A Price to Pay

by Paul Gitsham

  The third possibility was that the robbery was just what it seemed, and that those carrying it out had panicked or lost their cool. These things all seemed so straightforward on the TV or in films; perhaps the team that had done it were inexperienced and weren’t able to cope when they realized that they’d chosen the wrong target.

  The final possibility was the one that worried Warren the most. Kourtney Flitton had been attacked – seemingly out of the blue – only days after being arrested. That seemed an awfully big coincidence, especially after what he and Sutton had been discussing earlier that evening.

  Yet another coincidence, in a case that seemed full of them.

  DSI John Grayson lived in a large, five-bedroom house on the outskirts of Middlesbury. Powerful security lights illuminated the driveway as Warren drove through the powered gates. Grayson’s wife, Refilwe, was a prominent human rights barrister, currently pursuing high-profile politically motivated arrests in her native South Africa. In the past, she had also represented clients against Robert Mugabe’s government in Zimbabwe – the high security was more for her protection than her husband’s.

  John Grayson answered the door dressed in corduroy trousers and an open-necked shirt, wearing a pair of novelty slippers that resembled bear’s feet. He was not pleased to see Warren. He was even less pleased to see Tony Sutton.

  ‘Which part of “don’t come in until Monday” did you not understand?’ he greeted Warren. ‘And you are supposed to be on sick leave, Tony.’

  ‘Sorry about the late hour,’ said Warren, ‘but this couldn’t wait.’

  Grunting, Grayson led the two men into the kitchen. Much to Warren’s surprise, his coffee-obsessed boss offered them a choice of decaffeinated blends, before heading to his study.

  On the drive over, Warren had thought long and hard about how to share his concerns with his superior officer. In the end, he just poured out all of his suspicions. Grayson remained passive throughout.

  ‘You’re basing a lot of assumptions on the fact that Ian Bergen knows what a barm cake is,’ he said finally.

  ‘I know,’ admitted Warren, ‘but it makes a lot of sense. The Cullen family have dodged prison for years. Bergen himself claims that they always seem to know when they are going to be raided. You know how close to their chest SOC play their cards. If the Cullens were being tipped off, it had to have come from inside SOC.’

  ‘And don’t you think it a bit odd that Bergen has been hanging around Middlesbury so much, recently?’ pressed Sutton. ‘I can’t remember a time that SOC gave two hoots about what we were up to. They spend most of their time holed up in Welwyn.’

  ‘Unusual, yes, but Bergen has a legitimate interest in this case,’ countered Grayson. ‘Stevie Cullen’s murder is finally shining a light on the family in a way that SOC and Bergen have been unable to justify in the past. You’ve seen how excited he is at a legitimate opportunity to poke around their farm.’ He turned back to Warren. ‘Weren’t you complaining just the other day that you were worried we were going to do all the work, and then SOC were going to swoop in and take the credit?’

  It was true; nevertheless Warren was undeterred. ‘I know it’s flimsy, but there are too many coincidences here. If Bergen is Northern Man, then everything makes sense.’

  Grayson placed his mug down on a coaster and folded his arms. He stared hard at his two officers. Warren and Sutton met his gaze.

  Eventually he gave a big sigh. ‘I agree, it is flimsy. But, when you lay it all out, I can’t dismiss it.’ He paused. ‘And I admit that something hasn’t felt right about this case from the start; there are a lot of coincidences here.’

  He stood up and started to pace. ‘Even assuming that he is Northern Man, I can’t take Bergen off the case. I don’t have that authority, and even if I did that would potentially tip him off that we are onto him. The last thing we want is him alerting the rest of the Cullen family and having them destroy evidence.’

  ‘So report him to Professional Standards,’ said Sutton. ‘They can start a preliminary investigation. If he’s clean, he’ll never even know they opened a file.’

