About the Author

PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a Science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.

Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said ‘he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve’. Over twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*

You can learn more about Paul’s writing at www.paulgitsham.com or www.facebook.com/dcijones

* This is a lie, just ask any of the pupils he has taught.

Praise for Paul Gitsham

‘Once again Paul Gitsham has produced an utterly gripping thriller’

‘Brilliant from start to finish. Love this series’

‘Paul never lets you down’

‘Beautifully written, well plotted and well researched’

‘Up there with the best series’

Also by Paul Gitsham

The DCI Warren Jones series

The Last Straw

No Smoke Without Fire

Blood is Thicker than Water (Novella)

Silent as the Grave

A Case Gone Cold (Novella)

The Common Enemy

A Deadly Lesson (Novella)

Forgive Me Father

At First Glance (Novella)

A Price to Pay
PAUL GITSHAM

HQ

An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.

1 London Bridge Street

London SE1 9GF

First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2020

Copyright © Paul Gitsham

Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.

All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.

Source ISBN: 9780008331160

E-book Edition © June 2020 ISBN: 9780008301200

Version: 2020-04-27

Table of Contents

Cover

About the Author

Praise for Paul Gitsham

Also by Paul Gitsham

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Prologue

Monday 02 November

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Tuesday 03 November

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Wednesday 04 November

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Thursday 05 November

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Friday 06 November

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Saturday 07 November

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Sunday 08 November

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Monday 09 November

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Tuesday 10 November

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Wednesday 11 November

Chapter 38

Thursday 12 November

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Friday 13 November

Chapter 41

Saturday 14 November

Chapter 42

Sunday 15 November

Chapter 43

Monday 16 November

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Chapter 46

Tuesday 17 November

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Wednesday 18 November

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Thursday 19 November

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Friday 20 November

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Saturday 21 November

Chapter 56

Sunday 22 November

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Thursday 26 November

Chapter 60

Chapter 61

Wednesday 02 December

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Author Letter

Dear Reader …

Keep Reading …

About the Publisher

For Cheryl.

Prologue

The branches whipped at her face as she crashed through the trees. Her breath caught in her throat, her lungs labouring to keep up. Behind her, dogs barked and snarled, and she heard the shouts of her pursuers. The further into the woods she plunged, the darker it turned, the thickening canopy of leaves blocking ever more light.

A sudden burst of pain sent her sprawling to her knees, a fist in her mouth muffling her cries.

She couldn’t go on anymore.

She couldn’t.

Maybe if she turned around and went back they’d forgive her.

Maybe if she begged …

A shot rang out.

Going back wasn’t an option.

She’d just seen what they did to deserters.

She’d seen what they did to women like her.

She gritted her teeth, forcing herself back to her feet. She needed to continue her flight, putting as much distance as she could between her and the following men, before running was no longer possible.

She pushed on. The dogs were louder, and she shuddered at the memory of them. Huge, slavering things – she’d seen the way they attacked the dead rabbits thrown to them; chained up all day, they would be beside themselves at the prospect of a real, live prey to chase down.

The road was only a few hundred metres away; a busy, two-lane highway, the hiss of traffic was audible even at this time of night. There’s no way her pursuers would risk chasing her onto it.

She stumbled again, her foot sinking into a depression in the soft earth. She tried to get up, she really did, but she was exhausted.

What had she been thinking? Nobody ever escaped. Those who tried were dragged back and used as an example to everyone else.

Another shot cracked the night sky open.

It was closer than the last, and the dogs were even louder.

The extra surge of adrenalin was enough to spur her on.

But her pace was now little more than a brisk walk.

It was the best she could do.

The sound of the road, the sound of freedom was getting louder, but the sound of the dogs was getting louder more quickly.

Another unseen obstacle, and she ended up flat on her face.

What was the point? Everything that she loved in the world was now gone. She rolled onto her back, too exhausted to care about the blood trickling down her face from her broken nose. She felt her eyes close. Just a few seconds’ rest …

This time the shot was so close, she heard the leaves above her rustle.

No! She wouldn’t give in. Too much had already been sacrificed. If she gave up, if she died here, those sacrifices would have been in vain, and the memory of his selfless love would die with her.

Clambering back to her knees, she half crawled, half walked, towards the road.

This time when the pain came, there was no ignoring it.

‘No, no, no,’ she whimpered. Not now. Just a few minutes more.

Behind her, she heard the baying and snapping of the dogs and the shout of their handlers.

It was over. The dogs would be on her in seconds. There was no way she could keep ahead of them now. Sinking into the soil, she prayed to a god who seemed to have been deaf to her pleas for as long as she could remember.

Please make it quick.

She fell to her side, welcoming the encroaching darkness, looking forward to the release from suffering.

Suddenly, bright, dazzling beams of lights cut through the trees, turning night into day wherever their dancing cones landed. Overhead the night was shattered by a loud clattering. Now she could hear the handlers shouting, calling back their snarling charges.

But she was too far gone to care, wave after wave of pain passing through her, until eventually the darkened forest turned pitch black and she remembered nothing more.

Monday 02 November

Chapter 1

It had been a fairly quiet few weeks. Some might even say boring. DCI Warren Jones felt his head start to dip and he dug his nails into the palms of his hands. Nodding off in the middle of a budget meeting before they even got to the coloured printouts of this year’s projections would be rude, especially in a room full of his peers, some of whom seemed to regard it as the most exciting event in their calendar.

There weren’t even any decent biscuits.

What he wouldn’t give for some real policing right now. A good, meaty case he could get his teeth into, with leads to chase down and suspects to grill.

The current speaker switched slides. A quick look at the graph with its downward trends told Warren everything he needed to know. Fewer front-line officers, less money to pay for outsourced forensics services, and another cull of support staff. It didn’t seem as though the cuts extended to turning the heating down in the briefing rooms, although it was a mystery to him why this even required a meeting; an email would have sufficed.

Warren resisted the urge to look at his phone sitting face down on the desk in front of him. He hated when people did that; it was the height of bad manners.

On the opposite side of the room, the door opened, and a middle-aged man with a name badge on a Hertfordshire Police lanyard came in. Apologizing to the speaker, he scuttled around the table. Warren saw glimmers of disappointment on the faces of his colleagues as the support worker passed them by. He felt a surge of much-needed adrenalin as it soon became apparent that the man was heading for him.

‘Lucky bugger,’ muttered the DSI sitting next to him.

The man leant down and spoke quietly into Warren’s ear.

Hiding a smile of relief, Warren apologized to the rest of the attendees and made his way to the door. Clearly, somebody upstairs had been listening to his silent pleas.

Be careful what you wish for.

The crime scene was already surrounded by a cordon when Warren arrived. An ambulance, lights off, sat silently. Two paramedics sat on the back step of the parked vehicle, keeping the chill, November air at bay with a thermos of coffee. Their patient was well beyond anything they could do.

Parking up, Warren signed the scene log and fetched his murder bag from the boot. He would wait until the last minute before putting on his paper Teletubby suit, gloves, booties, hairnet and facemask. Even at this time of the year it would get uncomfortably sweaty very quickly.

Already there were swarms of white-suited crime scene investigators going about their business. He wondered if they ever got used to the protective gear, or if they just learnt to put up with it.

The smell of tobacco smoke was accompanied by the sound of rustling. Warren turned to see Detective Sergeant Shaun Grimshaw heading his way. The man’s paper suit was folded down, so that only his legs were covered. He carefully stubbed out his cigarette on the edge of his packet, before placing it inside the box.

At least he wasn’t contaminating the crime scene, thought Warren, though to be fair, they were still well outside the police tape.

‘I take it you’ve been in already?’

Grimshaw nodded. ‘Yeah, it’s a bloodbath.’ He motioned toward the paramedics. ‘Nowt for them to do, that’s for sure.’

‘Talk me through it before I go in and see for myself.’

Grimshaw turned and pointed down the street. ‘The victim’s in the rear ground-floor room of the massage parlour. According to the girls who were working, it’s one of the clients. A white male, mid-twenties I’d say. He was on his back, relaxing after a full-body massage. The girl servicing him said she’d popped out of the room to let him chill out for a bit and was fetching fresh towels for the next client, when she heard a scream.’

‘What do you mean, “servicing him”? Are we talking sex work?’

Grimshaw shrugged. ‘Supposedly it’s not that type of place, but who knows? I’ve seen the two girls working here, and they’re above the local average, if you get my drift.’

Warren let the insinuation slide; he’d speak to the Sexual Exploitation Unit later, and see if they had any intelligence on the establishment.

‘Then what?’

‘The girl …’ he looked at his notebook ‘… Biljana Dragić, raced back in and she reckons there was somebody in a black hoodie removing a knife from the middle of the victim’s chest. She said the window was open, and he climbed out, ran across the yard and through their back gate. She didn’t see his face.

‘She called for help and tried to stop the bleeding with towels. Another girl, Malina Dragić, heard her, came in and tried to help her, but they reckon he was already dead.’

‘The same surname and it sounds Eastern European. Are they related?’

‘Sisters, and they are Serbian nationals. With work visas. They were very keen for me to know that.’

‘Where does the back gate lead to?’

‘There’s an alleyway. He could have gone either direction, towards the high street or into the estate behind. Jorge’s already down there with a team of uniforms looking for witnesses.’

‘It’s the middle of the afternoon on a Monday. There should have been someone around,’ said Warren. ‘Presumably the killer was covered in blood, and you say he took the knife with him?’

‘Yeah, the girls reckon he pulled it out. There are bloody smears on the window where he escaped.’

‘Then either he’s run away covered in blood, he’s stopped to take his clothes off and ditched them, or he got changed. Get a team out looking for the knife and any discarded clothes.’

‘Will do.’

‘Whilst you’re at it, get Mags Richardson to start collecting CCTV and licence plate numbers. If he didn’t escape on foot, he might have used a vehicle.’

‘It’s a slightly dodgy area; Jorge reckons some of the houses might have security cameras out the front, so he’s got his team looking for that as well. There’s CCTV in the reception area and out the back, but none in the actual massage rooms. I guess you don’t want that sort of thing on camera.’

Again, Warren ignored the implication.

‘How many staff and clients were on the premises at the time?’

‘There were no other clients at the time of the murder – it’s pretty quiet this time of the week. There were just the two masseuses.’

‘What about the owner?’

‘She’s on her way.’ He looked at his watch. ‘She’ll be here any minute now, I reckon, in this traffic.’

‘I want to speak to the masseuses when Forensics have finished with them.’

‘You might need a translator. Their English is pretty basic.’

‘Get one organized. Do we know who the victim is?’

‘Just a first name, “Stevie”, and a mobile number. They’re pretty old school; they use a paper diary to book in clients.’

‘Bag the diary as evidence. Send the mobile number back to Rachel Pymm and see if she can do anything with it. Who’s the crime scene manager?’

‘Andy Harrison.’

Warren nodded his approval. So far, everything had been done by the book.

‘Good work, Shaun. I’ll go and take a look.’

The rather grandiosely titled Middlesbury Massage and Relaxation Centre was a converted detached house, similar to dozens of small business across the town. The small garden at the front had been tarmacked over to create enough space for two medium-sized cars, whilst the large bay windows had been covered in signage advertising the services offered within, and products customers could buy to supposedly re-create the experience at home.

Warren stepped carefully onto the metal boards laid down by the CSIs to preserve any trace evidence such as footprints in the entranceway.

Inside, the wall between the entrance hall and what would originally have been a spacious front sitting room, had been knocked through to make a large reception-cum-waiting area with a desk, computer, till point and several comfy chairs. Towards the back were two small tables, each with a comfortable-looking recliner and a more practical work chair. Judging by the bottles of nail varnish and acetone on the tables, this was where the manicures and pedicures took place. Even through his mask, Warren’s nose was assaulted by a heady mix of different scented oils.

Standing in the hallway beyond, Warren recognized the portly form of CSM Andy Harrison talking to another white-suited technician. The veteran CSI broke off when he saw Warren enter.

‘Come in, DCI Jones. We’ll have to forgo the kiss on both cheeks and the handshake; we don’t want to contaminate the scene.’

The longer Warren knew the man, the stranger his sense of humour became; he supposed it was a natural response to the things the man dealt with every day.

‘The victim is in the back room. We’ve finished the preliminaries and we’re waiting for the pathologist to come and take a look.’

‘What’s the layout of the rest of the property?’

Harrison pointed towards the rear.

‘These old houses had galley kitchens leading through to an outside toilet and coal shed. When they converted this one from residential to commercial, they made use of the existing plumbing and kept a small sink and kitchenette for staff use. The old out-buildings now house a washing machine and a tumble dryer; it looks as though they wash their towels and uniforms on site.’ He rotated on the spot. ‘Upstairs, the front bedroom is also kitted out as a massage suite, the original bathroom has been split in two and turned into male and female toilets, and the small bedroom has been turned into a store cupboard. It appears that the staff also keep their personal belongings in there and use it to get changed.’

Warren followed him through; Grimshaw hadn’t been exaggerating, it really was a bloodbath. Here, even the scented candles, still guttering in the wind from the open window, were unable to mask the cloying smell of fresh blood.

The victim was a young man, probably in his twenties. White, with dark hair, he lay on his back, his body nude from the waist up, revealing a bulky torso that suggested hard work rather than hours spent in the gym. A gash to the left of his chest had leaked enough blood to obscure the tattoos that crossed his pectoral muscles and shoulder.

The attack had clearly been very quick. The victim’s blood-covered hands indicated that he had made some attempt to cover the wound.

‘The pathologist will confirm, obviously, but I’d say the knife was quite large and it penetrated at least one of the chambers of his heart. I wouldn’t be surprised if it was given a twist on the way out.’

Warren tore his eyes away from the wound to focus on the victim’s face. The man’s eyes were open, staring sightlessly at the ceiling, his mouth open in surprise. The blood loss had left his skin waxy in appearance, making the two or three days’ stubble on his cheeks and chin stand out even more.

‘The witnesses said that the killer escaped through the window,’ said Warren. Even from his vantage point on the opposite side of the room, he could see bloody marks on the window frame.

‘That’s what it looks like at the moment, although we’ve not lifted any prints. I’d say the killer was wearing gloves. We’ll look in more detail when the body’s been removed, and we can move around more easily.’

Warren pointed to a number of evidence bags sitting on a chair in the corner.

‘Are those his personal belongings?’

‘Looks that way. The larger bags contain clothing. Blue jeans with leather belt, a black T-shirt with some rock band I’ve never heard of, and a brown leather jacket. He kept his socks, shoes and underwear on. The smaller bags contain his wallet, keys and mobile phone, which were in the inside-left pocket of his jacket.’

‘We need to identify him, so I’ll sign for those and leave the clothes with you.’

Warren collected the bags, before taking another look around the room.

