by Paul Gitsham
‘What about her car?’ asked Warren.
‘It’s in the pound. They’re looking it over,’ said Hutchinson.
‘And her house?’
‘A team’s in there now – nothing yet.’
Warren looked at his watch. Malina and Biljana Dragić had been arrested nearly thirty-six hours ago. They would have to either apply for another extension or charge them.
‘Anything from the two sisters?’
Richardson answered, ‘I sent someone down there to rattle their cages an hour ago, like you asked, but nothing.’ She shook her head. ‘They’re both tearful, but they are refusing to say anything. I think they’re in denial, hoping it will just go away and we’ll release them after the ninety-six hours expire. Even their solicitors are getting frustrated.’
‘Well unless either they or their aunt come up with something new, they’re going to be in for a rude surprise when that custody limit rolls around.’
‘Boss, I think you might want to come and hear this.’ Ruskin sounded excited over the phone. Warren had been putting his coat on, looking forward to going home. He was tired, after a long weekend, but he knew that Ruskin wouldn’t have called him if it wasn’t urgent.
‘Where are you?’
‘I’m in the smart meeting room speaking to one of the missing customers from the massage parlour. She just turned up at the main desk. I was free, so I said I’d come and see her.’
It took Warren less than two minutes to make it downstairs to the so-called ‘smart meeting room’, a pleasantly decorated space where they took grieving relatives or important visitors. Its little machine served the best coffee in the building, bar John Grayson’s legendary personal stash, and at Warren’s nagging insistence now also stocked custard creams and Garibaldis alongside the packets of shortbread and ginger stem biscuits. It was the little victories that made life worth living, he decided.
Rebecca Green was an older woman in her late sixties, or early seventies, Warren judged, sporting a healthy glow that in November could only be the result of time spent abroad in sunnier climes. Two customers had used the massage parlour that morning; of the other there was no record, but Green’s name had been noted along with her mobile phone number in the customer ledger.
‘I hear that you have some information for us,’ said Warren once the introductions had been made. At first quiet and a little shy, she soon started to relax, becoming chattier as she wolfed down more custard creams.
‘I was just telling Constable Ruskin here that I’m sorry that I didn’t return your calls sooner. We’ve been away you see, cruising in the Mediterranean, just a few days to take the chill off before the winter. It was a last-minute deal in the travel agent’s. Somebody dropped out apparently.’ She caught herself. ‘Sorry, I’m sure you’re very busy. You haven’t got time to hear me wittering on. Anyway, when I’m abroad I only use my phone for text messages. I never make calls. Did you know that the mobile phone companies will charge you just for answering a call?’ She tutted. ‘My friend Gladys from the club went to Spain for a month last winter. She isn’t daft, she used a phone card to call home. But her daughter phoned her each week, just to check in, and she didn’t think to call her back on the pay phone. Well you wouldn’t, would you?’ Green lowered her voice. ‘Her phone bill when she got back was almost a hundred pounds.’ She laughed throatily. ‘Now that’s what I call daylight robbery. Those are the real crooks you should be chasing.’
‘Tell me about the day you went for your massage,’ Warren prompted.
The smile fell from Green’s face. ‘Such a dreadful thing – poor Silvija and the girls, it must have been a dreadful shock. Of course, I didn’t know anything about it when we were away. We try not to keep up with the news when we’re on holiday. It’s all so miserable these days. John gets a copy of The Sun for the sport, but we don’t read the rest of the paper. Besides, he says that the only thing he trusts in The Sun is the football scores.’
‘So how did you find out about the murder?’ prompted Warren. Important or not, he still hoped to get home at a decent hour.
‘From Joanna, my eldest. We drove over to see her and her girls for Sunday lunch, and she told us what we’d missed when we were away. Anyway, she told us about the murder, and she said, “Isn’t that where you get your massage done?” And I said yes. Of course, she couldn’t remember what day it happened. Then I remembered that I kept on getting voicemails when I was away, so I listened to them and realized that you’d been trying to get in contact with me. John said we should pop in on our way back from visiting her, so here I am. I’m sorry it’s so late, but she lives in Kent and the Dartford Crossing was blocked. Two hours we sat in that traffic jam.’
