A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  Finally, the room was almost empty, with only Mags Richardson and one other person left behind. There was no need for the introduction, her crutches meant that she could be only one person.

  Hardwick swallowed.

  ‘Karen, I don’t believe you’ve met Rachel Pymm, our full-time officer in the case, I was hoping that you might work with us today.’

  Karen shook the other woman’s hand, forcing herself to smile. She blinked, trying to drive away the tears that suddenly threatened to appear. She could convince herself that Ruskin was just another DC, ignoring the obvious fact that he was there, in part, to cover her and Gary.

  But Pymm was different; she was Gary’s direct replacement. In the last few months of his career, Gary had been fulfilling the role of officer in the case on a part-time basis, having taken over from Pete Kent. He had been hoping to make a switch to that position full-time, if he was promoted to sergeant. Unbeknown to him, he’d passed his qualification hours before his death. Karen was grateful to DSI Grayson and DCI Jones for insisting that Gary’s final rank be recorded as detective sergeant on the police memorial on the corner of St James’s Park.

  As the three women left the room, Pymm touched Karen’s arm. The older woman’s face was creased with concern.

  ‘I know this must be hard for you, but I just wanted to say that the whole team still talk about Gary. I never met him, but he’s left some big shoes to fill. And I’m looking forward to getting to know you.’

  Karen said nothing, her throat too tight to let her speak.

  Chapter 30

  It was clear that Silvija Wilson hadn’t enjoyed much of a night’s sleep, the bags under her eyes accentuated by the remnants of the previous day’s tear-streaked mascara. Warren could sympathize. Quite apart from the many other reasons for his insomnia – and despite it being several days after November the 5th – the local idiots were still letting fireworks off late at night, which then set off the neighbour’s dogs, who howled for the next two hours.

  ‘Why don’t we start by talking about what you did that day?’ Warren started. Beside him, Moray Ruskin gave no indication that he’d had anything less than eight hours’ uninterrupted beauty sleep, despite leaving work at the same time as Warren the previous night and going for his usual morning run before starting early. Warren’s pang of jealousy at the man’s remarkable stamina was tempered somewhat by the appearance of Shaun Grimshaw that morning; he was living up to his nickname ‘the Grim Reaper’ even more than usual.

  Ruskin was a freak. Warren had decided that long ago.

  Wilson described her movements the day of the murder exactly as she’d stated previously. She’d left her house at ten to eight, arriving at her nieces’ flat just before eight. As usual, the two young women weren’t ready, and she’d sat in her car for five minutes waiting for them. They’d then crawled through the morning rush hour, arriving at the massage parlour at eight-twenty-five. Her account matched the tracking data from both of her mobile phones and those of the two sisters.

  She’d left to take the weekend’s takings to the bank at nine-thirty, her phones showing that she spent fifteen minutes in the Lloyds Bank on the high street, presumably in the queue. After that, she’d travelled directly to the River View care home, where her father-in-law was a resident.

  ‘What did you do after you arrived at the home?’

  Wilson looked down at her hands, before finally answering. She must have known that her story for that day was falling apart, but it seemed that stubbornness ran in the family.

  ‘I spent a bit of time watching TV with my father-in-law, then took him out for some fresh air and then to lunch.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I can’t remember. Some pub that we drove past.’

  ‘What did you do when Malina told you about the death at the massage parlour?’

  ‘I drove my father-in-law back to his home, then drove to the parlour.’

  ‘Are you sure about that?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well according to the care home, you didn’t take your father-in-law out to lunch that day; Monday is cold beef sandwiches left over from the Sunday roast. It’s his favourite.’ Warren took out a printed map from the folder in front of him.

  ‘This is a map of Middlesbury and the surrounding villages. In red is the route that your two mobile phones travelled that day. The asterisks mark automatic number plate recognition cameras that registered your car, with the time stamp next to them. At fourteen minutes past one – approximately two minutes into your call with Malina, your phones left the care home. This is confirmed by the care workers, who said that you didn’t even finish your sandwich. According to our colleagues in Traffic, the journey time to the massage parlour from the care home should take about thirteen minutes. You arrived ten minutes later, at one-twenty-four. Coincidently, that was the time that you ended the call to Malina. What did Malina say to you that made you drop everything and race to the massage parlour so quickly? You passed the speed camera in the thirty zone on Fairfax Street at sixty-three miles per hour.’

  Wilson looked over at her solicitor pleadingly. He said nothing. This was all news to him.

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Thirty-three minutes past one, you left the massage parlour, and headed back towards your nieces’ flat. This time you drove a bit more carefully; it took you six minutes. In fact, by our calculations you were travelling well under the speed limit.’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Were you travelling so slowly because you were talking to Malina again on your business phone? We know that you can do that legally, by the way; it’s paired to the car’s hands-free system.’

  Wilson was starting to breath heavily. ‘No comment.’

  ‘What happened in the nine minutes that you were in the massage parlour?’

  ‘No comment.’ Her voice was little more than a squeak.