His first impressions were that the murder had happened exactly as Grimshaw had stated. The killer came in through the window, stabbed the victim as he lay helpless on the massage bed, before taking the knife with him, leaving through the window.

He looked again at the victim’s wide-staring eyes and his surprised expression.

Something wasn’t right about the scene, but he couldn’t quite put his finger on it.

Back outside in the fresh air, Warren wasted no time taking off his paper scene suit. Early evening and it was already dark. He handed the evidence bags over to Shaun Grimshaw whilst he undressed.

‘We need to identify the victim. Take a look in his wallet and see if you can find a name. The bus service around here is crap, so he may have parked up nearby. Use the key fob to check the cars nearby; we might be able to identify him that way. Bag his phone and ask IT if they can unlock it. This doesn’t look like a random killing, so I want to know who he’s been in contact with.’

Grimshaw opened the evidence bag containing the wallet and started leafing through it.

He let out a heartfelt groan. ‘You are never going to believe who it is.’

Chapter 2

The two young masseuses who had found the body were huddled together in the rear of a police van, tears streaking their faces. Their bloodstained work uniforms had already been taken by the CSIs, but even in the less than flattering replacement coveralls that they’d been issued, Warren could see that Grimshaw had a point. The two young women were very pretty, with shapely figures. Could they have been hired for their looks?

A detailed, formal interview would have to wait, as there were currently no Serbian translators available; however, the limited English that they spoke was enough to confirm the sequence of events as relayed by Grimshaw.

The owner of the parlour, Silvija Wilson, was a well-dressed, middle-aged woman. She had arrived in a brand-new Mini Clubman shortly after Warren emerged from the crime scene and was waiting impatiently outside the cordon.

‘Are my girls OK?’ she asked immediately. Her accent was almost pure Essex, with just a hint of Eastern European.

‘They are a bit shaken, but physically they are fine,’ Warren assured her.

‘Thank goodness.’

‘The women tell me that they’re Serbian nationals,’ said Warren.

‘With valid work visas,’ Wilson interrupted.

‘I’m sure that they are here perfectly legally,’ said Warren, ‘however, without a translator, they haven’t been able to fully answer my questions.’

‘Would you like me to translate for you, to speed things up?’ interrupted Wilson.

Warren smiled politely. ‘That’s very kind, but we’re better off waiting for the translation service.’

She looked disappointed, but Warren knew better than to take her up on her offer. Given the circumstances, Wilson could hardly be considered unbiased and the last thing he wanted was for questions to be raised over the veracity of the translation.

‘Why don’t I just ask you some background?’ he suggested.

Wilson nodded her assent.

‘You are the owner, I take it?’

‘Yes. I started the business from scratch about ten years ago.’

‘And you are the manager?’

‘Overall, yes.’

‘Is it usual for you not to be present during the day?’ Warren raised a placating hand as Wilson started to bristle. ‘I’m not judging, Ms Wilson, I’m just trying to get a feel for the normal ebb and flow of staff and customers.’

She relaxed somewhat. ‘I come and unlock in the morning and do a bit of paperwork. Except on Saturday, which is our busiest day. I let the girls get on with running the shop. They know what they are doing.’

‘That’s rather trusting, if you don’t mind me saying so.’

‘They’re family from back in Belgrade. They are my sister’s daughters. I sponsored them for a work visa and they joined me a little over twelve months ago, with the aim of learning a skill and improving their English.’

‘How is that going?’ asked Warren.

She gave a so-so gesture with her hand. ‘They are very skilful at massage and the customers really like them, but the English … not so good. I had intended them to spend time socializing with English people, but we do have a small Serbian community here, with some rather good-looking boys …’ She shrugged. ‘They’re young. What can I say?’

‘And do you still see clients?’

‘Only a few. I have a couple of older ladies who got to know me when I worked on the other side of town. They came with me when I set up this business and they’re more like friends than clients.’

‘So, you weren’t in the shop earlier, when the attack happened?’

‘No. I opened up at the usual time – half-past eight – then emptied the safe of the weekend’s takings and did a bank run, before going to see my father-in-law. He’s not very well and in a home.’

‘You take the money to the bank yourself?’ asked Warren.

‘Not much choice, really. We’re a small business; we can’t afford Securicor to come and do it for us. To be honest, there isn’t that much cash these days. Most clients pay by card.’

‘So, there wouldn’t have been much money on the premises at the time of the attack?’

‘No. Monday’s a quiet day usually, so aside from the float in the till there wouldn’t have been very much.’

‘I see that it’s also a nail bar. Do Malina and Biljana also do nails?’

Wilson shook her head.

‘No. We have a couple of girls who come and do that. They hire the space; I don’t actually employ them.’

‘Where were they today?’

‘They weren’t in. Monday is a quiet day.’

‘So, the only members of staff in the shop at the time were your two nieces?’

‘Yes. As I said, I was visiting my father-in-law in Stenfield. Look, can I go and speak to them? They must be absolutely terrified after what’s happened.’

‘Yes, of course.’

There came a tap on the door: Shaun Grimshaw.

‘Just got off the phone from HQ. No registered Serbian speakers available until eleven o’clock tonight.’

Warren sighed and looked at his watch. Be careful what you wish for indeed; if he’d stayed to the end of the budget meeting, he’d probably be heading home for the evening by now.

It looked as though Susan would be dining alone again.

Back at the station, Warren held the first briefing of the case. It was eight p.m., and a lot had happened in the almost seven hours since the emergency services received the call reporting the killing. He was keen to keep up the momentum; crimes such as murder were often solved by actions taken in those first few hours.

Warren would hold a far more detailed briefing the following morning, but it was important that he bring everyone – including his superior, Detective Superintendent John Grayson – up to date, as well as introducing his rapidly growing team to one another.

Middlesbury CID was something of an outlier in Hertfordshire Constabulary, in all senses of the word. The consolidation of nearly all of the serious crime units in Hertfordshire, Bedfordshire and later Cambridgeshire into one, centralized headquarters down in Welwyn Garden City had led to the closing of most local CID units.

Warren’s predecessor, the disgraced DCI Gavin Sheehy, had fought the case for Middlesbury to remain open as a first-response unit, able to deal quickly and effectively with low-level crime within the farthest reaches of the county, and at least start the ball rolling on larger-scale investigations. To that end, DSI Grayson oversaw a small, core team of detectives, led by Warren, with additional support from Welwyn when needed.

Since taking over from Sheehy four years previously, Warren had made it one of his priorities to maintain Middlesbury’s unique status, growing to love a role that saw him doing far more hands-on policing than would be normal for one of his rank.

Thus far, the small unit’s disproportionately high success rate had kept them open in the face of ever-increasing government cuts.

For now.

Warren started the briefing with a full-screen headshot of the man in the massage parlour projected onto the screen.

‘This is our victim. Stevie Cullen, the twenty-three-year-old son of one of North Hertfordshire’s most notable families. For those of you not familiar with the Cullens, “most notable” is not a praiseworthy term.’

Nods rippled around the room.

‘That’s a mugshot from his last arrest, and we positively identified him from his fingerprints and the tattoos covering his chest. Needless to say, the car that his keys unlocked is not registered to him, rather it belongs to his brother, as Stevie received his first driving ban before he was even old enough to pass his test. His mobile phone has a screen lock that IT are figuring out how to circumvent as we speak.’

Warren let the mutterings die down before he continued.

‘We need to turn his life upside down, folks. This was clearly a targeted killing. Given the circles that the Cullens are alleged to move in, then that must be a primary line of investigation. The Serious Organized Crime Unit from Welwyn will be briefing us on what we know or suspect about the Cullens’ business interests tomorrow. In the meantime, we need to track his movements over the past few days, as well as finding out who was in the area at the time.

‘Jorge, can you fill us in on any witnesses located in the local area and the preliminary search?’

DS Jorge Martinez addressed the room.

‘It won’t take long, I’m afraid. Despite being a Monday lunchtime, we haven’t found a single member of the public who witnessed the killer escaping the scene or recalls anyone suspicious hanging around. There are a number of small businesses in the area with inadequate parking, and public transport is poor, so residents are used to seeing strange cars parked in their streets. The lack of parking wardens enforcing resident-only parking is a long-running bone of contention amongst the locals.

‘We’ve identified a dozen or so properties, both business and residential, that may have usable CCTV footage of the area and we’re securing it for DS Richardson’s team to look at.’

‘Any discarded clothes or the murder weapon?’ asked DS David Hutchinson.

‘Nothing so far. We’ve emptied all the public waste bins in the vicinity, and we’ve secured the wheelie bins from all the local residents and businesses. First thing tomorrow, when the sun comes up, we’ll have teams doing a fingertip search of all the local streets.’

‘Any rumblings on social media yet?’ asked Warren.

DS Rachel Pymm, the team’s officer in the case – the person charged with keeping the HOLMES2 case management database up to date – shook her head.

‘Nothing much so far. A few photographs have surfaced on Twitter of the cordon, with plenty of speculation about what has happened, but nobody has mentioned Stevie Cullen yet.’

‘Good,’ said Warren, ‘his loved ones don’t deserve to find out he’s dead from some bigmouth on Facebook.’

Chapter 3

It’s known as the ‘death knock’ by both journalists and the police. It was an aspect of policing that Warren rarely had to do these days, his rank largely shielding him from the duty. However, given the history of the Cullen family, he decided to accompany the family liaison team himself. He wanted to hear what the family had to say first-hand; to pick up those tiny nuances and signals that might not get passed on in the reports.

The Cullen family lived in a ramshackle farmhouse on the very outskirts of Middlesbury. Surrounded by fields, the car headlights had revealed a yard full of clusters of stacked Portakabins and shipping containers, locked behind large, steel gates. Warren’s nose alerted him to the presence of pigs.

Lots of pigs.

Mrs Cullen opened the door. Spotting the uniformed officer standing behind him, she scowled.

‘What?’

‘Mrs Cullen?’

‘Yeah.’

‘We’d like to speak to you about your son Stevie …’

‘He ain’t here.’

She started to close the door. Warren slipped a foot between the door and the frame.

‘Hey, you can’t do that. You need a warrant …’ she yelped.

‘We need to speak to you about your son. May we come in?’ Warren paused. ‘Is your husband in? Is there anyone who can be with you?’

The blood drained from her face and for a moment he thought she would faint. He readied himself to catch her.

‘Seamus! It’s the police.’ Her voice was surprisingly strong.

A muffled voice replied from the depths of the house. ‘Tell them to piss off.’

‘It’s about Stevie. Oh God …’

Seamus Cullen emerged from the rear of the house, wiping his hands on a greasy rag.

He stopped dead in his tracks. Whether it was the grim expression on Warren’s face, the family liaison officer holding his cap respectfully in his hands, or his wife’s look of distress that told them why they were there was unclear. Either way, it was Seamus Cullen whose knees buckled and left him grabbing the staircase for support.

Coffee and a sit-down returned most of the colour to Seamus Cullen’s face. Seated opposite the couple, Warren gently told them what they knew so far.

Facing them, it was hard to reconcile the family’s reputation with the couple in front of him. Like most police officers in this part of the county, Warren was well aware of the family’s reputation; however, he had never personally dealt with them. Most of their transgressions came under volume crime, particularly the fencing of stolen property, and antisocial behaviour, with health and safety violations and a carefree attitude to tax returns thrown in as well.

The family’s nearest neighbours were almost a mile away, but Stevie Cullen in particular was still the subject of numerous complaints about noise, riding quad bikes dangerously, and using threatening and intimidating behaviour. It was behaviour he’d learnt from his parents.

None of that was evident at this moment; gone were the hard edges and defiant attitude towards authority. The couple in front of him had lost a child, in the most horrific of circumstances, and their grief was all-consuming.

‘It looks as though the attack was deliberate. Can you think about anyone who might have wanted to hurt or kill Stevie?’

Rosie Cullen shook her head firmly. ‘No. He wasn’t involved with anything like that.’

It was interesting that she’d immediately assumed he was killed due to something he had done.

‘Can you think of anyone who he might have had a falling out with?’

This time it was Seamus who answered. ‘Boys will be boys, and he sometimes liked a row after a few pints down the White Stag, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill him. Especially, you know so …’ He stopped, unable to continue.

Warren made a note to question the locals down the White Stag.

‘What about friends or acquaintances? Is there anyone that Stevie was particularly close to?’

The couple glanced at each other. It was clear they were reluctant to point the police in the direction of any of their associates. That was hardly surprising, given the circles they moved in, but if Warren was going to solve their son’s brutal murder and bring his killers to justice, then he needed all of the help he could get.

He said as much.

After a long pause, Rosie started to dictate the names of as many of Stevie’s friends as she could recall.

‘What about anyone special?’

Rosie paused. ‘No chance. That boy was far too young to settle down. He played the field.’

Seamus said nothing, biting his lip.

‘Mr Cullen?’ prompted Warren.

‘Well there was this one girl he was quite keen on. He saw her more than most …’ His voice petered out at his wife’s surprised stare.

‘Who?’ she asked.

‘Vicki Barclay.’

‘What? That stuck-up blonde one from the Stag? She’s far too posh for the likes of our boy. I haven’t seen her around for what, six months? Besides, I thought she was engaged to that Rimington lad.’

‘I’m just going by what he said to me.’

Warren made a note of all the names flying around. He recognized a few of them from the briefing reports that crossed his desk; they weren’t exactly fine and upstanding citizens. However, the couple weren’t telling him everything; that much was certain. Warren knew that he’d need to tread carefully.

‘What can you tell me about what Stevie did for a living?’

‘He helped out on the farm.’ His mother’s tone was firm. The couple moved closer together on the sofa.

‘Did he do any other work, or have business dealings with anyone else?’

‘He was a farmhand. That’s all.’ Her tone was icy. Beside her, her husband’s face took on a mask.

They were circling the wagons. Their son was dead, and nothing would bring him back. Now it was all about self-preservation.

Warren knew that what he said next was not going to go down well.

‘Would it be all right if we looked at Stevie’s room?’

Again, it was his mother who replied. ‘No. He’s dead. I’m not having you trampling all over his room, disturbing his things.’

‘I promise you that we’ll be very respectful, and we’ll leave everything the way we found it.’

‘No. And I think it’s time you left. Leave us alone to mourn our boy.’

Seamus got to his feet. ‘I’ll show you out.’

Warren tried to reason with them one more time. ‘Please, Mr and Mrs Cullen. Your son’s death was not an accident. We need your help to find his killer and bring them to justice. There may be clues in his room that will help us track down who did this to your son.’

Clues that might disappear when his parents went through his belongings to remove anything that might incriminate them.

‘Not without a warrant,’ said Rosie, her tone final.

Warren cursed himself all the way back to the station. He should have known the Cullens wouldn’t let him search the house without a warrant. Given the family’s reputation, it was entirely predictable that they wouldn’t let anyone poke around their affairs; goodness knows what they would find. They’d even shunned the presence of the family liaison officer.

