A Price to Pay

Chapter 13

It had been forty-eight hours since the death of Stevie Cullen, and the crime scene investigators had finished their first search of the massage parlour. Warren decided to drive over and do a walk-through with the crime scene manager, Andy Harrison.

‘We’ve been focusing particularly on the blood spatter, trying to establish the position of the victim when he was stabbed, and any movements afterwards,’ started Harrison. The two men were dressed in white scene suits at the threshold of the back room where Stevie Cullen had his final massage and met his demise.

The building was a converted residential property, and the space they stood in had probably been a dining room once upon a time. Decorated in soothing pastel shades, with thick, blackout curtains, the room had a cosy, almost womb-like feeling. The main ceiling light had been supplemented by dim, wall-mounted uplighters controlled by a separate switch, and wooden shelves with tea-lights. A CD player with speakers sat on a corner table, covered in a cloth. Two days after the killing and the faintest traces of scented oils and perfumes still lingered in the air, valiantly competing with the smell of dried blood.

The scene was exactly as Warren remembered, but now the room was covered in numbered yellow markers. Powerful portable lamps lit up even the dimmest corners.

‘The witnesses stated that the victim was lying on his back on the massage table when he was stabbed,’ said Harrison. He pointed to a pool of blood smeared on the covered table. ‘He certainly bled out on there, but he didn’t stay on there throughout.’

Harrison crouched down, pointing to another large bloodstain a little over a metre from the table and a series of markers between the stain and the edge of the table.

‘Aside from the obvious pool of blood, there are blood spots on the floor here, consistent with dripping from a height of less than half a metre.’

Harrison turned on the spot.

‘There are more drips here, this time hitting the ground at an angle, indicating that the victim was moving back towards the table.’

Warren frowned. ‘Are you saying that the victim wasn’t stabbed on the massage table?’

Harrison shook his head.

‘Not necessarily. The knife was stuck into the victim’s chest. It’s not uncommon for there to be little blood released at the moment of entry. The major blood loss occurs when the knife is removed, especially if it’s twisted.’

‘Which we know the killer did, as the knife wasn’t present when we arrived. The witnesses claimed that the killer took the knife with him when he left,’ said Warren.

‘Exactly, so it’s possible that our victim was stabbed on the table, tried to get up and then collapsed on the floor here. Then the killer retrieved the knife, which caused a more significant loss of blood.’

‘So how did the victim get back on the table?’ asked Warren.

‘Two possibilities. Either the victim clambered back to his feet, then crawled back onto the table. Or he was lifted back on by someone else.’

Warren thought back to the interviews given by the two sisters. They had both stated that they tried to stem the bleeding from Cullen – bloody towels had been bagged as evidence. Neither had said they helped move him back onto the table. Nor had they said that he got up off the table after being stabbed and collapsed onto the floor. He made a note to put the question to them when they were interviewed again.

‘What about the killer’s escape?’ asked Warren.

Harrison moved over to the window.

‘You can see the blood smears on the window frame, consistent with the killer lifting it and climbing out. Unfortunately, there were no fingerprints. Interestingly, there are no blood spots leading to the window, or on the ground outside. Assuming that the killer took the knife with him, it must have been wrapped in something or held so it didn’t drip.’

‘Assuming?’

Harrison shrugged. ‘Just keeping an open mind. We haven’t found the weapon on site, but we only have the witnesses’ testimony that tells us the killer took it.’

‘What else have you got?’

‘There are plenty of bloody footprints in here, and in the corridor and the kitchen. We’ve eliminated the first responders, now we’re going through the rest, but I wouldn’t hold your breath, most of them are partials. So far, we’ve only found impressions consistent with the flat shoes that the two workers were wearing. Assuming the killer was a man, it looks as though he managed not to step in any of the victim’s blood on the way out of the window.’

Warren thanked him. The lack of trace evidence was worrying. Was the killer just lucky, careful, or was there more to what had happened than they had been told?

Chapter 14

‘I spoke to the landlady down the White Stag again.’ Ruskin sounded excited. ‘She’s convinced that the farmer her glass collector Selina overheard arguing with Stevie, is some guy by the name of Ray Dorridge. He runs a farm about a mile and a half from the pub.’

‘Any idea what they may have been arguing over?’ asked Warren.

‘That she didn’t know. I also spoke to Selina again, but she can’t remember anything else.’

