by Paul Gitsham
However, the sense of urgency in the office had somewhat receded and Grayson had insisted that everyone – Warren included – take some of their accumulated rest days.
Warren had just returned from two days away. Susan’s head teacher had agreed to let her take a couple of days unpaid personal leave and they had driven to Coventry to finally speak to their loved ones and tell them the sad news about the miscarriage. The break had been far from restful, but the previous night he had slept better than he had in weeks.
Granddad Jack had taken the news of the end of Susan’s pregnancy better than they’d feared. There had been tears from everyone, but the old man had insisted that he wanted to support them. He even went as far as pledging his savings to fund another cycle of IVF; that was a discussion for another day, but Warren had been moved to tears again by his generosity.
Bernice and Dennis had been similarly upset, but had been more supportive than Warren had expected. Bernice had hugged her daughter in a way that she hadn’t for months. Whatever her religious views might be on the rights and wrongs of assisted reproduction, the two babies had been her future grandchildren and she grieved their loss. Later that evening, Dennis had taken Warren to one side and also quietly promised to help them financially if they needed it. Warren had managed to hold the tears back this time.
Before Warren and Susan returned to Middlesbury, the family had picked Granddad Jack up from his respite home, wheeling him to church, where they’d lit candles and said prayers for the souls of their two children. Warren had still to come to terms with the crisis of faith he’d experienced in the aftermath of the abbey murders earlier that year. He didn’t yet know if he would ever fully return to the Catholic Church – something that he and Tony Sutton had spoken about at length. However, the familiar rituals were soothing, and by the end of the service, he could feel the change in Susan, her parents and Granddad Jack. For that reason alone, he was unwilling to dismiss a return to The Church out of hand.
The previous evening, as they’d driven back home, Susan and Warren had talked for hours – for once the traffic jams caused by the perpetual roadworks on the A14 were a blessing not a curse. Warren had already had one session with Occupational Health, although he felt that in many ways the counselling he most needed – that of his wife and family – would be the most important part of healing the wounds that the past couple of years had inflicted on him.
There was a tap on his office door. Looking up, he could see the bright red of Rachel Pymm’s cardigan sleeve through the frosted glass window. He got up quickly to help her in.
‘How was your break?’ asked Warren as he took her sticks from her and pulled over the visitor’s chair. Pymm had taken her accumulated rest days at the same time as Warren.
‘I need to speak to you urgently, Sir,’ said Pymm, ‘in confidence.’
The uncharacteristic lack of manners, coupled with her grave tone, gave Warren pause.
He knew it wouldn’t be good news.
Warren felt the shock wash over him. He sat down heavily.
‘Are you sure?’ It was a silly question. Pymm didn’t make those sorts of mistakes.
‘Definitely. I ran the licence plate of the van that Paddy Cullen tried to escape in against HOLMES as per procedure. Just tidying up some loose ends really. As usual, there was the list of previous searches for that index with time stamps.’ She gave a shuddering breath. ‘The last search was the one that I did when Mags first identified the van from the traffic cameras. There is no record of any subsequent searches by Organized Crime, even though we asked them to run one when it was first identified.’
‘But there wouldn’t be, would there?’ said Warren. ‘They were supposed to be running it through their own restricted files. We don’t have access to that part of the database, for obvious reasons.’
It wasn’t lost on Warren that Grimshaw would have had the correct permissions to access those cases back when he was on Bergen’s task force, although they should have been rescinded when he moved to Middlesbury.
‘I’m an officer in the case. I should at least see a red flag against a search, even if I can’t see any other details.’
‘OK.’ Warren trusted her enough to let her continue; she wouldn’t be making such serious allegations without evidence.
‘So, I called a friend of mine in SOC. He ran the number through the system, using his permissions and it came back as a positive match to a van that they knew the Cullens owned.’ She paused and swallowed. ‘When they were asked to run it through their system previously, they were told we’d already run it through the DVLA, so just ran it through HOLMES, otherwise they’d have realized they hadn’t been given a real licence plate number; it was out by just one digit.’
‘Which could be explained away as human error,’ interjected Warren.
‘Exactly. We could have linked the van to the Cullens days earlier.’
Warren was stunned, as he thought back to the sequence of events.
‘But how do you know …’
‘There’s more, Sir.’
The news that Grimshaw hadn’t been Northern Man had hit Grayson like a bombshell.
‘That bastard …’
Grayson had moved fast, agreeing with Warren’s assessment that they needed to arrest immediately. By the time Warren had completed briefing the rest of the team, he’d authorised a phone intercept and arranged an arrest warrant, a Forced Entry Team was already on stand-by. Professional Standards had observers from their Anti-Corruption Unit en route, but they weren’t waiting for them. The target had already had days to destroy evidence and cover his tracks, and they didn’t intend to give him a minute more.
Besides which, he’d duped them all. This was personal.
‘Do we know where he is?’ asked Grayson, skimming through the steady stream of emails flying into his phone.
‘Rachel just got the location data on his phone’, said Warren. ‘Assuming he’s carrying it, he’s at home.’