As Warren had driven down the driveway, he’d seen the upstairs lights in the farmhouse come on. He’d bet good money that both parents were busy tearing through their late son’s room removing anything incriminating.

DSI Grayson was waiting for Warren in the station car park, the necessary paperwork clutched in his hand. He said nothing as he handed it through the open car window, but Warren could feel the disapproval radiating off him. Warren was heading back towards the Cullens’ farmhouse in less than thirty seconds.

In the twenty minutes it had taken Warren to race back to Middlesbury and get the warrant, the driveway outside the Cullens’ house had gained several new cars. Despite the frustration of the past few minutes, Warren was relieved. Leaving aside the parents’ obstructive attitude, they had just received a terrible shock – they needed their family and friends with them now. Nevertheless, Warren intended to make a note of every licence plate he saw; he’d like to know who he was dealing with.

Warren pulled into the same spot he’d occupied moments before. Beside him, the family liaison officer, who’d maintained a diplomatic silence for the past few minutes, straightened his shirt as he stepped out of the car. It was just as well that the driveway was so large – there were several more cars and vans on their way, including a scenes of crime unit.

‘Back again.’

It wasn’t a question. Rosie Cullen didn’t even glance at the document in his hand. The twenty minutes’ delay had clearly been enough. Again, Warren cursed himself; who knew what vital clues were now locked away in the boots of the various cars sitting outside, safely beyond the scope of the hastily arranged warrant.

Chapter 4

The Serbian translator arrived shortly before eleven p.m. Warren had just returned to the station again. When he’d left the Cullens’ farm, a team had been searching Stevie’s room for clues. The family liaison officer had finally been allowed to do his job and was now arranging support for the Cullens over the coming days and weeks.

The newcomers had been identified as members of the sprawling Cullen family. All of them professed shock at their brother’s death and described a universally beloved man entirely at odds with the intelligence reports Warren had skimmed through earlier that day. Warren had arranged more detailed one-on-one interviews with all of them over the coming days to see if that assessment changed out of earshot of the rest of the family.

The translator was a middle-aged woman by the name of Neda Stojanović, dressed in a flowing tie-dyed dress. She shook Warren’s hand as she apologized for being unable to arrive sooner.

‘The only other available translator actually lives in Middlesbury. Given the close-knit local community, the agency thought it best that they send someone from farther afield.’

Warren thanked her. Police translators were registered and vetted by Language Line; nevertheless, he didn’t want any potential conflicts of interest this early in the investigation. If and when the case came to trial, the last thing he wanted was the veracity of the witnesses’ translation being called into question by a defence solicitor.

He decided to start with the younger of the two masseuses, Biljana, who had witnessed the stabbing. Known to everyone as Billy, the dark-haired nineteen-year-old looked tired, the adrenalin from the attack having worn off hours ago.

After explaining that she wasn’t under arrest, but that the interview was being video-recorded to ensure that others could check that the translation was accurate, Warren started with a few easy questions to get them all used to the three-way conversation.

‘What time did you start work this morning, Billy?’

‘About eight-thirty. Aunty Silvija picked Malina and me up from our house on the way to work.’

‘Malina is your sister, correct?’

‘Yes.’

‘What happened after you were picked up?’

‘We got the shop ready and put on our uniforms. Aunty Silvija counted the money from the safe and got it ready to take to the bank. Then we put the open sign on the door.’

‘What time was this?’

‘About nine o’clock.’

‘When did Silvija go to the bank?’

‘She had a cup of coffee first. Maybe nine-thirty?’ She took a sip of water.

‘Did you have many clients booked in for the day?’

She shook her head. ‘No, Monday is a quiet day. We had Mrs Green booked in, and that was all for the morning.’

‘What about Mr Cullen?’

‘He was booked in at one p.m.’

‘That’s not a lot of customers. I’m surprised that you open if there are so few customers.’

‘Silvija says that if we start closing during the week, it sends the wrong message and that we’ll lose our Saturday clients, because they think we are going to close.’

It didn’t sound like a very sound business model to Warren. He wondered just how financially viable the shop was. He made a note to look into that further, in case it was relevant.

‘How many staff were there when Silvija left for the bank?’

She thought for a moment. ‘Two. Me and Malina.’

‘What about the nail technicians?’

‘Monday is a quiet day; they weren’t in.’

‘Sounds like it can be a bit boring.’

She shrugged. ‘Sometimes. But we can do some study and talk to our friends and family on Facebook.’

‘What time did Mr Cullen arrive for his appointment? Was he on time?’

‘About ten to one. He was a little bit early.’ Her eyes were starting to fill with tears.

‘And where were you when he arrived?’

‘I was in the room, getting it ready.’

‘Ready how?’

‘Lighting the scented candles, dimming the lights, and fetching the towels and oils.’

‘Then what happened?’

Her lip trembled, and her eyes took on a faraway cast. ‘He came in and took off his clothes.’

‘Were you present then?’

‘No. We give customers privacy. When I came back, he was in his underwear lying on the bed, with a towel across his waist.’

‘On his front or his back?’

‘On his front. I always start with a shoulder massage, then do his back.’

‘You’ve had Mr Cullen as a client before?’

She nodded, the gathering tears now threatening to fall down her face.

‘After you had finished with his back, what did you do next?’

‘He rolled over and I loosened his leg muscles, before giving him a head and scalp massage.’

‘Then what?’

‘He likes to relax afterwards. Sometimes he falls asleep, so I turn the lights down and leave him in there.’

‘What time was that?’

She shrugged. ‘The massage takes about thirty minutes or so. I wasn’t wearing my watch.

‘Where did you go then?’

‘To wash the oil off my hands.’

‘Upstairs?’

‘Yes.’

She took out a tissue and blew her nose. Warren and the translator waited patiently for her to compose herself. She wasn’t even twenty years old yet, and Warren could barely imagine the trauma that she had experienced that day. Nevertheless, he needed her to tell him what happened next.

‘I was just coming back downstairs when I heard a scream from the room, so I ran in …’ She stopped, taking a deep breath, before starting again.

‘There was a man … He had a knife and he was plunging it into Stevie’s chest.’

‘What sort of knife?’

‘I don’t know. I didn’t see.’

‘OK. Can you describe the man to me?’

‘He was wearing a black hooded jumper and a black baseball cap.’

‘What about his build? Was he tall, short? Fat, skinny?’

She shrugged. ‘He was normal size.’

‘Did you see his face?’

She shook her head. ‘No.’

‘Did he say anything?’

‘No.’

‘Then what happened?’

‘He pulled the knife out and climbed out of the window.’

‘What did you do?’

‘I tried to stop the bleeding. Malina heard the screaming and came in and she helped me.’ She covered her face with her hands and the interpreter leant closer to hear what she was saying. ‘But he died.’

After a suitable pause, Warren continued. ‘Where was Mr Cullen?’

‘On the bed.’

‘What position was he in?’

‘On his back … his eyes were open … he was staring …’

Again, she dissolved into tears. The interpreter looked towards Warren for permission before slipping her arm around the girl’s shoulders.

After a few moments, she indicated that she was ready to continue.

The pause gave Warren a few moments to review his notes. He wanted to make certain that he had everything he needed before asking his final question, which he knew might cause offence.

‘Billy, I need to ask if there is anything you haven’t told me about Mr Cullen.’

‘No. He was just a client.’

‘Did you and Mr Cullen ever have any sort of relationship?’

‘No, he was just a client.’

‘I need to know if he ever asked you to perform any intimate acts or acts that you might have felt uncomfortable performing? I promise you that you won’t be charged with any offences.’

She sat up straight. ‘I am not a prostitute, Mr Jones.’

And that was the end of the interview.

By the time Warren had finished interviewing Biljana Dragić, it was almost midnight. He debated calling it a night, but he didn’t want to let the two sisters spend too much time comparing stories. They’d already spent much of the day together, which couldn’t really be helped, and he was reluctant to let Biljana tell her older sister, Malina, too much about his line of questioning.

The translator declined his offer of a coffee, saying it was too late for her. Warren knew that caffeine was the only thing that would get him through the night, although he’d pay for it when he finally got his head down.

Up close, the familial relationship between the two girls was even more marked; hair colour aside they could almost have passed for twins.

The story Malina told was nearly identical to her sister’s. She could give no more details about the hooded attacker who she and Biljana had witnessed plunging the knife into the supine body of Stevie Cullen.

The older woman was less tearful, but still clearly in shock.

‘After you and Biljana realized he was dead, what did you do?’

‘I called the police.’

Warren had reviewed the recording from the emergency operator. The call had come in at 13.40. The female caller had a strong Eastern European accent and was so panicked it took the call-taker some time to get her name and the address of the massage parlour. It took a further minute to ascertain that the attacker had left the premises and get a basic description for officers in the area. Unfortunately, every minute of delay had allowed the attacker to cover his tracks more efficiently.

‘Where were you before the attack?’

‘I was in the front at the desk.’

‘Where there any other clients with you?’

‘No. Monday is a quiet day.’

‘What about other members of staff?’

‘No. Only Billy and I were working.’

‘What about the technicians in the nail bar?’

‘They do not work Monday. It is a quiet day.’

‘And you ran in immediately when you heard Billy scream?’

‘Yes.’

‘How well did you know Mr Cullen?’

‘Not well. He was a client.’

‘Did you ever give Mr Cullen a massage?’

‘No. Billy always gave him his treatments.’

‘Why do you think that was?’

‘He liked Billy. If a customer has had a good massage, then we try and make sure they have the same person next time.’

‘Did Billy and Mr Cullen have any sort of relationship?’

‘I don’t know what you mean.’

‘Did she ever see him outside work?’

‘No, of course not.’

‘You sound surprised that I asked. Are you not allowed to make friends with clients?’

She paused. ‘We can be friends with anyone we like, but my sister was not friends with Stevie.’

Warren paused. Again, he had a feeling that his next question would bring the interview to a close.

‘I’m sorry, but I need to ask. Did you or your sister ever have a more intimate relationship with Mr Cullen? You won’t be in any trouble.’

‘No. Just because we work in a massage parlour does not make us whores.’

She seemed as angered as her sister at the suggestion.

She settled back in her chair, her arms folded.

Whatever the truth of the relationship between Stevie Cullen and the two masseuses, he could see that he wasn’t going to get any more from her at that time of night. He’d review the interview tapes in the morning with the team, but already he had identified several discrepancies in their accounts.

He was far from finished with the two women.

Tuesday 03 November

Chapter 5

Despite his late night, Warren was in well before the start of the eight a.m. briefing. Much to his surprise, the coffee that had sustained him through the late-night interviews had not stopped him from falling asleep as soon as he clambered into the bed in the guest room. Susan had been sound asleep before he arrived home and they had barely exchanged a dozen words and a kiss outside the bathroom before Warren had left again. Once again, part of Warren was starting to regret wishing for more excitement. On the other hand, this was what he lived for; nobody joined the police to sit in overheated meeting rooms discussing quarterly projections. Nevertheless, the timing could have been better. He double-checked that his calendar was still free on Thursday morning for Susan’s appointment.

He was well into his second cup of coffee by the time he called the briefing to order.

The first thing the team reviewed was the previous night’s search of the Cullen farmhouse, specifically Stevie Cullen’s rooms. Warren’s fears that the delay between obtaining the search warrant and the scenes of crime unit gaining access to the house had proven well founded. The search team had said that his parents were adamant Stevie hadn’t owned a laptop, but they didn’t really believe them. Who knew what else had been spirited away before the team started their search?

Forcing the self-recriminations to one side for the time being, Warren moved on to the previous night’s interviews with the two young masseuses.

‘The timing of events seems to be a little muddled,’ he said. ‘Biljana claims that she heard Cullen scream and that was why she rushed back in; however, she then says that she saw the killer plunge the knife into his chest as she re-entered the room. If her account is correct, that suggests that he screamed before he was stabbed.’

‘Maybe the killer startled him? A hooded man standing over you with a knife would do that, especially if he was half-asleep,’ suggested Martinez.

Warren acknowledged the theory, before moving to his next point.

‘Her sister, Malina, says that she was in the reception, when she heard her sister scream; she then rushed in also and claims to have seen the killer stabbing Cullen. There was only a single stab wound. Biljana claims to have screamed when she saw him being stabbed, so I don’t see how her sister could have been in the room when he was stabbed if she only ran in when her sister screamed.’

The room was silent for a moment, before Martinez spoke up again.

‘I still think it could work.’ He leant forward. ‘In her interview, Malina doesn’t mention hearing Cullen scream, yet Biljana heard him from upstairs. Maybe Malina actually heard Cullen scream, not Biljana and so entered the room only just after her sister? That way they could both have seen him being stabbed. You know how unreliable witnesses are in stressful situations, especially when it comes to how long things take.’

The room was silent again, before Grimshaw spoke up.

‘I hate to admit it, but Jorge might be right. We should also get someone else to review the translation. Maybe Serbian is one of those funny languages where past and present tenses are all muddled up?’

‘A good suggestion – I’ll see about sending the videos for a second opinion,’ said Warren. It would cost money, but it was essential that the women’s accounts were as accurate as possible. The last thing Warren wanted was for a canny defence team to pounce on a misinterpreted verb ending.

Grimshaw was on a roll now. ‘If you ask me, those girls have something to hide. They were far too defensive when the boss asked if either of them had slept with Stevie Cullen.’

Opposite him, Warren could see DS Rachel Pymm rolling her eyes.

‘Well wouldn’t you be, Shaun? It had to be asked, but it was tantamount to accusing them of being sex workers.’

‘I’m with Rachel,’ said Martinez. ‘Workers in legitimate massage parlours must put up with those insinuations all the time. The Sexual Exploitation Unit said that as far as they are aware, the parlour is a legit, professional business.’

‘I’m just saying it as I see it,’ said Grimshaw defensively. ‘Even if the shop is a perfectly lawful business, the girls are on their own all day. They could easily be offering clients a “happy ending” for a few quid bonus, with the owner none the wiser. Maybe that’s why Cullen always requested Biljana?’

Warren raised a hand to stop the argument getting out of hand.

‘Shaun has a fair point.’ He ignored the man’s smirk towards Martinez. ‘It’s something we should look into. Given the discrepancies, I think we have enough to request the phone records of Biljana and Malina. I’d like to know if either of them has contacted Cullen on their personal phones. Let’s not forget that so far, we only have their word that Cullen was killed by an intruder.’

‘We should also request the records for their aunt and the business line,’ said Pymm.

‘Good idea. Rachel, can you do a RIPA request?’ asked Warren. ‘Get DSI Grayson to sign off on it. Moray, work with her. I don’t think you’ve done one of them yourself.’

