The Darkest Deed_A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery Page 2

  “I’m sure you’ll think of something, Ali. Just don’t let your husband play any mind games or upset you.”

  “Oh, he’ll always play games, Joe, and he’ll always try to upset me. But I’m way past all that. I’m with you now. Finally.”

  Hogarth watched her face sink towards him. They kissed. It was tender and soft and offered the promise of much more. His hands slinked their way across her back and slid into her long hair. They enjoyed a long kiss before they broke apart.

  “I’m sorry, Joe,” said Ali.

  “Sorry? Sorry for what?” he said, his eyes sharp.

  “Sorry for getting you suspended from your job like that.”

  “What? You apologised for that already, and I told you it wasn’t your fault. I’m the one who door-stepped your husband after the DCI told me to leave it. Besides, I didn’t actually get suspended. Not officially, anyway. The DCI told me to take a couple of weeks off to sort my head out. I used unspent leave.”

  “But you know as well as I do, that it was my fault…”

  Hogarth looked into Ali’s shining eyes. He couldn’t help wondering if she was apologising for things she was planning to do, the sins forming on the horizon. But no, that was Norton’s words echoing in his mind.

  “You care for me, don’t you?” said Ali.

  “You know I do,” he whispered.

  Ali smiled. “Seeing as it’s your first day back, I think I should give you something to remember me by. To keep you smiling through the day…

  Ali slid down over his pale body, and his hands moved across her smooth skin. Her touch, like her beauty, electrified him. But his eyes tracked to the clock.

  “Ali… I’ve got to get up,” he said.

  “Soon,” said Ali, “soon.” She kissed his chest, and slowly slid down the bed, as keen as a teenage girl. Yes, it was like a teenage affair in many ways. Full of angst, guilt and secrets, and wonderful explosive love making. If only Vic Norton’s words hadn’t tainted everything, his life would have been great. But for a few moments at least, it wasn’t far off.

  In the narrow one-way street outside Hogarth’s house, a few cars whisked by, their headlights cutting through the darkness. The sky was still dark blue, the morning light yet to break. Nurses walked briskly down the sloping street to start their shifts at the nearby hospital. Paperboys with neon orange satchels on their backs meandered between the close-knit houses as one lone man walked against the stream, uphill towards Westcliff and Southend beyond. He whistled as he walked. When he reached his pre-planned spot, the man stopped whistling, stopped walking, and looked up at the window above him. The drapes were drawn and folded against the window. The man checked his watch and shook his head. He looked around, pulled the lapels of his raincoat up about his neck and slowly, very slowly, walked on. He didn’t whistle any more. His face was a grimace veiled in shadow.

  The bright office lights hurt his eyes. The telephones rang around the open plan area in an unstoppable din. “How was your holiday, sir?” said PCSO Rawlins as soon as Hogarth walked in. Hogarth took a close look at her face, just in case her eyes revealed any sarcasm, but he didn’t see it. Pretty Rawlins didn’t have a sarcastic bone in her body. If she was going to survive in this profession she’d need to develop one soon.

  “Errr, fine, thank you Rawlins.”

  “Well you look much better for it. Almost chipper. DCI Melford said you’d had an accident before you took leave. But you’re okay now?”

  “Uh, yeah. It was only a minor thing.” Hogarth winced and hoped he didn’t betray his embarrassment. He tugged at his shirt collar and looked around. PC Orton was looking at him, Jordan looked over and nodded a hello. Chubby Orton seemed to be trying to read him, looking for an angle to take the piss. Hogarth didn’t need that yet. He’d been in the station no more than sixty seconds. It was time to put his foot down before Orton thought of a wisecrack. Hogarth mouthed a few swear words at him, and Orton dipped his head back to his desk, as meek as a mouse.

  “I saw that, sir,” said a deep voice from his side.

  Hogarth jumped and saw it was only Dawson, the big tattooed constable. “I can see you missed PC Orton while you were away. Go anywhere nice, did you?” Hogarth felt the big cop eying the pallor of his skin. Hogarth was as pale as he’d ever been.

  “On a DI’s salary? Give it a rest. Yeah, Camber Sands is lovely in February.”

  Dawson grinned. “It had to be better than Southend nick, at any rate.”

  “You must be joking, Constable. Nothing beats a shift at Crime-on-Sea, does it now?”

