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

  The

  Darkest Lies

  A Gripping Crime Mystery Series

  The DI Hogarth Darkest Series Boxed Set 1

  The Darkest Lies & 2. The Darkest Grave

  Solomon Carter

  Great Leap

  The Darkest Lies

  Prologue

  The First Night

  Thump. Thump. Thump.

  It was a pitch-black night on the edge of the busy town. A lone man stood outside the only nightclub on Luker Close, his hands stuffed deep in his pockets, his head tilted down toward the street. The relentless noise of the crashing dance tunes pounded through the concrete walls from within Club Smart. A few drunks staggered off the nearby high street. His heart rate spiked as they passed by him, but they all ignored him. Good. He remained anonymous. Just another stranger lurking in the darkness. Around here no one wanted to check out anyone else in case of trouble, especially at night. Alcohol, late nights and the high street were never a good mix, so it paid to be careful. Tonight was going to be a great night to kill. It was going to be a night to celebrate. A night of relief… but for now he had to watch. He had to wait.

  Soon enough he saw the man he had been waiting for. The great lummox walked out from the club doors cradling a beer bottle by the neck, like he could break any rule he liked. And maybe for a while he could. But not anymore. The big man was oblivious to being watched from across the other side of the dead-end street. He watched the man walk around the side of Club Smart turning the corner towards the empty square where the old multi-storey car park had been torn down and replaced with the fancy new library. The development had left a neat, barren space between the backs of the high street shops and the great glass library. The library was dark and silent. A couple of drunken girls stood together laughing at the furthest end of the square, sharing some smutty joke. The square was an exposed area. At first glance it was a terrible place to commit murder, but first impressions could be deceptive and he knew the area very well. He had been meticulous. There were always places to do what needed to be done. Even out here in the open. He let the big man walk ahead, keeping his distance. He noticed his target begin to hurry… but why? The watcher knew he hadn’t been seen. Now he was curious. The man looked like he was headed nowhere – towards the lines of big red wheelie bins at the back of the shops. Excellent news. Jake Drummond seemed intent on finding the very best place to be killed. And it was fitting. Drummond was the worst kind of human rubbish the watcher had ever known. He watched Jake slow down as he neared the back of the big SavaPenny store and looked around. The watcher stopped, worried he would be seen before his moment came. But it didn’t happen. Drummond slowed up and stared ahead of him. There was a wall of bins in front of him now, perfect for what had to be done.

  The watcher started to move. He sped up as he aimed across the square, conscious of the CCTV cameras on poles around the library and the college buildings. He knew what to do. He dipped his head down to his shoes but strained his eyes upward to watch Drummond’s every move. A scrape of high-heeled shoes echoed across the square. Looking up, he saw the girls tottering around the corner out of sight and a smile crossed his lips. And so his last witnesses were gone. His heart sped up. Adrenaline. Excitement. He knew the feelings well, but everything he’d experienced was nothing like this. This was exquisite. In his pocket, his right hand gripped the cool polymer fibre of the pistol he had owned since the old days. No one would ever be able to trace it to him if he used it. He’d gotten it on the black market long ago. The thing had never been fired, at least not by him anyway. But all being well, he wouldn’t have to use it. The gun was his backup. His insurance policy. In his left pocket, his hands gripped the sides of a grooved blade handle. He squeezed it, and enjoyed the cool smoothness in his hands. Now there were mere seconds left. He advanced, his eyes on his quarry like a man from a different time. Like an animal. He had always wanted to be more than any normal man. He’d always wanted to be the best. And now he would try it first-hand.

  “Hang about! You. What are you doing here?”

  What? He was still advancing when he heard the strange disembodied voice. It was familiar but he couldn’t see the source of it. The smile faded from his face, and he slowed down. Now his hand gripped the blade handle for comfort instead of intent. Big Drummond stood still, facing the array of bins.

  “Come on. You know why I’m here,” said Drummond. “I saw you leave. It’s bloody obvious what you were up to…” The big man made an obscene laugh. The watcher was angry. His prey so close. He was still tempted to go ahead and take his kill. It had to be done. He moved forward, stalking like a lion, but deep down he knew his moment was disappearing.

