A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  He lowered his voice. ‘To be honest, I don’t know if I’ll be back.’

  Warren sat back in surprise. It hadn’t really occurred to him that Sutton might not return to duty. Tony Sutton loved his job, and he loved Middlesbury CID even more. Warren’s predecessor, Gavin Sheehy, had fought tooth and nail to keep Middlesbury independent throughout the mergers and cutbacks of the past decade or so, and Tony Sutton had been a vocal proponent of that approach.

  Warren realized that he couldn’t imagine Middlesbury without Sutton. The two men had certainly had their ups and downs, particularly during their first few months, but Warren had come to regard Sutton as one of the finest officers he’d ever worked with.

  ‘Welwyn have been really good to me these past few months,’ said Sutton. ‘Since I was taken ill on duty, they have extended my sick pay at full rate past the six months. But I’m going to have to make my mind up sooner, rather than later.’

  ‘What does Marie think?’ asked Warren.

  ‘She wants me to put in for ill health retirement.’

  ‘And what do you think?’

  Sutton sighed. ‘I don’t even know if I’d be eligible; just because I can’t go legging it after suspects, doesn’t mean there aren’t plenty of other roles I could still do. Look at Rachel Pymm. When she was diagnosed with multiple sclerosis, they supported her retraining as an officer in the case.’

  ‘But?’

  ‘But that isn’t me. I know my way around a computer, but sitting behind a desk all day …?’

  ‘So, what would you do, instead?’ asked Warren.

  ‘That’s just it, I don’t know.’ He clenched his fist in frustration. ‘All I ever wanted to be was a copper. You know that. My old man was in the police, and his old man before him. I’ve never been able to see myself in any other job. I’m not even fifty yet. What will I do? I’ve spent six months trying to keep myself occupied and failing miserably.’

  He took a mouthful of his coffee. ‘And of course there’s the money. Ill-heath retirement is half-pay at best. I’d have to get another job, or Marie would have to work extra hours. And not to mention Josh; me and his mum are still helping him out.’

  ‘Teaching’s a good career,’ pointed out Warren.

  ‘Well that might be on the back-burner for a bit.’

  ‘Really? Susan says he was very enthusiastic when she arranged for him to do some work shadowing in the history department.’

  ‘He was, and he’ll probably go into it one day, but he’s just been offered a place on a master’s course, with the possibility of extending it to a PhD.’

  ‘Ouch.’

  ‘Exactly. He’s applying for funding, but there’s so little available for the humanities. And even if his course gets funded, he probably won’t get more than a pittance to live on. We’ve said he’s welcome to stay here, since his mum’s new husband has three small kids of his own, and their place is a bit of a zoo, but that’s going to be hard if I’m on reduced pay.’

  Warren looked at his friend with concern. Sutton saw his expression.

  ‘Don’t worry, I’ll figure it out. The first thing I need to do is get this heart thing sorted though, there’s nowhere quiet in the office for my afternoon nap.’

  A few hours later, and it was clear that Susan had been right. Warren felt more relaxed than he had done in days. Susan had a parents’ evening to attend, and it hadn’t taken much to persuade Warren to stay for dinner.

  After helping Marie clear the table, Warren had settled back down in the living room with his old friend.

  Sutton took a swig of his alcohol-free beer and made a face.

  ‘I won’t be getting that one again,’ he said. ‘I’ve worked my way through most of the ones they sell in Tesco. Some are better than others.’

  Warren agreed. He quite enjoyed some of the alternative brews, but this one was trying too hard to be a real ale and failing miserably. He stifled a burp. It was far too gassy.

  Sutton put his glass down. ‘Have you spoken to Karen?’

  Warren felt his gut clench. ‘Yes, she came in for her keep-in-touch day. It was good to see her.’

  Sutton looked at him carefully. ‘And has she spoken to you about returning?’

  ‘No, I imagine that she needs to speak to HR about that.’

  Sutton gave a sigh. ‘She’s not told you, has she?’

  ‘Told me what?’

  ‘She might not be coming back. She’s been offered a PhD studentship. She doesn’t know if she wants to accept it or not.’