Moray Ruskin nodded; the young detective constable eager as always to get stuck in.

Warren moved on. ‘Next up, where are we with the searches and the CCTV? Jorge?’

‘The fingerprint searches restarted at first light. No sign of the weapon or discarded clothing yet,’ replied Martinez.

‘Mags, what about CCTV?’

‘There is CCTV footage of the front half of the reception area, although the angle of the camera doesn’t look too helpful.’

‘What about out the back?’ asked Martinez.

‘Nothing, the camera is broken.’

‘That’s convenient,’ said Ruskin. ‘When was it broken?’

‘They reckon ages ago,’ said Richardson. ‘If it was deliberate, it shows some serious premeditation. The digital video recorder has been seized as evidence; IT are retrieving the data as we speak.’

‘Good. See if they can get some footage of when the camera was broken, so we can see if it’s linked to the killing,’ instructed Warren. ‘What about ANPR?’

‘It’s going to take some time, and it’ll cover a huge area. The junctions in the immediate area around the massage parlour aren’t covered by cameras, so we’ll have to cast the net pretty wide. The main roads that are covered are very busy, especially that time of day. I’ve got a team down in Welwyn tracking all the cars in the vicinity. They’ve identified the car that Stevie Cullen was driving, and they’re reconstructing his route that day as best they can.’

‘Good. Extend that over the past few days. Clearly, he’s upset somebody enough for them to kill him. I’d like to know where he’s been recently – perhaps we can find a motive?’

‘We’ve had our eye on the Cullens for some years,’ said DCI Ian Bergen, an investigator in the force’s Serious Organized Crime Unit. A balding man, with an impressive moustache, Bergen had travelled up to Middlesbury from headquarters in Welwyn that morning to brief the team on the Cullen family.

‘I’m sure that many of you have come across them in one way or another over the years, although as a rule of thumb if it’s anything more serious than public disorder, petty vandalism or driving offences, the case is handed over to us as part of our ongoing investigation. Unfortunately, in terms of the serious crime pecking order, they are quite far down the food chain, and so we’ve struggled to justify putting the resources in. They also tend to steer clear of drugs, so we’re cut off from that funding source.

‘In a way it was very helpful of Stevie Cullen to get himself killed yesterday; it means we can get you folks to do some of the legwork for us. I’ve been itching to get a warrant to have a wander around their farm for years.’

The room remained silent. Realizing his humour wasn’t appreciated by the team who would be dealing with the bloody aftermath of the previous day’s killing, as well as liaising with a grieving family, Bergen moved on quickly. ‘It’s good to see a few familiar faces here that I recognize from days gone by in SOC. Your familiarity with the family will doubtless be invaluable.’

Shaun Grimshaw touched two fingers to his temple in a mock salute and Jorge Martinez nodded in acknowledgement.

Bergen gestured towards a family tree projected on the board behind him. ‘As you can see, the immediate family is quite large; Mr and Mrs Cullen have five kids. Stevie was the youngest at twenty-three. Expand the family out to include cousins, in-laws and partners and it gets large and complicated very quickly. Not all the people listed here fully partake in the family’s extra-legal activities, but generally speaking most are involved to some extent. Given that one of the sons, Patrick, was convicted of shoplifting nappies a few months ago for his sister, you could even argue that the youngest member of the family – eighteen-month-old Tyler – is probably involved in the handling of stolen property.’

Warren recognized the man that Bergen was pointing to from his visit the previous night.

‘The head of the family is the father, Seamus Cullen. He’s sixty-two years old and has done a handful of short stretches in prison for handling stolen property, and his supposedly peripheral involvement in an armed robbery on a Post Office some twenty years ago. He was convicted of helping the actual robbers store the stolen money, but his defence solicitor successfully convinced the jury that he was only involved after the fact and that he had no idea what he agreed to look after, so he only got a couple of months. Total bollocks, but the evidence was lacking. He tries to cultivate an image as a hardworking simple farmer struggling to eke out a living, but make no mistake, he’s a clever and slippery bugger, with a nasty temper to boot. He always seems to be one step ahead of us.’

He moved over to the next slide. Mrs Cullen.

‘Which brings us to the next person of interest, Rosie Cullen. She is also sixty-two, and mother of Seamus’s five children. Unlike her husband, she’s never seen the inside of a prison, although she’s found herself occupying a custody suite a few times over the years, mostly for affray, antisocial behaviour and some petty shoplifting.

‘The two of them have been married for forty-odd years, although it’s questionable whether we could describe it as a “happy marriage”. On a couple of occasions, when officers visited the property, Rosie answered the door with fresh bruising to her face. She refuses to admit to being hit and reacts angrily to any suggestion that she may need help. As you know, there is very little we can do in those circumstances.’

Warren had seen no evidence of any abuse when he’d visited the night before, but he knew that they would need to be vigilant in future. A shock such as this could have devastating effects on a family’s dynamics; he made a note to ensure that the family liaison team were fully informed.

‘As to the kids, on paper Stevie was a farmhand, but he spent an awful lot of time driving around Middlesbury and the surrounding villages, visiting other local farms. He’s clearly got other money-making ventures on the side. We have our suspicions about what he’s up to, but we can’t be sure exactly what he’s doing.

‘The other four kids range from their eldest Lavender, who is forty, to their next youngest, also a daughter, Saffron, who is thirty-two. I’ll let you draw your own conclusions about what four kids in eight years, then a nine-year gap before Stevie came along suggests about his place in the pecking order. Between them are two more sons, including Patrick, usually known as Paddy, aged thirty-four and Frankie, his twin brother.’

Warren reviewed his notes from the previous night. Lavender had not been present; however, he had briefly met Saffron and her husband, and both of the twins.

Bergen was still speaking. ‘Paddy lives and works at the farm when he’s not inside for stealing; the bugger will nick anything. He also has two convictions for violent offences, both drink-related. He was convicted of affray six years ago and got away with a suspended sentence. A month after the suspension expired, he was involved in yet another pub fight. Witnesses claimed he had a knife, but he didn’t have one on him when he was arrested, and the CCTV angle was wrong. Unfortunately, Stevie Cullen, who was also present, managed to leave the scene without being searched; we suspect he took the knife with him.

‘Given that he didn’t use the knife and that nobody was seriously injured in the fisticuffs, the CPS dropped the more serious charges and again, he got a suspended sentence.’

Warren made a note of the man’s details. Stevie Cullen had been killed by a stab wound. Could his brother be the killer?

‘What about Frankie?’ he asked. He remembered the man from his visit to the farm the previous night – it was hard to believe they were even brothers, let alone twins.

‘Frankie isn’t known to us officially. The family don’t like to speak about it, but my understanding is that he has some learning difficulties. He works on the farm, and apart from the odd trip with his brothers to the pub, isn’t really on our radar.’

That certainly matched Warren’s impression of the man. Unlike the rest of the family, Frankie was huge. The man had remained seated and stared into space during the time that Warren was with the family, but it was clear to see from the length of his legs, the width of his shoulders and the size of his hands, that he dwarfed even Moray Ruskin.

Warren made a note to find out more about this second brother. Learning difficulties could mean anything, and he’d need to know more before ruling him out as a suspect, although surely the masseuses would have mentioned the attacker’s exceptional size if Frankie was the killer?

‘What about the sisters?’ asked Hutchinson.

It was a good question. Although the attacker was described as male, neither of the two masseuses had given a detailed description. A baggy hoodie could easily conceal a person’s figure. They could also be the driving force behind the attack, even if they weren’t the person wielding the knife.

‘Lavender, the eldest, lives a few miles away in Bishop’s Stortford. She’s married with two young children. She has a fairly close relationship with the rest of the family, but as far as we know runs a perfectly legitimate small business. Her husband also isn’t known to police, other than through his association with the Cullens.’

It was still an avenue worth exploring, decided Warren.

‘The youngest daughter, Saffron, lives in a cottage on site with her husband and three toddlers. They are both farmhands, and Saffron also takes the family’s produce to market. She has no convictions, although the Food Standards Agency have taken an interest lately, after a wedding party she supplied came down with the shits.’

Warren remembered meeting her: a slim woman, in loose clothing, she could probably be mistaken for a man, especially in such a stressful situation. For that matter, her husband was of average build also.

‘We know that the family employ a number of itinerant workers on their farm, particularly during the harvest season. We did a joint visit to the farm a couple of years ago with HMRC who are interested in the family’s tax affairs, but only found a couple of workers, all with valid National Insurance numbers. It’s bloody obvious that there are other, unregistered workers, probably working cash in hand, but there was no evidence and HMRC have bigger fish to fry.

‘All joking aside, we’ll be grateful for anything your team find out and we’ll support your investigation in any way that we can. We’ve been after the Cullens for years.’

After a few more questions, Warren thanked Bergen for his time. In his experience, SOC tended to play their cards close to their chest, allowing CID to do all the hard work, before claiming all the credit. He’d said as much to Grayson before the briefing. Time would tell if Bergen’s words were more than just platitudes.

‘The killing of Stevie Cullen wasn’t some random act,’ said Warren. ‘It could well have been business-related, or the result of a family feud. I want to know where all of the family members were at the time of the killing and who he’s been doing business with. Jorge, I want you and Moray to start turning his life upside down. Work with DCI Bergen and his team in Welwyn.

‘Shaun, liaise with the Social Media Intelligence Unit. See if you can find us some more suspects to interview. I’d also like you and Rachel to keep on top of the mobile phone companies; they’ve been served with warrants and I want the call logs and GPS from everybody’s mobiles.’

‘I’ve arranged for the family to come to the station to give formal interviews starting at midday. If any of them were involved, I don’t want to give them too long to get their stories straight, so we’ll be interviewing them separately and simultaneously. But let’s be sensitive, people; regardless of our suspicions they’ve just suffered a bereavement and they are probably still in shock. Rachel, Mags and Hutch, I’ll split the interviewees between us, with a view to feeding back at evening briefing. Reconvene here at eleven to go over interview strategies.

‘DSI Grayson has arranged for uniform and non-uniform bodies from Welwyn to support us, so put them to work.’ He glanced at his watch. ‘The killing happened less than twenty-four hours ago. Let’s start rattling cages before the killer has time to cover his tracks. Feed everything back to Rachel so she can keep HOLMES up to date.’

Dismissing the team, Warren headed back to his office. A moment later, there came a knock on the door: Shaun Grimshaw.

‘Can I have a quick word, Boss?’

‘Of course, Shaun.’ Warren settled down in his chair.

‘I know all the social media stuff is important, but I wondered if I could join Jorge’s team investigating the Cullens? Jorge and me worked for months with Ian Bergen and his team when we were down in Welwyn. I’m familiar with a lot of the players and I can help bring the rest of the team up to speed.’

Warren contemplated his request. Grimshaw and Martinez had transferred to Middlesbury earlier in the year. Both detective sergeants, the two men had worked together extensively before joining Warren’s team. By all accounts, their partnership had been forged from their earliest days in training college, when they’d bonded over a shared love of Manchester City Football Club. The two men had worked alongside each other as constables, before transferring to CID together. They’d taken their sergeant exams at the same time and were now both in the early stages of their inspector training.

Their partnership had been effective over the years, and they were both ambitious and hardworking. Nevertheless, their close relationship had caused some disquiet. Dubbed the ‘Brown-nose Brothers’ by some, their ambition to get noticed was a source of some amusement, and occasional exasperation. The two had gained a reputation for hanging around in the lobby at headquarters so that they could catch the same elevator as more senior officers, ensuring that even as constables their names were known by those who mattered, and they were always the first to volunteer for high-profile roles in investigations.

They had been assigned to Middlesbury to gain experience and fill a vacancy. With DI Tony Sutton on long-term sick leave, Grayson had agreed to take them on and allow them to start ‘acting up’, taking the lead in investigations and preparing for their next move. The close-knit structure of Middlesbury CID was an excellent place for them to stretch their wings.

But Warren had concerns that the two men spent too much time working together. To be effective leaders, they needed to work with a wide range of colleagues, not just one another; that was why he had been deliberately separating them, giving them their own, independent roles.

Warren’s wife Susan found the whole situation highly amusing. As a schoolteacher, she spent a lot of time breaking up friendship groups within her classes, stopping students from getting too comfortable with one another. Her pupils didn’t like it, but it forced them to develop new skills and not rely too much on just one or two individuals.

However, there was no question that the men complemented each other. Grimshaw was, to be charitable, rather a blunt instrument. Forthright and outspoken, he didn’t suffer fools gladly and gleefully played up to the stereotype of a gruff northerner. It was a ploy that often worked well in southern England. He was a lot cleverer than his demeanour sometimes suggested.

By contrast, Martinez was quiet and softly spoken, with only traces of his upbringing in his accent. Where Grimshaw typically looked as though he’d just rolled out of bed after a heavy night and dressed in the dark, Martinez wore sharply tailored suits, expensive aftershave and kept his short, neat hair immaculately trimmed. When watching the two men interviewing, Grimshaw would tend to take on the role of ‘bad cop’, unsettling the interviewee, with Martinez offering a more sympathetic ear. It was an effective strategy, and made Warren feel the absence of Tony Sutton all the more; he’d lost count of the number of times the two of them had played those roles.

All that being said, Grimshaw had a valid point. He and Martinez knew more about the Cullen family and their acquaintances than anyone else on his core team. It would be silly not to take advantage of his experience.

‘That’s a fair point, Shaun. I still want you working through the social media and phone records, but make sure that you keep up a close dialogue with Jorge and his team. Let’s see if DCI Bergen is as good as his word.’

Chapter 6

From the outside, the White Stag looked like a typical country pub. Within walking distance of the Cullens’ farm and several local houses, the small front car park was nevertheless full, although it was too early for the two-for-one offer on pub grub. The chilly November air meant that the weathered picnic benches were unoccupied, save for one middle-aged man puffing on a pipe whilst he read the newspaper and supped a pint of bitter.

Jorge Martinez parked his Audi TT in one of the few spaces left in the overspill car park to the rear, locked the doors, and followed Moray Ruskin into the crowded bar.

Despite the relatively early hour, there was little space. Immediately inside the doorway, a group of men stood in a loose circle, staring into their pints.

‘Speak of the devil,’ muttered one of them, scowling at the new arrivals. Clearly, news of Stevie Cullen’s death had made it to his local.

‘Ignore him,’ said the woman serving behind the bar.

As always, Ruskin was surprised at how he was immediately identified as a police officer. He supposed he shouldn’t be; he and Martinez were the only people in the bar not dressed in work clothes. Several of the men wore mud-stained jackets and boots. A black and white Border collie looked over, yawned then rested its head back on its paws.

‘I guess you’re here about Stevie,’ she continued. It wasn’t a question.

‘That’s right, Ms …’ confirmed Martinez, introducing himself and Ruskin.

‘Gweneth Rain. I’m the landlady.’