  As he closed in he saw a second man appear, the man’s head rising up from behind the bins like a ghost. The man’s hair seemed white in the dark. The second man stood up dead opposite Drummond, his pale face full of shock, his mouth a gaping oval. The watcher gritted his teeth and hid his face. He recognised the man. His heart sank.

  “What are you going to do?” said the man with the white hair. His voice was hesitant and timid.

  The watcher stopped in his tracks. If the man looked up he would be seen. He lowered his head and made a slow half-turn away, but stood his ground nonetheless. He couldn’t bear the thought of giving up so soon.

  “Don’t play dumb, Mr G. You know what I’m gonna do. Leave. You’ve had enough for one night…”

  The watcher risked another glance towards the bins, and saw a blonde woman with dated cropped hair slowly stand up from behind the bins, pulling down her skirt. A drunken trollop, he thought. She moved close to the man with the white hair, but he didn’t move a muscle or say a word.

  “You can’t do this, Jake…”

  “You wish. Now hop it or there’ll be consequences.”

  “What do you mean consequences?”

  He watched the big man lean forward as he gave the man with the pale hair something. Something small. The man looked at it for a moment, before Drummond snatched it back.

  “Now you know I’m not lying.”

  He watched it all. The man behind the bins looked at his girlfriend once. Just once. Then he turned his back on her and walked away towards the square.

  “Where are you going?” she called. He heard the fear in her voice but the woman got no answer.

  “Hey!” she said. Then Drummond stepped passed the boyfriend, and began to close in on her. The boyfriend looked back once more as the girl started to protest, but he kept walking. She wasn’t loud for long. Drummond fell upon her, disappearing down behind the bins, smothering the noise to near silence. The watcher had a choice to make. But it wasn’t hard. He was no hero. He needed a clean opportunity to do what needed to be done. And with these other fools invading the scene, this wasn’t it. Damn them. In his pocket, he stroked the knife handle and turned away, walking towards the high street to blend in with the rest of the late night scum before he could be seen. There would be another night. Jake Drummond would still get what was coming to him. The big man had to die.

  Chapter One

  Day Four: Monday

  The speakers screamed as the music hit a new electronic crescendo, louder even than the last. The youths on the circular dance floor cheered, and jumped up and down like kids on Christmas morning. Most of them looked young enough to be tucked up in bed. PC Rob Dawson folded his arms and supped his pint as he looked out at the youths, feeling dazed and c
onfused for being so out of place. The cop was off duty, dressed down in jeans and a short-sleeved shirt. He was too old for this, and yet he wasn’t old at all. Dawson was in his early thirties. But compared to this lot, he was ancient. So why the hell had he agreed to come? Because of Bec Rawlins, that’s why. PCSO Bec Rawlins, was a very persuasive and gorgeous young cop who happened to be his girlfriend. She wanted a night out with her friends, she wanted him to come, and so here it was. Pretty much his worst nightmare. He was a trophy boyfriend to be shown around and cast aside as necessary. Trouble was tonight he couldn’t even get drunk. Bec was due to be off work next morning, but for Dawson, it was very much a school night. The next morning, he was due to start at eight. But another couple of beers wouldn’t hurt. Heck, he’d need something to get through this. Worse, the man standing next to him wasn’t exactly his cup of tea. He was a posh nob and didn’t have the personality to bridge the gap between them. Andy Cruddas, a man born to money, who as far as Dawson could tell didn’t have a proper job, but always seemed to be flush with cash. Until tonight, that was. For some reason Andy hadn’t offered to buy him a drink back. And Dawson was buggered if he was going to keep this rich boy in free booze all night. Cruddas was one of Bec’s friends. Looking at the man, Dawson guessed Cruddas had only hung around in case Bec became available again. Fat chance of that, he thought. Cruddas tried to make conversation with him every now and then, but his words were empty. He looked anxious, and Rob didn’t know the man well enough to inquire why.

  “She’s a looker, your girl, isn’t she?” said Cruddas, sipping his beer like a nervous boy. Dawson saw the man looking left and right as if he was expecting someone.

  “I like to think so,” said Dawson.

  “And so do a few others from the look of it,” said Cruddas. Dawson watched a couple of young men in bright shirts closing in on Bec’s group of friends. So, far the girls hadn’t noticed the dodgy double act moving towards them. Either that or they just didn’t care.

  “I’m not worried,” said Dawson.