‘We? Where is your husband, Mrs Green?’
‘Oh, he’s sitting in the car listening to the radio. Don’t worry, he’s quite happy.’
‘Then I’ll try not to keep you too long; it’s cold outside. Perhaps we can start by you telling me about your visit to the massage parlour?’
‘I’ve been going once a month ever since I slipped on the ice, about five – no tell a lie – six years ago. I hurt my hip and my back, and it’s never been quite the same since.’ She motioned towards her walking stick.
‘And do you always have the same masseuse?’
‘Yes. Originally, I had Silvija herself, but she doesn’t do as much these days. Then last year, her nieces came to work with her. I was a bit wary at first, because Silvija did such a good job with my back, but Malina has such gentle hands. Now I can’t imagine having anyone else.’
‘Tell me what happened that day.’
‘Well John dropped me off a little before my appointment. I don’t usually go on a Monday morning; I normally go on a Wednesday lunchtime and catch the bus there after my club. It’s a bit of a walk from the bus stop, but the exercise does my hip good. Anyway, I wanted to get a massage in before we went away on the Tuesday, so they booked me in for the Monday morning.’
‘What time was your appointment?’
‘Eleven-thirty, but John dropped me off a few minutes before, because I didn’t have time to catch the bus and walk.’
That matched the video footage. Mrs Green had arrived at eleven-twenty-five.
‘Then what happened?’
‘They offered me a cup of coffee, which was sweet of them, but a bit silly.’ She chuckled. ‘What was I going to do with a cup of hot coffee when I’m having a massage? I just thanked her and asked for some water.’
‘And did your appointment start on time?’
‘Oh yes, I went through and got changed, then Malina did my massage.’
A thought suddenly occurred to Warren. ‘How long does the massage last? Do you get the full hour?’
‘Well not really. It takes a few minutes to get undressed, and then re-dress at the end.’
‘And does the massage last for the rest of the hour?’
‘About that. They give me a few minutes to just relax afterwards, before getting dressed again.’ She frowned. ‘I would say she’s working on me for about forty or forty-five minutes.’
‘Do you know if Biljana follows the same sort of schedule?’
‘Well I can’t say for sure, but both girls were trained by their aunt, and that’s how long she used to take.’
Warren filed that away for future consideration. According to the statements given by the two women, and repeated later, Stevie Cullen’s massage had only lasted about half an hour, before he was left to relax. Although the CCTV evidence suggested that was patently untrue, Warren wondered at the story presented by the two suspects. Would Cullen’s massage ordinarily only take half an hour, rather than the longer massage favoured by Mrs Green? After all, Mrs Green had medical issues that she was trying to manage. Or were they lying about the length of his massage to explain why he was alone when they claimed the attack took place?
‘What time did you leave?’
‘About twelve-thirty. I tried not to dawdle, as John was picking
me up and there are double yellow lines outside. I paid Malina at the till and then left.’
Again, that matched the video footage.
‘Who else was there when you were there? Was anyone else having a massage?’
‘I don’t think anyone was having a massage.’
The video had clearly shown another, as yet unidentified, woman enter at eleven o’clock, before leaving forty minutes later.
‘How do you know?’
‘Well Malina was with me, and Biljana was sitting chatting to the lady having her nails done.’
Monday 09 November
Chapter 29
Warren felt exhausted. He’d barely slept a wink the night before, awakened repeatedly by disturbing dreams. Eventually he’d got up again, and moved to the spare room, unwilling to disturb Susan, but had just lain there staring at the ceiling, consumed by the worries that the nightmares had provoked.
The dreams had been a smorgasbord of images and themes, melded together by his subconscious, all of which had a common theme: fatherhood. The excitement of the pregnancy had given way to a feeling of dread and fear and guilt.