‘I understand that Mr Cullen was a regular drinker here,’ continued Martinez.

‘When he wasn’t barred,’ called out the same man who’d spoken as they entered. The smattering of chuckles were muted and half-hearted.

‘That happen very often?’ asked Martinez.

‘No, not really,’ she replied, glaring at the man who’d called out. ‘He could be a little argumentative after a few, and I told him not to show his face for a week a couple of times.’

‘Did he have run-ins with anyone in particular?’ asked Ruskin.

‘He’d argue with anyone and everyone, but nobody for a while,’ she said. Ruskin couldn’t decide if she was being evasive or not.

‘Hell of a bloody shock,’ she said. ‘They say he was stabbed in some massage parlour. Any idea who did it?’

‘Investigations are ongoing,’ said Martinez. ‘We wondered if any of his friends or other customers could suggest why he was killed?’

‘Probably some pissed-off husband or boyfriend,’ interjected the man again.

Turning to him, Ruskin could see that it was obvious that the nearly empty pint of lager in the man’s hand wasn’t his first of the day.

‘Why do you say that, Mr …?’

‘Benny.’ The man shrugged. ‘Common knowledge. Stevie was a complete fanny rat; ’scuse my French, Gwen.’

‘Is there anyone in particular who may have been upset with him?’ asked Martinez.

Benny looked at him blearily. ‘Take your pick; any new bit of skirt came in and he’d be after her like a rat up a drainpipe. More than a couple of blokes have told him to piss off and leave their missus alone.’ His voice cracked. ‘Stevie reckoned it was a just a bit of fun …’

Elbowing past Martinez, he placed his pint glass on the bar with the exaggerated care of the habitual drunk.

‘I’m going for a fag.’ He turned and headed towards the door.

‘Don’t pay too much mind to Benny.’ Rain lowered her voice slightly. ‘He and Stevie have been best mates since primary school. He’s pretty cut up about it.’

‘If you could give us his full name, we’d be grateful,’ said Martinez. ‘I’d like to talk with him again when he’s in a fitter state.’

‘You’ll be waiting for a long while,’ she warned, as she wrote his name down in Martinez’s notebook. Ruskin didn’t doubt it; even if he and Stevie had been in different years at school, Benny looked a lot older than he should. Ruskin suspected that the lunchtime drinking wasn’t just because his friend had died.

‘Does anybody else have any ideas about why Stevie was killed?’ asked Martinez.

With Benny gone, nobody else seemed willing to contribute.

Martinez fished out a stack of business cards and handed them around to the group; everyone took one, although judging by the lack of eye contact, Ruskin suspected they’d end up in the bin after they left.

‘I appreciate that this has all been a big shock to you,’ he said, raising his voice slightly, ‘but if any of you have any information – no matter how insignificant it seems – please don’t hesitate to call. We want to bring Stevie’s killer to justice, and we need all of the help you can give us.’

Still none of the men made eye contact, but at least a few of the cards made it into trouser pockets.

Thanking the landlady for her time and securing a promise that she’d also call if she heard anything, the two police officers headed outside. Neither Benny nor the pipe smoker were anywhere to be seen, and there was no trace of tobacco smoke in the still air. Ruskin hoped Benny hadn’t driven himself home.

‘That was a waste of time,’ said Ruskin, as they headed back to the car park at the rear of the pub.

‘Maybe not,’ said Martinez. ‘It confirms what his dad told the boss last night. It could just be a jealous spouse.’

‘Seems a bit extreme, and yesterday was hardly a crime of passion,’ countered Ruskin.

Martinez shrugged. ‘I’ve seen worse done for less,’ he said opening the car door.

He paused. ‘Hold on.’

A black wooden door marked ‘staff only’ had opened. A flash of blue hair was visible above the pale white face of the teenaged girl who’d been collecting glasses as they’d spoken to Gweneth Rain.

The girl looked nervously around, before glancing one more time over her shoulder and coming out. Ruskin strolled back across the car park.

She swallowed, before clearing her throat, and introducing herself as ‘Selina’.

‘I saw Stevie arguing with someone a few weeks ago.’ Her voice was timid, and she stared at her feet.

‘Can you be any more specific?’ asked Ruskin quietly.

She looked around again. ‘It was a weekday lunchtime. I don’t know the name of the man, but he comes in here quite often for a bite to eat. He runs one of the local farms.’

Even without a name, that narrowed the pool of suspects.

‘Do you know what they were arguing about?’

She shrugged. ‘I only heard some of it, but the farmer was unhappy with a bill that Stevie had charged him. He said something about not paying for work that had only been half-done. Stevie said that was bollocks and that everything had been finished.’

‘Any idea what the work was that Stevie was charging him for?’ Martinez had now joined the two of them.

‘I don’t know exactly, but he said something about the job taking twice as long as necessary and then he said, “Where was that bloody brother of yours?” and something like “I don’t have time to keep on chasing and nagging.” That’s all I can remember.’

Her piece now said, Martinez gave her one of his business cards, telling her to use his direct number or email address if she had anything else to share.

Back in the car, Ruskin mulled over what the girl had told them. ‘It could be a business disagreement,’ he suggested. ‘Do the Cullens organize labour for other farms?’

‘I don’t think so,’ said Martinez, ‘but I’ll look into it.’

‘It’s also a bit premeditated, don’t you think?’ said Ruskin. ‘I can see them getting into a disagreement that gets out of hand, but tracking him down to a massage parlour weeks later … that doesn’t seem right.’

‘I’ll see if I can locate this farmer and have a word,’ said Martinez, ‘but I doubt he’s linked.’

Chapter 7

The interviews with Stevie Cullen’s immediate family took up most of the afternoon, so Warren called a late briefing to share the findings.

Rachel Pymm went first, having interviewed Saffron, the sister closest in age to Stevie.

‘She was absolutely broken,’ said Pymm. ‘She could be acting, but if she is, she deserves an Oscar.’ She took a sip of her drink – an evil-smelling brew that reminded Warren of the mess he’d cleared out of a leaking gutter the previous weekend – and flipped open her notepad.

‘She said that she was nine when Stevie was born and that she fell in love with him immediately. She used to pretend he was her own baby and would dress him up and carry him around with her wherever she went. She claims to have been in town delivering vegetables to a local grocery at the time of the murder and says that her husband was at the doctor’s with their youngest, at that time. We’ll check it out, of course, but I can’t see it being her.’

‘Could she shed any light on a possible motive?’ asked Warren.

‘No. To hear her speak of him, he was universally loved by everyone he met. A bit of a rogue, but nothing too serious. I’ll be honest, I can’t work out if she really did see him that way, or if she’s hiding something.’

‘OK, we’ll interview her again in the future and see if she’s changed her tune,’ said Warren. ‘Hutch, how did your interview go?’

‘Not much better. Paddy was less effusive in his love for his brother, but he just shrugged when I asked him about a motive. He was shifty, but with his past record that could just be because he was in a police station. Given the lack of detail from the two masseuses about the appearance of the attacker, we can’t rule him out, but it’ll never stand up in court.’

‘What about an alibi?’

‘None. He claims to have been working with his dad all day, cleaning the pigs pens out and doing chores around the farm. He just laughed when I asked about any CCTV footage or other witnesses.’

‘Not too surprising,’ said Warren. ‘Unfortunately, given what we know about the family dynamics, I can’t see his old man admitting it, even if he did disappear during the day. He’s never going to rat him out.’

‘There was one interesting thing, which may or may not be important.’

‘Go on.’

‘When I asked him if anyone had threatened his brother, he shrugged then said, “Just the odd jealous husband.” He made like it was a joke, and wouldn’t elaborate, but I think there may have been something in what he said.’

‘That agrees with what Moray and Jorge heard from the staff and customers at the White Stag. It’s certainly something we should check out,’ said Warren. ‘If Stevie was in the habit of hitting on other men’s partners, that might be a motive. People have certainly killed for less, although it seems a bit of an elaborate method.’

‘It also fits in with what the eldest sister, Lavender, told me,’ said Richardson. ‘Lavender said that Stevie was a real charmer. She said that he’d been doing it since he could talk. She claims that as the youngest, he was rather spoilt and that “as far as Mum and Saffy were concerned, he couldn’t do any wrong”. I tell you, there’s a lot of pent-up resentment there. Once she started talking, I didn’t think she was going to stop. I felt more like a counsellor than a police officer. She was obviously very jealous of the attention Stevie got.’

‘How old was she when he came along? Sixteen, seventeen?’ asked Rachel.

‘About that,’ said Richardson.

‘My cousin was about that old when her little brother was born,’ said Pymm. ‘She was a full-on teenager at the time. She used to claim that the baby crying all night was why she did so badly in her exams. It had nothing to do with the fact that she spent every evening hanging around the local park drinking cheap cider when she should have been revising.’

‘That’s a long time to hold a grudge,’ said Hutchinson.

‘Not for a teenage girl,’ said Richardson, ‘but to be fair, she still seemed really cut up about his death. My gut tells me she wasn’t responsible.’

‘What did she say when you asked her about motive?’ asked Warren.

‘Not a lot, she sort of clammed up. Again, I can’t tell if she really has no idea why someone would kill him, or if that’s just how she is around the police.’

‘She doesn’t have a record,’ pointed out Hutchinson.

‘No, but given the track history of the rest of her family, it’s hardly surprising that she is uncomfortable cooperating with us.’

‘What about an alibi?’

‘She claims to have been working at home and looking after her two kids. She runs a small business and says that she was on her work phone all day, a landline. I’m going to put in a request for the phone records. She lives miles away, so we can probably rule her out if she was at her desk making a call around that time.’

‘What about her husband?’ asked Hutchinson.

‘Doing a shift in their local Sainsbury’s – he’s a manager. I’ll send someone over to check that out; he’d need to have been absent for a lengthy period of time to get to the massage parlour, commit the murder and then come back.’

‘What about Paddy’s twin, Frankie?’ asked Hutchinson.

‘I didn’t get anything out of him,’ admitted Warren, ‘unless he too is a skilled actor, he’s got serious learning difficulties. He came with his mum, Rosie, but he was absolutely terrified. Every time I asked a question, he looked at his mum and started to cry. I wonder if he even really understands what’s happened. Besides, he’s absolutely huge; if he wasn’t Paddy’s twin brother you wouldn’t think they were even related. There’s no way he could fit the description of the hooded attacker that the sisters gave us. Come to think of it, I doubt he could have even climbed through that window.’

‘That matches what Lavender told me,’ said Richardson. ‘I think another reason she resented Stevie when they were younger was because she was already playing second fiddle to Frankie. She said her dad spent all of his time looking after Frankie. He still works with him all day now. I think that may have been why she left the farm to set up her own business.’

‘Speaking of business,’ interjected Warren, ‘DCI Bergen and Moray and Jorge suggested that Stevie might have interests outside of his parents’ farm. Could anyone shed any light on that?’

‘I asked,’ said Pymm, ‘but Saffron said that he was just a farmhand, working with his dad and his twin brothers.’

‘Same here,’ said Hutchinson.

‘Lavender said the same thing,’ said Richardson.

‘Which sounds suspiciously like they are all toeing the party line on this,’ said Warren. ‘I want to know more about why he spends so much time travelling to other farms. Hutch, can you organize some bodies to interview the local farmers in the area, and see if they can shed any light on what he was up to? See if any of them are known to Organized Crime. DCI Bergen promised us full cooperation; let’s test that, shall we?’

‘Will do.’

‘What a family,’ said Warren. ‘The youngest brother has just been brutally murdered. Either they know who did it, and they’re covering for him, or they don’t want to help the police as a point of principle.’

He looked at his notes. ‘Right, well we’ll see if they become more cooperative as time goes on. We also still don’t have a definite motive. I want to know more about his business dealings and I also think it’s interesting that his brother Paddy suggested that he might be a bit of a ladies’ man, which chimes with what was said down the pub. His father mentioned last night that he might have been seeing someone. His mother seemed surprised, since she thought that woman was already engaged. I think a visit to this lady friend might be in order.’

According to Seamus Cullen, his son had been seeing Vicki Barclay, a relationship that his mother was apparently unaware of, and which she probably would not have approved of. That alone made Warren want to speak to her. Add to that the fact that she was supposedly engaged to somebody else, and there was already a potential motive that needed exploring.

Barclay had clearly been expecting a visit, answering the door to Warren and the family liaison officer within seconds of the first ring of the doorbell. Unfortunately, the make-up that she had clearly spent significant amounts of time applying was unable to entirely conceal the swelling on the side of her face, in the same way that the baggy cardigan she wore was unable to conceal the swelling of her belly.

Vicki Barclay came from Kent; her accent alone enough to mark her out as ‘posh’ in the eyes of Rosie Cullen. Up close, she looked even younger than her nineteen years.

Warren pointed to her face. ‘What happened?’

‘I slipped in the shower.’

The tone was defiant, but again her eyes filled with tears. She pulled a shredded tissue from her cardigan sleeve.

‘Do you know why we are here?’ asked Warren gently as the family liaison officer offered her a fresh one.

She nodded. ‘It’s about Stevie. Somebody killed him.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘I expect you’re visiting all of his friends.’

‘We are,’ confirmed Warren, ‘but you were more than just a friend, weren’t you?’

She opened her mouth, as if she was about to deny it, before closing it again. ‘How did you know?’

‘Things that people have mentioned.’

‘Oh, God …’

Warren chose his next words carefully. ‘I also hear that you are engaged to be married.’

She looked down at the large shiny ring on her left ring finger, as if surprised that it was still there. ‘Yeah.’

‘Vicki, who did this to you?’ He pointed to the bruising on the side of her face.

‘I told you, I hit my head on a cupboard.’

‘No. You said you slipped and fell in the shower.’

She paused. ‘I hit my head on the bathroom cupboard when I slipped in the shower.’

Warren said nothing, waiting as the tears started to gather again. He felt bad about pushing her, particularly given how heavily pregnant she was, but he knew that there was information she was holding back. Information that might be crucial to the investigation.

‘We both know that isn’t true, Vicki. Tell me what really happened.’

The pause this time was longer. ‘Anton and I had a row. It was my fault really, I shouldn’t have said what I said.’ She looked away. ‘He’s not a violent man. Not really. He’s never hit me before …’

‘What was the row about?’ Warren asked softly.

She shook her head. ‘It was silly really. I can’t even remember.’

‘When did the argument take place?’

‘Sunday night.’

Warren took a deep breath. ‘Vicki, is the baby Stevie’s?’

She let out a small gasp. ‘No!’

Warren waited.

‘No. It can’t be, we were careful.’ She looked down at her hands, her voice becoming a mumble. ‘The midwife must have got the dates wrong, that’s all.’

