A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  Vicki Barclay came from Kent; her accent alone enough to mark her out as ‘posh’ in the eyes of Rosie Cullen. Up close, she looked even younger than her nineteen years.

  Warren pointed to her face. ‘What happened?’

  ‘I slipped in the shower.’

  The tone was defiant, but again her eyes filled with tears. She pulled a shredded tissue from her cardigan sleeve.

  ‘Do you know why we are here?’ asked Warren gently as the family liaison officer offered her a fresh one.

  She nodded. ‘It’s about Stevie. Somebody killed him.’ She sniffed loudly. ‘I expect you’re visiting all of his friends.’

  ‘We are,’ confirmed Warren, ‘but you were more than just a friend, weren’t you?’

  She opened her mouth, as if she was about to deny it, before closing it again. ‘How did you know?’

  ‘Things that people have mentioned.’

  ‘Oh, God …’

  Warren chose his next words carefully. ‘I also hear that you are engaged to be married.’

  She looked down at the large shiny ring on her left ring finger, as if surprised that it was still there. ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Vicki, who did this to you?’ He pointed to the bruising on the side of her face.

  ‘I told you, I hit my head on a cupboard.’

  ‘No. You said you slipped and fell in the shower.’

  She paused. ‘I hit my head on the bathroom cupboard when I slipped in the shower.’

  Warren said nothing, waiting as the tears started to gather again. He felt bad about pushing her, particularly given how heavily pregnant she was, but he knew that there was information she was holding back. Information that might be crucial to the investigation.

  ‘We both know that isn’t true, Vicki. Tell me what really happened.’

  The pause this time was longer. ‘Anton and I had a row. It was my fault really, I shouldn’t have said what I said.’ She looked away. ‘He’s not a violent man. Not really. He’s never hit me before …’

  ‘What was the row about?’ Warren asked softly.

  She shook her head. ‘It was silly really. I can’t even remember.’

  ‘When did the argument take place?’

  ‘Sunday night.’

  Warren took a deep breath. ‘Vicki, is the baby Stevie’s?’

  She let out a small gasp. ‘No!’

  Warren waited.

  ‘No. It can’t be, we were careful.’ She looked down at her hands, her voice becoming a mumble. ‘The midwife must have got the dates wrong, that’s all.’

  ‘Vicki, look at me,’ instructed Warren, his voice kind but firm. ‘Please tell me what happened. Somebody killed Stevie and it was really brutal. He deserves justice. To get him that justice, I need to know everything about him. Even if you don’t think it’s relevant or important.’

  She gave a tiny nod but said nothing.

  ‘Let’s start with Sunday night. What started the fight?’

  She sniffed. ‘We were looking at the scans.’ She smiled. ‘We were trying to choose a name that fit the picture.’

  ‘Who’s we?’

  ‘Me and Anton of course.’

  ‘Sorry, carry on.’

  Her face fell again. ‘The picture from the scan had the dates on. They calculate it from when you had your last period, but everyone knows it’s not accurate.’ She paused. ‘On the date it said I conceived, Anton was visiting his mum in hospital. He was away all week. But we had sex the night he came back, so you see it could be his …’

  ‘But Anton didn’t believe that.’

  She shook her head sadly.

  ‘Did Stevie know about the baby?’

  She nodded.

  ‘And what was his response?’

  She bit her lip.

  ‘Vicki?’ Warren prompted.

  ‘He said I should pretend that it was Anton’s, and that we should still get married.’

  ‘But why?’

  She looked away, suddenly becoming fascinated with her fingernails. ‘He said that once we’d been married for a few months, we could get a divorce. Then Anton would have to pay me child support.’

  Warren could barely believe his ears. ‘But surely a DNA test would show if the child isn’t his?’

  ‘We didn’t think he’d ask for one. Besides, Stevie and Anton look alike They have the same-coloured hair and the same-coloured eyes … The baby would look just like him.’

  Her tone was defensive, but he could see that she knew in her heart, that the plan had been crazy.