‘Then let’s go get him.’
The house was a two-bedroom, terraced affair, in a small cul-de-sac. Spotters had already completed a drive-by and confirmed that their target’s car was parked off road, on a hard-standing in front of the kitchen window. The house was less than ten years old, and unless its owner had remodelled, the living room was at the rear of the house. This time of night, the curtains were drawn, but light leaking out of the large bay windows at both the front and the back indicated the occupant was in either the living room or the kitchen. The upstairs was dark.
‘He has CCTV at the front of the house and the back. My officers are behind the garden fence. The gate is wooden and locked with a simple padlock. I don’t see it being an obstacle,’ said Roger Gibson, the sergeant coordinating the forced entry. ‘We don’t want to tip him off, so we’ll enter the front and rear simultaneously.’
Warren looked to Grayson for approval.
‘It’s your show, Warren.’
‘Do it.’
The entry was fast and brutally efficient.
On Warren’s signal, Sergeant Gibson and his team burst out from behind the hedges concealing them. Despite their bulky body armour, and the even bulkier battering ram two of the team were carrying, they covered the length of the front drive in seconds.
The battering ram hit the door precisely on the lock, a single blow smashing it inwards so that it crashed against the wall. A moment later, Warren heard the sound of breaking glass as the French windows at the back of the property received the same treatment.
Shouts of ‘Armed Police, show me your hands!’ were echoed over the open radio link, followed by ‘Drop the knife. Drop the knife.’
A second later, Warren heard the distinctive rapid-fire clicks of a TASER being fired.
For the next few seconds, all he could hear over the airwaves was shouting. Eventually the noise died down as the entry team reported each room in the house clear of any other occupants.
Unable to wait any longer, Warren headed up
the drive and through the gaping doorway. Grayson followed.
‘In the kitchen, Sirs,’ said the armed officer standing just inside the threshold.
Following her pointed finger, Warren entered the room.
The target lay face-down on the parquet flooring. Beside him, just out of reach, a large kitchen knife lay where it had fallen. A wooden knife block lay on its side on the countertop, the remaining blades scattered across the wooden surface. A smashed glass lay in a pool of liquid in front of the sink.
‘Watch your feet,’ warned the sergeant kneeling on the suspect’s back as he fastened the handcuffs. ‘He pissed himself when I discontinued the shock.’
Warren stepped carefully around the yellow puddle.
‘Got the bastard,’ muttered Grayson beside him.
Warren squatted down beside the man’s head. After a couple of seconds, the prostrate man turned to look at him, his eyes still glassy from the after-effects of the high-voltage electric shock.
‘You are under arrest on suspicion of murder …’
Chapter 61
It was well-past midnight when the interview started. Warren had a pile of folders in front of him. Next to him, DI Erica Leadsom, a representative from the Anti-Corruption Unit of Professional Standards, made notes on a legal pad. The suspect was flanked by his solicitor and a representative from the Police Federation. Upstairs in the main CID briefing room, there was standing room only as the interview was streamed onto the big screen.
After completing the preliminary paperwork, Warren signalled it was time for the interview to start.
‘My client has a statement that he wishes to be read into the record, before we start,’ said the solicitor. After agreement from Warren, she started to read from her laptop screen.
‘My client wishes to state that he is categorically innocent of all the charges presented to him. It is clear that there has been a misunderstanding based on his previous relationship with Detective Sergeant Shaun Grimshaw. My client believes that this investigation is based on circumstantial evidence at best and he looks forward to a complete exoneration. He will also be pursuing a claim for wrongful arrest, excessive force, and reputational damage.’
Warren thanked her for the statement and turned his attention to the man sitting opposite him.
In the hours since his arrest, the accused had been cleaned up and dressed in a grey, shapeless tracksuit. A small bandage applied to his forehead covered the cut he had received when he had collapsed to the floor after being shot with the TASER.
In the harsh, white light, the man’s face was pasty, the purple bruising surrounding his cut standing out in stark relief. Since the arrest, the only words he had spoken were to confirm his name and personal details to the custody sergeant, his voice little more than a mumble. Warren had noticed how his northern accent, usually softened from years of living in the south, had been stronger under stress.
There was no doubt in Warren’s mind, that the man sat before him was the mysterious Northern Man, whose corruption had allowed the Cullen family to thrive unchallenged for so many years.
‘Let’s start with the murder of Stevie Cullen,’ said Warren.
‘My client was not involved in that murder, as you well know,’ said the solicitor.
So that was how it was going to be. The suspect glared at him across the table. It was obvious that a confession would not be forthcoming. Warren ignored the interruption.
‘Where were you on Monday November the 2nd between the hours of approximately one-twenty-five p.m. and three p.m.?’
‘No comment.’
Warren was unfazed. He had expected as much.
‘According to records from your personal mobile phone, your phone was turned off at that time. In fact, the phone was switched off moments after this burner phone, later found in DS Grimshaw’s desk, received a call from Silvija Wilson. Do you recognize this phone?’
