The Secret Fear Page 4

  “Hogarth!” called Dickens.

  “You’ve got your job, John, and I’ve got mine. Besides, I’ve tried to follow your little picket fence.”

  Hogarth ignored Dickens’s glare and stepped around the perimeter of the miniature fence he’d erected to mark out the crime. He reached the rear wall by the steel fridges and looked at the silky red nylon flag of Turkey, clean and bright with the white crescent at its centre. Then he looked at the face of the proud-eyed man he recognised from the TV news. It was the Turkish leader. The one they’d tried to overthrow. He wasn’t exactly a close follower of international politics, but Hogarth had seen enough TV to know this guy had been around a good long while.

  “President Erdoĝan,” said Palmer, appearing at his shoulder.

  “Now why didn’t Dickens give you the big lecture he gave me? As if I didn’t know,” muttered Hogarth. “And they say sexism doesn’t exist in the modern police.”

  Palmer ignored the posturing.

  “He made himself president you know. Erdoĝan, I mean. That’s his name. President Erdoĝan.”

  “Made himself president?” said Hogarth. “How do you mean? What? He put the word out – by the way, folks, today I’m the president.”

  Palmer shook her head.

  “Not far off. He was prime minister for a long while. A decade or more. But they say he wanted more power, for longer too.”

  “I never knew you were such a student of the world, Sue.”

  “You never asked, guv.”

  Hogarth’s eyes lingered on hers, waiting for an explanation.

  “I used to go on holiday there. I always enjoy finding out about the places I visit.”

  “The holidays of boyfriends past, no doubt,” said Hogarth, raising his eyebrow.

  Palmer shrugged. “It was cheap. All-inclusive and plenty of sun for topping up your tan.”

  “When you weren’t getting plastered,” said Hogarth.

  Palmer offered a half-hearted chuckle as her eyes returned to the photograph. “The Turks seem to love him. But I don’t know why. He’s no better than the Russian president if you ask me.”

  “I’m always happy to hear your opinions, Sue, but save the dissertation for when the case is done. I think we’re going to be too busy for pontificating today.”

  Hogarth moved away. The oil drums caught his eye.

  “Funny though. One thing I do know about Turks is that they don’t like Greeks too much.”

  “Historically speaking, very true,” said Palmer. “You could ask our newest recruit all about that. PCSO Kaplan. She’s from Cyprus.”

  “You should be a travel agent,” said Hogarth. “Maybe later. The victim... what is his name?”

  “Bulut Sen,” said Dickens, calling up from the floor.

  “But they called him Baba,” said PCSO Rawlins.

  “Baba?” said Hogarth. “Why Baba?”

  “Because he was the father of the business... and because he liked to pretend to be like the daddy to our customers. They liked to call him Baba, and he didn’t discourage them. Some of our local Turkish friends used to call him Turkish Baba on account of his love for the old country,” the big angry-eyed Turkish man was refusing to move from the counter, unable to take his eyes from his father’s body.

  “Baba?” said Hogarth.

  “It means father, daddy, dad,” said the young man with the ponytail. Nearby PCSO Kaplan gave a nod of confirmation.

  Hogarth took it in. “Baba Sen... then maybe you can tell me... anyone,” said Hogarth, “if Mr Sen was so patriotic, why was he buying cooking oil from Greece instead of Turkey?”

  The son frowned. “Does it really matter where our cooking oil comes from? It comes from a cash and carry! We use it to cook food! That’s all. Look there. My father is dead. That’s what matters here. That’s the only thing that matters!”

  “Okay,” said Hogarth. “You can escort the family out of here now,” he said, eyeing Simmons and Dawson. The big man and his son had seen far too much already. Hogarth blew out a long deep breath as Dawson and Simmons laid calming hands on the big man and led him and his son away.

  “Wrong, Mr Sen...” muttered Hogarth. “Because in the end, everything matters,” muttered Hogarth.