  ‘And Anton figured out he mightn’t be the father Sunday night?’

  She nodded.

  ‘Does he know that Stevie might be the father?’

  She shrugged.

  ‘What happened after he hit you?’

  ‘He went out.’

  ‘Where?’

  ‘I don’t know. He isn’t answering his phone.’

  ‘Do you know where he is now?’

  ‘No. I haven’t seen him since Sunday.’

  Vicki Barclay had already provided Warren with a potential motive, but he knew that she had more to share. Warren helped the FLO make them all a cup of coffee whilst Vicki composed herself.

  ‘When did you last see Stevie?’

  She placed the mug down on a coaster that urged her to ‘Keep Calm and Carry On’, with a picture of Sid James’ face laughing. Warren’s matching coaster had Barbara Windsor in a scene from Carry on Camping.

  ‘Not since last week. Anton had the weekend off, so we went shopping for the baby.’ Her face crumpled, and Warren handed her another tissue.

  ‘Was that the last time you spoke to Stevie?’

  ‘No. I tried to speak to him on Sunday night, after … you know. To warn him that Anton might know about the baby.’

  ‘What did he say?’

  ‘He didn’t answer. He left me a voicemail Monday morning saying he had to go and see a few people, but he’d ring me later so we could meet up. But we never did …’

  The tears were coming back, so Warren jumped in quickly. ‘Do you know who he was going to see?’

  ‘No. He never really spoke about business.’

  After a few more minutes, it became clear that he wasn’t going to get much more out of her. He gave her his card, gaining an assurance that she would call him if she heard any more.

  As she stood to let him out, she winced slightly, grabbing her ribs.

  The tissue that she’d used to wipe away her tears had smudged her make-up slightly, revealing the bruised skin underneath.

  ‘Vicki, do you have anywhere you could perhaps stay for a few days? Just until things calm down a bit?’

  Whether her fiancé was involved in Stevie Cullen’s death or not, Warren didn’t feel comfortable leaving her alone.

  She bit her lip.

  ‘What about your parents? Perhaps you could go and stay with them?’

  She shook her head violently.

  ‘What about a relative, or a friend?’

  Her lip trembled, her eyes filling with tears again, and Warren’s heart went out to her. He had no idea what her circumstances were, but as he looked around the tiny one-bedroom flat, he could feel the loneliness. Young, pregnant and apparently cut off from her family, the probable father of her unborn baby was dead, the man she was due to marry already violent.

  He motioned towards the FLO. ‘Constable Dennell and her colleagues are trained to help women in your circumstances,’ he said gently. ‘They can even help you find somewhere safe to stay.’

  She continued chewing at her lip, before finally shaking her head. ‘I have a cousin in Cambridge. Maybe I could stay with her …’

  ‘Does Anton know where she lives?’ asked Dennell.

  She shook her head again. ‘No, he’s never met her, and I don’t think I’ve ever mentioned her.’

  ‘Then why not give her a call? Do you have a car?’ asked Dennell.

  ‘No, I don’t drive.’

  ‘Then I’ll arrange for som
eone to take you there. Why don’t you put some things together in a bag?’

  An officer trained in domestic abuse could meet the FLO and take Barclay where she needed to go, perhaps even convincing her to accept more help to extract herself from her situation. As she went into the bedroom to start packing, Warren made the necessary calls. Barclay was a potential witness; she needed to be kept safe. Warren couldn’t imagine raising his fist against Susan under any circumstances, especially when pregnant. But according to the statistics he’d seen from the Domestic Violence Unit, one of the most dangerous times for an abuse victim was when she was pregnant or when trying to leave her partner.

  As he hung up, he knew that if he was honest, there was another reason he wanted to keep her on his radar. She could well have been more involved in the death of Stevie Cullen than she admitted.

  Chapter 8

  The air in the mortuary was chilled and filtered, the astringent smell of disinfectant a welcome alternative to the odours that would otherwise fill the space.

