by Paul Gitsham
‘Billy, you really need to help us here.’ Warren hoped that the use of her nickname might make her feel more trusting.
‘We know that you and your sister have been lying to us. Stevie Cullen was a very unpleasant man. Did he do something to you? Or are you protecting someone else?’
Biljana shook her head again.
Warren decided to change tack. ‘The video shows Malina doing something to the computer after Stevie was murdered. What was she doing?’
‘I don’t know, I wasn’t in there.’
Inwardly, Warren punched the air. It was the first time that one of the two sisters didn’t fully back the other up. It was also the first time that either girl had admitted – albeit rather obliquely – that Stevie Cullen had died before they originally claimed.
‘It seems a strange time to do something to the computer. Who was she speaking to on the phone?’
Biljana dropped her eyes. ‘I don’t know.’
‘It must have been important; she called the same number twice. Once, immediately after Stevie Cullen was killed, for twelve whole minutes, then again whilst she was on the computer.’
‘I don’t know.’
The set of her jaw suggested that her next reply was likely to be a ‘no comment’.
Warren went back to cajoling. ‘Billy, I really want to help you here. We all know that Stevie Cullen behaved very badly towards women. If it was self-defence, then tell me. In this country, juries are very sympathetic towards victims, but they don’t like liars. Help us to help you.’
‘I did not kill him. Malina did not kill him.’ Her reply in English was halting, but emphatic.
‘Then who did kill him?’
‘I told you, I don’t know.’ Again, the reply was in English, and she glared at him angrily.
‘OK, let’s go back to the attack. You said that you were upstairs when you heard Mr Cullen scream?’
‘Yes.’
‘You ran downstairs, and then what did you see?’
‘He was stabbing Stevie in the chest.’
‘Where was Mr Cullen when he was stabbed?’
‘He was lying on the massage table.’
‘Was he there when you left him after the massage?’
‘Yes.’
‘Was he on his front or his back?’
‘On his back.’
‘What was he doing?’
‘He was resting after the massage.’
‘And what about when he was stabbed? What position was he in?’
‘He was still on his back. Then he fell off the table. We helped him back onto the table and tried to stop the bleeding.’
Warren made a note of her statement. It was almost word-for-word identical to the account given in her previous interview. Beside her, her solicitor was also writing furiously.
‘How did the attacker get into the room?’
She paused. ‘He came in through the window.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘The window was open.’
‘Was it open when you went upstairs?’
She shook her head firmly. ‘It was too cold.’
‘So how did the attacker open the window from the outside?’
She paused. ‘It was unlocked, so that I could let some fresh air in after Stevie left.’
Warren nodded. ‘And how did the attacker leave?’
‘He jumped out of the window again.’
‘Billy, do you know the identity of the man who killed Stevie?’
She shook her head.
Warren again pushed the headshot across the table; he watched her carefully as she looked at them, before looking away. Like her sister, she claimed not to know Anton Rimington, which he was certain was a lie.
Warren softened his tone. ‘I know you’re scared, Billy, but we can protect you. The sooner we catch Stevie’s killer and put him in prison, the safer you and your sister will be.’
She shook her head again.
Warren sighed. ‘Interview suspended.’
The team had gathered for another briefing. The inclusion of real-time video links in the interview suites, streamed to officers’ desktop computers, had been a real revolution, and Warren was keen to get his team’s insights as soon as possible.
In front of him, he had a pad on which he’d recorded the outstanding issues.
‘We’ve interviewed them both now, and I’ll be honest, I don’t think they realize just how much trouble they are in. They are still stubbornly refusing to change their accounts to fit the video evidence, or admit to knowing Anton Rimington, something we can almost certainly prove is a lie.’
‘That’ll be their downfall,’ opined Grimshaw.
‘I also gave Biljana every opportunity to change her story about how she found him. Leaving aside the discrepancy between her claiming to hear him scream, and her then going downstairs to witness the stabbing, she’s adamant that he was flat on his back when he was stabbed. The autopsy can’t rule that out, although the blood spatter indicates that he started to leak blood when he was on the floor, which matches the account that she just gave me about how he ended up on the floor after being stabbed.’
‘How compelling is the evidence?’ asked Grayson. ‘Juries can blow hot and cold over blood spatter.’
‘It’s pretty good, but it also fits the common-sense test. That window makes an absolute racket when it’s opened. There’s no way you could surprise someone by entering quietly. If the attacker had come in through the window, I’d have expected him to be sitting up at the very least, which would fit the evidence.’
‘But she insists that Stevie was lying down,’ said Grimshaw in satisfaction.
‘If we go down the conspiracy route,’ continued Warren, ‘she’s already admitted to leaving the window unlocked, although I’d question that story. There are blood smears on the window frame, but no clothing fibres. I looked at the height of that window from the outside and that an average-sized person would need to climb to get in and out. I’d expect more trace evidence. The only fingerprints on the frame belong to the two women.’
‘The rest of the room was covered in dozens of different fingerprints and loads of mixed DNA profiles,’ said Ruskin.
‘Which is what you’d expect inside the massage parlour,’ said Grayson, ‘but how many customers open and close the window?’
