A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  ‘What happened?’

  Dorridge snorted. ‘Oh, he was all smiles and apologizing. His brother didn’t say anything of course. He asked how much it had cost me, and when I told him, he just pulled a wad of notes out of his back pocket and counted out two hundred quid. And then he left.’

  ‘And that was it?’ asked Grimshaw.

  ‘Of course it bloody wasn’t. And I knew it wasn’t going to end there. A couple of months later, my phone went. I’ve no idea how he got my number. He said he wanted to meet up for a pint and a chat. What could I do?

  ‘We met up, in the Rampant Lion this time. Again, his brother was with him. The first thing he asked was if I’d said anything. I said no, of course. I’m not that stupid. Then he said that he had a proposal for me. He said that the council would take away any rubbish dumped illegally on a farmer’s land. He said that as long as I reported it, and pleaded ignorance, there’d be no problems. He said all I had to do was lock the gates with a bit of chain; he wouldn’t even cut the padlock. He’d call me after he’d done it, and then I just needed to report it a couple of days later.’

  ‘And you agreed?’ said Warren.

  ‘What else could I do?’ Dorridge looked down at his hands. ‘Besides he gave me fifty quid for my trouble, every time he did it.’ He shook his head. ‘I can’t believe I was so stupid. Now I couldn’t go to the police, because I was part of the scam.’

  Warren could see the dilemma that Dorridge had faced; the problem was it moved him further up the suspect list, not down. It seemed that for the most part, Ray Dorridge was a hardworking, law-abiding farmer. Stevie Cullen had cleverly manipulated him into joining his conspiracy; even if the money hadn’t been enough to persuade Dorridge to keep quiet, by accepting the bribe he had become complicit in the fraud. Add that to the debacle in the restaurant, and Ray Dorridge had plenty of motive to hate the man.

  ‘When was the last time this happened?’

  ‘Two weeks ago.’

  Martinez had been right that an incident in a restaurant nine months previously – no matter how embarrassing – was an unlikely reason to kill Cullen, but the latest of his dealings with him had been only a fortnight ago. Could that have been what finally tipped Dorridge over the edge? There were plenty of holes in the man’s story that needed filling.

  ‘I take it the argument in the White Stag over payment was related to this?’

  Dorridge nodded eagerly. ‘He was late paying me for the latest tipping. I said he was taking the piss and wanted my money. It got a bit heated.’

  ‘I see. And this – arrangement – over waste dumping is the only business arrangement that you had with Mr Cullen?’

  Dorridge nodded again. ‘That’s it. Just some dumping.’

  Warren said nothing for a few seconds, watching as Dorridge relaxed. ‘I’m afraid I don’t believe you, Ray.’

  The smile dropped from Dorridge’s face. ‘What do you mean? I can give you the names of other farmers he was bribing. Maybe one of them killed him.’ He scrambled in his pocket, bringing out his phone. ‘Look at my call logs. You were right about that number being Stevie’s mobile. You can match the dates that he called me, to the dates that I called the council to report the dumping.’

  ‘We already did,’ Warren reminded him, gesturing toward the folder in front of him.

  ‘It also shows that you called him on several occasions throughout the year. Now why would you do that? From what you’ve told me, you actively avoided the man where possible, and he was the one to call you when he had a load that he needed to dump.’

  Dorridge fell silent. Warren said nothing, allowing him to dig himself deeper. He wondered if Dorridge knew that his left foot bounced around when he was trying to think of a lie.

  ‘Sometimes he was a bit late paying, I rang him to remind him.’

  ‘None of those other calls match the dates around the dumping,’ said Warren, his instincts telling him that Dorridge was starting to panic.

  Dorridge was silent again. Warren could clearly see the man was trying to think of another plausible excuse for calling Cullen.

  ‘Some months, things got a bit tight. I asked Stevie if he had any more loads that needed dumping.’

  ‘So, you’d get your fifty quid?’