  Grayson’s lip twisted. Warren couldn’t blame him. Professional Standards’ Anti-Corruption Unit were a law unto themselves. They served an invaluable role, but by bringing Bergen to their attention, they were potentially ending his career. Warren had had his own run-ins with Professional Standards over the years, and they had been bruising encounters. The Anti-Corruption Unit was even worse. If they felt that there was a case to answer, they would turn Bergen’s professional and private lives upside down. It felt disloyal.

  But then Warren remembered what Ruskin and Hutchinson had told him that evening. Kourtney Flitton’s murder had been brutal and unnecessary. She didn’t deserve that. Nobody deserved that.

  And what about Joey McGhee? The man had been a homeless drug addict. Yet he had the decency to seek out Warren and tell him what he knew. His motivation may have been financial, but he didn’t have to come and give evidence in person. He could just as easily have phoned Crimestoppers and claimed his reward anonymously. A team of officers in Welwyn had yet to find any of his relatives. When he was eventually buried, who would come to his funeral? Who would mourn his death?

  If Ian Bergen was corrupt, then he was responsible for their deaths. Not only that, he had facilitated the Cullens as they also brought misery to countless innocent people. And for what? Brown envelopes stuffed with money? Warren fought to control his anger. He would have to work alongside Bergen in the coming days, and he couldn’t risk tipping him off.

  ‘If you can’t take Bergen off the case, then you can’t let him out of your sight,’ said Sutton, flatly. ‘You have to let Warren back in.’

  Grayson took a deep breath. ‘You’re right, both of you. Warren, I want you back in the office first thing tomorrow. I will call Professional Standards and let them know of our concerns.’ He smiled grimly. ‘Technically, you weren’t suspended after giving that money to McGhee. Signing you off sick was a line-manager decision, although Standards dropped some pretty big hints.’

  He turned to Sutton. ‘But you are on sick leave. Don’t even think about setting foot in that station.’

  ‘Oh don’t you worry about that, Sir. I’ve got plenty to keep me occupied. Bargain Hunt and The Jeremy Kyle Show grow on you after a while.’

  Friday 20 November

  Chapter 54

  Warren had no intention of letting Grayson change his mind about letting him back on the case, and so he was at his desk by six a.m., long before the superintendent usually made an appearance. Susan had not been happy when Warren explained why he was going back in.

  ‘Warren, just let it go. Let’s spend a long weekend together, just the two of us.’

  After Warren had explained why he had to go back and finish the job, Susan had been even less happy.

  ‘Warren, if you’re right, and someone wants you off the case, then is it wise to challenge them? Next time they might try something more extreme. You’ve told John Grayson everything. You should stay away and let them think they’ve won. Your team can keep on working in your absence. You could even direct the investigation from here; keep a line open with John.’

  Warren could see her point, but he couldn’t skulk at home. He was a police officer, involved in a lawful investigation. Attempts to take him off the case just showed how close he was to the truth. He had a duty to stay on the case.

  No matter who wanted him off it.

  Despite his bravado, Warren was no fool. He’d driven in by a different route that morning, and he’d arranged for a couple of uniformed officers to keep an eye on the house, and escort Susan to work. She’d refused to consider taking the day off.

  Warren’s first phone call of the day was from Ballistics, who had been comparing the shotgun pellets recovered from the unknown man in the woods, with Ray Dorridge’s shotguns.

  No sooner had he hung up, than Rachel Pymm rang, calling him over to her desk.

 
‘I’ve been cross-referencing Ray Dorridge’s financials with his mobile phone records, and I’ve spotted an interesting pattern.’

  Warren stood silently whilst she talked him through her discovery.

  By the time she had finished, Warren could feel the excitement coursing through his veins. Both findings confirmed what he had begun to suspect.

  ‘That’s fantastic work, Rachel. It looks as though we’ll be having another chat with our old friend Ray Dorridge.’

  Warren had sent a team of uniformed officers to Ray Dorridge’s farm. As before, they would be inviting him to attend voluntarily – Warren was always loath to start the custody clock ticking until he had to. Not only did it impose a deadline on proceedings, it also meant that some of those precious hours would be wasted in the company of the custody sergeant. Furthermore, Warren wanted to surprise Dorridge during the interview. It was harder to do that, if you had already read out the grounds for the arrest.