‘Vicki, look at me,’ instructed Warren, his voice kind but firm. ‘Please tell me what happened. Somebody killed Stevie and it was really brutal. He deserves justice. To get him that justice, I need to know everything about him. Even if you don’t think it’s relevant or important.’

She gave a tiny nod but said nothing.

‘Let’s start with Sunday night. What started the fight?’

She sniffed. ‘We were looking at the scans.’ She smiled. ‘We were trying to choose a name that fit the picture.’

‘Who’s we?’

‘Me and Anton of course.’

‘Sorry, carry on.’

Her face fell again. ‘The picture from the scan had the dates on. They calculate it from when you had your last period, but everyone knows it’s not accurate.’ She paused. ‘On the date it said I conceived, Anton was visiting his mum in hospital. He was away all week. But we had sex the night he came back, so you see it could be his …’

‘But Anton didn’t believe that.’

She shook her head sadly.

‘Did Stevie know about the baby?’

She nodded.

‘And what was his response?’

She bit her lip.

‘Vicki?’ Warren prompted.

‘He said I should pretend that it was Anton’s, and that we should still get married.’

‘But why?’

She looked away, suddenly becoming fascinated with her fingernails. ‘He said that once we’d been married for a few months, we could get a divorce. Then Anton would have to pay me child support.’

Warren could barely believe his ears. ‘But surely a DNA test would show if the child isn’t his?’

‘We didn’t think he’d ask for one. Besides, Stevie and Anton look alike They have the same-coloured hair and the same-coloured eyes … The baby would look just like him.’

Her tone was defensive, but he could see that she knew in her heart, that the plan had been crazy.

‘And Anton figured out he mightn’t be the father Sunday night?’

She nodded.

‘Does he know that Stevie might be the father?’

She shrugged.

‘What happened after he hit you?’

‘He went out.’

‘Where?’

‘I don’t know. He isn’t answering his phone.’

‘Do you know where he is now?’

‘No. I haven’t seen him since Sunday.’

Vicki Barclay had already provided Warren with a potential motive, but he knew that she had more to share. Warren helped the FLO make them all a cup of coffee whilst Vicki composed herself.

‘When did you last see Stevie?’

She placed the mug down on a coaster that urged her to ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’, with a picture of Sid James’ face laughing. Warren’s matching coaster had Barbara Windsor in a scene from Carry on Camping.

‘Not since last week. Anton had the weekend off, so we went shopping for the baby.’ Her face crumpled, and Warren handed her another tissue.

‘Was that the last time you spoke to Stevie?’

‘No. I tried to speak to him on Sunday night, after … you know. To warn him that Anton might know about the baby.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He didn’t answer. He left me a voicemail Monday morning saying he had to go and see a few people, but he’d ring me later so we could meet up. But we never did …’

The tears were coming back, so Warren jumped in quickly. ‘Do you know who he was going to see?’

‘No. He never really spoke about business.’

After a few more minutes, it became clear that he wasn’t going to get much more out of her. He gave her his card, gaining an assurance that she would call him if she heard any more.

As she stood to let him out, she winced slightly, grabbing her ribs.

The tissue that she’d used to wipe away her tears had smudged her make-up slightly, revealing the bruised skin underneath.

‘Vicki, do you have anywhere you could perhaps stay for a few days? Just until things calm down a bit?’

Whether her fiancé was involved in Stevie Cullen’s death or not, Warren didn’t feel comfortable leaving her alone.

She bit her lip.

‘What about your parents? Perhaps you could go and stay with them?’

She shook her head violently.

‘What about a relative, or a friend?’

Her lip trembled, her eyes filling with tears again, and Warren’s heart went out to her. He had no idea what her circumstances were, but as he looked around the tiny one-bedroom flat, he could feel the loneliness. Young, pregnant and apparently cut off from her family, the probable father of her unborn baby was dead, the man she was due to marry already violent.

He motioned towards the FLO. ‘Constable Dennell and her colleagues are trained to help women in your circumstances,’ he said gently. ‘They can even help you find somewhere safe to stay.’

She continued chewing at her lip, before finally shaking her head. ‘I have a cousin in Cambridge. Maybe I could stay with her …’

‘Does Anton know where she lives?’ asked Dennell.

She shook her head again. ‘No, he’s never met her, and I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned her.’

‘Then why not give her a call? Do you have a car?’ asked Dennell.

‘No, I don’t drive.’

‘Then I’ll arrange for someone to take you there. Why don’t you put some things together in a bag?’

An officer trained in domestic abuse could meet the FLO and take Barclay where she needed to go, perhaps even convincing her to accept more help to extract herself from her situation. As she went into the bedroom to start packing, Warren made the necessary calls. Barclay was a potential witness; she needed to be kept safe. Warren couldn’t imagine raising his fist against Susan under any circumstances, especially when pregnant. But according to the statistics he’d seen from the Domestic Violence Unit, one of the most dangerous times for an abuse victim was when she was pregnant or when trying to leave her partner.

As he hung up, he knew that if he was honest, there was another reason he wanted to keep her on his radar. She could well have been more involved in the death of Stevie Cullen than she admitted.

Chapter 8

The air in the mortuary was chilled and filtered, the astringent smell of disinfectant a welcome alternative to the odours that would otherwise fill the space.

As a rule, Warren preferred to delegate witnessing the autopsy to somebody else, such as Tony Sutton. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option and all of his sergeants were busy elsewhere. Moray Ruskin was always keen, but Warren didn’t feel the young DC was quite ready to undertake the task unsupervised yet.

At least there was a familiar face behind the mask.

‘Good to see you, Warren,’ Professor Ryan Jordan, the American-born pathologist greeted him. ‘How’s Susan?’

‘She’s doing well, thanks, Ryan. I hear you’ve become a granddad again?’

‘Yep. Number three was born three days ago. Still no name.’ He chuckled. ‘For the past nine months they’ve been convinced it would be a girl. It never even crossed their minds to have a boy’s name ready just in case! We’ll be flying over to Germany for kisses and cuddles in a few weeks.’

Warren followed him into the white-tiled room. He wore gloves and a red splash suit, although he had no intention of prodding anything too squidgy.

Stevie Cullen looked much as he had when Warren had last seen him at the massage parlour.

‘There’s no mystery about the cause of death,’ stated Jordan, pointing toward the gaping wound on the man’s chest. The Y incision had been angled to avoid disturbing the entry wound.

‘Massive blood loss caused by the penetration of the left ventricle by a bladed implement. It entered between the fourth and fifth ribs, before being twisted and removed. The blade nicked the fifth rib on the way out. He would have been dead within seconds.’

‘Pretty brutal. Does the fact that it entered so neatly indicate that the killer had a working knowledge of anatomy or some sort of training?’ asked Warren.

‘Not necessarily. I’d say that most reasonably educated people are aware that stabbing downwards on a person’s chest like they’re impaling a vampire would be difficult to accomplish because of the breastbone; a right-handed person standing above the victim would naturally come in from that side. The blade appears to have been very sharp, so it wouldn’t have required huge strength.’

‘What else can you tell me about the murder weapon?’

‘Unfortunately, the twisting of the knife makes it hard to be specific, but it was clearly very sharp and non-serrated. Judging by the depth of penetration, it has to be a minimum of fifteen centimetres. I’ve taken images of where it hit the rib, which should allow me to match any potential knives that you uncover. Beyond that, I’m guessing.’

‘What else have you found?’

‘Overall, the subject was in reasonable physical health, falling within normal height and weight for a white, Caucasian male. His musculature suggests a manual worker, and a full body X-ray reveals a healed fracture to his right collarbone, probably dating back to childhood. No signs of liver damage, although there was some scarring on the septum of his nose that suggests he may have been a cocaine user. I’ve sent off for drug and alcohol screening.

‘I’ve also observed what appear to be small, fresh bruises on his left arm. I can’t be any more precise on the timing, but they would be consistent with him heavily falling on the floor within a few minutes of his death.’

Warren pondered that for a moment. Had Cullen bumped himself before his massage? Or had he fallen during the attack? How did that sequence of events match what the two sisters had claimed had taken place that day?

Jordan’s findings had given him much to think about. The pathologist had used his experience, and the application of science, to persuade Stevie Cullen to tell at least some of his story from beyond the grave. In a way, Jordan had allowed the victim to help them find his own killer. Now it was up to Warren to finish the job.

Chapter 9

The ‘Golden twenty-four hours’, crucial to any investigation, elapsed Tuesday afternoon. From now on, as time ticked by and the scene grew colder, the likelihood of a quick resolution started to decrease rapidly.

Warren arrived back at CID early evening. In his absence, the wheeled whiteboards in the briefing rooms had started to be filled in. The first board was the suspect board. At the centre was a headshot of Stevie Cullen, with lines drawn in marker pen leading off it. The first photo that Warren had found was the one taken the last time he was arrested. He’d decided not to use that picture, because not only was it a couple of years out of date, but also because of the negative connotations of such a photo. Instead, he’d replaced it with one a few weeks old culled from Cullen’s Facebook page. This picture showed a smiling, carefree twenty-something. It was a reminder that no matter what crimes he had committed when alive, he was still a victim. Warren had seen the look of terror on the dead man’s face – nobody deserved to die like that, and no parent should have to bury their child.

To Cullen’s right were the two masseuses, Biljana and Malina Dragić, and their aunt and owner of the massage parlour, Silvija Wilson. All three women still had questions to answer in Warren’s mind and he was looking forward to checking their phone logs and social media usage. The latter would likely be complicated by the need to translate much of the material from Serbian, and DSI Grayson had grudgingly authorized the cost of fast-track translators.

On the left of the board were Vicki Barclay and her erstwhile fiancé Anton Rimington. The latter was still not answering his mobile phone and Grayson had authorized an alert to be issued for his whereabouts.

Barclay was now safely en route to her cousin’s house up in Cambridgeshire. The story that she had told Warren was certainly compelling and had given him a new direction to look in, but he was not going to take it at face value.

A second whiteboard had photographs of Cullen’s known associates, including his parents, siblings and extended family, and drinking buddies from the White Stag. A written column headed ‘Business interests’ had a growing list of names of local farmers that Stevie Cullen might have been working with. Many of the headshots were taken directly from the Police National Computer – those were the circles that he moved in. Any individuals who proved to be of more than passing interest would be moved to the suspect board.

‘Mags, how are Traffic doing?’ started Warren. Before her move into CID, Richardson had worked in the Roads Policing Unit. She had been there during the sudden explosion in the volume of evidence from Traffic cameras and video footage and had maintained an expertise in that area since. Richardson was now Middlesbury’s primary link with headquarters’ Video Analysis Unit down in Welwyn.

‘It’s early days. They’ve done a data dump of all the static number recognition cameras in the area, as well as mobile ANPR units, but coverage is pretty poor in that area,’ Richardson cautioned. ‘They’re still doing pattern analysis, working out what cars were in the area at the time and cross-referencing with usual patterns of movement, to see if anything stands out, but they were able to give me a preliminary report on Stevie Cullen’s movements on the day of his death.’

‘Well give us what you’ve got,’ said Warren.

‘First off, we’re assuming that Stevie Cullen was driving the clapped-out Ford Fiesta registered to his older brother, Paddy. It was parked down the street from the massage parlour, and he had a key to it in his pocket.’

‘That makes sense,’ said Pymm. ‘Stevie Cullen was banned from driving.’

‘In that case, could he have been a passenger?’ asked Ruskin. ‘The driver could have dropped him off.’

‘Then why abandon the car?’ asked Richardson. ‘The car was still there hours after the attack. And Cullen had the keys in his pocket.’

‘His most recent conviction was for driving without a licence and insurance six months ago,’ pointed out Pymm. ‘He clearly has no respect for the law in that regard.’

‘What if the driver killed him?’ asked Ruskin. ‘They drop him off, wait until they know he’s vulnerable, then go in, kill him and run away, leaving the car behind. Stevie uses the car sometimes, so he has a spare key on his key ring.’

The idea had enough merit for Warren not to dismiss it entirely. ‘Hutch, tell your door-knockers to ask if anyone saw the car, and if Stevie was alone,’ he ordered. ‘In the meantime, what else have we got from Traffic? Anything on Anton Rimington?’

‘Nothing,’ said Richardson. ‘We’ve run the licence plate from his car through the databases, but the last time his car was pinged was Sunday evening, driving away from Vicki Barclay’s place.’

‘I don’t suppose it gives us a clue as to where he’s holed up?’ asked Warren.

‘No, not really. He could be anywhere that side of town. They’ll trawl the data for any other cars that he may have access to, but as far as we can tell, he didn’t use his own car to cross town to the massage parlour the day of the murder.’

‘Thanks, Mags. Anything else on the video front?’ asked Warren.

‘IT are still examining the parlour’s digital video recorder, but they’ve sent me the footage from the hours before and during the attack.’ Mags Richardson started the video on the main screen.

‘You can see the two girls and their aunt arrive at the shop just after eight-thirty.’

The camera position was less than ideal. Placed up in the left-hand corner of the reception, its angle meant that much of the right side of its field of view showed nothing but wall; the remainder showed only the front of the reception area, going as far back as the desk. It didn’t record sound.

Richardson increased the speed of the footage to sixteen times.

Little happened for the next few minutes. The two masseuses flitted in and out of shot, still in their street clothes, straightening the customer waiting chairs and opening the window blinds. Biljana, easily identifiable by her dark brown hair, rearranged some bottles of massage oil on the cabinet in the front window, fixing what appeared to be a poster to the glass. Warren remembered seeing a printed sheet advertising buy one, get one free on selected oils.

During this time her aunt, Silvija Wilson, took up position at the computer on the front desk. Opening the customer ledger, she appeared to be transferring information from the A4 diary into the computer.

‘Do we have a copy of the spreadsheet, or whatever she was using on the computer?’

‘IT bagged the desktop computer as evidence, along with the video recorder,’ said Rachel Pymm. ‘I’ll ask them to scan the hard drive for anything of interest and send it over.’

At a quarter to nine, the two women disappeared, reappearing about ten minutes later wearing the black uniforms that were currently undergoing investigation in the central forensic unit down in Welwyn Garden City. Whilst they were getting changed, Wilson disappeared briefly, before reappearing with what appeared to be a wad of cash, which she slipped in an envelope. After writing on the envelope, she placed it in the zip-up compartment at the front of her bag.

‘Looks like she’s getting ready to do the bank run,’ observed Grimshaw. ‘We should check that she actually made it.’

‘I’ll do that,’ volunteered Martinez. ‘I’ll keep it discreet; we don’t want to spook her by asking her questions about her finances.’

‘Good thinking,’ said Warren.

At nine o’clock on the dot, Biljana turned the sign over on the front door.

A few seconds later, her dark head popped briefly back into view as she passed over a cup of coffee to her aunt. Just before nine twenty-five, Wilson picked up her bag, and called over her shoulder before leaving through the front door.