  ‘Yeah.’ It was clear that it sounded weak, even to Dorridge’s ears. He looked over at his solicitor, who maintained a professional poker face. Whilst it was his duty to advocate for his client, and ensure that he was fairly represented, he couldn’t advise on how to lie to the police.

  ‘Going back to the conversation overheard in the pub, the witness was quite clear about what they heard.’ Warren took out another piece of paper. ‘They said that you were unhappy with a bill that Mr Cullen had charged you. I thought that Mr Cullen paid you for the fly-tipping?’

  ‘They must have misheard.’

  ‘Apparently, you said that the job had only been half-done and that it had taken twice as long as necessary. You then asked, “Where was that bloody brother of yours?” and said that you “didn’t have the time to keep on chasing and nagging”.

  ‘What job was only half-done, Mr Dorridge? And who were you chasing and nagging?’

  Dorridge’s eyes were now dancing around almost as much as his foot. When his answer came, his voice was barely a whisper.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘I think it’s clear to everyone in this room that you and Mr Cullen had a business relationship that went far beyond what you’ve already admitted to. Why don’t you tell us what it was? Then we can get this all cleared up, and everyone can go home.’

  The last bit was a bit of a stretch. Depending on the nature of Dorridge’s business dealings with Cullen, he might well be charged with an offence. Nevertheless, he would probably be released on bail – although he’d have to find somewhere else to stay whilst the search of his farm continued.

  For a moment, Dorridge looked tempted, before shaking his head again and repeating, ‘No comment.’

  Warren waited for a few moments longer, but Dorridge had clearly made his mind up.

  After a short discussion with Grayson, Warren decided not to arrest Dorridge yet. Nevertheless, the man stayed on the suspect board.

  In the meantime, the interview had thrown up a wealth of new leads.

  ‘At least we know that Dorridge and Cullen had strong links, and Dorridge had several motives for killing him,’ said Warren, ‘and we’ve caught him out in a lie at least once.’

  Martinez was already shaking his head. ‘I’m sorry, Boss, I’m still not convinced. What have we actually got here? An embarrassing incident over a woman in a restaurant nine months ago, and him being strong-armed into committing an offence that’ll probably result in no more than a fine.’

  ‘That’s only the motives we know about,’ pointed out Pymm, ‘and besides, he implied that he felt threatened by Cullen and his brother. People will do extreme things if they think they’re in danger.’

  ‘He lied about the fly-tipping until we pushed him on it,’ said Ruskin. ‘I’d like to know what he and Cullen were communicating about so frequently, and what they were arguing about in the White Stag. Maybe they had a bigger disagreement over money than Dorridge is letting on. He’s been lying to us all along.’

  ‘Place yourself in his shoes,’ persisted Martinez. ‘Stevie Cullen was brutally murdered, then we take Dorridge in for questioning. He must realize how bad it looks for him, and so he lied to protect himself. He wanted as much distance between himself and Cullen’s murder as he could.’

  ‘Blimey, Jorge, you’ve gone all liberal on us,’ said Grimshaw. ‘You need to stop reading The Guardian.’

  Martinez ignored his friend’s jibe. ‘Besides, even if he had a motive, how would he know that Cullen would be at the massage parlour at that time? Even his best mate, Benny, didn’t know about that.’

  The room went quiet. Martinez had made a good point.

  ‘Well, let’s keep digging. I won’t be satisfied until w
e can rule him out,’ said Warren. ‘I’ll request a warrant for his financial details – I suspect most of his dealings with Cullen were cash in hand, but let’s not assume that. Hopefully we have enough reason for one to be granted.’

  ‘Let’s not put all of our eggs in one basket, though,’ said Martinez. ‘I reckon Anton Rimington is still worth a look. If even the local gossips in the White Stag suspected that Cullen had got his missus pregnant, I can’t believe that the first time Rimington suspected anything was amiss was when the dates on the ultrasound scans didn’t match.’

  ‘Thank you, but I wasn’t planning on placing all of our eggs in one basket, Sergeant,’ said Warren, a little more waspishly than he’d intended.

