The Darkest Deed_A Gripping Detective Crime Mystery Page 7

  “He mentions those traces because he has to. Because they were there,” said Hogarth. “He says they are faint traces, kind of like an afterglow, I suppose. But why does he mention them? Because he’s still not one hundred per cent convinced himself.”

  “But can he say what it was that killed her?” said Simmons.

  “At the levels shown here, Quentin says it could have been one of a range of drugs,” said Hogarth. “But we already know she was on coke and coke is an out-and-out livener. Which means if this woman was getting dehydrated she would have certainly been awake enough to do something about it. She could have left the sauna and got some water from somewhere. She could have gone for a shower. She was full of coke. She could have done anything she liked.”

  “Then maybe she had the heart attack before any of that was possible…” said Simmons.

  “No. Not possible,” said Hogarth, jabbing his finger in the air. “Quentin has Aimee Gillen dying of a massive heart attack. That’s the end result. But why didn’t she move before that? All the while she was getting hotter and hotter, but she didn’t move. Why? Coke isn’t a hallucinogen. She would have known what was going on. Coke doesn’t deceive the mind. It heightens experiences. If this woman was just on charlie, she would have been awake enough to get out of there before she cooked.”

  “What are you saying?” said Palmer.

  Hogarth shrugged as the thoughts formed into words “I’m saying she couldn’t get out because… because she was unconscious.”

  “Unconscious how?” said Palmer.

  “That’s the thing, Palmer. Quentin has her full of charlie, and nothing else. He has the death as accidental but to me, it’s unexplained. We could have thought she was on a combination of drugs, right? Isn’t that what you thought? That she’d been boozing, or knocking back tranqs? Isn’t that what you thought? Because I know I did…”

  “Yeah, I suppose I did,” said Simmons.

  “Well, Quentin’s just completely kyboshed that theory.”

  “How, guv? I don’t understand,” said Palmer.

  “Where is any mention of Valium, temazepam, or opiates in the toxicology? Anything which could have sent her to sleep? No. It’s nowhere. It doesn’t feature at all. All we have is the sky-high cocaine levels and the hint of some other binges in the past. Aimee Gillen was wired, hadn’t taken any other drugs, but she still managed to fall unconscious, even with all that coke in her system. Does that sound unlikely? Yes, of course it does. Aimee Gillen couldn’t have fallen asleep if she tried.”

  “But it’s good enough for Ed Quentin, and it’s not as if the man would lie,” said Palmer.

  “Far from it,” said Hogarth. “But he’s saying what he sees. The woman died. She was on coke. She had a heart attack. Quentin says it ends there. I get that, but for me, I don’t think it does.”

  “She had all those drugs in her system,” said Palmer. “What if she had a stroke first, or was incapacitated by something?” said Palmer. “That could account for her falling unconscious.”

  “But a stroke or any other health episode would have shown up in this report, like the heart attack does. They leave clues. We’re not looking at a suicide. And I don’t think we’re looking at an accidental death either,” said Hogarth.

  “What?” said Palmer. She looked at the glint in Hogarth’s eyes with trepidation.

  “Cokeheads don’t fall asleep in saunas. It’s that simple. Aimee Gillen was unpopular. She had become a liability as an actress, she was having arguments on the phone and who knows what else was going on in that building?”

  He looked at Palmer and Simmons. He saw the questioning looks in their eyes. He knew they weren’t with him, but a cool feeling of certainty had him saying it out loud.

  “I think Aimee Gillen was murdered. There are too many questions, too many pieces of the puzzle are missing. And everybody in that studio is so convinced that the woman topped herself, it just feels too neat to me.”

  “And you’re sure about that?”

  “I’m never sure, Palmer. Not until we nick the bastard that did it. Then I’m always sure. Well, most of the time. It’s murder, I’m telling you…”

  As he said the words, Hogarth thought of the repercussions heading his way. DCI Melford. Roger Johnson. Darryl Regent. Friction? There was going to be friction and plenty of it. Pretty soon there was going to be nothing but friction. Nothing caused friction like a murder case. Hogarth grimaced. He had no choice. A murder was a murder. So bring it on. All he had to do was prove it. Looking at the blank faces around him, Hogarth saw his life wasn’t going to get easier any time soon.