  With a zing of apprehension, Hogarth turned his sights to the door of the CID room. The CID room was his domain, but for the last two weeks he’d been barred by order of the DCI. He wondered just how much Palmer had been told about his absence. If there was a shred of a chance that Hogarth could keep the truth under wraps, he intended to do it.

  Hogarth pushed the door open, his face a tightly-orchestrated mask of caution. But as soon as the door gave, he heard only laughter. As the door opened Hogarth was thankful to see he wasn’t the butt of the joke. DC Simmons was back, standing up in the middle like a stand-up comedian. Palmer was watching him, eyes tiny and mouth wide with laughter. Simmons was giving some kind of performance. Palmer’s face flickered when she saw Hogarth. Serious for a second, he watched the smile quickly return to her face.

  “Guv? You’re back! And look who else is here too…” said Palmer.

  Simmons turned to see Hogarth. Simmons’ dark slick-backed hair was still in place, but Hogarth noticed the man had lost a little weight during his absence. Behind the laughter, there was a maudlin look. Or, Hogarth wondered, was he merely reflecting his own emotions onto Simmons.

  “Good to see you, guv,” said Simmons.

  Hogarth scratched his ear. “You too, Simmons.”

  There was a momentary stand off before Hogarth reached forward and grabbed Simmons by his arm. He gave the man the briefest half hug before retreating into the safety of manly formality.

  “Welcome back, Simmons. So, did you start today?”

  “Kind of, guv. I came in last Friday, just to dip my toe in the water, but this is my first day proper.”

  Hogarth nodded. “Afraid I can’t give you a decent briefing on what’s been happening. I’ve been off for the last fortnight too.”

  “Anywhere nice?” said Palmer. She did the same as the uniforms, her eyes searching his face for any sign of a tan. She wasn’t going to find one.

  “No, Palmer. It was just a break, that’s all.”

  “Good then,” she said, giving him an affirmative nod. “You needed one.”

  “So,” said Hogarth. “before I get called in to inspect Long Melford’s antique clock…”

  Simmons grinned.

  “I said clock, Simmons,” said Hogarth in a faux-stern voice. “What’s been happening?”

  Palmer shook her head. “I could tell you how busy we’ve been, and that I’ve been doing the work of the whole team and solved all the crimes while you’ve been away, but the truth is I’d be lying. It’s been quiet. Dead quiet. I’ve even had time to tidy up a few loose ends on the backlog. The Dave Troman case, even, I put that one to bed.”

  “Troman? Blimey. It must have been quiet. I may as well take another fortnight’s leave then, eh?”

  “No, don’t,” said Palmer. “This room’s been like a prison cell lately.”

  “Then it looks like you’ve got your cellmates back,” said Simmons.

  “A quiet start, eh? Can’t be bad. Do me a favour, Simmons. Grab one of those excuses for coffee from the vending machine. I may as well go and see the DCI before I get a summons.”

  “Sure you don’t want anything stronger, guv?” said Simmons with a grin.

  “No thanks. I’ll save that until elevenses,” said Hogarth. He gave them a wink and stepped out of the room. Now came the part he was dreading. The reality check. There’d been nothing in the media about James Hartigan MP splitting from
his wife, but Melford seemed to have the inside track on most things. Now he’d hear what Melford knew.

  Hogarth rapped his knuckles on the door.

  “Come in, Hogarth,” said Melford. The DCI had now added seeing through walls to his many dreaded talents. Hogarth walked in, shut the door and nodded at the tall man behind the desk.

  “Sir,” said Hogarth.

  Melford watched as Hogarth settled to a calm standing position in front of his desk.

  “A good fortnight off, I take it?”

  “I feel much better, sir” said Hogarth.

  “Good,” said Melford. “No one here is aware why you took your sudden little holiday. No one knows it was under my orders.”

  Hogarth nodded. He wasn’t going to thank the DCI for that blessing. The informal suspension had been a punishment after all.

  “But I’m hoping it did the trick,” said Melford.

  “Sir?”

  “Come on. Your memory hasn’t deteriorated that much in a two-week absence, has it? I ordered you not to go around to James Hartigan’s house, and you flouted those orders that very same night. Those orders were to help you. Hartigan is an MP. He has special clout, far more clout than most people in this town. The night you went round to his house he contacted the Police and Crime Commissioner, Roger Johnson. Another politico who wants to keep everybody but us happy. I didn’t say that, by the way.”