Warren acknowledged his point.
‘If the attacker didn’t clamber though the window, then the easiest route would be through the back door,’ said Hutchinson. ‘We know from the CCTV that they didn’t come through the reception area.’
‘That door is locked from the inside, which again points to conspiracy,’ said Richardson.
‘Forensics didn’t find any footprints from men’s shoes leading out of the door,’ said Richardson.
‘Here’s a suggestion,’ said Ruskin. ‘Could the killer have already been in the building? Perhaps waiting upstairs?’
The team fell silent, contemplating the suggestion.
‘If the killer was already in there, then either the girls are lying to protect themselves, or we’re back to conspiracy again,’ said Grayson.
‘Well we’ve got enough to charge, but there’s no rush,’ said Warren. ‘With what we’ve got so far, we can get the full extension to ninety-six hours easily. In the meantime, I want to know who the hell Malina was calling, and what she was doing to that computer.’
Chapter 23
‘How are you doing with the social media, Shaun?’ asked Warren.
Grimshaw was slouched in his chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie nowhere to be seen.
‘Losing the will to live, Boss.’
Beside him Martinez openly sniggered at his friend’s plight.
‘Those two girls practically lived on their phones: Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, SnapChat, Twitter – and those are only the ones I’d heard of. Some of their social media apps aren’t even English-language based. I’ve sent them off for translation. The Social Media Intelligence Uni
t are doing deep data mining of their contact lists and building a network of their friends. So far, neither of them seems to be friends or followers of Stevie Cullen, so now they’re looking to see if they share any common friends, such as Ray Dorridge, Anton Rimington or Vicki Barclay. Muggins here is looking to see if Cullen appears in any of their photos, or if there are any other people of interest.’
‘Slow going?’ asked Warren, with some sympathy.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe. The only good news is that they were obsessed with tagging their friends, so I’m saving pictures with anyone they haven’t tagged for later analysis.’ He turned to look at Warren. ‘I’ll send those to Welwyn and see if they can do anything with them.’
It was clear from his tone that the sooner he washed his hands of the task the better.
‘Well at least the time window is relatively short. They didn’t move to the UK until last year.’
He turned to leave, but it was clear Grimshaw hadn’t finished.
‘Seriously, what is it with kids these days?’
‘Kids?’ repeated Warren. Grimshaw was thirty-five – he sounded like an old man. Beside him, Martinez let out a sigh – he’d obviously been listening to Grimshaw grumble all day.
Grimshaw continued, either missing or ignoring Warren’s teasing.
‘Yeah, when we were their age, when somebody told you to pose for a photo, it just meant smiling or sticking your fingers up at the camera. These two stage mini-photoshoots. You just know the photo we’re seeing is only the best one from about twenty. And what’s with these bloody filters? Even the ones without cartoon bunny ears and dog noses are processed to hell. Nobody has skin that smooth.’
‘Oh for the good old days, eh?’ interjected Martinez. ‘When you had to wait two weeks for the photos to return from Boots to find out you’d cut somebody’s head off or they’d blinked. I tell you Shaun, it was all downhill from the moment the photographer no longer needed to hide under a black cloth and hold the flashgun above his head.’
‘Piss off, Jorge,’ muttered Grimshaw, as Warren laughed.
‘I tell you one thing,’ Grimshaw muttered darkly, ‘if my old mum is right, then should the wind ever change direction when these girls are pouting for the camera, they’ll end up permanently looking like goldfish.’
Suppressing another laugh at his colleague’s misfortune, Warren patted him on the shoulder.
‘Well you’re doing a fine job, Shaun. Keep me up to date on anything interesting,’ said Warren leaving the disgruntled sergeant to his work.
As soon as Warren was out of earshot, Grimshaw twisted his monitor around so that his colleague could see it more clearly.
‘There is one compensation to this job.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Martinez, knowing that if he didn’t indulge his friend, he’d never get any peace.
Grimshaw grinned. ‘They take their camera phones to the beach with them.’
‘Seriously, Shaun? You’re perving over suspected murderers now? Some days I worry about you, I really do.’
After the arrest of Malina and Biljana Dragić, search teams had moved into the flat that they shared. After seeing the size of his email inbox, Warren decided to stop by; he was in no mood to look at budget projections. Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison’s deputy, Meera Gupta, was in charge of the search and gave him a tour of the property, alongside David Hutchinson, who had been supervising door-to-door inquiries with the neighbours.
‘According to the woman next door, their Aunt Silvija has owned the flat for years,’ said Hutchinson. ‘She often rents it out to young Serbians and Eastern Europeans. Before the two sisters moved in last year there were many different residents. She thinks that a lot of Silvija’s extended family send their kids over to learn English and gain work experience. Silvija was something of a mother figure to them.’
That fitted with what Silvija Wilson had told them the night of the killing.
‘Were they good neighbours?’ asked Warren.
‘Not too bad, apparently. They liked to party, but were usually considerate enough to turn the music down when it got late.’
‘What about regular visitors? Boyfriends or girlfriends perhaps?’ asked Warren, remembering Wilson’s comment about the young women being distracted by male friends and not socializing enough with English speakers.