  ***

  At a quarter past one in the afternoon, Hogarth bailed out for lunch, using the lame excuse of having left his phone charger at home. When he got there, Ali greeted him with a smile. She wore a blue woolly sweater and snug jeans, and somehow managed to give those simple garments style, shape, and elegance. She smiled, but her eyes didn’t follow suit. There was a fraught look about them, and after what Norton had said, Hogarth didn’t like it. He guessed it could have been loneliness, but because of Norton’s words Hogarth was no longer certain. Ali held him for a moment before he walked into the house. The gesture struck him as pleasing but excessive. He’d only been out of the house for half the day, after all. But in spite of the feelings gnawing at him, he played along.

  As Hogarth shut the door, he turned and scanned the streets, the windows, the passing cars, but nothing caught his eye. Even so, an off-feeling stayed with him. Hogarth closed the door and shut out a suspicious world.

  “You missed me then,” he said. Hogarth grinned and followed her into the front room. He saw Ali’s laptop open beside her mobile phone, along with the colourful fabric covered jotter she liked to use. She sat down among the clutter and Hogarth perched on the edge of the sofa. He studied the subtle sadness on her face. The questions Norton had given him started to gather like clouds at the forefront of his mind. He knew he wouldn’t be able to suppress them, or quash them forever. He was far too much of a policeman for that. Facing the facts would come soon enough, he knew that. And with it would come a price. He wasn’t prepared to risk it yet. Whatever she had or hadn’t done, at least she was safe with him.

  But some things couldn’t be ignored. “You’re not happy,” he said.

  “What?” said Ali.

  “I’m no expert on women, Ali. You should know by now. But you’re not happy.”

  “What?” she gave a false laugh. “But that couldn’t be further from the truth. I’m with you! That’s what we wanted for months! Both of us did.”

  Hogarth looked into her large glossy eyes.

  “But neither of us planned on you being a prisoner here.”

  Ali shuffled in her seat and twisted a lock of hair around her finger.

  “But if I had to be a prisoner anywhere, then I’d choose to be a prisoner with you.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” said Hogarth.

  Ali gave him a smile.

  “It’s lunchtime, Joe,” she said. “Do you want to grab a sandwich, or did you come home for some other form of nourishment?” She added a comic sexy undertone and a raised eyebrow.

  “Cripes woman,” said Hogarth. “I thought I had a double helping of that this morning! I’d best save some stamina for the job.”

  “You’ll settle for a sandwich then.”

  “I’ll take a sandwich, yes,” said Hogarth. “But I came back to see you… to see how you are.”

  “I’m fine.”

  “What is it?” said Hogarth, edging nearer to the precipice of questions he didn’t want to ask. “Is it James? The fact he hasn’t called – is that bothering you? You want some reaction from him.”

  “Joe,” said Ali, laughing with effort. “It’s nothing to do with him. There’s nothing wrong.”

  Hogarth nodded. But he ducked his head and looked at his hands. It was a shame – a real shame. Something was wrong and she wouldn’t talk about it. And even i
f Vic Norton had been wrong about everything, Ali’s denials gave the little bastard’s dirty lies some credence.

  “Okay then,” said Hogarth. “Nothing’s wrong.”

  “A sandwich and some tea, strong, one sugar, coming up.”

  Hogarth smiled wanly as she left the room.

  “Being a housewife doesn’t suit you, Ali. I know that, you know that. We’ve got to change some things for you.”

  “A housewife? What do you think I was for James…?”

  “And it didn’t suit you then, either.”

  Hogarth stood up and rolled on the balls of his feet. He hesitated while his eyes went to the laptop. The screen said the user lock was on, which didn’t mean anything much. Most computers locked themselves after a period of being ignored. Then his eyes flicked to the coloured notebook. Hogarth made out Ali’s bubbly scrawl, but forced himself not to read it. It took an act of sheer will. But after that effort, he couldn’t resist picking up her phone. It was an idle gesture. It didn’t mean anything – did it? He was curious, just like Roger Johnson had said.