  As a rule, Warren preferred to delegate witnessing the autopsy to somebody else, such as Tony Sutton. Unfortunately, that wasn’t an option and all of his sergeants were busy elsewhere. Moray Ruskin was always keen, but Warren didn’t feel the young DC was quite ready to undertake the task unsupervised yet.

  At least there was a familiar face behind the mask.

  ‘Good to see you, Warren,’ Professor Ryan Jordan, the American-born pathologist greeted him. ‘How’s Susan?’

  ‘She’s doing well, thanks, Ryan. I hear you’ve become a granddad again?’

  ‘Yep. Number three was born three days ago. Still no name.’ He chuckled. ‘For the past nine months they’ve been convinced it would be a girl. It never even crossed their minds to have a boy’s name ready just in case! We’ll be flying over to Germany for kisses and cuddles in a few weeks.’

  Warren followed him into the white-tiled room. He wore gloves and a red splash suit, although he had no intention of prodding anything too squidgy.

  Stevie Cullen looked much as he had when Warren had last seen him at the massage parlour.

  ‘There’s no mystery about the cause of death,’ stated Jordan, pointing toward the gaping wound on the man’s chest. The Y incision had been angled to avoid disturbing the entry wound.

  ‘Massive blood loss caused by the penetration of the left ventricle by a bladed implement. It entered between the fourth and fifth ribs, before being twisted and removed. The blade nicked the fifth rib on the way out. He would have been dead within seconds.’

  ‘Pretty brutal. Does the fact that it entered so neatly indicate that the killer had a working knowledge of anatomy or some sort of training?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Not necessarily. I’d say that most reasonably educated people are aware that stabbing downwards on a person’s chest like they’re impaling a vampire would be difficult to accomplish because of the breastbone; a right-handed person standing above the victim would naturally come in from that side. The blade appears to have been very sharp, so it wouldn’t have required huge strength.’

  ‘What else can you tell me about the murder weapon?’

  ‘Unfortunately, the twisting of the knife makes it hard to be specific, but it was clearly very sharp and non-serrated. Judging by the depth of penetration, it has to be a minimum of fifteen centimetres. I’ve taken images of where it hit the rib, which should allow me to match any potential knives that you uncover. Beyond that, I’m guessing.’

  ‘What else have you found?’

  ‘Overall, the subject was in reasonable physical health, falling within normal height and weight for a white, Caucasian male. His musculature suggests a manual worker, and a full body X-ray reveals a healed fracture to his right collarbone, probably dating back to childhood. No signs of liver damage, although there was some scarring on the septum of his nose that suggests he may have been a cocaine user. I’ve sent off for drug and alcohol screening.

  ‘I’ve also observed what appear to be small, fresh bruises on his left arm. I can’t be any more precise on the timing, but they would be consistent with him heavily falling on the floor within a few minutes of his death.’

  Warren pondered that for a moment. Had Cullen bumped himself before his massage? Or had he fallen during the attack? How did that sequence of events match what the two sisters had claimed had taken place that day?

  Jordan’s findings had given him much to think about. The pathologist had used his experience, and the application of science, to persuade Stevie Cullen to tell at least some of his story from beyond the grave. In a way, Jordan had allowed the victim to help them find his own killer. Now it was up to Warren to finish the job.

  Chapter 9

  The ‘Golden twenty-four hours’, crucial to any investigation, elapsed Tuesday afternoon. From now on, as time ticked by and the scene grew colder, the likelihood of a quick resolution started to decrease rapidly.

  Warren arrived back at CID early evening. In his absence, the wheeled whiteboards in the briefing rooms had started to be filled in. The first board was the suspect board. At the centre was a headshot of Stevie Cullen, with lines drawn in marker pen leading off it. The first photo that Warren had found was the one taken the last time he was arrested. He’d decided not to use that picture, because not only was it a couple of years out of date, but also because of the negative connotations of such a photo. Instead, he’d replaced it with one a few weeks old culled from Cullen’s Facebook page. This picture showed a smiling, carefree twenty-something. It was a reminder that no matter what crimes he had committed when alive, he was still a victim. Warren had seen the look of terror on the dead man’s face – nobody deserved to die like that, and no parent should have to bury their child.