‘Difficult to say. The layout of the flats means that she can’t see who comes in and out of the communal door. I showed them headshots of Rimington and Dorridge, but she didn’t recognize either of them. She also doesn’t recall seeing anyone pregnant.’
Warren wasn’t surprised; it had been a long shot anyway.
The flat was on the first floor, and was a small affair, with two tiny bedrooms, easily identified as belonging to the two sisters. The compact kitchen was untidy, but clean, its cupboards stocked with a mixture of supermarket own brands, and unfamiliar items, some with Cyrillic script.
‘Looks like a few comfort foods from home. They probably use the little Serbian deli around the corner,’ said Harrison.
‘Check if the shop workers know them. I really want to know if either girl had a partner, or someone special. A jealous boyfriend could be a suspect and lend weight to the conspiracy theory.’
A cantilevered door revealed a tiny, but well-organized bathroom, with a shower, toilet and sink, with a mirrored medicine cabinet above it. A white-suited CSI was busy dismantling the sink trap to check for trace evidence, whilst another technician took photographs of the medicine cabinet.
‘We’ll see what we find, although from what we know of the aftermath of the killing, the girls presumably still had traces of the victim’s blood on them when they returned home,’ said Gupta.
The living room, familiar from the pictures that the girls had shared on social media, had a sofa bed, a small TV and DVD player, and a couple of bookcases filled with DVDs; a mixture of familiar Western films and others, again with titles in Cyrillic or a complex Roman script, presumably Serbian.
‘Looks as though they were fans of CSI,’ remarked Warren looking at a battered boxset.
‘Andy calls CSI the “Open University for Burglars”,’ said Gupta. Warren agreed. The popular TV series, not to mention the countless true-crime series that now flooded the airwaves, had doubtless contributed to the rise in more forensically aware criminals that he and his team were now encountering.
‘So far, we’ve found no obvious trace of the murder weapon; however, there are spaces in the knife block in the kitchen. The problem is that the knives that are present are a real mix and match, probably bought individually, so it’s unclear if the gaps are due to missing items or if they were never filled.’
‘Well keep on looking. We haven’t found the murder weapon yet. You never know, they might have smuggled it back to dispose of it later.’
It was a long shot, but murderers, even those who planned their attacks, often didn’t fully think through the aftermath of their actions.
Standing in the middle of the room, Warren did a slow circle, his plastic booties rustling on the carpet.
In his mind’s eye, he could picture the two sisters seated on the sofa bed, watching TV together, taking a seemingly endless series of selfies as they played with the photo filters on their camera phones.
The photos that he had seen on Grimshaw’s screen had painted a picture of two young women enjoying their time in England, working and partying with friends.
What had gone wrong?
Neither of them seemed like a murderer. But then, they rarely did.
Janice, Warren’s unofficial PA, snagged him as soon as he returned to CID. ‘Silvija Wilson is waiting in reception, Sir. And she’s not a happy bunny.’
‘Good, that saves us going to the trouble of tracking her down. I’ve got a lot of questions to ask her.’
‘Not a happy bunny’ was an understatement. Warren had only spoken to her briefly on the day of the murder, and he spent the time that it took to set up the interview
room for recording to look at the woman fuming in front of him.
Silvija Wilson was a woman somewhere between forty and sixty years old, Warren guessed. It was hard to be sure, given the amount of make-up she was wearing and the liberal use of age-defying cosmetic surgery. Up close, her red hair was clearly not her natural shade. A couple of inches shorter, and a good bit heavier, than her nieces, the family resemblance was nevertheless obvious to see.
‘What is the meaning of this? Those girls have been through hell, and you arrest them? After what they saw, they are as much a victim as that poor man.’
Wilson’s English was perfect, but her native accent, buried under years of living in England, could be heard trying to break through.
‘Mrs Wilson, Malina and Biljana are key witnesses in this investigation.’ Warren’s tone was firm. ‘At present, they are helping with our inquiries. Key aspects of their story don’t add up. Perhaps you can help explain what happened, and then maybe they could be released?’
Wilson sat back in her chair, her arms folded. She continued to glare but said nothing.
‘You’ve turned up voluntarily, Mrs Wilson, but if you wish to have a solicitor present, you are welcome to do so. We can provide one, if you can’t afford to pay for one.’
Wilson looked at him, before shrugging. ‘I have nothing to hide. And neither do my nieces.’
‘OK, well let’s start by you telling me a little about your business. Are you the sole owner?’
‘Yes. I owned it with my husband, until he died three years ago.’ She paused. ‘Owning our own business had been our dream, ever since we married. At the time we met, I was a nurse. I specialized in midwifery, but when we found that we couldn’t have children … it was hard.’
Warren felt a wave of sympathy. He could imagine how difficult it must have been, surrounded by women welcoming their children into the world, all the time knowing you would never do the same. God knows, he and Susan had stared into that abyss enough times in recent years.
‘Anyway, I tried retraining, but I didn’t enjoy my new job, and I started to suffer from depression. One day I saw an advert in the local paper advertising courses at the local college teaching massage. I’d always loved the hands-on aspects of nursing, and so I decided to give it a go. I loved it.