  Martinez flushed pink. ‘Sorry, didn’t mean it to come out like that.’

  ‘You’re right though. Rachel, check if Ray Dorridge knows Anton Rimington or Vicki Barclay beyond what he has already admitted. And whilst we’re at it, we should take a closer look at that couple Cullen supposedly helped split up. It’s another potential motive.’

  Chapter 20

  ‘Decision time, Warren. Have you got enough to charge Anton Rimington or not?’

  Warren sighed; Grayson was right.

  The case against Rimington was circumstantial at best. So far, forensic analysis of his clothes had yet to find any traces of blood and a thorough search of his friend’s flat and car had failed to find anything suspicious. They had no evidence placing him at the scene of the attack, or even in the area. Ruskin’s suggestion that Rimington had used his own car but had changed the licence plates had all but been ruled out by Forensics who were confident that the dirt and grime coating the car had been building up for weeks or months.

  The man was clearly a bully and a nasty piece of work – and Warren had genuine concerns for the wellbeing of his fiancée, even if she had gone to stay with her cousin – but he could see no justification for charging him. With the custody limit fast approaching, Warren had no choice but to release him.

  ‘Cut him loose on bail, pending further inquiries,’ said Grayson.

  It was a good suggestion; it would ensure that Rimington could be called back at any time for further questioning. It might also make him think twice about harming his pregnant fiancée if he thought he was on still on the police’s radar.

  And if Rimington thought he was no longer a person of interest and free to go, he might relax and slip up.

  Four days after the murder of Stevie Cullen, the massage parlour where he met his demise was ready to be reopened. No longer a crime scene, a specialist cleaning firm was due the following morning to remove the bloodstains and make the room usable again.

  Whether that would be enough to attract clients back again remained to be seen; Warren couldn’t imagine relaxing in a room that had witnessed such a horrific crime.

  Something still bothered Warren about the scene though, and so before driving home for the day, he decided to drop by one more time.

  The massage parlour was dark by the time he arrived. The crime scene tape still fluttered outside, but there was no longer a police presence. The cold November night made Warren tighten his coat as he used a spare key to open the front door. He disabled the alarm, using the code, and flicked the lights on.

  Several days without heating had sucked the warmth out of the building, and the smell of massage oils had faded away, leaving only the tang of dried blood.

  Standing in front of the reception desk, Warren mentally replayed the CCTV footage of Stevie Cullen as he entered through the front door. He took a pace forward and turned on the spot. This was where Cullen had stood, for several seconds, speaking to someone behind the reception desk, and off the edge of the poorly positioned camera’s field of view.

  With the desk in front of him, Warren tried to work out who Cullen had been talking to. There was clearly no one at the desk, so that left someone in the space behind. There were two nail stations to his left; the open doorway through to the rest of the house was on the right. The carpet that covered the reception area, gave way to a more hard-wearing, wooden laminate in the nail bar area. Easier to clean up spillages, Warren supposed.

  Thinking back to the video, Cullen was clearly angled to the left. There were no other customers and the nail technicians weren’t working that day. Perhaps one of the two masseuses was sitting on one of the nail technician’s chairs as she waited for a client to arrive? Warren cursed the poorly installed camera.

  Giving up on the question for the time being, Warren continued through to the back room. Switching the lights on, he could see that whilst it wasn’t the worst murder scene he’d been to, the clean-up crew would probably have to completely redecorate. The raised massage bed was certainly a write-off.

  Warren pulled on a pair of gloves and slipped on some plastic overshoes, the precaution more about protecting his clothing than avoiding contaminating the crime scene. Again, the feeling that something wasn’t quite right struck him.

  He walked around the room carefully. The massage bed was in the centre of the room, the head towards the window. The walls of the room were painted a pale, pastel yellow, with small shelves holding vases of flowers or scented candles. Thick velvet curtains covered the windows, and concealed the door, muffling sound and blocking out any light. A second light switch activated a number of shaded spotlights. Warren switched the main lights off and found he could easily imagine Stevie Cullen drifting half asleep, relaxed from his massage, enjoying the smell of the scented oils and the soft music floating from the concealed speakers.