‘I think we need to have a word with Mr Dorridge.’

Ray Dorridge was a short, compact man in his late thirties. Warren eyed him across the table as Moray Ruskin fussed with the PACE digital recorder. The description of the killer from the massage parlour was maddeningly vague – Warren tried to imagine Dorridge in a shapeless hoodie; he couldn’t rule him out.

‘Thank you for coming here, Mr Dorridge,’ Warren started.

The man in front of him grunted. ‘I didn’t have a lot of choice, did I?’

‘I have explained that you are not obliged to be here, and you are not under arrest.’

The man grunted again. From the moment Warren had appeared on the farmer’s doorstep, the man had been surly.

Warren slid a photograph of Stevie Cullen across the table. ‘Do you know this man?’

Dorridge gave a loud sigh. ‘That’s Stevie Cullen.’

‘And how do you know Mr Cullen?’

‘He sometimes drinks in the White Stag.’

Warren nodded; Dorridge had said as much before agreeing to accompany Warren to the station.

‘How would you describe your relationship with Mr Cullen?’

Dorridge gave a big shrug. ‘Didn’t really have one. He’d be in the Stag sometimes when I popped in for a pint after work. We’d occasionally exchange a few words.’

‘What sort of words?’ asked Ruskin.

Dorridge shrugged again. ‘You know. Talk about the footie if it was on the telly.’

‘Do you own Dorridge Farm?’ asked Warren.

‘Yes. Or at least the bank does.’

‘And how long have you run it?’

‘About ten years. My old man died suddenly, and I took over.’

‘And you live there alone?’

‘What does that matter?’ Dorridge scowled.

‘Forgive me, we coppers are a nosy bunch.’

Dorridge’s scowl lessened slightly. ‘Yes. Mum passed away a couple of years ago. It’s just me and the dog now.’

‘And you don’t have a partner?’

Dorridge glared at him. ‘I work fourteen hours a day, 365 days a year, and I still haven’t got a pot to piss in. Funnily enough, that’s not a big turn-on for women.’

For the first time, his expression changed from one of irritation, to one of bitterness.

‘What about brothers and sisters? Or farmhands?’

‘I’m an only child and I hire in workers as and when I need them. Like I said, it’s just me and the dog.’

‘You say that you knew Mr Cullen, from the White Stag pub.’

‘Yes.’

‘Any idea why someone would attack him?’

Dorridge paused. ‘He wasn’t a nice bloke.’

‘In what way?’

‘He was a bit mouthy and he’d start arguments with people.’

‘Over what?’

‘Anything really. He liked to take the piss – sometimes he’d go a bit far. Like if someone’s football team lost – he’d wind them up big-time until they finally snapped and told him to fuck off.’

‘What about women?’

Dorridge’s lip curled. ‘Yeah, there was that as well. He’d screw anything in a skirt. Sometimes he’d just wind people up for the fun of it. He’d buy people’s girlfriends a drink when they went to the toilet and flirt with them really loudly.’

‘Sounds like he was ripe for a punch on the nose. I’m surprised he wasn’t banned,’ said Ruskin.

‘Yeah, you’d think so, but they weren’t the sort of family you mess with. Especially that brother of his, who went everywhere with him.’

‘Which one?’

‘Frankie – dumb as a bag of spanners but built like a brick shithouse. Bigger than you.’ He nodded toward Ruskin.

‘Why wouldn’t you mess with the Cullen family?’ asked Warren.

‘You know why – you don’t need me to tell you about their reputation.’ Dorridge leant back in his chair and folded his arms. ‘Are we nearly done here? It gets dark early this time of year and I’ve still got to feed the pigs.’

‘We won’t keep you any longer than necessary, Mr Dorridge.’

Warren made a show of flicking the page over in his notebook. ‘You say you didn’t really know Mr Cullen?’

‘That’s right.’

‘So, what was it you were talking about when you met for lunch in the White Stag?’

‘We didn’t meet for lunch. We were both in there at the same time, and he sat down at the same table.’

‘That sounds rather friendly, given that you barely knew each other.’

Dorridge shrugged. ‘The place was nearly empty, I guess he wanted some company.’

‘So what did you talk about?’

‘This and that. The weather. Farming stuff.’

‘According to witnesses, the two of you were arguing.’

Dorridge shook his head. ‘They must have been mistaken.’

Ruskin flipped over the page in his own notebook. ‘Apparently there was a disagreement over a bill?’