  He swiped his thumb over the screen and found the phone wasn’t pin-locked. Good – at least it showed Ali trusted him, which probably meant there was nothing to hide. Hogarth dabbed into the contact list and scrolled down quickly. He saw the names of her contacts. James. Susan Martin. Henry Peters. Lauren Potter. Alice Roberts. The names went on and on. They were mostly female, and almost all unknown to him. He went through them as fast as a flicker-book, but nothing he saw jarred him. Next he thumbed the messages icon and scrolled through the conversations.

  From the volume of messages, Lauren had to be one of Ali’s main contacts. Had Ali mentioned Lauren before? Probably, yes. She seemed like a best friend. Hogarth bit his lip. By now he was invading Ali’s privacy. He was actively risking something in their relationship. He knitted his eyes for a second of indecision, then started to read. He scanned the scenarios and context of the messages.

  A gym meet-up… a conversation about a drama on Webflix… an upset with James. Mention of looking forward to her meeting with her ‘special man’. Hogarth smiled at that, and felt bad. But he kept on going, because the search was becoming addictive.

  He went six weeks back, then two months. One of the first mentions of a special man caught his attention because the tone of the text was different to the others. The cheeky, conspiratorial undertone wasn’t there. He found something else instead.

  Ali: I think I’ve found my special man.

  Lauren: How do you know?

  Ali: He’s strong. He’s tough. He’s the opposite of James in every way. He’s everything I need.

  Lauren: But you thought that before.

  Ali: This one’s a cop.

  Lauren: Wow. Hot. And convenient.

  Ali: Very.

  The context of the words ‘special man’ had been changed beyond recognition by use of the word ‘convenient.’ The word ‘special man’ had connotations of mystery, sexiness, and close affection. But now he only saw convenient. The right choice at the right time. Vic Norton’s words drifted through his mind. “She’s a manipulator, Inspector. She’s good at it. And if you let her too close she’ll manipulate you too.”

  Norton didn’t care about the ups and downs of Hogarth’s love life. Norton was a manipulator of another variety. But after reading those texts the snitch’s words rang true. He supposed he could have been mis-reading the texts. There was a chance his mind had been poisoned against Ali… Top marks, Joe, he thought. You’ve ruined a relationship yet again. He glanced into the mirror and saw the edgy, small-eyed anger had returned to his face. The old Hogarth was back with a vengeance.

  He heard the fridge door shut and the sound of Ali’s feet coming down the hallway. Hogarth leaned over the chair and put her mobile phone back just-so, and paced back to the armchair. He took a seat and looked up at the door as Ali walked in with a big pretty smile and a plate of sandwiches.

  “I hope you like cheese and chutney.”

  “Chutney? Where’d you get that?” he said, struggling to keep his tone even.

  “There are shops you know,” said Ali. “Budge over,” she said. When Hogarth didn’t make room fast enough, Ali perched her backside on his knee instead. Hogarth leaned back, angry, and wondering what to do with his hands. That morning he’d known exactly what to do with them.

  “But you weren’t supposed to go out, Ali. I’m trying to keep you safe…” he said.

  “And you do keep me safe. The stalker scumbag won’t bother me in my policeman lover’s house, will he?”

  Ali took a bite of a thick granary bread sandwich and aimed the rest at Hogarth’s lips. He took a bite, but his jaw muscles were tense with anger. His temples were becoming tight.

  Ali was beautiful. But Hogarth reckoned he’d had it right the first time. She was too good to be true. At least he was finding out now, before he got in any deeper.

  She offered him another bite, but Hogarth shook his head at her and swallowed. His eyes passed across the window as he looked at her. They roamed the passing traffic in the street without really looking. Their eyes met again as Ali took a bite of bread.

  “Joe? What’s wrong…”

  He knew she would see something in his eyes. He was no good at hiding things from women. And here it was – the truth was coming. The killer truth. It was unstoppable. He felt it welling up – and fought the feeling all the way.

  “Ali… why did you ever leave James for me?”