Warren showed him a photograph of the burner phone.
‘No comment.’
‘At one-forty p.m., an emergency call was received by 999 call handlers reporting a fatal stabbing at the Middlesbury Massage and Relaxation Centre, a massage parlour owned by Silvija Wilson. Uniformed officers and a paramedic first response unit were dispatched, and Middlesbury CID were informed that a murder had taken place. DS Shaun Grimshaw was one of two CID officers to attend the scene, arriving twenty minutes after the paramedics pronounced life extinguished.
‘Where were you?’
‘No comment.’
‘According to an analysis of the tracking movements of the burner phone and DS Grimshaw’s personal phone over the past twelve months, the two phones were in close proximity to one another ninety-one per cent of the time that the burner phone was switched on. Can you explain why that was the case?’
The suspect licked his lips and glanced towards his solicitor.
‘I believe that you have already established that DS Grimshaw was the owner of this burner phone,’ said his solicitor. ‘I fail to see what relevance this has to my client.’
‘Have we established that DS Grimshaw owned the phone?’ said Warren contemplatively. ‘Somebody certainly wanted to make sure we thought it was his.’
He produced a second sheet of paper, spinning it through 180 degrees so that it could be read by those on the opposite side of the table.
‘DS Grimshaw’s personal phone’s tracking data places it in close proximity ninety-one per cent of the time that the burner phone is turned on. However, the burner phone is in close proximity to your personal phone ninety-nine per cent of the time. In fact, on the day of the murder, the burner phone was within fifty metres of your phone, right up until the moment that it received the call from Silvija Wilson, and your personal phone was turned off. Can you explain why that happened?’
‘No comment.’
The pallor of the man across the table had now gone past white and was tinged with green. Warren hoped he didn’t throw up; he hated when they did that.
‘The burner phone remained in close proximity to DS Grimshaw’s phone right up until the moment that the call came into CID requesting presence at the scene. It then stays close to his phone until five-past-two. At that time, the burner phone moves away from DS Grimshaw’s phone. It stays within that area for the next couple of hours, but it is clear from the data that it is not being carried by DS Grimshaw.’
Warren paused to let that sink in. ‘Why is that?’
The suspect paused. Warren could see the panicked calculations going on behind his eyes. He held his breath.
‘He must have left it in the car.’
Warren mentally punched the air.
The wise thing to do in this situation, would be to ‘No comment.’ The man in front of him must know that intellectually, yet despite his hours of training and even more hours of actually performing interviews, he had been unable to help himself. He was in a corner, and he knew it. Now he would come out fighting. He had no choice.
‘The phone moved around; it wasn’t stationary.’
‘There were lots of people at the scene. Perhaps he gave the phone to somebody else? Perhaps he was working with them or even trying to frame them?’
Warren said nothing, letting him realize what he had just said. Both the solicitor and the Federation Rep winced. Out of the corner of his eye, Warren saw Leadsom make a note on her pad.
‘Where were you when DS Grimshaw was securing the massage parlour?’
‘No comment.’
It was too late to backtrack now, and he knew it.
‘Throughout this investigation, you supported the narrative given by the two masseuses that a mysterious masked stranger clambered through the window of the massage parlour and murdered Stevie Cullen where he lay. During that time you were willing to entertain the idea that Anton Rimington, the fiancé of Vicki Barclay, might have murdered Cullen in a fit of jealousy, yet you repeatedly dismissed the idea that Ray Dorridge, with whom Stevie Cullen had a business arrangement could have b
een responsible.
‘An objective look at the facts would suggest that Dorridge’s motives were at least as strong as Rimington’s, yet you wouldn’t support that idea. Why?’
‘No comment.’
‘Was it because you were worried that Ray Dorridge might identify you as the corrupt member of SOC, known to us as “Northern Man”, who had ensured that the Cullen family’s illegal workers enterprise went uncovered?’
‘No comment.’
‘Did you threaten to expose Ray Dorridge’s use of illegal labour if he didn’t keep his mouth shut?’
‘No comment.’
‘And when he confessed to using illegal labour, removing that particular lever, did you then go and threaten to kill him if he identified you?’
‘No comment.’
‘Why didn’t you kill Ray Dorridge? You killed Joey McGhee and Kourtney Flitton, to stop them identifying you.’
‘No comment.’
Warren let him stew for a few seconds. ‘Let’s move on.’
He flicked over the pages of his notepad. ‘The night of the raid on the Cullen farm. You participated in the raid; however, when we arrived both Paddy Cullen and Frankie Cullen were absent from the farmhouse. They were subsequently found in the barn, preparing to escape with a van full of illegal workers. During the subsequent altercation, Authorized Firearms Officer Bradley Kemp was shot and run over, DS Shaun Grimshaw was shot dead and Frankie Cullen was shot and seriously injured.’
Warren took a sip of water, his mouth dry. ‘Shortly before the team left, a text message was sent from the burner phone to Paddy Cullen, warning him that a raid was imminent. That text was not replied to, presumably because Mr Cullen was asleep at the time. Did you send that text?’
