A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  The next photograph was taken from a slightly different angle.

  ‘There is also what appears to be some animal fur caught on some of the bottom strands. It’s probably from local wildlife traipsing through the gap in the fence, but again, we’ve sent it off for testing.’

  ‘Any ideas yet how long the body has been lying there?’ asked Hutchinson.

  ‘Too early to say, but as you can see it’s significantly decomposed. We’re getting entomologists in to collect insect samples, and we’re waiting for a botanist to assess if the local flora can give us some indication how long the body has lain there.

  ‘The main priority in the meantime is to revisit our old friend Mr Dorridge. Two hours ago, an extended search warrant was executed to search his entire property again, including his fields, outbuildings and any vehicles. He has a licence for two shotguns, both of which have been seized, and we’ll be looking for anything else that might link him to the killing of Stevie Cullen. I’m still not entirely convinced that he wasn’t involved in some way. He’s currently downstairs awaiting his lawyer. I can’t wait to hear what he has to say for himself.’

  Chapter 45

  Ray Dorridge sat across the table from Warren yet again. The harsh fluorescent lighting highlighted the man’s lack of sleep, although to be fair, the face that had stared back at Warren that morning as he shaved hadn’t looked much better. At least his hair had less grey.

  Dorridge looked nervous. He said nothing as his solicitor read a short statement.

  ‘My client wishes to make it categorically clear, yet again, that he had nothing to do with the death of Mr Stevie Cullen. So far, the evidence that the police have against Mr Dorridge is entirely circumstantial. Unfortunately, the late Mr Cullen was a very unpopular man, and there are many who might harbour a motive to kill him. My client has agreed, voluntarily, to questioning to clear this matter up, once and for all.’

  ‘Thank you, Mr Dorridge, your cooperation is appreciated,’ said Warren, ‘however, we are not here to discuss the death of Mr Cullen. Rather, we would like you to help us with another matter.’

  Dorridge nodded, warily.

  ‘I believe that your land backs onto Farley Woods?’

  Dorridge squirmed in his seat. ‘Yes, although it’s public land. I don’t ever go into it; there’s a perimeter fence.’

  ‘I’m sure you are aware that there is significant police activity going on there at the moment.’

  ‘I fail to see the relevance,’ interrupted the solicitor again. ‘Mr Dorridge’s property is separated from that land, which if memory serves, is fully accessible to the general public. I fail to see the link between Mr Dorridge and whatever you are currently investigating.’

  Warren opened the folder again and took out a photograph. ‘Are you aware that a large hole has been cut in the fence between the woods and your field?’

  ‘No. I haven’t been down there since the summer. I’m not due to start planting down there for weeks.’

  ‘Have you been in Farley Woods recently?’

  ‘No. Like I said, it’s not my land.’

  ‘So, you don’t know anything about the dead body found there yesterday? A dead body that may have accessed the land via the hole cut in your fence?’

  Dorridge went white. ‘I need a bathroom break.’

  They’d deliberately held back on announcing the discovery of the body to the public until they could interview Dorridge again. He’d been shocked at the revelation of the discovery, but it was unclear if that reaction was because he knew nothing about the body, or because the crime had been uncovered.

  ‘Do we have anything more from Scenes of Crime?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Nothing much yet. The soil samples will take a while to process for blood, so we won’t know where he was shot for a while,’ said Pymm. ‘A search team with metal detectors is looking for more pellets, or discarded cartridges, but it’s slow going. They have his guns, so we can check for a match if we find anything.’

  At the moment, Dorridge was the single point of contact between both murders, a coincidence too big to ignore. His fate would likely be determined by the outcomes of the search warrant and the forensic analysis of the body and the area surrounding its discovery, but that would take time.

  ‘Well let’s just hit him with what we know so far, and see if he gives us anything else,’ said Warren.

  ‘OK, Mr Dorridge, let’s turn to the body found at the edge of your property.’

  Some of the colour had returned to the farmer’s cheeks, although his eyes still appeared hollow.