  Moving over to the window, Warren undid the security bolt and pushed up the sash; it barked loudly against the wooden frame, letting in a blast of chill night air. His coat brushed against the windowsill as he leant out.

  The backyard stretched into the darkness beyond, the security gate and fence nothing more than a dim outline against the night sky. To the right, the wall of what would have been an outside toilet and coal scullery when the house was originally built extended a few metres beyond the room he was stood in now, knocked through to make a store cupboard. A couple of rickety-looking chairs sat next to a metal sand bucket studded with cigarette butts. Warren estimated the distance between the window ledge and the uneven paving slabs below to be closer to four feet than three feet.

  It was then that it struck him what was wrong with the scene.

  And it changed everything.

  Saturday 07 November

  Chapter 21

  Warren had been too excited to sleep properly. In the end, unwilling to disturb Susan who relished her Saturday morning lie-in, he’d moved to the spare bedroom. Eventually he’d given up entirely and gone in to work to prepare for the morning’s briefing.

  Word had got around that the there was a major shift in the investigation, and the room buzzed with anticipation, and so as soon as the team were assembled, Warren put them out of their misery.

  ‘We are now pursuing the theory that it was an inside job, that the two sisters running the massage parlour that day were either responsible for, or complicit in, the murder.’

  After the murmurs had died down, Warren filled everyone in on his insight the previous night.

  ‘The murder took place on a chilly November day. According to the two women present at the time, the killer came through the window, attacking Stevie Cullen where he lay. The room has a sash window that makes an absolute racket as it’s slid open. Even if the bolt securing it was undone, I can’t believe it was open on such a cold day. So, how did the killer open the window without alerting our victim?’

  Warren let the team digest that for a moment.

  ‘Not only that, the window is covered in thick, blackout curtains. How did the killer know that Biljana had left the room and Stevie was alone? For that matter, how did the killer even know that he was going to be there? His appointments were infrequent. Only the two sisters and their aunt were likely to know that he had decided to come in.’

  Martinez raised a hand. ‘He coul
d have been followed. His killer could have been waiting and just guessed at when he was alone. Or they could have been listening at the window.’

  ‘That still doesn’t explain how the killer surprised Cullen,’ countered Rachel Pymm. ‘Biljana has stated repeatedly that the killer attacked him whilst he was lying down.’

  ‘Biljana could have killed him as he lay helpless,’ said Ruskin, ‘and Malina came through and helped her tidy up and concoct a story. That would account for the time between the CCTV showing Malina running back and the 999 call when they said the attack had only just happened.’

  ‘Malina could even have been involved in the killing,’ pointed out Hutchinson.

  ‘Even if the two sisters weren’t responsible for the actual killing, they could have opened the back door and let the killer in – and then helped him escape,’ said Grimshaw. ‘The whole business about coming through the window could have been staged.’

  ‘And the CCTV cameras are broken out the back,’ said Richardson.

  ‘Which suggests premeditation,’ said Pymm.

  ‘Exactly my thoughts,’ said Warren, pleased that his team hadn’t found any major holes in his reasoning.

  ‘The two sisters have been upgraded from witnesses to suspects, and Rachel’s team have finally got hold of their phone records; that’s a priority.’

  Taking her cue, Pymm took over, drawing the team’s attention to a wheeled whiteboard divided into columns and covered in different-coloured Post-it Notes and pen marks. Seated in front of it, she used her walking stick to highlight her findings.

  ‘The left column is a timeline from when the parlour opened that morning until late afternoon. The next column is what we observe on the CCTV cameras in the reception area and the time that it took place. Besides that, we have the call logs from the two masseuses – pink Post-its for Biljana, yellow for Malina. Then we have the timings from the girls’ statements.’

  In seconds the assembled team started to spot the discrepancies.