  Warren slumped back in his chair. ‘I guess I can’t blame her. I saw her face when she came into the office …’ his voice quietened ‘… when she saw me.’

  Sutton shook his head, vehemently. ‘No. We’ve been through this before. She doesn’t blame you for what happened to Gary. Nobody does.’

  ‘But how can she not? It was my fault. If I had just waited for backup …’

  ‘Stop it,’ ordered Sutton. ‘You did everything by the book. You couldn’t have known what was waiting for you. Nobody could have.’

  Warren said nothing. Eventually Sutton continued. ‘She came to see me a few days ago. She’s worried what you’ll think if she accepts the offer.’

  Warren was confused. ‘Why is she worried what I might think?’

  ‘Because she knows that you still blame yourself for Gary’s death. And she doesn’t want you thinking that she’s left the police because she can’t stand to be around you.’

  ‘I don’t know what to say,’ said Warren finally.

  ‘She has another couple of weeks to decide whether or not to accept. She wanted my advice.’

  ‘What did you say?’

  ‘What could I say? She’s a hell of a copper, but she’s got Oliver to think about now. Doing a PhD isn’t easy, but she’s been offered a part-time contract, so the hours are more regular. And she won’t be putting herself in harm’s way. I said that I thought it would be a big loss to Middlesbury if she left, and an even bigger loss to policing. But she has to follow her heart.’

  ‘Shit.’

  ‘Yeah.’

  Sutton cleared his throat. ‘And now we’re onto the difficult topics, I see you have some time on your hands.’

  ‘How do you work that out?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Well first of all, it’s a Thursday in the middle of a major investigation, and you’ve been sitting in my living room all day.’

  Warren glared at him.

  ‘And someone might have said something.’

  There was no point asking Sutton who had told him; he’d never say. Warren could probably make an educated guess anyway.

  ‘What have you heard?’

  ‘That you left Grayson’s office late yesterday, with a face like thunder, and that you’ve been reassigning duties by email all morning.’ Sutton’s voice softened. ‘What the hell happened, Warren? The rumour mill is going crazy. Mysterious absences, being sick at a crime scene … Need I go on?’

  Warren felt his cheeks flush. He hated that he was the subject of gossip. He was about to tell Sutton to mind his own business, when he suddenly felt the energy drain out of him. This was why Susan had pushed him to visit his old friend. She knew that she was too close to help him; that he needed somebody else he trusted to act as a sounding board. It also explained why Sutton had been at home that day, and Marie had enough ingredients to cook a lasagne big enough for three, before disappearing to her sister’s for the evening.

  ‘Warren, I can’t begin to tell you how sorry I am,’ said Sutton, after Warren had finished. ‘I should have realized that something was up.’

  ‘How could you have?’ asked Warren.

  Sutton looked helpless. ‘I don’t know. I just … sorry, mate, I wish I could have done something.’

  Warren thanked him, already feeling better. The cliché was true: a problem shared was a problem halved.

  Sutton left to go to the bathroom, before returning with a bottle of wine and two glasses.

  �
��Alcohol-free Chardonnay. According to the label, it’s as good as the real thing.’

  He served the two men a glassful each. They each took a mouthful each.

  ‘Christ, that’s even worse than the beer,’ said Sutton. ‘I figured that even if it didn’t taste like wine, it would at least taste like grape juice.’

  ‘Well don’t chuck it,’ said Warren. ‘Winter’s coming, you can use it to de-ice the car.’

  ‘It’ll damage the paintwork.’

  The two men laughed, before each taking another sip.

  ‘It’s not going to grow on us is it?’ asked Warren.

  Sutton shook his head. ‘No, and based on the evidence so far, I’m not even going near the alcohol-free gin I was reading about.’

  He settled back in his chair. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you told me about the case, and I’m worried.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Don’t you think it’s a bit suspicious that you’ve been removed from the investigation at this point?’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Well, that footage didn’t find its way to Professional Standards by itself. If you ask me, somebody wants you out of the way.’

  Warren thought about it. If he was honest, the thought had crossed his mind. He’d even said as much to Susan, who had convinced him he was being paranoid.

  ‘Who?’

