A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  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 c
heek 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.