  Now Cruddas looked at him. “No. I guess not. I kind of envy you, if I’m honest.”

  “Envy? How do you mean?”

  “Oh. It’s nothing really. Just that you seem to have it all sorted.”

  “Don’t be silly, Andy. We’ve all got stuff on our plates.”

  “Yeah, I suppose,” said Cruddas. But he didn’t seem convinced. “Listen. I don’t suppose you know anybody who wants to buy a decent car at short notice, do you? It’s a very nice car. An executive car – at a very cheap price.”

  “Sorry. The only cars I drive are supplied by the police. I prefer it that way.”

  Cruddas looked deflated.

  “Okay. Go on then,” said Dawson almost with a sigh, trying to be heard above the music. “How much is it?”

  “It’s a Merc C220. Only a few years old. Diesel. Silver. Looks fantastic.”

  “And? How much?”

  “Five grand.”

  “Five grand! It must be worth a bit more than that.”

  “It definitely is. It’s only got a few miles on the clock. I should really hold out for about twelve grand, but well…”

  “Well, why don’t you then?”

  “Needs must, old bean.”

  Old bean? Did he really say that? Dawson pondered the car sale, the price, and sipped his pint. His cop brain kicked in and started to process the possibilities. The car wasn’t for him. A shoe leather copper driving a top range Merc? The others down the station would rinse him for weeks if he ever bought a car like that. Police banter was about keeping everyone’s feet on the ground. No one liked a show off. No the Merc certainly wasn’t for him. But Andy Cruddas was making him think.

  “You must be in a real hurry to cut the price like that,” he said.

  “Yes… afraid so. Still. Financial troubles come to us all at some time, so they tell me.”

  “Hmmmm,” said Dawson. If Cruddas was angling for another free drink, he was out of luck. Just in case, Dawson let the conversation dwindle back to a comfortable silence. But Cruddas was fidgety. Dawson watched as he kept looking back to the cloakroom beside the small bar and to the double doors beyond which led to the exit. He watched Cruddas stiffen as two men walked in. One of them was broad and fat, going bald on top with a wispy dark mullet combed back behind him. He wore a bright white shirt, which made his pot belly look big and rock solid. The man looked to be in his mid-forties. Dawson had been a copper for a long time. He recognised people by their types, and this was the moneyed type. Not necessarily rich by honest money either, from the look of him. The smaller, spectacled man at his side looked twitchy. They walked side by side, but there was distance between them. The big man said something, and the smaller man pointed across the club towards Dawson and Cruddas. The men stopped and exchanged a few more words before the big man turned to the smaller guy, and leaned in towards him. He prodded the man in the chest. His spectacles glinted with nightclub light as he pulled back. He looked uncomfortable. Like he was protesting. The scene made Dawson want to walk across and put the big man in his place. But he was off duty and nothing illegal had taken place. After all, the public had to be allowed to act like idiots somewhere. And Club Smart seemed the perfect place for idiots. Dawson noticed Cruddas was watching, the same scene. He was stiffening, straining as if he was about to make a move.

  “Friend of yours?” said Dawson.

  “What?” said Cruddas with a jump. “Friend? Oh, yes. Excuse me.”

  “Any time you like,” said Dawson, under his breath.

  Cruddas left his drink on the side and walked away to meet the men by the doors. Dawson thought they made an uncomfortable trio, the big man clearly in charge. He spoke to each of them in turn, prodding the first, before encroaching into Andy Cruddas’ personal space. Dawson sipped his pint and got ready to move. Duty was about to call. The men exchanged sharp words, then the big man jabbed a finger at Cruddas and pushed the smaller man away. Dawson laid his drink aside just as the confrontation stopped. The big man clapped his hands to end the matter and strode off towards the small bar with a serene smile on his face.

  Dawson settled back with his drink. He watched Cruddas and the other man talking by the exit. Their exchange looked pretty intense. It was a weird situation, but he couldn’t hear a thing because of the music, though he could see they were agitated. He watched them staring at the big man as he walked away to the bar. Then Cruddas pointed at Dawson. Uh-oh he thought. Now they’re going to drag me into their trouble. Not tonight, Josephine.

  Cruddas ambled over towards him with the other man at his side. The second guy was smaller than Cruddas, he had curly hair and horn-rim glasses. The smaller man could have been Cruddas’ little brother.