  ‘The body found in the publicly accessible woodland at the edge of his property,’ reminded the solicitor.

  ‘We believe that the victim accessed the wooded area from a hole in your fence. What can you tell us about that?’

  Warren was gambling now. Forensics hadn’t yet confirmed that the victim and the hole cut in the fence were related, but the presence near the body of a pair of sharpened secateurs, capable of cutting such a hole, certainly pointed that way.

  ‘I don’t know anything about a body in the woods,’ said Dorridge.

  ‘The body has been there for some time, as has the hole cut in the fence. Can you remember anything unusual happening down there?’

  ‘No, nothing.’

  Dorridge was sitting with his left leg crossed over his right. Warren glanced down at his foot. It was twitching, but not dancing as violently as it had in previous interviews when he’d been lying.

  ‘When was the last time you went down that field?’

  ‘Back in the summer, when the fruit was ready to pick. I haven’t been back since.’

  ‘What fruit were you picking?’

  ‘Gooseberries.’

  ‘And when did you pick them?’

  ‘End of June, beginning of July – I can’t remember exactly. I pick them before they fully ripen, so that they have more pectin for the jam manufacturers.’

  ‘And you didn’t see a hole in your fence then?’

  Dorridge frowned in concentration. ‘I didn’t notice a hole in the middle of June, when I went down to check if the gooseberries were ripe enough to pick.’

  If what Dorridge was saying was true, then that meant the victim had been killed after that time. But when?

  Then there was the question about whether Dorridge was actually complicit in the killing. The victim had been shot with a shotgun, of which he owned two. Would ballistic analysis be able to provide a match?

  And if they did, what was his motive? Could he have found the victim trespassing on his fields? It seemed a rather extreme reaction, particularly if the victim was already running away, into the woods. Forensics were looking for any blood traces on Dorridge’s side of the fence, although Warren wasn’t expecting anything. Months had obviously passed since the shooting; the likelihood of any blood being found was slim on such exposed ground. They might find something in the forest, but again, his hopes weren’t high.

  And then there was Stevie Cullen. Dorridge was the sole link so far between both murders. Warren couldn’t dismiss that.

  For the time being, Dorridge had to remain on the suspect board.

  ‘Interview suspended.’

  Warren only had enough time to drink a quick coffee and force down a sandwich, before his next interview. He went through the strategy Grayson had outlined. He’d considered passing the interview over to someone else, but he was desperate to meet the suspect himself, and the clock was ticking. Within reason, Grayson was happy to let Warren do things his way, even if it was unusual for such a senior officer to get so involved.

  The young woman known only as Annie looked even more exhausted than Silvija Wilson. At first glance, she bore more than a passing resemblance to Biljana, with short, dark hair and a slim build. It was now obvious that she’d been visible at least once on the reception CCTV footage, but the team had mistaken her for Biljana from behind. Mags Richardson’s team were going back over the CCTV footage from the massage
parlour’s reception area to see if they had made any more misidentifications and whether this affected their timeline of events. Annie was unquestionably the young woman appearing in the background of the two sisters’ social media posts.

  Up close, however, she was several years older than they’d thought. Her nose had also been broken on at least one occasion, and one of her front teeth was chipped. Her left eyebrow was demarked by a small scar.

  If what Silvija Wilson had told Warren was true, and the woman sat before him had been acting in self-defence, then she was worthy of his sympathy. However, they only had Wilson’s word about events that she hadn’t personally witnessed. On top of that, the woman’s story had changed so many times, anything she said had to be taken with a generous pinch of salt.

  But Warren’s gut was telling him that they were getting closer to the truth. He just needed Annie to tell him her version of events.

  ‘Annie, can you look at me?’ said Warren, his voice gentle. He hoped that even if Annie was relying on the translator for the meaning of his words, she would pick up on his tone.

  She looked up slowly. Her eyes were swollen from crying, the tip of her nose reddened.