  “No sir, I didn’t hear a thing,” said Hogarth.

  “Well, that made it a hot potato, right away. When the Commissioner contacted me, I had to emphasise the success of your recent cases just to prevent you from being suspended or dismissed. Next time, whatever I tell the likes of him or the Super won’t hold any water. Do you understand? If you shoot yourself in the foot again, that’ll be it.”

  “Sir, you saw my face that morning.

  “You’d taken a beating and a half, yes.”

  Hogarth stared at Melford until his meaning sank in. Melford blinked and shifted in his seat. The leather creaked.

  “You’re alleging that James Hartigan was somehow responsible for that?”

  “I made that visit after I was attacked. It wasn’t a coincidence, sir.”

  “I’d have a lot of trouble believing that our local and very upstanding member of parliament was involved in anything like that.”

  “Really, sir? I’d have no trouble at all.”

  Melford looked exasperated. “Who would believe it? These people are the establishment, and you’re winding them up! What do you want me to do about it?”

  “Nothing, sir.”

  “Too right. Because if you pulled any of that crap with me…” Melford leaned forward on his desk, and hushed his tone in emphasis, “personally speaking if you were having an affair with my wife, I think a beating would be the very least you’d deserve.”

  Hogarth’s eyes flashed, but he managed to hold himself in check.

  “I think that’s my business, sir.”

  “Yes, it is, Hogarth. So, from now on keep it that way. Don’t let your personal life harm your professional life ever again. Not on my watch.”

  Hogarth nodded his head. “Sir.” He turned and grabbed the door handle. “Are we done?”

  Melford’s eyes suggested not. “I hear they are not together anymore. Am I right, Hogarth. The Hartigans, I mean.”

  “Is that public knowledge, sir?”” said Hogarth.

  “No. Not yet.” Melford dipped his eyes to the paperwork on his desk, and Hogarth took his cue to leave.

  Hogarth chewed it over. Hartigan had got him beaten up and then had the temerity to get him in trouble with the top brass. The way Hogarth felt about Hartigan, it was going to be hard not to pummel the bearded fool to the ground next time he saw him. But at least now Ali was safe. No matter how Vic Norton had slandered her, she was in his care. But Ali’s marriage was still a sensitive issue. For her sake alone, because she had asked him to do so, he would keep their relationship secret for a while yet. He guessed Ali’s request for secrecy had something to do with her divorce settlement. Yet one of the words Norton had used to describe her had stuck in his head. Norton had used many unpalatable words to describe the woman who now shared his home, but the one which played over and over in his mind was ‘manipulator’. Hogarth had never enjoyed being played. He hoped to God he wasn’t being played in the weakest area of his life. Not after they’d come this far together. Hogarth suppressed the memory of the unpalatable things Norton had told him. If he dwelt on those things too much, knew he wasn’t going to make it through the working day without smacking someone around the face. And PC Orton was a very likely candidate.

  Four

  Annabelle Marks got ready for another day at work. Her day didn’t start like most other people’s working days, but then her job wasn’t an ordinary one. In her job, she needed her beauty sleep. She drank a mug of Gusto machine coffee, and left her room at seven am. She took a dip in the pool of the swish blue gym next door, which occupied part of the X-L building complex. Then came the last part of her feel-good routine before she showered and put her make-up on. She said goodbye to the shy young girls who worked in the luxury gym and went back into the other half of the complex where she spent most of her life. She could have used the sauna in the gym, but she liked her own space and Annabelle knew she would have the one at Harry King Studios all to herself. Especially that time of morning. Most of those other brainless actors stayed up late, got high, and woke up late. But not Annabelle. Knowing her priorities had helped he get this far. As she walked into the tiled area by the washrooms, Annabelle smiled in anticipation. She was glad to feel the heat already emanating from the small log-cabin style hut, beside the washroom doors. A red glow came from the little square window. It looked lush. The purifying heat was calling.