  “Rob,” said Cruddas. “This is my mate. Dan Picton. Dan this is Rob Dawson. He’s a policeman.”

  Dawson smiled and nodded, and got ready for the question. But it didn’t come, and that alone had him thinking. Why bother to make a point of him being a cop?

  “Hiya,” said Dawson. “I couldn’t help noticing you had some trouble with Bully Beef just now. What was the guy’s problem?” Dawson knew he was asking for it. But asking questions were a habit of his career. A habit he couldn’t kick.

  “Him? Oh, he’s nothing,” said Cruddas.

  Dawson looked at Cruddas, and saw the strained look in his eyes. Cruddas and Picton looked at one another. Nothing. Yeah, right…

  “You know, I don’t feel great. I think I need some air,” said Cruddas. Dawson looked at Cruddas but the man averted his eyes.

  “What’s up with him tonight?” said Dawson.

  The smaller man shrugged. “I don’t know. I suppose I’d better go and see if he’s alright.”

  Picton made an apologetic face and moved off. Dawson shook his head. Bec’s friends were a bunch of weirdos alright. He wondered how she’d managed to turn out so well?

  Bec stepped up from the dance floor and laid a hand on Dawson’s muscular forearm. S
he gave him a glowing smile. She’d been dancing a while, and still looked like the most energetic and effervescent person in the room.

  “Where has Andy gone?” she said.

  “Cruddas? I don’t know. The guy’s in a weird mood and so’s his friend.”

  “Friend?”

  “Some bloke called Dan Picton. Little fella. Do you know him?”

  Bec nodded. “Andy’s pal. Crikey. You boys need to lighten up. This is a nightclub, not a bloody mausoleum.”

  “I’m still here, aren’t I? It’s your male friends who need to lighten up.”

  “But you haven’t even danced yet, Rob” said Bec, with flirtatious eyes.

  Dawson raised his pint glass. “I’m just getting loose before I bust a few moves and put you to shame.”

  “You busting moves? I’ve seen you bust a few heads, but I’ve never seen you bust any moves.”

  “For you, anything,” said Dawson with a cheesy grin.

  Bec’s friend Julie climbed up the steps behind her and tried to pull her back to the dance floor.

  “Oh well. It looks like it’s over to us girls to show the boys how it’s done,” said Bec.

  Dawson watched Bec step back down to the dance floor. He enjoyed seeing her out, both proud and irritated by the fact that other men clearly wanted her as much as he did. But she was off limits. She was going home with him tonight. He smiled into his pint and glanced at the time on his phone screen. Eleven twenty? Was that all?

  There was a sudden shout from the small bar by the club doors and Dawson looked up from his phone. It was an odd shout. More like a man screaming. His eyes flicked around on instinct. Down on the dance floor, Bec Rawlins stopped dancing. She spun round to locate the noise. Both of them saw a kerfuffle at the bar. The crowd ordering their drinks blew apart like a flock of birds at the sound of a gun. Another louder shout came from a huddle by the bar. The crowd stepped back, some had covered their mouths with their hands. Others stared. The barmen were staring, wide eyed. The area was filled with noisy chaos. An icy feeling shot down Dawson’s spine. He knew it was trouble, bad trouble. He tensed and started to move, but now everything was happening too fast. The people were spilling past him. The surprised, frightened eyes of the barmen and women were fixed on one big figure who stood alone in the centre of the dispersed crowd. The big man stumbled and twisted around and caught Dawson’s eye as he approached. He looked utterly confused. Dawson recognised the man as he stumbled forwards. It was Bully Beef, the big man who had entered the club with Dan Picton. He saw the man’s eyes were glazed with shock. His mouth was open, a trickle of blood dribbling from the corner of his lip. One fat hand was pressed over his chest, and blood seeped through his fingers. The flashing nightclub lights made the blood look black as ink. Finally, the man’s hand fell away as he gave in to gravity. Dawson saw a single dark black hole in the centre of the man’s bright white shirt. He slumped down in a heap, head hitting the floor face down, then he rolled still, arms out at his sides. A full second later the screaming started. A door flew open behind the bar and a man in a black polo shirt wearing an ear piece emerged, confused, looking round at the noise. The club manager, Dawson guessed. Now the chaos had started he would soon need the man’s help.