by Paul Gitsham
‘What’s really interesting is what we find when we compare your mobile phone records with these cash withdrawals.’ Warren produced another sheet of paper.
‘Every one of these big cash withdrawals is preceded by a phone call to Stevie Cullen a day or two before. Why is that, Mr Dorridge?’
At Dorridge’s request, they had agreed to take a break. This was fine by Warren, who was keen to hear back from the rest of his team.
‘Detective Sergeants Martinez and Grimshaw are booking in Silvija Wilson as we speak,’ said Janice. ‘DS Richardson is out at the Mount, still interviewing.’
Warren felt as though he was spinning multiple plates at the same time. For the first time since the miscarriage he felt truly alive.
Ray Dorridge was a beaten man, but at the same time, there was a lightness to his posture. Dorridge knew that he was in a lot of trouble, yet he was clearly relieved to be unburdening himself.
‘Stevie Cullen supplied a van load of workers at knock-down rates during the fruit-picking season, and casual labour as and when I needed it.’
Warren and the team had guessed as much, but Dorridge’s apparent willingness to cooperate made things a lot easier.
‘How much?’
‘Four hundred quid a day, for eight of them.’
Not even close to the minimum wage.
‘And where did he source the workers?’
Dorridge shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t ask.’
‘How did it work?’
‘Stevie had been hanging around like a bad smell, ever since we came to our … arrangement over the fly-tipping. Anyway, I used to use a bloke over towards Baldock. But he was getting too expensive.’
‘How expensive?’ asked Warren.
Dorridge squirmed. ‘He wanted eight hundred a day.’
Warren did the sums in his head; depending on overheads, that was probably a lot closer to minimum wage.
Dorridge’s tone turned pleading. ‘I’m a small business. I’m barely breaking even. I can’t afford that sort of money.’
‘So, Stevie Cullen offered to undercut them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s the name of this firm?’
‘North Herts Labour Recruitment.’
Warren made a note to check that Dorridge was telling the truth. ‘How did it work?’
Dorridge shrugged. ‘The usual arrangement. They all turned up in a van first thing. I showed them the field where they would be working. I supplied the tools and the equipment, showed them where the portaloos were and then left them to it.’
‘Who drove them in?’
‘Stevie dropped them off, and left his brother Frankie behind to supervise.’ Dorridge snorted. ‘Not that he was any use. He used to just crack open a bottle of cider and play on some hand-held video game. As long as the workers didn’t leave the field without his say-so, they could do jack shit, and he wouldn’t say a word.’
‘I assume that’s what you and Stevie were arguing about in the White Stag?’
‘Yeah. Some days, he even pissed off and left them to it. Lazy bastards would just down tools. They wouldn’t do anything unless I stood and watched them work, but I’m too busy to waste my time standing over some bone-idle farm worker.’
Warren resisted the urge to suggest that you got what you paid for.
‘What did Stevie say when you confronted him in the White Stag?’
‘The bastard just told me to suck it up.’
‘So, what happened at the end of the day?’
‘Stevie would turn up with the van again, and they’d all pile in and disappear.’
‘Where were they going?’
‘No idea. None of them spoke English; they were all Eastern Europeans and I never asked.’
‘Can you describe the van that he delivered them in?’
Dorridge thought for a moment. ‘White, no windows.’
‘So, it wasn’t a minibus?’
He squirmed slightly. ‘No, but I guess it must have had seats inside. I’m sure it was legal.’
Warren was equally sure it wasn’t, but they’d deal with that at a later date.
Warren had an envelope of photographs in front of him. Unfortunately, a mug shot was out of the question, but the clothing that the victim had been wearing had been photographed. Hard work by DC Marshall had narrowed the man’s trainers down to a make sold across Eastern Europe. The logo on the T-shirt had been similarly identified, again to a cheap brand sold in several Eastern European countries. Marshall had found some images online of models wearing the same garments. Hopefully, they might jog Dorridge’s memory.
‘The man found in Farley Woods was dressed in these clothes,’ said Warren. ‘Do they look familiar?’
Dorridge looked at the pictures for a several seconds each. ‘I’m sorry. I might have seen them, but I can’t be certain.’
Warren wasn’t too disappointed; it had been a long shot.
‘Forensic analysis indicates that the body has probably been lying where we found it since the summer. Did you have workers employed in that field around that time?’
Dorridge sighed. ‘Yeah.’
‘Remind me what they were harvesting?’
‘Gooseberries.’
That matched the hairs found in the turn-ups of the victim’s trousers. They were awaiting analysis of the victim’s stomach contents.
Warren pushed across the picture of the hole in the fence. ‘There were fibres from the victim’s clothing, and traces of blood that match him on the jagged edges of the hole. We are confident that the victim pushed himself through that hole.’
Dorridge looked frustrated. ‘I’m sorry, DCI Jones, I really can’t help you.’
In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t really matter. All the evidence seemed to point towards the victim coming from the direction of Dorridge’s field, having cut a hole in the perimeter fence, before climbing through, catching himself on the jagged edge. Dorridge had admitted to having employed illegal workers in that field, at approximately the time that the victim was believed to have died. The clothes suggested that he was from Eastern Europe and the gooseberry hairs matched those from his field.