  Palmer heard Hogarth’s quiet words and nodded. Hogarth edged around Dickens’ boundary until he was as close to the body as he could get. Dickens tensed, about to go incendiary at any time. Hogarth knew he was pushing the man to the brink, but he had to be sure. He teetered at the edge of the line and stared down at the top of Baba Sen’s head. He strained his eyes to see through the glaze of gore. Eventually, shifting on his feet as much as he could, Hogarth felt certain he was right. The killer had carved the letter ‘A’ into Baba Sen’s head. The letter ‘A’. Hogarth’s mouth became downturned and his stomach burned. He propped one arm on the other and dragged a hand down his face as he took it in.

  “Guv? What is it?” said Palmer.

  She looked at the top of the victim’s shining head and saw only a welt of drying blood.

  “I’m not sure, Palmer.”

  He looked around the spray of coins and the upturned oil cans to the busted till.

  “But I don’t like it. CCTV?” he demanded.

  “It looked like there was a camera front of house,” said PC Dawson. “But it’s fake. Sorry. We’ve got nothing.”

  “No. That would make life too easy, wouldn’t it? Okay then. Let’s take statements. Speak to witnesses out there. And whatever you do, keep that little journalist harpy away from you at all times. And be warned boys – Simmons – if she flirts it’s because she thinks you’re easy meat. We really don’t need any of this leaking to the press.”

  As he spoke, Hogarth thought of the carved ‘A’ in the dead man’s skin. The press loved a criminal calling card. To them, it would mean serial killer. But to Hogarth’s mind, there was a chance it meant something else entirely, something no less grim. “I want statements from everyone concerned. Witnesses in the street, wherever. It all counts. Then we reconvene back at the station and wait for Dickens and the boys to give us the rest. Hear that, John? It’s all on you.”

  Dickens glowered up from the floor.

  Hogarth looked at Simmons, Palmer, and Dawson. His gaze found PCSO Kaplan too but at this point in her career, PCSO Kaplan was no more than an empty uniform. The pretty young woman’s startled look confirmed it.

  “Don’t panic,” said Hogarth as he passed her by. “Just help the others where you can. Follow Dawson and Rawlins’ lead.”

  Hogarth walked out onto the street and took a deep lungful of Westcliff air. The police cordon was now up around the shop window, and a slew of additional police vehicles were just arriving to join the party. He spied a BBC radio car pulling up down the street and not far away he caught the eye of the sassy blonde journo who looked like she’d just left school but already knew far too much. The girl was interviewing the people walking down the street. Damn it. What was the girl’s name again? Whatever it was, her card was well and truly marked.

  Hogarth heard chatter from behind. Foreign chatter. He saw the family members talking animatedly as they stood with Dawson and Simmons. Simmons had his notebook at the ready, but it was going to prove useless against all that jibber-jabber. Hogarth saw PCSO Kaplan studying them from nearby. The young woman seemed fixated. Or maybe the girl was still in shock. Probably the latter. One day, Hogarth mused, the government would pay to hire some proper police again. But probably not in his lifetime.

  HOGARTH SAT DOWN AT his desk with a basic egg and cress sandwich from the Coop on Hamlet Court Road. The cress was pressed flat and so was the flimsy white bread. Hogarth picked up one triangular half and was about to take a bite when the office door swung open and DCI Melford swept in. His thinning hair looked even more dishevelled than Hogarth’s, and his tie needed re-knotting. But even so, Hogarth couldn’t help but take a mite of pleasure in seeing his boss’s suffering. By God, the DCI had made him squirm enough over the
last year or so. Hogarth felt he deserved just a little payback.

  But unfortunately, payback could sometimes ricochet in the wrong direction.

  “Hogarth, I need to talk to you. Where are the others?”

  “At the crime scene, sir. Hamlet Court Road.”

  Melford looked blank before his tired eyes flickered with something like recognition.

  “Yes, yes. So why are you here?”

  “Just a spot of lunch, making a few notes, and recharging the batteries, sir. I’m hoping Dickens can give me something about the crime scene before I go out again.”

  “Hogarth...” Melford spoke slowly, carefully. “Look. If you don’t think you’re yet up to detective work, then you really shouldn’t have returned to work so soon. Occupational Health recommended you take at least another month to recover.”