  To Cullen’s right were the two masseuses, Biljana and Malina Dragić, and their aunt and owner of the massage parlour, Silvija Wilson. All three women still had questions to answer in Warren’s mind and he was looking forward to checking their phone logs and social media usage. The latter would likely be complicated by the need to translate much of the material from Serbian, and DSI Grayson had grudgingly authorized the cost of fast-track translators.

  On the left of the board were Vicki Barclay and her erstwhile fiancé Anton Rimington. The latter was still not answering his mobile phone and Grayson had authorized an alert to be issued for his whereabouts.

  Barclay was now safely en route to her cousin’s house up in Cambridgeshire. The story that she had told Warren was certainly compelling and had given him a new direction to look in, but he was not going to take it at face value.

  A second whiteboard had photographs of Cullen’s known associates, including his parents, siblings and extended family, and drinking buddies from the White Stag. A written column headed ‘Business interests’ had a growing list of names of local farmers that Stevie Cullen might have been working with. Many of the headshots were taken directly from the Police National Computer – those were the circles that he moved in. Any individuals who proved to be of more than passing interest would be moved to the suspect board.

  ‘Mags, how are Traffic doing?’ started Warren. Before her move into CID, Richardson had worked in the Roads Policing Unit. She had been there during the sudden explosion in the volume of evidence from Traffic cameras and video footage and had maintained an expertise in that area since. Richardson was now Middlesbury’s primary link with headquarters’ Video Analysis Unit down in Welwyn.

  ‘It’s early days. They’ve done a data dump of all the static number recognition cameras in the area, as well as mobile ANPR units, but coverage is pretty poor in that area,’ Richardson cautioned. ‘They’re still doing pattern analysis, working out what cars were in the area at the time and cross-referencing with usual patterns of movement, to see if anything stands out, but they were able to give me a preliminary report on Stevie Cullen’s movements on the day of his death.’

  ‘Well give us what you’ve got,’ said Warren.

  ‘First off, we’re
assuming that Stevie Cullen was driving the clapped-out Ford Fiesta registered to his older brother, Paddy. It was parked down the street from the massage parlour, and he had a key to it in his pocket.’

  ‘That makes sense,’ said Pymm. ‘Stevie Cullen was banned from driving.’

  ‘In that case, could he have been a passenger?’ asked Ruskin. ‘The driver could have dropped him off.’

  ‘Then why abandon the car?’ asked Richardson. ‘The car was still there hours after the attack. And Cullen had the keys in his pocket.’

  ‘His most recent conviction was for driving without a licence and insurance six months ago,’ pointed out Pymm. ‘He clearly has no respect for the law in that regard.’

  ‘What if the driver killed him?’ asked Ruskin. ‘They drop him off, wait until they know he’s vulnerable, then go in, kill him and run away, leaving the car behind. Stevie uses the car sometimes, so he has a spare key on his key ring.’

  The idea had enough merit for Warren not to dismiss it entirely. ‘Hutch, tell your door-knockers to ask if anyone saw the car, and if Stevie was alone,’ he ordered. ‘In the meantime, what else have we got from Traffic? Anything on Anton Rimington?’

  ‘Nothing,’ said Richardson. ‘We’ve run the licence plate from his car through the databases, but the last time his car was pinged was Sunday evening, driving away from Vicki Barclay’s place.’

  ‘I don’t suppose it gives us a clue as to where he’s holed up?’ asked Warren.

  ‘No, not really. He could be anywhere that side of town. They’ll trawl the data for any other cars that he may have access to, but as far as we can tell, he didn’t use his own car to cross town to the massage parlour the day of the murder.’

  ‘Thanks, Mags. Anything else on the video front?’ asked Warren.

  ‘IT are still examining the parlour’s digital video recorder, but they’ve sent me the footage from the hours before and during the attack.’ Mags Richardson started the video on the main screen.