It was clear to Warren that the victim had been one of Stevie Cullen’s illegal workers, who had presumably decided to make a bid for escape.
The question was, how complicit had Dorridge been in the death of the worker? They knew that neither of the guns recovered from Dorridge’s property had fired the fatal shot, but that didn’t entirely exonerate him.
‘According to our previous interview, you said that you own a dog. What breed is it?’
‘Collie,’ Dorridge looked at Warren curiously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘There were dog hairs, from a short-haired breed like a Rottweiler, found on the edges of the hole in the fence.’
Dorridge frowned. ‘I don’t own a Rottweiler but …’
Warren held his breath.
Dorridge brightened. ‘Of course, I completely forgot.’
‘Forgot what?’
‘Because the workers were so lazy, we got behind in the fruit-picking. I ended up having to borrow some arc lamps and a generator from a mate so we could work after the sun went down. It cost a fortune in bloody diesel and extra wages, but it was better than letting the unpicked fruit ripen too much.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well Stevie wasn’t happy about it, and so he brought his dad and his other brother, Paddy, down with a couple of dogs. Rotties I think.’ Dorridge looked ashamed. ‘I guess they must have been worried that the workers would do a runner in the dark.’
Dorridge damn well ought to be ashamed, thought Warren. Legitimate workers didn’t run away as soon as they got the chance. He fought to keep his face neutral.
‘The last night they were here, there was a hell of a big fuss. I heard the dogs barking and shouting coming from the field, then what sounded like gunshots. I was in the kitchen, and ran outside, but Seamus, Stev
ie’s old man, told me it was fine, and to go back inside.’ Dorridge looked down at the table. ‘It wasn’t a request.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. After about ten minutes they reappeared and loaded the van up with everyone and then cleared off sharpish. That was the last I saw of them. They didn’t come back the next day. Fortunately, the job was pretty much done. I managed to finish picking the last bits of fruit myself.’
‘Why did they leave so quickly?’
‘I’m not sure, but a helicopter with a searchlight was flying around. I think that might have spooked them.’
Warren was now almost certain that he knew what had happened that night, but he had a couple more loose ends to tie up.
‘In addition to Stevie and Frankie, were there any other people involved in the operation?’
‘Not really, old man Cullen drove the van one morning, but that was it.’
For the first time since he’d started talking, Dorridge looked away.
‘Nobody else at all?’ pressed Warren.
‘Nobody.’
Warren looked down at the man’s foot. Dorridge was lying.
Chapter 55
Warren sat opposite John Grayson, bringing his superior officer up to speed on the day’s events, before the upcoming raid on the Cullen farm.
‘The full name of the young woman that we have in custody is Anica Vuković. She killed Stevie Cullen by accident when they wrestled over a knife, after she defended Biljana Dragić from a serious sexual assault.
‘Apparently, Stevie Cullen was a nasty piece of work. According to Wilson, he always asked for a massage from Biljana, and was often sexually suggestive. She says that Biljana had kept his behaviour to herself, since she was worried that if she complained to her aunt, Cullen would wreck her business. She didn’t even tell her sister.’
‘It’s always the same bloody story,’ muttered Grayson. ‘Shits like Stevie Cullen think they can do whatever they want.’
‘Wilson says that when she spoke to Biljana, she said it had been happening for months. Until then, however, she had managed to fend him off. On the day in question though, he wouldn’t take no for an answer, and threatened her with a knife if she didn’t give him oral sex.’
‘So how was Annie involved?’
‘She doesn’t usually work that late, but she was doing an extra load in the washing machine. When she heard strange noises coming from the back room, she decided to investigate. That was when she found Biljana on her knees with a knife to her throat, and Cullen had his pants down. She claims not to remember what happened next, just that she found herself wrestling with Cullen over the knife. At some point, Cullen lost control of the blade and he was stabbed.’
‘Why didn’t Malina hear anything?’
‘Wilson says that she was watching a music video on her phone.’
Grayson frowned. ‘Why have the sisters kept quiet? They are literally facing life imprisonment.’
‘Wilson says that the girls have become really close to Annie, but more than that they felt that Annie had risked her life to save Biljana and they couldn’t let her go down for murder. She claims that she tried to talk them out of continuing the lie, but they refused to back down.’
‘Do we know what Annie’s relationship is to the sisters and Wilson?’
‘They didn’t even know each other until a few months ago. Silvija Wilson initially claimed that Annie turned up at the massage parlour needing work, and that she agreed to give her some casual labour, cash in hand, and not ask too many questions. She now admits that was a lie.
‘Annie came to the UK about three years ago, on a temporary visa. She won’t go into details, but it sounds as though she had a pretty bad home life back in Serbia, and she’s clearly trying to escape something. She came here to work illegally, ending up working in a café in Newcastle with some other Eastern Europeans, and doing cleaning in the evening. Again, all cash in hand. From what she’s said, it wasn’t actually too bad. The people who employed her were pretty dodgy, as you’d expect, and housed them two to a room in some run-down terraced house, but otherwise they treated her all right. It was better than what was at home and she made some good friends, or so she thought.’