  Hogarth fumed but managed to restrain himself.

  “Sir, I can assure you that me returning to work has saved everyone time and money. Think of the budget, eh? That’s been something of a priority of late.”

  “Unfortunately, so. But you hiding away here while the rest—”

  “Sir. With all due respect, this is a ten-minute working lunchbreak. Chances are, I’ll end up working well into the evening tonight. Before I went off sick, sir, I happen to recall you congratulating me on my ability to get the job done – even when the odds were stacked against me.”

  “I said that, did I?”

  “Along those lines.”

  Melford stopped talking. He looked away as if something else had caught his interest.

  “Sir? I assure you nothing has changed. I’ll get the job done.”

  Melford nodded. “You can handle this case... and anything else that comes up...?”

  “Sir. What’s on your mind?”

  “Nothing, DI Hogarth,” said Melford. He straightened his back and pasted a smile over his face. “I’m just ensuring we’re able to cope with anything that comes our way now that the other team have been drafted to Basildon. I’m ensuring you’re well and the team is resilient.”

  Hogarth laid his limp sandwich on the desk.

  “What exactly do we need to get ready for, guv?”

  Melford paused.

  “Anything,” he said, eventually. “It’s my duty as DCI to stay on top of things and make sure we’re operationally capable.”

  Operationally capable... Resilient. Hogarth frequently found that management-speak with lots of syllables often translated as ‘bullshit’ and couldn’t hide the sceptical look from showing on his face.

  “I assure you this is all strictly necessary, inspector,” said Melford.

  Hogarth nodded.

  “Yes, sir. Is there anything we should be aware of, sir? Anything coming?”

  “In this day and age crime doesn’t ever stop coming, does it? That’s all for now. And you’ll give me an update on the Hamlet Court Road case?”

  “As soon as I have it, sir.”

  Hogarth recalled the mark on Baba Sen’s head and his expression became pensive. He tried to hide it but distracted as he seemed, Melford was still a detective.

  “What is it, Hogarth?”

  “What? Oh, nothing, sir,” said Hogarth. “Just processing what I’ve seen, that’s all. Don’t worry. It looks like you’ve got enough on your plate. I’ll get you a report by the end of the day.”

  Melford winced at Hogarth’s comment and withdrew. As soon as the CID office door closed Hogarth heard Melford bawling out another officer.

  He frowned and bit hard into his sandwich, chewing without pleasure. But at least it was better than the coffee. There was a knock at the office door. He turned to speak but the door opened before he’d even finished wiping his mouth. Hogarth frowned at the new recruit – the lowly PCSO with the pretty young face and the Mediterranean complexion.

  “Were you never taught to wait outside for an answer?”

  The young woman blushed and hesitated as if she thought he might tell her to knock again. Melford might have but Hogarth wasn’t the type.

  “What do you want, PCSO...?”

  “Kaplan, sir. PCSO Kaplan. I just got back from Hamlet Court Road. I don’t know if you remember me, but I was there at the murder scene.”

  “I’m not altogether ignorant, Kaplan. I saw you.”

  Kaplan paused and nodded.

  “So why are you back here? We need to keep all the great unwashed away from those doors until the forensics are complete.”

  “It wasn’t my choice, sir. I got called back by the neighbourhood team manager.”

  “Neighbourhood? PC Yarrow, you mean. You want me to have a word with him? Get you back out there?”

  Kaplan shook her head.

  “Actually, I thought it was a good excuse to come and see you.”

  Hogarth narrowed his eyes. Maybe the girl was going to quit the job already. Maybe she had a complaint and he was going to be the excuse. With Melford behaving like he was about to do a Reggie Perrin, Hogarth didn’t fancy dealing with any pastoral problems. If there was a complaint so be it. But it would go through the proper channels.

  “If you need a counsellor, Kaplan, you ask PC Yarrow, not me.”

  “No. That’s not it, sir. This morning – you may not know – but we had some trouble with two of the local homeless troublemakers. Neville Grint and Roland Smundle.”