  ‘What were you and Malina talking about during those two minutes, as you drove back to your nieces’ flat?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Warren nodded to Ruskin, who pressed play on the video screen.

  ‘I’m showing Mrs Wilson exhibit 2015/12/NH6382-12, CCTV footage taken from the reception area of the massage parlour. We are starting at time point 13.34.’

  The video started. After about sixty seconds, Malina appeared, scurrying towards the reception computer, her mobile phone in her hand. Wilson watched the footage wide-eyed. Warren watched Wilson.

  ‘What is Malina doing to the computer, Silvija?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Are you giving her instructions? We know that she’s on the phone to you. Her handset is on the table, next to her. What are you telling her to do?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘When was the rear security camera broken, Silvija?’

  She cleared her throat. ‘A few weeks ago.’ She swallowed. ‘I’ve been meaning to get it fixed for ages you know, for the insurance … I just never got around to it.’

  ‘Not according to our Forensics department. You know, they really are good. Apparently, the camera was broken at 13.34 the day of the murder. We know this because they recovered the footage that Malina deleted at 13.37, under your direction.’

  ‘No. That didn’t happen.’

  Warren’s voice turned stern. ‘Yes, it did. DC Ruskin?’

  Obediently, Ruskin turned on the video again.

  ‘I’m showing Mrs Wilson exhibit 2015/12/NH6382-65, recovered video footage from the rear-facing camera from the massage parlour. The time point is 13.36.’

  Warren had already watched the video, so again he turned his attention to Wilson, whose hand was now over her mouth.

  The camera showed a wide-angled view of the yard behind the parlour. The door opened and Malina emerged, carrying a chair, which she placed directly below the camera. The last clear image was that of Malina’s face, as she swung what appeared to be a small fire extinguisher at the camera’s lens. The glass cracked and the viewpoin
t tilted wildly. A second blow shattered the glass entirely, leaving the camera facing towards the sky. The footage stopped and the screen went blank, a red error message flashing ‘No Signal’, as the cable was pulled from the back.

  ‘What were they trying to hide, Silvija?’ asked Warren.

  She said nothing, her hand still over her mouth.

  ‘There was no man in black was there?’

  She put her head in her hands.

  ‘Stevie Cullen was murdered, we believe, at about ten past one. Malina and Biljana panicked and called you, although Malina had the presence of mind to phone you on your business phone, rather than your personal number. I guess all those CSI episodes were time well spent.’

  Wilson remained silent, refusing to look up; Warren continued regardless.

  ‘You received the call and rushed over to the massage parlour. What happened during that phone call, Silvija? What did Malina tell you? Did you speak to Biljana as well?’

  Wilson’s shoulders started to shake.

  ‘Whose idea was it to delete the security video? Was it yours or one of the girls’?’

  Warren waited for a moment, but nothing was forthcoming.

  ‘Just so you know, Silvija, a little over an hour ago, the Crown Prosecution Service authorized me to charge both Malina and Biljana with murder and attempting to pervert the course of justice.’ Wilson gave a strangled cry. ‘From what I’ve seen, I will be asking for permission to charge you with attempting to pervert the course of justice as well.’

  ‘No. They didn’t murder him. They couldn’t …’

  ‘Mrs Wilson, I can’t stress how much trouble your nieces are in. We shared everything that we’ve shown you this morning with them before charging. Both of them are declining to comment.’

  Now the tears were in full flow.

  Warren gave her a few moments to compose herself.

  ‘Silvija, I know that you love your nieces very much. They are refusing to say anything. You need to help them to help themselves.’

  He passed over a tissue. ‘Both you and your nieces claim that there was nobody else in the massage parlour that day. We both know that was a lie. We have a witness who tells us that was a lie. Tell us who else was there. I need to speak to them. They might have witnessed something that could explain Mr Cullen’s death.’ He paused. ‘They might be able to help your nieces. And you.’

  She sniffed loudly but said nothing.

  ‘DC Ruskin, can you show the suspect the recovered security video, starting at time point 13.00? Show it at eight times normal speed.’

  The video started again, the camera showing the backyard again.

  ‘You can see that nobody enters through the rear gate in the run-up to Mr Cullen’s murder. Nobody climbs through the window. The back door to the property remains closed.’

  The video sped towards 13.10, and Warren ordered the video slowed to normal speed. The backyard remained empty.

  Suddenly, the rear door burst open. Two dark-haired women, dressed in blue coveralls, raced out of the building. Reaching the back gate, one of them fumbled frantically, trying to open it. Finally, she succeeded, turning briefly towards the camera as she opened it. Even from a distance, the girl’s dark skin and tiny build was apparent, fear contorting her petite, Asian features.

  ‘It looks as though your nail technicians did report for work that day, after all,’ said Warren.

  Silvija Wilson’s face was a study in conflicting emotions. Emotionally, she was at a decision point. Either she would come clean and tell them what they needed to know, or she would clam up and start no commenting again.

  Warren decided to help her.