  ‘Silvija has told us what she thinks happened that day, but we need you to explain your side of it.’

  Annie shook her head. ‘No comment,’ she mumbled.

  Warren tried again. ‘Biljana and Malina are in a lot of trouble. They need you to help them.’

  Annie frowned, and looked over at the translator, obviously confused.

  ‘It’s true, Annie,’ said Warren. ‘Biljana and Malina have refused to tell us what happened. They then lied about a man dressed in black climbing through the window and committing the murder.’

  Annie said nothing.

  ‘The problem is that we have no evidence that they weren’t involved. All we know is that the three of you were in that massage parlour when Stevie Cullen was killed.’

  Warren leant forward, catching Annie’s eyes. ‘What Silvija has told us isn’t enough. She wasn’t there. We’ve had to charge them with his murder.’

  Annie gasped, speaking for the first time. Even without the immediate translation, it was obvious what she had said. ‘No. They had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Well they are prepared to go to court and perhaps even prison,’ said Warren. ‘They refuse to admit that you were even there.’

  Annie was shaking her head. ‘No. That’s not fair; they didn’t kill him.’

  ‘Then who did kill him, Annie?’ Warren repeated, his tone firm. ‘Unless you can give me another suspect, then they are going to go to prison for you.’ Warren’s voice softened again. ‘They are prepared to sacrifice everything for you. Can you let them do that?’

  Tears coursed down Annie’s cheeks. ‘No. They didn’t do it. Neither of them did it.’

  ‘Then who was it, Annie? There was nobody else there. The nail technicians had already left. There were no other customers, and we know that the man in black doesn’t exist. That only leaves one person.’

  When she spoke, her voice was a sob, but it was clear enough for the translator. ‘I did it. I killed him.’

  Chapter 46

  Unfortunately, Annie’s unexpected revelation had not opened the floodgates. Quite the opposite. After dissolving in tears again, she eventually composed herself enough to continue answering ‘no comment’.

  After an increasingly frustrating thirty minutes, Warren had eventually admitted defeat, and sent her back to her cell whilst they awaited the CPS to authorize charging. With his afternoon suddenly free again, he decided to take a trip to the Lister hospital to meet with Professor Jordan.

  The post-mortem on the adult body found in Farley Woods had been performed as a priority case. Even a liberal application of Vicks VapoRub on his top lip failed to fully disguise the smell of decomposition, although Warren admitted that the odour might be psychological. He’d only managed a light lunch, and had resisted the urge to have a snack, but his stomach still made an ominous gurgling noise.

  ‘The deceased is definitely male,’ said Jordan. ‘I’d say in his late twenties. Approximately 185 centimetres tall, but significantly underweight. Unfortunately, exposure to the elements and scavengers has made gross examination of his internal organs of limited use.’

  The body had been laid out on a steel table. With the clothing removed, Warren could see the full extent of the body’s decomposition.

  ‘I’ll need to run more tests to rule out other causes, but at the moment I’d say he bled to death from a shotgun wound to his left thigh.’

  Jordan pointed to the remains of the leg. The remaining flesh was peppered with several black pellets.

  ‘One of the pellets looks to have nicked the femoral artery. The kneecap is also dislocated, although I would suggest that is more likely to be due to the body falling awkwardly.’

  ‘Before or after he was shot?’ asked Warren.

  ‘Impossible to say, although the joint is swollen, suggesting that there was a significant delay between the injury and the cessation of the heart pumping. The damage to the artery is relatively minor – if the bullet had entered a few millimetres to the left, it would have missed it entirely, so the exsanguination took some time.’

  ‘Long enough for him to crawl away from the location he was shot?’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Warren eyed the man’s hands. He didn’t even need to ask if fingerprints were possible. The skin on the remaining digits had all but disappeared. His stomach gurgled again at the sight of obvious bite marks.

  ‘Any clues about ethnicity?’