‘Nope. They must have been getting me confused with someone else.’ He folded his arms.

‘OK. Thank you for clearing that up,’ said Warren.

Dorridge shifted in his seat before making a show of looking at his watch.

‘I appreciate you giving up your time, when I’m sure you’re busy,’ said Warren. ‘Just one more thing before you go.’

Dorridge sighed again.

‘Where were you Monday afternoon?’

‘Out on the back field.’

‘Did anyone see you?’

‘Does the dog count?’

‘OK, Mr Dorridge, thank you for your time.’

After Dorridge had been signed out of reception, Ruskin turned to Warren. ‘I think we’ve just been told a pack of lies, Boss.’

‘I agree. I think that Mr Dorridge knew Stevie Cullen a lot better than he’s willing to admit.’

‘I can’t say I’m surprised that he doesn’t have an alibi. Do you reckon he could have done it?’

Warren tugged his lip, thoughtfully. ‘It’s hard to say. But he’s definitely on the suspect list. Let’s see if any of his vehicles were near the scene. Check his phone records for links to Stevie and see if we can track his movements by GPS. Also, speak to his neighbours, such as they are. SOC said that they observed Stevie travelling a lot between local farms; maybe they can shed some light on his relationship with Dorridge. And ask Rachel to check the massage parlour’s ledger – see if he ever visited.’

‘Will do.’

Benny Masterson, Stevie Cullen’s best friend, arrived unprompted at the police station mid-afternoon.

‘I heard you were looking for me,’ he said to a surprised Warren.

The farmhand had been on the list to interview but had been missing from his bedsit when Moray Ruskin had gone looking for him.

He claimed to have got drunk the night before and ended up crashing at his sometime girlfriend’s house. The lack of a phone charger accounted for his phone going straight to voicemail.

The faint miasma of alcohol fumes surrounding him, and his bloodshot eyes, lent some credence to his story. His companion, who had dropped him off at the station, corroborated the rest of his story.

Despite his apparent hangover, he proclaimed himself fit to talk.

‘I’ve known Stevie since we were kids.’ He slurped at his coffee, wincing slightly at the heat.

‘My parents … they weren’t great you know? They liked a drink, and Dad had a bit of a temper. But Stevie’s Mum and Dad would have me over for tea most evenings.’ He glared defiantly. ‘I know their reputation and all that, but I don’t know what I’d have done without them …’

He rubbed his nose with the back of his hand. ‘Stevie was a good mate you know? He had a bit of a temper, and he was a bugger with the women, but when you needed someone …’

Warren gave the man a moment to compose himself.

‘Somebody obviously didn’t feel the same as you. Can you give us any idea who might have been angry enough with him to kill him?’

Masterson sighed. ‘I’ve been thinking about it since the moment I heard, but nothing makes sense.’

‘You said in the pub that he had a bit of a reputation for going after other men’s partners. Could that be a reason?’

‘I was drunk. I didn’t really mean it.’

Warren could see that the man was talking himself out of something.

‘Please, Benny, help me out here. Was there anyone in particular who you think might have taken offence to Stevie hitting on their girlfriend?’

Masterson was silent for a few moments. ‘You didn’t hear this from me, right?’

‘We’ll do our best to be discreet,’ said Warren.

‘Most of the time it was a bit of fun you know? A few blokes threatened to punch him, but everyone knew his family’s reputation. Most people wouldn’t want to mess with him, and he knew that.’

‘Most, but not all?’

Masterson bit his lip. ‘There was this one bloke. He’s a bit of a psycho. Did some time in prison for assault. He’s engaged to this girl. She’s pretty and all that, but not worth the aggro. Stevie … well he liked the challenge.’

‘What happened?’

‘Stevie would wind him up a bit. He’d buy her drinks, text her stuff. The guy told him to leave it out, but that just made Stevie chase her more.’

He sighed. ‘I didn’t think there was anything in it. Usually, Stevie was all mouth – he knew where the line was. A few months ago, she stopped coming to the pub. I figured her fella had put his foot down and didn’t think anything more about it.’

‘But?’

‘A few weeks ago, I heard a rumour that Stevie had been seeing her behind his back. I asked him, but he denied it.’ Masterson looked at the table. ‘I think it’s the only time he’s ever lied to me.’

‘Does this man have a name?’

‘Anton Rimington.’

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