by Paul Gitsham
‘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 R
imington. 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.