  Sutton thought about it for a moment. ‘How well do you know Ian Bergen?’

  ‘Bergen? I can’t say I do. I’ve only started working with him recently.’

  ‘I knew Ian back in the day. We worked together back when we were starting out in CID. I moved back to Middlesbury, and he went to work in Organized Crime. Worked his way up to DCI, I heard.’

  Warren said nothing. Sutton had a look in his eye. One that Warren had grown to trust over the years, and one that he had missed in recent months.

  ‘Let’s look at the Cullen family. I’ve been hearing their names bandied about as long as I can remember, but nothing ever seems to stick. Why is that?’

  Warren thought back to his conversations with Bergen. ‘Lack of evidence. As far as we are aware, they steer clear of drugs and aside from their old man doing time for looking after the proceeds of a Post Office job years ago, they aren’t involved in armed robbery or car theft. With the cutbacks they just aren’t a priority.’

  ‘And what happens when SOC do try to get evidence?’

  ‘All the farm workers they meet are legal and claim to be on minimum wage.’

  ‘As if they’ve been tipped off?’ said Sutton.

  ‘That’s a hell of an accusation,’ said Warren.

  ‘Hear me out,’ said Sutton. ‘Where was Bergen when you met that homeless bloke?’

  Warren thought for a moment. ‘He was around. He had watched us interview Silvija Wilson earlier in the day, but I didn’t see him in reception.’

  ‘But his old mate Shaun Grimshaw was there, wasn’t he?’

  ‘Shaun did say that he thought it was a mistake giving Joey McGhee that money.’

  ‘And from what I hear about the less polished member of the Brownnose Brothers, he isn’t exactly discreet.’

  Warren conceded the point. He could well imagine Grimshaw griping about him within earshot of Bergen.

  ‘A bit circumstantial, don’t you think?’

  ‘Maybe. But I’ve been thinking about this “Northern Man” who seems to keep on cropping up.’

  ‘That’s how Joey McGhee described him, although he was Scottish and he admitted that he isn’t always sure about English accents.’

  ‘Have you seen Bergen’s car?’

  Warren blinked at the strange question. ‘Sure. A red Volvo, I think.’

  ‘What has he got plastered all over the back?’

  Warren thought for a moment. ‘Some stickers. Rugby maybe?’

  ‘Thought so. Well assuming he hasn’t changed his affiliation in the past twenty years, he’s probably still as fanatical about rugby league as he used to be.’

  Warren shrugged. It meant nothing to him.

  ‘Down here it’s all about rugby union. I used to play with Pete Kent until we both got too old.’

  ‘Sorry, you’ll have to spell it out to me.’

  Sutton sighed at his boss’s sporting ignorance. ‘Rugby league is played in Northern England. If I remember correctly, Ian Bergen moved down south when he was a kid, but he’s still mad about his home team, Wigan Warriors. He used to travel up at the weekend to watch them play whenever he was free. I’ll bet he can turn his Lancashire accent back on enough for even a Scotsman to realize he’s from up north.’

  ‘Bergen has the most spectacular moustache you’ve ever seen, and he’s almost bald. Surely somebody would have mentioned that?’

  ‘Did either of your witnesses see his face?’

  Warren thought back to the interviews with McGhee and Flitton. Both had claimed that ‘Northern Man’ had been wearing a hoodie, his face concealed.

  He said as much.

  Warren leant back in his chair. Sutton’s theory was decidedly flimsy, but he couldn’t dismiss it entirely.

  A buzzing came from his coat pocket.

  ‘Probably your missus wondering where you are,’ said Sutton.

  Warren looked at the screen before answering.

  Sutton watched him over his glass of wine, his face twisting as he remembered why he hadn’t drunk any more of it.

  After a few seconds of intent listening, Warren ended the call. ‘I’ll be right there.’

  Chapter 53

  Warren parked outside the Black Bull pub, an ancient, sixteenth-century affair, full of tiny rooms and uneven floors. Tony Sutton climbed out of the passenger seat, wrapping his coat tightly against the cold night air. The DI had been adamant that there was no way he was staying at home after what Warren had told him about the phone call. Nevertheless, Warren watched him carefully out of the corner of his eye. The last thing he wanted was a late-night trip to A&E.