Moray Ruskin looked up from his notepad. ‘So far that sequence of events seems to match what the two girls told us.’

The video continued, Richardson increasing the speed to maximum.

‘Monday really is a quiet day,’ observed Martinez, as the counter on the clock raced ahead with nothing happening on the screen.

Shortly before eleven a.m., a middle-aged woman in jeans and a dark T-shirt arrived. Malina greeted her at the desk, before the customer walked past her. Richardson slowed the video to normal speed.

‘I really wish that camera was installed properly,’ muttered Richardson to no one in particular, as she sped the camera up again. Even at high speed, Malina sat stock still, staring at her phone, the only movement visible her blurred fingers across phone’s touchscreen.

At twenty-five past eleven, a second woman entered the shop and Richardson slowed the video again. Dressed in a flowery dress, she looked to be elderly, with a wooden walking stick. Sitting down on one of the reception chairs, she greeted Malina at the front desk. They spoke briefly, before Malina turned and called something over her shoulder. A minute or so later, a flash of brown hair signalled the arrival of her sister with a glass of clear liquid.

After finishing her drink the woman rose to her feet, and using the walking stick for support headed off screen. Malina followed her.

For the next few minutes, the picture remained unchanged, the reception desk empty. No customers entered the shop. At 11.40 the woman in the jeans and T-shirt reappeared, walking out of the front door without a second glance.

Again, the picture returned to a static image, and Richardson sped past the next fifty minutes, until Malina returned to the front desk. Two minutes later, the second, older woman joined her. Leaning her walking stick against the table, she rooted around in her bag before producing her purse. Malina entered something on the till, then handed over a credit card reader. After returning her purse to her bag, the woman waved goodbye before heading out of the door.

‘I want to know who those two women are,’ said Warren. ‘Rachel, check the customer records and see if we can identify them.’

The display now showed 12.32. Biljana joined her sister at the front desk, placing two white china mugs on the wooden surface, before pulling over one of the waiting chairs so that she sat opposite. Opening her bag, she handed her sister a foil-wrapped parcel, and a packet of crisps, which the older sibling opened and placed on the desk between them.

As the two women tucked into sandwiches and shared the crisps they chatted. Melina turned her phone around and showed something to Biljana, who laughed and passed her own phone over. Unfortunately, there was no way to see the phones’ screens.

The lunch break lasted until ten minutes to one, when the door opened. Both women quickly stood up. Stevie Cullen had just entered the shop. Dressed in a brown leather jacket, blue jeans and a dark T-shirt, he stood in front of the desk.

After speaking to him for a moment, Biljana headed off-camera in the direction of the back rooms. Cullen said something, and Malina followed her sister. She mustn’t have gone too far as Cullen kept on speaking.

Shortly before one, Cullen stopped speaking and headed off screen. Moments later, Malina resumed her place at the front desk.

‘Going back for his massage,’ said Ruskin.

‘And whatever else he’s paid for,’ said Grimshaw.

This time they kept the video footage running at no more than four times its normal speed. Again, Malina sat almost unmoving, staring at her phone screen. Warren wondered if she was watching a video; perhaps a favourite TV programme from back home?

At ten minutes past one she suddenly sat upright, half turning in her chair. She sat still for a few seconds, her head cocked, before quickly getting up and disappearing off-screen. Warren would have given anything for the camera angle to change, or for there to be sound.

An agonizing twenty-six minutes of nothing but an empty reception desk passed, before a visibly flustered Malina reappeared, leaning over the computer. She placed her phone on the desk in front of her.

Warren squinted at the screen. ‘Can we pause it and zoom in?’

‘It’s pretty low quality,’ warned Richardson as she complied with his instruction.

‘What the hell is she doing to that computer?’ asked Hutchinson as the video resumed. On screen the young masseuse was tapping away at the keyboard and manipulating the mouse.

After a minute or so, Malina stood up and headed back off screen.

Moments later, she reappeared, her arm around the shoulder of her sister. Even on the poor-quality video it was clear that Biljana was sobbing.

Still holding her distraught sibling, Malina manipulated her phone, placing it to her ear. Warren noted the time stamp: 13.40.

‘That’s the 999 call.’

Malina remained on the line, leaving her sister briefly to lock the front door, as instructed by the call handler, before resuming hugging her sister tightly. Four minutes passed until Malina returned to the door and opened it again. Two of the constables that Warren recognized from the crime scene entered, batons drawn.

Warren signalled for Richardson to pause the video; the specialist team at Welwyn would be reviewing the video in far greater detail than his team were capable of, but it had given them plenty to get started with.

‘The most important questions I have are, what the hell were the two girls doing in the almost thirty minutes between Malina disappearing off screen and the emergency call being made. And what was so damned important on that computer?’

Wednesday 04 November

Chapter 10

The morning briefing of the second day of the investigation still had that new investigation buzz about it, although for Warren, it was already partly fuelled by caffeine. He’d slept poorly, the stress of the case adding to the anxiety he was already feeling about tomorrow’s upcoming hospital appointment. Weeks of waiting would soon be over, and the timing of what he feared was going to be a long and arduous investigation couldn’t have been worse. At a time like this, he should be spending as much time as possible with his wife. Nevertheless, he had a job to do, and he forced his attention back to the matter in hand.

The seconded officers from Welwyn had been formed into small groups led by the experienced sergeants on Warren’s own core team, and so the first part of the briefing necessitated bringing everyone up to speed. Warren worked his way down the list of tasks from the previous day, starting with Rachel Pymm.

‘Through a combination of wit and charm, I persuaded IT to give me a raw dump of the massage parlour’s hard drive. They’re still going through it properly, but I have access to documents such as the appointment lists and the emails et cetera.’

‘Good. We seized the handwritten customer ledger from the reception desk as evidence. Cross-reference the appointments with her records. I want to know how often Stevie Cullen used to visit the massage parlour, and if there was a predictable pattern to his visits. I also want to know who those two other customers were – maybe they saw or heard something. Have you got the records back from the two sisters’ phones yet?’

Pymm made a face. ‘No. The phones are registered to some cheap overseas carrier based in Eastern Europe. We’ll get them, but it’ll take time.’

‘Bugger. Well keep at it; prioritize them when they arrive,’ Warren said. He turned to Hutchinson next.

‘The alibis from Stevie Cullen’s two sisters and their husbands check out,’ said the veteran sergeant. ‘Lavender’s phone records confirm that she was making and taking calls from her landline all day, and we found plenty of staff at the supermarket where her husband works to confirm that he was on shift when Stevie Cullen was killed.’

Hutchinson flipped over the next page in his notepad. ‘We’ve also got positive sightings of Saffron at the grocer’s that she visited that day to sell the farm produce. One of them was even obliging enough to show CCTV footage of her at about the time that the murder occurred. The GP surgery confirmed that her husband had an appointment that day with their youngest, and they were running behind. The surgery uses one of those electronic booking terminals, so we have corroboration that he booked in shortly before Stevie was murdered and confirmation from the GP, the receptionist and the practice nurse that he stayed in the waiting room during that time. There’s no way that any of those four could have been the killer, or even directly involved.’

Warren drew a line through the names on the whiteboard. It was a symbolic gesture, but he knew from experience that the deluge of information coming into an investigation, particularly in its early stages, could feel overwhelming. Visibly chipping away at that growing pile helped the team feel as though they were making progress.

‘We should speak to Benny Masterson, Stevie’s best friend,’ suggested Ruskin. ‘I thought I’d try and track him down later today when he’s slept off yesterday.’

‘Well don’t leave it too late,’ cautioned Warren, ‘or from what you told us yesterday, he might have started drinking all over again. How are we doing tracking down that farmer Stevie was seen arguing with?’

Moray Ruskin flipped open his notebook. ‘Jorge’s narrowing it down. The White Stag pub is near a busy junction. I reckon there are about six farms or smallholdings that are close enough to consider the White Stag a local. I’m going back there to get a better description of the bloke Stevie was seen arguing with. The landlady, Gweneth Rain, seemed to be willing to cooperate; I reckon if I catch her before any of Stevie’s mates turn up for their mid-morning pint and pork scratchings, she’ll help me out.’

‘Well don’t dismiss the other farms out of hand,’ said Warren. ‘If any of them did have dealings with Stevie Cullen – business or otherwise – they might have useful information.’ He turned to Rachel Pymm. ‘Any progress on tracking down Anton Rimington, the fiancé of Vicki Barclay? If he was as angry as she said he was when he figured out that somebody else might have got her pregnant, who knows what he could do?’

‘His mobile phone has been turned off since Sunday night, when Barclay claims he stormed out,’ said Pymm. ‘We have a list of his known associates from around the time of his arrest. He doesn’t have any close family that we are aware of in the area, so if he is staying with someone, rather than holed up in a Travelodge, it’ll be a friend. I’ll get a team ringing around and, if necessary, door-knocking, but even if he is with one of these charmers, I don’t know how cooperative they’ll be.’

‘Well we won’t know if we don’t try. Prioritize finding him; he’s one of our strongest suspects at the moment. And if nothing else, I want to know what sort of risk he poses to Vicki Barclay. He has form for violent offending in the past.’

‘Speaking of which, how certain are we that Vicki Barclay is innocent in all of this?’ asked Martinez.

‘Well she’s very obviously pregnant,’ said Warren. ‘It would have to be a pretty baggy hoodie to fool the two sisters into thinking that the killer was a man.’

‘Maybe she was working with Rimington?’ suggested Martinez. ‘Imagine this scenario: Stevie Cullen gets Vicki pregnant. Realizing that she is never going to hide this from Rimington, she decides to tell him that Cullen raped her. She says she doesn’t want to go to the police, knowing that Rimington has such a temper on him, he may well go and solve the problem for her.’

‘Blimey, Jorge, you need to stop watching so many soap operas,’ said Grimshaw.

Warren placed a hand up to stay the sniping between the two friends. ‘Don’t dismiss it out of hand; let’s work through it,’ he said, although it seemed a bit far-fetched.

‘OK,’ started Grimshaw, ‘why would she go to all of that trouble, when she could just get an abortion? Surely that would solve the problem?’

‘That problem is an unborn baby,’ said Pymm, pointedly. ‘That’s a big step for many women to contemplate.’

‘Bigger than killing the baby’s father?’ countered Grimshaw.

‘Killing Stevie Cullen might solve one problem,’ said Hutchinson, ‘but surely it opens up a whole load more. If her plan was to create a plausible reason for falling pregnant, so that she could then live happily ever after with Anton Rimington, that only works if Rimington gets away with the murder. Otherwise, Rimington goes to prison and she has nobody to support her.’

‘You’re assuming that she wants support from Rimington,’ said Richardson. ‘She might feel that she would rather bring up the baby on her own. Getting Rimington to kill Cullen would take them both out of the picture.’

‘Or maybe there is a kernel of truth in what happened. Maybe Stevie Cullen actually did force himself on her?’ said Martinez.

‘So why didn’t she go to the police?’ asked Grimshaw.

‘Lots of rape victims don’t, you know that,’ said Martinez. ‘By all accounts, they had a more than friendly relationship. She might have felt shame, because she felt she had led him on, or maybe she just thought that no one would believe her. Perhaps she couldn’t face the thought of a “he said – she said” court case.’

‘Not to mention the whole evidence-collecting process,’ said Richardson.

‘She could also have been too frightened,’ said Hutchinson. ‘The Cullen family have a hell of a reputation around here. Accusing one of them of rape would take some guts.’

‘OK, it’s a theory worth pursuing. Anton Rimington is our number-one suspect at the moment. Let’s see if we can find him. In the meantime, keep looking into the two sisters; something isn’t right about them. I want to know if there is any link between them and Rimington. But remember, we still only have their word that there was even an intruder.’

No matter how many times he did them, press conferences still didn’t get any easier. The press briefing room down at police HQ in Welwyn Garden City was surprisingly full; testimony perhaps to the unusual circumstances of Stevie Cullen’s death, and the man’s own reputation. The briefing was short and factual, and primarily a plea for witnesses. They had decided not to mention Anton Rimington yet, because if he was involved – and that was far from certain at the moment – they didn’t want to spook him. If they didn’t find him in the next day or so, they would need to revisit that decision. In the meantime, Cullen’s name had been circulating on social media for at least twenty-four hours, giving the assembled journalists plenty of time to dig into his, and his family’s, somewhat colourful history.

Warren had come straight from the Cullen farm where, as Senior Investigating Officer, he had taken it upon himself to visit the grieving relatives and update them on the investigation’s progress personally.

The family had finally given in to the entreaties of the family liaison team, although they remained suspicious of the police. Warren respected their wishes, but felt he had a duty to at least keep them informed.

The cramped kitchen of the farmhouse had been thick with cigarette smoke, and Warren regretted wearing his best suit. It would need to be dry-cleaned before its next outing. Rosie and Seamus had been joined by their eldest daughter, Lavender. Beside her on the table was her laptop. She was obviously working from her parents’ that day. Warren’s phone had already shown that the house had Wi-Fi, suggesting that Stevie may well have owned a laptop and it had indeed been spirited away the night of the murder. There was no sign of either of the twins, Paddy and Frankie, or the remaining sister, Saffron.

Warren’s welcome was less than warm, his repeated condolences ignored; he was the only person in the room without a cup of coffee in front of him. Helping himself to a chocolate Hobnob from the packet on the table was completely out of the question.

Regardless, the Cullens listened to what he had to say, and when he left after half an hour, Seamus Cullen had at least shaken his hand and wished him luck in finding his son’s killer. His wife had remained stone-faced throughout, grief and anger rolling off her in waves. Lavender had avoided his gaze, her eyes shining with the threat of tears.

The Cullens had declined the opportunity to attend the press conference but had agreed to a written statement to be read out on their behalf. Warren was acutely aware that Stevie Cullen was likely to be dissected mercilessly in the press over the coming weeks, and he was keen to build sympathy with the public, knowing that their cooperation could prove vital. Two days into the investigation, and they had yet to find any witnesses. Nevertheless, he winced inwardly at the eulogizing statement that the family had composed along with the family liaison officer. Grayson, dressed in his crisply tailored uniform, had generously handed over the reading of the short testimony to Warren.

‘Stevie was a much-loved son, brother and friend who will be sorely missed by all who knew him. A hardworking and honest man, we cannot understand who would want to hurt our beautiful boy. Somebody out there must know who killed Stevie, and we beg that you come forward and help the police with their investigation, to ensure that he gets the justice he deserves.’

Warren finished reading the statement and looked up, studiously avoiding the smirks on the faces of some of the local journalists, many of whom had made a good living out of reporting the various misdeeds of the Cullen family over the years.

The statement might have been somewhat over-flattering, but Stevie Cullen was a victim and deserved justice. Warren was determined to get it for him.