  ‘I’d say white, Caucasian, although the skin discoloration makes that tentative. His hair is a dark brown, and there is some of his beard left, although a lot is missing.’ Jordan’s tone was grim. ‘Doubtless a search of any local nests or burrows will find more of it. I’ve taken samples for DNA analysis, and dental X-rays, so if he’s in the system we may get a hit.’

  ‘Have you had a look at what he was wearing?’

  Jordan nodded, leading Warren over to a paper-covered table where the man’s clothing had been neatly laid out.

  Under the bright, fluorescent lighting, the man’s trousers appeared to be dark blue jeans.

  ‘The label shows the inside leg to be 31 inches, which is consistent with the man’s height. But the waist is 34 inches. Even with the state of the body, I can see that’s several inches too wide. Either he lost a lot of weight since buying them, or the trousers didn’t originally belong to him. I’d suggest weight loss.’

  Jordan lifted a battered, black leather belt. ‘It looks as though at least two more holes have been made in the belt to make it tighter.’

  He returned to the jeans. ‘Aside from the significant staining from the blood, and the mud, I’d say that the jeans were already very dirty when the victim was shot.’ He pointed to a black mark on the right knee. ‘That looks like engine oil to me.’ He pointed at another, white stain. ‘And that looks like paint.’

  ‘I’ll get them analysed,’ said Warren.

  ‘The T-shirt also hasn’t seen the inside of a washing machine in a very long while.’

  Up close the once-white material was stained and grimy. The neck and the cuffs were both heavily frayed.

  ‘I’d say the staining on the inside is probably sweat. It’s not just grubby, it’s filthy. It’s what I’d expect to see from someone who has been living rough for some time with no access to washing facilities.’

  Could the mysterious man have been homeless? Living in the woods? In that case, how had he been shot? And why was he only wearing a thin T-shirt? In Warren’s experience, homeless people tended to wear most of their clothes regardless of the weather; they couldn’t exactly hang them up in a wardrobe.

  Warren recalled the observation from the briefing. ‘I don’t recognize that logo,’ he said, peering closer at the T-shirt’s chest. ‘It looks as though it might be foreign. Is there a label inside?’

 
‘Yes, although it’s a fairly standard multi-language European wash label. It’s a UK extra-large. Again, a couple of sizes bigger than I’d expect someone of his build to wear.’

  Forensics would be taking the clothes away for further analysis, but Warren snapped a picture of the logo and the label on his phone so he could start someone looking on the clothing databases to identify where it came from. Jordan obligingly turned the jeans over, so Warren could photograph the size label and leather tag on the rear waistband. Again, it looked unfamiliar, although the raised lettering had been worn down to almost nothing from rubbing against the belt.

  ‘There are some seeds and what looks like small fibres stuck to the turn-ups. I’ll recommend that Forensics use sticky tape on the surfaces and see what they find. If they are different to the plant species near to where he was found, they might provide a clue to where he was before he died.’

  ‘What about the pockets?’

  ‘Empty as far as I can tell. I’ll leave the trace evidence team to poke around inside for anything small, but there was no wallet, phone or keys, coins, notes or even scraps of paper that I could see.’

  That was also unusual. Even homeless people tended to accumulate pocket litter over time: receipts, bus tickets and tissues were a ubiquitous part of daily life. Had the man’s pockets been emptied?

  ‘What about underwear?’

  ‘Filthy again.’ Jordan held up a pair of stained, black briefs. ‘Be glad of your facemask; they’re pretty ripe. Urine stains at the front, faecal stains at the rear. He could have urinated as he died, but I see no evidence that he defecated. Judging from the state of the rest of the clothing, and the obvious age of the underwear, I’d say the victim had worn these for weeks or even longer.’

  There was no obvious logo on the underwear, and again, Jordan held them aloft as Warren photographed the care label.

  ‘Let’s have a look at the footwear,’ he suggested.

  ‘Socks are unbranded and very well worn.’ Jordan pointed to two holes in a white sports sock. He flipped one over and showed Warren a badly repaired hole on the heel.