First there was the dread from the thought of suddenly being responsible for the care of two helpless beings. Warren had never been a father before. What if he wasn’t up to the task? He’d certainly crossed paths with enough men in his time as a police officer who had been unable to step up to that obligation. But leaving that aside, he worked outrageous hours during investigations. Could he juggle that with his responsibilities as a parent? Warren’s own father had been absent for much of his childhood, pursuing his career and leaving his mother to do most of the parenting. Warren felt that his father had missed out, that his mother had been unfairly stifled in her own ambitions, and that he and his brother had paid the price. He had vowed not to let that happen to him.
And what about Susan? She had been working as a head of science for several years now; her next career move was likely to be as an assistant or deputy head. Would she want to pursue that at her current school, should an opportunity arise, or would she rather move back to the Midlands? To his chagrin, Warren realized he’d never really asked her.
The support network of Susan’s parents and family would certainly make juggling home life and work life easier, particularly with twins, but it didn’t really solve the problem of Warren’s own contact time with his children.
That being said, Warren knew that if he moved back to the West Midlands, his hands-on policing approach would have to end. The circumstances of his position in Middlesbury were all but unique; in other forces, nobody would countenance a Detective Chief Inspector even interviewing suspects, let alone going out into the field to track them down. He’d miss it, and it was unquestionably an approach that worked, but should he be delegating more? It would certainly make his work hours more manageable.
Modern communication technology meant that he wouldn’t have to spend as many hours at the station as he did; calls could be routed to his mobile phone, and he could keep a track of his email just as easily at home, whilst watching a sleeping baby, as he could at work. God knows, DSI Grayson spent enough time out of the office. Perhaps a change in working patterns would mean that he didn’t need to move back to the Midlands?
Warren didn’t need the services of the counsellor he’d been seeing sporadically since the death of Gary Hastings to identify the trigger for this sudden introspection. The worries about fatherhood had been there since the moment Susan had emerged from the bathroom, her cheeks flushed with excitement, holding the pregnancy test triumphantly. The issues from the loss of his father, although largely resolved in recent years, still haunted his dreams occasionally, and his guilt over the death of Gary Hastings had lost much of its rawness.
However, anticipation of today’s visitor had brought all those feelings together and triggered the previous night’s dreams.
Warren cleared his throat to bring the briefing to order, then took a swig of water to combat his suddenly dry mouth.
‘Before we get started, I just want to welcome back a former member of the team, Detective Constable Karen Hardwick.’
Karen Hardwick smiled self-consciously as everyone in the briefing room turned to face her. Her hands on her lap felt clammy and her stomach was tight with nerves. She’d been awake since four a.m., but for once Oliver hadn’t been the reason for her lack of sleep. In recent weeks, he’d been sleeping through until almost five a.m. most days. When he’d finally awoken, she’d been almost glad of an excuse to get up.
After changing him, she’d prepared several bottles of formula, ready for her parents who would be taking care of him that day. By six-thirty, an hour before they were due to arrive, she was showered and ready, despite having spent far longer than usual choosing what to wear.
She’d felt like it was the first day of a new job, and she had tried on three different trouser suits before settling on a smart, charcoal two-piece. If anything, the suit was larger on her than it had been before she had Oliver. Grief had a way of helping shed the baby weight.
Of course, it had all been for nothing, as her beloved son had decided to be sick down it five minutes before his grandparents were due to arrive, and she’d ended up grabbing the nearest clean suit to hand.
Perhaps it was for the best. Suddenly finding herself running late had pushed her worries to one side, and she’d arrived in CID flustered, but oddly nerves-free.
Looking around the room, most of the faces were new to her; seconded officers from Welwyn. But everybody knew who she was. Everybody knew what had happened to her. Everybody knew about Gary.
She felt a sudden rush of dizziness. She couldn’t be here. What was she thinking?
Officers on maternity leave were entitled to up to ten keep-in-touch days, but they weren’t compulsory. She didn’t need to take them. She could have just started back the day her leave finished, no questions asked.