  “Those two? They’re not homeless. Don’t get taken in by them. They’re a savage pair of blaggers.”

  “Yes, so I heard, sir. When I saw the cash till at Authentic Kebab had been broken and robbed, I assumed they were involved.”

  Hogarth sighed. “No chance, but... we should look at it, I suppose. Trust me. Those two prefer easy money, sitting on their arses by cashpoints, scrounging whatever they can get from people. I don’t think this is their line of work. But it could be someone they know, I suppose. Worth a look. Good idea, Kaplan. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Sir, that’s not all, sir.” She said it like they were in the military. It almost made him smile. “When I was there, I heard them talking. The family members who work at the shop. The son and grandson of the victim.”

  “You heard them? Saying what?”

  “They were speaking in Turkish, sir. I think they thought I couldn’t understand them...”

  “You speak Turkish?” said Hogarth.

  “My family is Turkish Cypriot. My mother and father can speak Turkish but Turkish Cypriots like us have our own dialect so I don’t know it all, but I know enough.”

  “What did you hear, Kaplan?”

  Hogarth noticed his heartbeat picking up in anticipation.

  “I heard them mention two things. The first was when I came back. They mentioned the word mafyasi.”

  Hogarth’s jaw tightened in response. The burning in his stomach returned. He said nothing.

  “And they mentioned a name. Atacan. That’s a Turkish name, I’m sure.”

  Hogarth sucked a breath between gritted teeth.

  “Sir?”

  “You’re sure you heard them say this? One hundred per cent sure?” said Hogarth.

  “Yes, sir. Mafyasi means mafia in Turkish, did you know this?”

  “Unfortunately, Kaplan, yes, I do,” he said. He picked up his sandwich carton and tossed it into the bin beneath his desk. “I wasn’t always based here in Southend. For most of my career, I worked up at the Met. For my sins, they sent me here. My career crossed paths with Turkish mafyasi more than once.”

  Kaplan looked serious. “Were they bad, sir?”

  “They’re mafia people. What do you think? Thankfully, I was never the lead officer.”

  “And now? You think this could be the work of mafyasi, here in Southend?”

  “Let’s bloody well hope not.”

  “Sir. The name Atacan. Do you remember that from your London days?”

  Hogarth narrowed his eyes.

  “Don’t push too hard, Kaplan. You’re still extremely wet behind the ears. But you did do well to come
and to tell me before you let this slip to anyone else. Now do me a favour. Get back to Authentic Kebab now and keep those ears of yours flapping.”

  “What about Neighbourhood—?”

  “Don’t worry about Yarrow. I’ll square it with him.”

  Kaplan’s face showed a mixture of fear and pride.

  “Well? Go on then,” said Hogarth.

  “Yes, sir. Right away, sir.” The door closed behind Kaplan as the girl went on her way. Hogarth waited until the door clicked shut before he allowed himself to sink back in his chair. He shook his head at the wall. His mind conjured the bloody image of the wound on Baba Sen’s head, with the letter ‘A’ gouged beneath.

  PCSO KAPLAN QUICKLY crossed the side street between the courthouse and the tinted glass library building – now the town’s art gallery. Kaplan was in a rush, pleased to have garnered a crumb of respect and recognition from a senior detective who even the most seasoned PCs at Southend seemed to fear. As she crossed the side street, she stepped out in front of a battered car as it took the turning. Kaplan gasped and watched the car shudder to a stop. The car was a Corsa and behind the wheel she saw another important figure – DS Palmer. Palmer leaned out of the side window.

  “Heard of the Green Cross Code?” said Palmer.

  “Before my time, I’m afraid. Sorry, ma’am.”

  “Then we should re-introduce it for all PCSOs. Compulsory training. Where are you going, PCSO Kaplan?”

  “Back to Authentic Kebab.”

  “Oh? On whose say so?”

  “DI Hogarth,” said Kaplan brightly. “He said he’d straighten it out with PC Yarrow.”

  “Did he now? I really wouldn’t look so pleased if I were you. If Hogarth’s already got you running errands it’s because he wants something he can’t get himself. Dare I ask?”