  But if he didn’t cooperate, they were under orders to cuff him and bring him in, whether he wanted to come or not.

  As he was preparing his interview strategy with Moray Ruskin and John Grayson, Janice poked her head in.

  ‘Sorry to interrupt, but DS Hutchinson is on the phone. He says it’s urgent.’

  Warren took the call in his office.

  ‘Sir, DSI Grayson asked for a team to canvass the local hospitals.’

  Warren thought back to the request; Grayson had ordered it in his absence, and Warren had almost forgotten about it.

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘A young woman turned up in A&E at the Lister back in the summer. She was very distressed, dressed in filthy clothes and didn’t speak much English. She’d been picked up by a couple wandering around on the side of the A506, a couple of miles from Dorridge’s farm.’

  ‘What happened to her?’

  ‘Admissions couldn’t get a lot out of her. Apparently, they tracked down a nurse who spoke the same language, and she took her into a cubicle to check her whilst they waited for a consultant to come down and assess her. The nurse says she left to get some more bandages and when she came back, the young lady had done a bunk.

  ‘You’ve seen the Lister on a busy Friday night. Security were alerted, but they couldn’t find her on the CCTV, so they just logged it.’

  ‘Go on,’ said Warren. Hutchinson wouldn’t be in such a good mood if that was where the story ended.

  ‘As luck would have it, the nurse in question was just coming on shift when I was talking to the admissions desk. She was a bit reluctant to speak at first, but in the end agreed to speak to me as long as we didn’t tell her employers what she did. I said “no promises”, but by now I think her conscience was troubling her and she really wanted to talk.’

  ‘I think I can guess where this is going,’ said Warren. He fought down rising bile in his throat.

  ‘Yeah, the woman had just given birth to a stillborn baby. The nurse did a thorough exam, and said that aside from a little bleeding, she was essentially fit and healthy.’

  Warren felt light-headed, memories of that night with Susan flooding back. Dealing with such a tragedy as a couple had been devastating. To deal with it on your own, in a foreign country …

  ‘I assume that she didn’t stick around, because she was in the country illegally?’ he managed.

  ‘Got it in one.’

  ‘I don’t suppose you got a name?’ said Warren.

  ‘I can do a lot better than that.’

  Warren hung up his phone, already planning his next move. The story was nearly finished, with just a few more details needed. As if on cue, his phone went again. Rachel Pymm.

  ‘Sir, I just got the DNA back from the baby found in the woods.’

  Warren knew what the results would be before she even said them. It was the only explanation that made any sense.

  He left his office, heading straight for Richardson, Grimshaw and Martinez.

  ‘Shaun and Jorge, arrest Silvija Wilson. Mags, I want you to take a trip out to the Mount Prison.’

  Ray Dorridge was in a very bad mood. He was sitting next to his solicitor with a face like thunder.

  ‘This is verging on harassment, DCI Jones,’ started the lawyer. ‘My client is a very busy man. Farming runs to a tight timetable and he can ill afford to spend the better part of a day cooped up in here. If you have more questions to ask Mr Dorridge, I would ask you to please consider calling him, or visiting him at his home at a mutually convenient time.’

  ‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Warren, before turning to Dorridge.

  ‘First of all, ballistic analysis has shown that the pellet that killed the man found in Farley Woods came from a shotgun cartridge incompatible with either of your guns. I will arrange for your guns to be returned to you.’

  Dorridge acknowledged Warren with a grunt but didn’t look any less annoyed.

  ‘The last time we spoke, you denied any knowledge of the hole in the fence between your field and the woods.’

  Dorridge sighed, a little too dramatically. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’

  ‘When were you last in that field?’ asked Warren.

  ‘As I said previously, when the fruit was being picked, back in early summer.’

  ‘And there was no hole in the fence then?’

  ‘Again, not that I saw.’