  ‘These two women could be vital witnesses. They must have heard what happened.’ Warren paused. ‘They might be able to help your nieces.’

  Wilson shook her head but remained silent.

  ‘We also know that there was another potential witness. DC Ruskin, start the tape again.’

  ‘I’m showing Mrs Wilson security footage from the rear of the massage parlour on the morning of the attack, starting at eight-twenty-five,’ said Ruskin.

  ‘According to the CCTV footage in the reception area, and the tracking data from your mobile phone, you and your two nieces arrived at the massage parlour at that time, entering through the front door,’ supplied Warren.

  The footage showed the empty backyard again, a black-wheeled bin against the rear wall.

  At eight-twenty-seven, the gate opened, and a slim female figure wearing a dark coat came through, a key in her hand. Her head was down, her face partly obscured as she pocketed the key. Turning to her right, she grabbed the handle of the bin and dragged it back through the gate, disappearing from view for almost a minute. Re-entering, she closed the gate behind her again, this time taking the key from her pocket and inserting it into the lock. She didn’t turn it, leaving it protruding. Crossing the yard, she headed to the rear door, which was opened from within. Maddeningly, she didn’t look up towards the camera as she entered, wiping her hands down her coat. Only her short dark hair was visible.

  Ruskin paused the video.

  ‘Who is that?’ asked Warren.

  Wilson paused. ‘It must be Billy.’

  ‘Biljana came through the front door with you and Malina. She didn’t leave again.’

  Ruskin increased the playback speed to maximum. He slowed it to normal speed again at eight-fifty.

  The gate reopened. This time, the two Asian nail technicians entered. They closed the gate behind them, one of them locking it and removing the key.

  This time they knocked on the rear door; it was opened from the inside again.

  ‘That’s three potential witnesses that neither you nor your nieces admit to being there at the time of the murder,’ said Warren. ‘If we watch the remainder of the video, we can see that none of them leave the property until the murder takes place.’

  Wilson looked sick. It was clear from her face that she knew what was coming next.

  ‘DC Ruskin, can you restart the video again at 13.24, please?’

  Ruskin manipulated the controls again.

  ‘I’ll remind you that the two nail technicians have already left at this point,’ said Warren. On the screen, the back gate was fully open.

  ‘According to the mobile phone data, you have just ended your call to Malina, and arrived back at the massage parlour.’

  On the screen, Silvija Wilson suddenly appeared at a half-jog. She crossed the yard and went straight through the back door. Warren left the video playing.

  ‘Why did you enter through the rear door, Silvija?’ asked Warren. ‘You have a parking space at the front of the building. The alleyway at the back isn’t wide enough for a vehicle; that’s why your bins need to be dragged to the kerbside. Surely it makes more sense to come in through the front?’

  ‘No comment.’

  Even at maximum speed, the time passed slowly, but eventually, eight minutes after she had entered the building, Wilson re-emerged. This time, she had her arm around the unidentified dark-haired woman. The woman was sobbing uncontrollably, and Wilson all but dragged her across the yard and out of the rear. Wilson was carrying a black plastic bin bag.

  Ruskin stopped the video again.

  ‘We’ve looked back through the past two weeks of recorded footage on both cameras,’ said Warren. ‘Every day starts the same. You and your nieces arrive for work first thing in the morning. Two minutes later, this young woman walks through the rear gate. She obviously has a key because she unlocks it, but leaves the key in the lock on the inside. A few minutes after that, your two nail technicians arrive, and use the key to lock the gate again.

  ‘It seems that the young woman only works mornings, as she usually leaves before one p.m., again by the rear entrance – I assume that she is working for you?’

  Wilson managed a ‘No comment’.

  ‘At the end of the day, the two nail technicians leave, again by the back entrance, before you and your nieces lock
up the parlour and leave by the front door again. Does that sound about right?’

  Warren sat back. Wilson was close to the edge, but she still needed a further push.

  ‘Why do this young woman and your two nail technicians always enter by the rear entrance?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Is it to keep them off the reception camera?’ Warren produced a top-down plan of the reception area, made by the forensic team.

  ‘You see, we’ve been grumbling about how badly aligned your reception security camera is. But that’s deliberate isn’t it?’ He pointed at the diagram. ‘This semi-circle shows the field of view for the camera. It covers the front door and the reception desk, and the visitor seating. The carpeted area. What it doesn’t cover is the area with the wooden floor. That includes the two nail stations and the exit to the massage rooms.

  ‘Why is that, Silvija?’

  Warren wanted her to admit it.

  She didn’t.

  ‘This whole set-up is designed to hide any evidence of these workers, isn’t it? Your nail technicians are under strict instructions not to cross that line, aren’t they?’

  ‘No comment.’

  ‘Of course, it would be safer not to have any cameras at all, but I imagine your insurance provider insists upon them. It’s easy enough to position the camera in the reception so that it still covers the front door to keep your insurers happy, but doesn’t show the nail techs, but you’re kind of stuck with the camera at the rear. How often did you practise deleting any incriminating footage?’