But she had wanted to come in. She’d spoken to her Federation representative a few weeks previously and gone through the rules surrounding return from maternity leave. Her terms of employment clearly stated that if she chose not to return to work after her leave, then the extra maternity pay that she had received, above the statutory legal minimum, would be forfeited. She would have to pay the money back.
Her rep had suggested that the unique circumstances of her leave – coming as it did after her bereavement leave following the death of her partner on duty might mean the force could be persuaded to treat her sympathetically, if she chose not to return. But it was at the force’s discretion, and in these times of ever-tightening budgets, it was far from a given.
The loss of the money wasn’t her over-riding concern, however. She knew that her parents, and Gary’s parents, would cover that in a heartbeat. Instead, she needed to know that leaving was what she really wanted to do. The offer of a place at university had left her torn by indecision.
Was a career in the police what she truly wanted now? She was Oliver’s sole parent. Didn’t she have a responsibility to make sure that he didn’t lose both his mum and his dad? A responsibility to keep herself safe and out of harm’s way?
Perhaps she could move to a different, less hazardous position? The force would doubtless be sympathetic to her request for a transfer, and casting aside false modesty, she knew that she was a well-respected, highly competent officer, with many skills.
But did she want to leave front-line policing? Would she feel fulfilled in a different role? And if she did decide to stay in CID, should she – could she? – return to Middlesbury and continue working there, now that Gary was no longer with her?
She hoped that today might help her decide.
Walking back into CID after all this time had been a surreal, emotional experience. The layout of the office had been completely changed. She understood why; nobody had wanted to sit at the desks once occupied by her and Gary, but leaving them empty, as some sort of shrine, was neither desirable nor practical. She was glad somebody had ma
de that decision for her. Nevertheless, she found herself unable to look over at the corner where they had once sat.
Greeted with teary hugs by Mags Richardson, and David Hutchinson, and warmth by John Grayson, her meeting with DCI Jones had been stilted and awkward. He still blamed himself for Gary’s death, and she knew that no matter how often she told him that she didn’t hold him responsible, her presence would forever be a reminder to him of what happened that day. She noticed that he too seemed unable to look over at her former workspace, now housing a set of filing cabinets and a photocopier.
Hardwick focused on her breathing, until finally the oxygen drove away her light-headedness. Eventually she was able to turn her attention back to the briefing.
‘… Wilson wasn’t particularly forthcoming in her interview last night, but we hit her with evidence that we knew she had been lying and left her to sweat overnight. We know that she wasn’t present at the time of the murder; our belief is that she is lying to protect her nieces. I think we need to start using that as leverage more. None of them seem to fully appreciate just how much trouble they are in.’
Warren took a sip of water.
‘As mentioned at the beginning of the briefing, the information given by Mrs Green yesterday evening, alongside the recovery of the deleted CCTV footage from the rear of the property, is a potential game-changer.’ There were nods of assent around the room. ‘I intend to hit Wilson with those revelations to break the stalemate. I think we can be cautiously optimistic that Wilson might finally break and give us what we need.’
Hardwick felt a brief moment of panic, worried that she had missed something, before relaxing. She was just an observer today.
As the meeting broke up around her, she had a sudden feeling of dislocation. What was she supposed to do? Everyone else seemed focused; they all had specific jobs to do and left with purpose in their stride.
She remained seated where she was. DCI Jones had already left, talking as he walked to Moray Ruskin. She knew him from the previous summer; the huge, bearded Scotsman had worked alongside Gary on the Meegan case. Gary’s last case. She forced down the sudden rush of grief. Behind Ruskin and Jones, she recognized the Brownnose Brothers: Grimshaw and Martinez. She’d never worked with them, but she knew them by reputation. Everyone knew them. The two had been keen to be seen during the briefing, the first to ask questions. Their ambition was a source of some amusement on the force’s grapevine. Their contrasting appearances – one sharp-suited and clean-shaven, the other rumpled and stubbly – easily allowed her to distinguish between them.