  Warren made a note on his pad. Dorridge eyed it nervously. He’d already demonstrated that he wasn’t a natural liar; by ostentatiously recording the man’s words, Warren hoped to keep him on edge.

  ‘It’s a pretty big field. I imagine that you employ people to help you pick the fruit before it goes off.’

  Dorridge shrugged, saying nothing.

  ‘When we interviewed you previously, you said that you were alone on the farm and that you hired workers “as and when you needed them”.’

  Dorridge paused for a few seconds, before answering, his tone wary. ‘I guess so.’

  ‘Perhaps one of those workers saw the hole in the fence. Could you give me some names?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  ‘You must have records.’

  ‘I chucked them out.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I probably won’t use the firm again; they were too expensive.’

  ‘What was the name of the firm?’

  ‘I can’t remember.’

  Warren looked at him for a few seconds, but Dorridge said nothing.

  Warren pushed a sheaf of papers across the desk towards him. ‘Your bank statements for the past twelve months. Personal and business accounts. Interesting reading.’

  Dorridge stared fixedly at a spot above Warren’s shoulder.

  ‘It looks as though you’re barely breaking even.’

  Dorridge shrugged. ‘I’m hardly alone. Between cheap imports from abroad, and the supermarkets forcing us to accept less and less money each season, farming’s a dying business.’

  ‘We’ve been through these entries with a fine-tooth comb, matching them to all the different companies and people you’ve paid. Most of it’s pretty much what I’d expect.’ Warren ran his finger down the list. ‘Utility companies, feed suppliers, specialist equipment providers, an agricultural vehicle repair firm – that was an expensive one.’

  ‘The gearbox broke on the tractor. It was still cheaper than buying a new one.’

  ‘The thing is, I can’t find any companies that supply farm labourers.’

  Dorridge shifted uncomfortably in his seat.

  Warren continued, ‘However, I have found some very large cash withdrawals. Almost daily back in the summer. Would I be correct in assuming that you paid cash in hand?’

  ‘That’s not an offence, DCI Jones,’ interrupted Dorridge’s solicitor. ‘Farming is a casual business, and it’s the employee’s responsibility to ensure that all relevant taxes are paid.’

  ‘It might not be an offence, but it’s not exactly best accounting practice, is it?’

  ‘I hardly see the relevance …’<
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  Warren pulled another sheet of paper out of his folder. ‘What’s really weird, is that if you had put these payroll payments through your accounts properly, you could have offset them against your profits and reduced your tax liability. I’m not self-employed, so I don’t fully understand these things, but as far as I can tell, that’s pretty much free money. Why wouldn’t you do that?’

  Dorridge cleared his throat. ‘I’m not a very good businessman, I didn’t realize I could.’

  ‘Surely your accountant would have told you this? I see you pay an annual fee to a reputable accountancy firm that specialize in farming and agriculture.’

  Dorridge said nothing.

  ‘How many workers do you employ to pick fruit on a field that size?’

  Dorridge glanced over at his solicitor, who looked more interested in Warren’s line of questioning than his client’s discomfort.

  ‘It depends.’

  ‘Well I had a chat with the National Farmers’ Union. They reckon that for a field that size, you’d be looking at about ten workers, probably working for about twelve hours a day in the peak season.

  ‘Now my maths isn’t great, but that’s one hundred and twenty paid hours each day.’

  Reading upside down, he used his pen to circle the daily cash withdrawals on the statement. Each amounted to four hundred pounds.

  ‘Tell me Mr Dorridge, what’s the current minimum wage for a person over eighteen?’

  ‘Again, I hardly see the relevance …’ interjected the solicitor.

  ‘Please answer the question, Mr Dorridge.’

  ‘I’m not sure.’

  ‘Before October’s change, the rate was six pounds fifty per hour for adults. Even assuming your workers were under twenty-one, the rate was still five pounds thirteen pence. Now I’m willing to accept that I may have overestimated how many workers you employ, and how many hours they work per day, but you don’t have to be Einstein to see that four hundred quid doesn’t come close to a full day’s labour costs.’