Chapter 11

At the same time that her old team were receiving their first briefing of the day, but on the other side of town, DC Karen Hardwick stared at the envelope. The crest in the corner told her who the sender was without any need to open it. She sat down, her legs suddenly weak. She’d filled in the forms weeks ago, then forgot all about them until the invitation to come and visit. Even then it hadn’t seemed real; more of a cosy chat than anything serious. But she’d enjoyed it and realized how much she’d missed that life.

For the past few years, almost her whole existence had been the police. First a constable on the beat, then a sideways move into CID as a detective constable. She’d enjoyed the intellectual challenge of working cases and DCI Jones and DI Sutton had been tremendous mentors.

And then there had been Gary. Awkward from the moment they’d met, it had been obvious the more experienced constable had fancied her from the outset, but she had been too engrossed in her new role to think about things like that. Besides, workplace romances were never a good idea, were they?

Of course, it had been nothing more than idle curiosity that had led her to looking up Hertfordshire Constabulary’s policy on relationships between colleagues. To her surprise it turned out that as long as there were no line management conflicts of interest and supervisors were apprised of the relationship, there was no problem at all.

In the end, there had been no need to inform DCI Jones of their burgeoning romance; he and the room full of detectives they worked with had seen the direction their friendship was going in before even she and Gary had realized what was happening.

The next two years had been the happiest of her life, as the two lovers had moved in together and started planning for a future that would forever include the two of them.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she gently touched the diamond band on her left ring finger.

Fifteen months.

Fifteen months since a week that had seen the two of them reach new levels of happiness.

Fifteen months since her surprise discovery had turned their world upside down and made everything else seem trivial and unimportant.

Fifteen months since a glimpse at a future of love and excitement had been cruelly snatched away.

Fifteen months since a senseless act of violence had destroyed all of their futures.

As if sensing his mother’s distress, a fussing came from the baby carriage next to the armchair. Karen held her breath; she’d only finished feeding him twenty minutes before – at eight months old, Oliver was no longer so demanding, but he was still hard work. He continued to grizzle for a few moments before settling back to sleep.

She turned her attention back to the letter, picking it up and weighing it in her hand. Judging from the thickness of the envelope, it contained a single sheet of A4 paper folded three times.

What did a single sheet mean? Yes or No? For the first time since she had started the process, she realized that she was truly at a crossroads. The answer contained within the envelope was just one of several options, and whilst in theory she had until February to decide what she wanted to do, she needed to make her mind up sooner rather than later.

She placed it back on the table and walked over to the kitchen counter to fill the kettle, suddenly needing to do something – anything – rather than open the envelope. The threatened tears now started to roll down her cheeks again.

Fifteen months and sometimes the grief was as strong as the day that he’d been killed. Outwardly she appeared to be coping amazingly well; she’d lost count of the number of times she’d been told that, as if burying one’s true feelings and carrying on as if nothing happened was something to be proud of.

But inside …

Inside it was a different matter.

When Oliver finally went down for the night, and the bedroom door closed, she crumpled, climbing into her bed – their bed – and crammed the duvet into her mouth to muffle the sobs as she pressed her hands against her ears, trying to blot out the memory of the sound of Gary’s death; the deafening crash that cut him off in the middle of the last conversation she’d ever have with him.

Fifteen months and she still imagined she could smell Gary on his pillow.

Fifteen months and she could convince herself that any moment now she’d hear his key in the lock; the metallic chink as he dropped his key, coin wallet and ID badge into the bowl on the kitchen table. Then the quiet creak of the bedroom door as he slipped in, tired after a long shift but still wanting to steal a quick kiss before clambering into bed beside her.

What she wouldn’t give to have him here now. Gary would help her decide. Gary would listen and help her make up her own mind without pushing her either way, and even if he disagreed with her decision, he would support her one hundred per cent. But that was no longer possible.

Who else could she ask for advice? Who else would be an impartial sounding board? Everyone who loved her wanted the best for her, but they all had their own views about what she should do.

She knew what her parents would want. They’d be delighted if she moved back to where she was brought up. Since her grandmother’s passing, the small, self-contained granny flat that she’d spent her last few years in had been empty. It would be the perfect size for her and Oliver. Her father had never been anything but one hundred per cent supportive of her career choices, but she knew he had been disappointed when she’d joined the police, rather than continuing the career in science that she’d seemed destined to follow since childhood.

Then there were Gary’s parents. They’d be equally delighted if she moved closer to them. Oliver was the only living evidence that their son had once walked the earth. They meant well, but sometimes she just wanted to scream ‘leave us alone’. If she accepted the offer in the letter, living in Middlesbury was no longer an option. Gary’s Mum and Dad had already promised to help her with the deposit on a flat if she moved nearer; it would also mean free childcare as both his parents were retired. Their offer was generous, and God knows it would be one less worry, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be that close. She loved the couple who would have been her in-laws to bits, but sometimes she felt smothered as they sought to lessen their grief by focusing on Gary’s legacy.

And what about DCI Jones? Over the years, she’d come to value his opinion and guidance on so much, but she knew he couldn’t be impartial. He was desperate for her to return to Middlesbury CID. But could she face it? Could she go to work every day in the same office where she’d met and fallen in love with Gary, working for the man who’d held her fiancé’s hand as his life ebbed away? She’d heard everything that happened over the open telephone line and she’d remember Jones’s panicked response until the day she died.

But then again, did she want to work in a different unit or even a different force? Middlesbury was unique, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever find a team she’d feel as comfortable in.

In a way, the direction that she chose was less to do with her future career and more to do with a more straightforward yet more difficult choice: should she try to pick up the pieces and continue as before, or make a clean break of it?

She picked up the envelope again. Over the baby monitor, she could hear the quiet rasp of Oliver’s breathing. The contents of the envelope were as important to his future as hers. She took a sip of her coffee. Lukewarm already.

Time to stop procrastinating.

Before she could find another excuse to delay, she slipped her finger under the flap and pulled the two edges apart. She removed the sheet of paper, unfolding it as she did so.

The top third confirmed the identity of the sender on the right and her mailing address on the left. A single line before the fold.

Dear Ms Hardwick,

Hands trembling, she turned it over.

After a successful interview, we are delighted to offer you a place studying for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the School of Biosciences at the University of Nottingham for the academic year commencing September 1st 2016.

We would be grateful if you could communicate your intentions to us no later than Friday December 4th 2015.

Chapter 12

Vicki Barclay’s fiancé, Anton Rimington, had been located as soon as he powered up his mobile phone mid-morning. Sitting on his best friend Leroy McGiven’s sofa, where he’d been sleeping since Sunday, he was valiantly fighting a hangover with black coffee, a fizzing glass of Alka-Seltzer, and if that didn’t work, what appeared to be a line of cocaine.

Despite his fragile condition, and the fact he was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts, he declined to attend the station voluntarily, and was forcibly arrested after throwing a punch at one of the arresting officers and trying to escape through the kitchen window.

Possession of suspected class A drugs and assault of a police officer was enough to ensure that he could be detained for the next twenty-four hours without charge, giving Warren and his team plenty of time to plan their next move.

By midday, Rimington had found himself a solicitor and been pronounced fit and healthy enough to be interviewed. Already, his friend’s flat and both men’s cars were being searched by a CSI team.

After Grimshaw had finished setting up the recording, Warren got straight down to business. ‘Anton, can you tell me your whereabouts Monday afternoon?’

Rimington blinked in surprise. ‘Why? What’s it to you?’

His solicitor looked similarly puzzled, as well he might. ‘According to the charge sheet, I was under the impression that Mr Rimington was here in relation to alleged drug possession and an alleged assault on a police officer. These incidents supposedly occurred early this morning, and my client strenuously denies them both.’

‘We will get onto that in due course, but in the meantime, I would like to deal with another matter.’

Warren awaited the solicitor’s response but didn’t take his eyes off Rimington.

The lawyer looked over at his client, who shrugged. His expression and his body language both suggested that he was confused. Did he really have no idea why the police had arrived that morning and what had happened Monday afternoon, or was he just a good actor?

‘This is most irregular, DCI Jones. My client has a right to know what he is being accused of.’

Doubtless the solicitor would put a complaint in, but Warren knew that his strategy was on the right side of the law.

‘Mr Rimington? Could you tell me your whereabouts Monday afternoon?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘It was only forty-eight hours ago,’ prompted Warren.

‘Yeah, well, I’ve been on a bit of a bender since Sunday night.’

‘Would that be the night you punched your fiancée?’ asked Grimshaw.

‘What’s the bitch been telling you?’ snapped Rimington.

‘Why don’t you tell us what happened Sunday night?’ suggested Warren.

Rimington took a breath. When he spoke again, his tone was conciliatory.

‘Look. Vicki and me had a bit of a tiff, Sunday night. Nothing too serious. I decided I wanted a bit of time to think, so I came round to Leroy’s. He said I could stay for a bit. You know, just until things calmed down.’

‘What was the row about?’ asked Warren.

‘Just the usual. Nothing important.’ His tone was a study in nonchalance. ‘It’s hardly worth talking about.’

‘It was important enough to leave Vicki with a black eye,’ said Grimshaw.

‘Is that what this is about? Seriously, she’s pregnant. You know what they’re like when they’re up the spout. Hormones and all that shit. She’s just pissed at me. She’s so clumsy, she probably bumped her head on a cupboard.’ Again, his tone seemed forced. ‘Anyhow, I haven’t been back around there since Sunday. I definitely wasn’t round there Monday afternoon.’

‘I thought you said you were on a bender? How do you know if you weren’t around there Monday?’ asked Grimshaw.

‘Look, I’ve been on the piss and the days are a bit blurred, but I’d remember if I went back around there.’ He settled back in his chair and folded his arms.

‘Tell me, do you know a Stevie Cullen?’ asked Warren.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the solicitor, who’d clearly just started to put the pieces together.

Rimington gave a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Yeah, he drinks in the White Stag sometimes. Can’t say I really know him.’

Again, his attitude was forced, but Warren had caught the flash of anger as it crossed his face. Once again, Warren was glad of the decision to upgrade the interview suites to include video evidence. Micro-expressions could be persuasive to a jury.

The question was, what did the anger signify?

Warren now needed to be careful with what he said. It wasn’t clear from his interview with Vicki Barclay whether Rimington definitely knew that the likely father of her unborn child was Cullen, or even that she had confirmed that her fiancé wasn’t the father. On the one hand, if Rimington appeared genuinely surprised that Cullen was the father, that potentially removed his motive. On the other hand, confirming his suspicions potentially placed Barclay in even more danger, should Rimington be released on bail or without charge. He probably already thought that she had reported him for assault. The man’s record suggested that he wouldn’t take kindly to that.

At the moment though, something else bothered him about the man’s reaction.

His solicitor clearly recognized Cullen’s name. The murder at the massage parlour had been on both regional and national news bulletins, front page of the local newspaper and all over the internet. Although Cullen’s identity had only just been released formally, it had been freely circulating on social media for the past twenty-four hours.

Yet Rimington gave the impression that he was unaware of the man’s demise. If he really had been on a forty-eight-hour drinking session, and his phone had been turned off during that time, then unless he had been told by a friend or he was directly involved in the killing, he probably wouldn’t know about the murder. In which case he was probably not involved.

So, was he truly innocent, or just a very good actor?

Warren called an impromptu team meeting to discuss the interview with Anton Rimington. He’d already proven that he had a violent streak – Vicki Barclay’s swollen cheek was clear evidence of that – but was he capable of murder? If he was, the murder was cold-blooded and pre-planned. It marked a change in his offending pattern. Anton Rimington had two previous convictions for violence, both against previous partners. The first had resulted in a suspended jail sentence, the second in a three-month spell inside.

‘What is it about these bastards?’ Moray Ruskin voiced his disgust. ‘He’s got two convictions for domestic violence already; why do women think that he’ll behave differently with them?’

‘Maybe she didn’t know his reputation?’ said Rachel Pymm. ‘She wasn’t brought up locally; she moved here from Kent, a couple of years ago.’

‘And she was definitely vulnerable,’ said Warren. ‘From what I can tell, she left her family after some sort of row, answering a job advert she saw online. That lasted six months, by which time she had met Rimington. He’s six years older, not bad-looking, and earns a decent wage as a slaughterman.’

‘He just gets better,’ snorted Grimshaw.

‘Either way, he pops the question and when she’s threatened with eviction for not paying her rent, he swoops in and lets her move in with him. She probably didn’t even know about his previous convictions,’ said Warren.

‘And that’s why these bastards need a tattoo on their forehead,’ said Grimshaw. ‘The word “wife beater” in big black letters should make a few women think twice.’

‘It’s not often I agree with Shaun, but I think I’ll make an exception today,’ said Pymm.

‘Regardless, I think he has to be our number-one suspect at the moment,’ said Warren, bringing the meeting back to the main topic at hand.

‘He’s clearly a violent and dangerous man and I’d imagine he’s pretty handy with a knife, and not too bothered by the sight of blood,’ said Grimshaw.

‘Animal blood, not human blood,’ Warren reminded him.

Grimshaw shrugged.

‘Does it fit his offending pattern, though?’ asked Pymm. ‘Domestic abusers are usually pretty cowardly. Can you see him attacking Stevie Cullen? Cullen was a fit, well-built farmhand. That’s a lot different to hitting a tiny, pregnant woman.’

‘Cullen was also helpless on his back, probably half-asleep,’ pointed out Ruskin.

‘His previous assaults have also been heat-of-the-moment,’ said Pymm. ‘Killing Stevie Cullen would take significant planning. He had to know that he was going to be in the massage parlour at that time; he also needed to know that he could get in through that back window.’

‘Has Rimington been to the massage parlour before?’ asked Ruskin. ‘If he has, he might know that the back window is accessible.’

‘That also means he’d know the two sisters,’ said Hutchinson.

‘I’ll check the ledger,’ said Pymm.

‘That still doesn’t explain how he knew that Cullen would be there,’ said Warren. ‘Even if Cullen had a regular appointment, I’d still want to know how he knew that.’

‘Maybe he just got lucky?’ said Grimshaw. ‘He could have been following Cullen all morning, waiting for him to wander down a dark alley so he could stab him. Most murders aren’t committed by some great criminal mastermind; hell, he might not even have intended to kill him. He might just have been planning on confronting him.’

Martinez was already shaking his head. ‘The girls claim that he climbed in the window and killed Cullen before he could react. No, the bastard was definitely out to murder him.’

‘Then let’s see if we can pin him down to the area,’ said Warren. ‘Mags, can you add any vehicles that Rimington had access to, to the CCTV and ANPR search? Hutch, give Rimington’s picture to the door-knockers; see if anyone spotted him in the area.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Give them a photo of Vicki Barclay as well. If she was involved, then a pregnant woman might jog a few more memories.’

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.’

Thursday 05 November

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