  “What?” she said, laughing, shaking her head. “You know why!”

  “I know how we met, yes. I know there was something between us, some chemistry maybe… but your husband is an MP. He is a far better prospect than me…”

  “He was having an affair, Joe. You know that yourself. And I’m not one for prospects. I’m one for feelings.”

  “But… how did it even start? Did you fall out of love with him first… or did he have the affair before all that…?”

  “Joe? What’s this about? You’ve got no need to feel insecure if that’s what this is…”

  Hogarth restrained the snarl inside. Insecure? He had every bloody right to feel insecure.

  “I just don’t understand how this works, Ali.”

  “What are you saying?” she said.

  Light from the window caught her eyes and the words caught in his throat. Hogarth checked his watch and thought about how close they were to the end of their relationship. His mouth was open, ready to speak. Then he glanced out of the window and saw a face looking in. A face peering in from a car window. Outside the one-way traffic had slowed to a halt. And at the head of the pack one man sat in his car, virtually stopped. The man inside looked at Hogarth’s front window, much like a delivery man searching for the right door. But he was driving a saloon. He wasn’t delivering anything.

  “It’s him. It’s bloody him!” said Hogarth. He leapt out of the seat forcing Ali to slide off his lap. The sandwiches and grated cheese rained down over the carpet.

  “Joe!” said Ali. He ignored her and stepped towards the window, but not too close. Just close enough to be sure. Small, dark skinned, with brown hair… a man in his forties or fifties. The man was staring right at his window.

  “It’s him,” he whispered. Hogarth shot out through the living room and ran for the front door. He yanked it open and thundered out into the street, adrenaline and aggression pouring through his veins. “Oi!!!” he shouted. The man behind the open car window saw him, his dark eyes widening. The man didn’t look scared, just shocked. Hogarth ran towards the car, and lunged towards the chassis, but the car screeched away. Hogarth scraped his knuckles across the car body and walked down the middle of the street. He stared at the car as it shrank into the distance and saw the plate had been covered up by a piece of cardboard and tape. An inauthentic looking registration number had been hand written in its place. Behind him, the cars blared their horns for him to get out of their way. Hogarth stepped aside and shook his head.

>   “It was him,” said Hogarth. The car was dark blue or black. He guessed it could have been an Audi a Beamer or a Merc. At the bottom of the street, the car veered right and was gone.

  Hogarth walked back into his house and shut the door behind him. He slowly walked into the living room and saw Ali picking up the sandwiches. When she looked up at him, there were tears in her eyes.

  “What happened?” she said.

  “That was the man I followed in Southchurch, Ali. He claimed he was a solicitor, and had me convinced, so I left him alone. That man is your stalker, Ali. And he knows you’re here. I don’t think he cares whether I’m a policeman or not, do you?”

  Ali stood up. Her mouth dropped open.

  “Ali, have you any idea who this man is?”

  “I told you, of course I don’t. What’s the matter, Joe? What’s happened between us?” she said.

  Hogarth looked at her tear-strewn face. If he was wrong, he was being a total bastard. The woman had been through enough.

  “Sorry, Ali,” he said. “I think I’m just being a little insecure…”

  Ali blinked on her tears, then walked into his embrace. She held him tight, and Hogarth held her close. She felt warm and tender and he didn’t want to lose her. But it was better to lose her than be done over, no matter how much it hurt. They kissed briefly, and he felt the lies tainting the kiss.

  “Look, I’ve got to go,” said Hogarth. “But be careful, Ali. That nutter is out there and there’s only me to protect you.”

  “You’ll be enough,” said Ali.

  Yeah. He was enough. Just like he was convenient. Hogarth nodded a goodbye and turned away for the front door. Ali Hartigan waved and closed the door behind him. Then she slid the bolt, put the chain on and flicked the snib. When that was done, Ali Hartigan leaned back against the wood and let out a long, deep breath before she walked away.

  Outside, in his car, Hogarth took out his phone and dialled. As the phone rang, he forced his misgivings deep down as far as they would go.

  “Vic? Yeah. It’s me. Listen. I think I might want to hear what else you had to say. When can we meet?”