her look, by way of explanation.

  “This is terrible,” said the younger man of the family as he was led away by the new female PCSO. The young man’s words switched from English to Turkish as Hogarth turned his attention back to the crime scene. Hogarth’s eyes flitted around the expansive kitchen. He looked at the big upturned cooking oil containers, blue and white, then glanced at the corner where a square of red and white on the wall caught his eye beside a photographic image of a dark-skinned man looking towards the sky. Hogarth stepped around the edges of the kitchen.