‘So how did she end up down here?’ asked Grayson.
‘She’d been putting away a bit of money and was thinking of moving on to something better. She thinks that she may have told the wrong person, who then let their gangmasters know about it. One night, as she was walking back home, a white van pulled up alongside her. The person inside asked her for directions in Serbian – although she now realizes that their accent and pronunciation were all wrong. The next thing she knew, somebody grabbed her from behind, shoved her in the back of the van and closed the door. They put a knife against her throat and pulled a bag over her head.’
‘And drove her to the Cullens’,’ completed Grayson.
‘Basically, yes. That was about two years ago. When they let her out, they had all of her belongings from her room, which was how she knows that she was betrayed by someone she lived or worked with.’ Warren shook his head in sympathy. ‘The poor woman didn’t even know which part of the UK she had been moved to. All she knew was that the people here spoke a lot differently than the customers she’d worked with up in Newcastle.’
‘I’ll bet,’ said Grayson. ‘I suppose that’s part of the way they control them. Keep them completely in the dark, so they have no idea where they are or where they can seek help.’
‘The Cullens house – or rather imprison – about a dozen workers, men and women, mostly Eastern European, and a few from the Far East, in converted shipping containers on their farm. Stevie seems to be the mastermind behind the whole affair, although the rest of the family are also involved. When she first arrived, they were mostly helping the Cullens on their own farm. But a few weeks later, they started working on other farms, as well as non-seasonal work, such as car washes or private cleaning. There were also a couple of Vietnamese women working as nail technicians at Silvija Wilson’s. She wanted to help them escape, but they were too scared, and they don’t have a common language. Fortunately, they kept her presence at the massage parlour quiet.’
‘So, where do the dead bodies in Farley Woods come into the picture?’ asked Grayson.
Warren sighed. This was where the story became even more tragic.
‘The male and female workers were kept in separate containers and weren’t supposed to fraternize, but human nature …’
‘She got pregnant,’ finished Grayson.
‘Yes. Another worker, by the name of Emil …’ Warren paused. ‘He’s our victim in the woods, and the baby is his.’
Grayson closed his eyes briefly. ‘That poor, poor woman,’ he said quietly.
‘Annie intimated that she wasn’t the first person to fall pregnant.’ He swallowed. ‘The Cullens didn’t let them complete the pregnancy.’
‘Bastards,’ said Grayson. ‘I suppose that’s why they tried to escape?’
‘Yes. They had no choice, and by the summer she was starting to show, it wouldn’t be long before someone figured it out. And then she started getting twinges. She knew that it was far too early and that she would need medical attention, so they had to work out what to do.
‘The escape was Emil’s idea. They were fruit-picking at Ray Dorridge’s farm. They’d got behind with their work, and so they were working late at night under electric lighting. Emil had managed to cut a hole in the fence one afternoon when Frankie was too drunk to pay any attention. That night they made a run for it. But she went into early labour and couldn’t run very fast. Stevie, Frankie and their father, Seamus, came after them with shotguns and dogs. Emil was shot. He crawled back towards the Cullens to distract them whilst Annie tried to escape, but she collapsed and went into labour. What we know now was a purely coincidental flyover by a police helicopter chasing joyriders on A506, frightened the Cullens off. She gave birth in the woods, but she knew that the baby was
stillborn, so she hid it and managed to find her way to the main road, where she was picked up by a passing car. She had no idea what happened to Emil.’
Grayson shook his head. ‘How did she end up in her current situation?’
‘Sheer chance. When she arrived at the hospital, she managed to tell them that she spoke Serbian, so they tracked down a Serbian-speaking nurse. When Annie explained her situation, and that she didn’t want to go home, the nurse agreed to help. She had an aunt who had looked after her when she first came to the UK. That aunt had also been a registered midwife before she decided to set up her own business.’
‘Silvija Wilson.’
‘Exactly. They smuggled her out and Wilson took her back to her own house at first, until she was better, then let her move in with her nieces.’
‘Christ,’ muttered Grayson, ‘what was she running from back home that meant she would rather go through all of that, than go back to Serbia? She might have been here illegally, but she was the victim of a serious crime. She might have been deported in the end, but you’d think that would be better than staying, after all of that.’
‘Neither Annie, Wilson nor her nieces are saying,’ said Warren.
‘So how confident are we that this is the final version of events?’ asked Grayson. ‘Silvija Wilson has changed her story more times than I’ve changed my socks.’
‘I think we need to speak to the sisters again. If they contradict what she’s said, then we’ll know that we still don’t have the full story.’
‘But even if they do, they could just be telling whatever version they agreed upon that afternoon,’ pointed out Grayson.
‘Which is why we need to speak to those two nail technicians; they are currently our only independent witnesses. Let’s hope that they are on that farm.’
Grayson leant forward in his chair and lowered his voice. He glanced at the window, as if looking for eavesdroppers. ‘You’ve done a fantastic job, Warren; under circumstances that can’t have been easy for you.’
‘Thank you, Sir.’
‘But there are still questions that need answering.’