  On the drive over, Warren had been thinking hard about the situation he found himself in. Grayson was clear that he hadn’t been suspended; instead he was on sick leave. Professional Standards were looking into the allegations against him, but they too had declined to suspend him. Therefore, as long as he obeyed Grayson’s instruction not to step inside the station until Occupational Health had declared him fit to return to work, he wasn’t technically disobeying orders. He suspected Grayson’s opinion on the matter would depend on whether it served his purposes or not.

  Ducking to avoid an exposed, blackened beam, Warren entered the tiny room at the back of the bar. Moray Ruskin was waiting there nursing a pint of lager, alongside David Hutchinson sipping from a bottle of Newcastle Brown Ale. They greeted Sutton enthusiastically.

  ‘Just keeping you in the loop, Sir,’ said Hutchinson in response to Warren’s inquiry. ‘I’m sure that you’ll be back soon, and it’ll save us all a lot of time if you’re kept up to date.’ He was polite enough not to ask the reason for Warren’s absence.

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Robbery gone wrong, by all accounts,’ said Ruskin. ‘The front door was kicked in, and the place was ransacked. Drawers overturned, seats slashed, all the usual. If she had any drugs or cash stashed there, then it would seem to have been successful; there’s nothing left.’

  ‘You look unsure,’ said Warren.

  Ruskin took a swig of his pint. ‘I attended the scene, alongside Martinez.’ He paused. ‘Kourtney Flitton had been tied to a chair and gagged. It looks as though she had been hit on the head to knock her out, and then stabbed in the heart.’

  Warren winced.

  ‘Exactly my thoughts,’ said Hutchinson. ‘Moray said he thought it was too brutal for this type of crime, that it looks like an execution. I agree. As far as we know, Flitton was a low-level junkie who sold just enough gear to feed her and her boyfriend’s habit and turned a few tricks on the side. I can’t believe she pissed off somebody enough for that. I get that she mi
ght be robbed, or even beaten. But tying her to a chair, then killing her? Seems excessive.’

  ‘What did Jorge say?’ asked Warren.

  ‘He reckons that given the circles she moved in, it wasn’t unexpected,’ said Ruskin. ‘He says that when he and Shaun worked Organized Crime, they saw a rise in the violence that the drug gangs are prepared to use. Her death will have minimal impact on their profits in this area, so it would be worth sacrificing her to send a message. DCI Bergen agreed.’

  Warren mulled over what he had said. Jorge and Grimshaw had worked for years down in Welwyn. They probably knew more about the drugs scene than anyone on his team, and recent intelligence briefings had flagged an increase in the degree of violence witnessed in such events. Nevertheless, he felt uncomfortable that Ian Bergen was already involved in the investigation.

  ‘What about witnesses?’

  Hutchinson snorted. ‘No chance. Nobody saw or heard a thing. Even the person who reported it.’

  ‘What about suspects? Where was her boyfriend?’

  ‘Unknown – we’re trying his usual haunts.’

  ‘There’s more,’ said Ruskin. ‘We have what we believe to be the knife used to kill her. Jorge spotted it sticking out from under the bed.’

  ‘You’re kidding?’ Warren was incredulous. ‘They killed her and then dumped the murder weapon at the scene?’

  That didn’t seem to make any sense. In fact, the whole crime seemed to be implausible.

  On the one hand, the killing seemed to be organized and professional. The assailant or assailants waited until she was alone, then burst in, bludgeoned her to subdue her, then tied her to a chair, before executing her.

  But on the other hand, Flitton was a low-level dealer, unlikely to have much in the way of drugs or money on her, making her an unexpected target. They had then discarded the murder weapon at the scene – the hallmark of someone panicking.

  In Warren’s mind, that left four possibilities: the first being that Flitton wasn’t the right target. Perhaps they thought she was somebody else or believed that she was further up the food chain than she really was.

  Alternatively, perhaps they were right and SOC were wrong – maybe Kourtney Flitton or her boyfriend were more important than they realized. Warren thought back to the case over the summer; it wouldn’t be the first time Mallucci and his team’s intelligence was out of date.