  Annabelle knew people had a bad view about the people in her line of work, but forget them. Annabelle knew she had it all. For as long as it lasted. But she wasn’t worried. Provided she looked after herself she had a long reign ahead of her. She pulled open the cabin door and felt a blast of heat assail her senses. She looked at the back of the sauna and noticed one of the other ladies had beaten her to it. Damn. It was as unusual as it was irritating. Annabelle didn’t want someone else invade her morning routine. Especially one of the other girls. And as she wasn’t in the mood for bitchy chit-chat or anything else, she decided total ignorance was the best way forward. Annabelle kept her eyes on the wooden wall ahead of her as she laid her towel on the hot wooden benches and sat down. She hoped the other woman would soon get the message, get out and leave her alone. But she was playing stubborn too. The woman wasn’t moving. Annabelle sighed and closed her eyes in the heat and felt the first sweat begin to purge through her pores. She opened her eyes and noticed the other woman in her peripheral vision. The woman was leaning back against the wooden wall, head tilted back as if she was having trouble staying awake, or maybe the heat had become too much for her. Annabelle stole a quick momentary glance at her, and recognised the weather-beaten glamour of Aimee Gillen, the one-time star of the studio, long before her time. Aimee Gillen had been around for a long time, and if the rumours were right, she wasn’t going to be around much longer. She was going to get thrown out for her lifestyle and attitude. People like Aimee needed to take a leaf out of her book. The drugs always took their toll in the end. Annabelle tutted loudly, hoping the woman would hear and take a hint. But Aimee Gillen didn’t move. In fact, Annabelle noticed, she hadn’t moved at all since she’d walked in.

  And that wasn’t right.

  Annabelle looked up across at the woman and took a good look. She lay reclined against the wall, her white towel fallen down over her hips, leaving the rest of her body totally naked. Her arms were limp at her side. Looking at her more closely, Annabelle saw she wasn’t even sweating. Of all the thoughts to have, Annabelle hoped her body looked as good when she reached Gillen’s age. Then she realised the truth.

  “Oh shit…” said Annabelle, half in fear,
half in disgust. She grabbed up her towel and wrapped herself in it, but kept her eyes on Aimee the whole time, as if she expected the woman to sit up and tell her it was all just a bad joke. But Aimee Gillen wasn’t a joker. She was sullen and moody, and jealous. And now she wasn’t any of those things.

  Annabelle yanked the sauna door open and jogged into the hallway by the washrooms. She looked down the corridors, left and right, the rooms where the lesser actors slept.

  “Hello?!” she called, and her voice echoed. Annabelle had been down there a hundred times or more and had never noticed the echo until now. “Help!” she called. “We need help down here!” Her voice seemed to ricochet off the thick, lonely walls. Her heartbeat was getting out of control. Annabelle wanted away. She broke into a barefoot run, her feet padding onto the tiles, before she pushed the double doors and reached the main lower corridor where the mini-apartments were.

  “Hello? Is anyone awake? I need your help out here…”

  One of the doors creaked open. At the farthest end, Marvin, the runner, opened a door and leaned out. He looked small-eyed and sleepy. Nearby, one of the apartment doors opened and Sam, one of the so-called studs leaned out, scratching his bare chest. He blinked at her like he’d spent another night drinking. Give it a year, he’d be out too.

  “What’s this?” said Sam, looking at Annabelle wrapped in a small white towel “What? They started filming early today?”

  Annabelle gave him a killer look.

  “Shut up, Sam. This is serious. It’s Aimee Gillen. She’s in the sauna…”

  Sam shrugged.

  “Sam… She’s dead,” said Annabelle, allowing herself to say it. “She’s dead in the sauna. I think she fucking OD’d in the washroom sauna.”

  At the far end of the corridor Marvin’s jaw dropped open and he shook his head. Sam and Marvin shared a look.

  “Well come on! Are any of you guys actually going to do anything? Hello?”

  Marvin was the first to move. He was pale faced and serious. He moved slowly at first. But when he saw the panic in Annabelle’s eyes, the feeling seemed contagious. He slammed past her, through the double doors into the washroom corridor, and broke into a run. He pulled open the door of the sauna and stared in at the still, dry, naked body of Aimee Gillen. It was true. She looked utterly lifeless. Annabelle Marks blinked, took a good long look and put a hand to her mouth. Until that morning Annabelle Marks had never seen a corpse in her whole precious young life. Now she had shared a sauna with one. Annabelle felt suddenly sick. Her stomach made a noise. She ran into the washrooms and threw up.