A Price to Pay

Warren drew a line through the names on the whiteboard. It was a symbolic gesture, but he knew from experience that the deluge of information coming into an investigation, particularly in its early stages, could feel overwhelming. Visibly chipping away at that growing pile helped the team feel as though they were making progress.

‘We should speak to Benny Masterson, Stevie’s best friend,’ suggested Ruskin. ‘I thought I’d try and track him down later today when he’s slept off yesterday.’

‘Well don’t leave it too late,’ cautioned Warren, ‘or from what you told us yesterday, he might have started drinking all over again. How are we doing tracking down that farmer Stevie was seen arguing with?’

Moray Ruskin flipped open his notebook. ‘Jorge’s narrowing it down. The White Stag pub is near a busy junction. I reckon there are about six farms or smallholdings that are close enough to consider the White Stag a local. I’m going back there to get a better description of the bloke Stevie was seen arguing with. The landlady, Gweneth Rain, seemed to be willing to cooperate; I reckon if I catch her before any of Stevie’s mates turn up for their mid-morning pint and pork scratchings, she’ll help me out.’

‘Well don’t dismiss the other farms out of hand,’ said Warren. ‘If any of them did have dealings with Stevie Cullen – business or otherwise – they might have useful information.’ He turned to Rachel Pymm. ‘Any progress on tracking down Anton Rimington, the fiancé of Vicki Barclay? If he was as angry as she said he was when he figured out that somebody else might have got her pregnant, who knows what he could do?’

‘His mobile phone has been turned off since Sunday night, when Barclay claims he stormed out,’ said Pymm. ‘We have a list of his known associates from around the time of his arrest. He doesn’t have any close family that we are aware of in the area, so if he is staying with someone, rather than holed up in a Travelodge, it’ll be a friend. I’ll get a team ringing around and, if necessary, door-knocking, but even if he is with one of these charmers, I don’t know how cooperative they’ll be.’

‘Well we won’t know if we don’t try. Prioritize finding him; he’s one of our strongest suspects at the moment. And if nothing else, I want to know what sort of risk he poses to Vicki Barclay. He has form for violent offending in the past.’

‘Speaking of which, how certain are we that Vicki Barclay is innocent in all of this?’ asked Martinez.

‘Well she’s very obviously pregnant,’ said Warren. ‘It would have to be a pretty baggy hoodie to fool the two sisters into thinking that the killer was a man.’

‘Maybe she was working with Rimington?’ suggested Martinez. ‘Imagine this scenario: Stevie Cullen gets Vicki pregnant. Realizing that she is never going to hide this from Rimington, she decides to tell him that Cullen raped her. She says she doesn’t want to go to the police, knowing that Rimington has such a temper on him, he may well go and solve the problem for her.’

‘Blimey, Jorge, you need to stop watching so many soap operas,’ said Grimshaw.

Warren placed a hand up to stay the sniping between the two friends. ‘Don’t dismiss it out of hand; let’s work through it,’ he said, although it seemed a bit far-fetched.

‘OK,’ started Grimshaw, ‘why would she go to all of that trouble, when she could just get an abortion? Surely that would solve the problem?’

‘That problem is an unborn baby,’ said Pymm, pointedly. ‘That’s a big step for many women to contemplate.’

‘Bigger than killing the baby’s father?’ countered Grimshaw.

‘Killing Stevie Cullen might solve one problem,’ said Hutchinson, ‘but surely it opens up a whole load more. If her plan was to create a plausible reason for falling pregnant, so that she could then live happily ever after with Anton Rimington, that only works if Rimington gets away with the murder. Otherwise, Rimington goes to prison and she has nobody to support her.’

‘You’re assuming that she wants support from Rimington,’ said Richardson. ‘She might feel that she would rather bring up the baby on her own. Getting Rimington to kill Cullen would take them both out of the picture.’

‘Or maybe there is a kernel of truth in what happened. Maybe Stevie Cullen actually did force himself on her?’ said Martinez.

‘So why didn’t she go to the police?’ asked Grimshaw.

‘Lots of rape victims don’t, you know that,’ said Martinez. ‘By all accounts, they had a more than friendly relationship. She might have felt shame, because she felt she had led him on, or maybe she just thought that no one would believe her. Perhaps she couldn’t face the thought of a “he said – she said” court case.’

‘Not to mention the whole evidence-collecting process,’ said Richardson.

‘She could also have been too frightened,’ said Hutchinson. ‘The Cullen family have a hell of a reputation around here. Accusing one of them of rape would take some guts.’

‘OK, it’s a theory worth pursuing. Anton Rimington is our number-one suspect at the moment. Let’s see if we can find him. In the meantime, keep looking into the two sisters; something isn’t right about them. I want to know if there is any link between them and Rimington. But remember, we still only have their word that there was even an intruder.’

No matter how many times he did them, press conferences still didn’t get any easier. The press briefing room down at police HQ in Welwyn Garden City was surprisingly full; testimony perhaps to the unusual circumstances of Stevie Cullen’s death, and the man’s own reputation. The briefing was short and factual, and primarily a plea for witnesses. They had decided not to mention Anton Rimington yet, because if he was involved – and that was far from certain at the moment – they didn’t want to spook him. If they didn’t find him in the next day or so, they would need to revisit that decision. In the meantime, Cullen’s name had been circulating on social media for at least twenty-four hours, giving the assembled journalists plenty of time to dig into his, and his family’s, somewhat colourful history.

Warren had come straight from the Cullen farm where, as Senior Investigating Officer, he had taken it upon himself to visit the grieving relatives and update them on the investigation’s progress personally.

The family had finally given in to the entreaties of the family liaison team, although they remained suspicious of the police. Warren respected their wishes, but felt he had a duty to at least keep them informed.

The cramped kitchen of the farmhouse had been thick with cigarette smoke, and Warren regretted wearing his best suit. It would need to be dry-cleaned before its next outing. Rosie and Seamus had been joined by their eldest daughter, Lavender. Beside her on the table was her laptop. She was obviously working from her parents’ that day. Warren’s phone had already shown that the house had Wi-Fi, suggesting that Stevie may well have owned a laptop and it had indeed been spirited away the night of the murder. There was no sign of either of the twins, Paddy and Frankie, or the remaining sister, Saffron.

Warren’s welcome was less than warm, his repeated condolences ignored; he was the only person in the room without a cup of coffee in front of him. Helping himself to a chocolate Hobnob from the packet on the table was completely out of the question.

Regardless, the Cullens listened to what he had to say, and when he left after half an hour, Seamus Cullen had at least shaken his hand and wished him luck in finding his son’s killer. His wife had remained stone-faced throughout, grief and anger rolling off her in waves. Lavender had avoided his gaze, her eyes shining with the threat of tears.

The Cullens had declined the opportunity to attend the press conference but had agreed to a written statement to be read out on their behalf. Warren was acutely aware that Stevie Cullen was likely to be dissected mercilessly in the press over the coming weeks, and he was keen to build sympathy with the public, knowing that their cooperation could prove vital. Two days into the investigation, and they had yet to find any witnesses. Nevertheless, he winced inwardly at the eulogizing statement that the family had composed along with the family liaison officer. Grayson, dressed in his crisply tailored uniform, had generously handed over the reading of the short testimony to Warren.

‘Stevie was a much-loved son, brother and friend who will be sorely missed by all who knew him. A hardworking and honest man, we cannot understand who would want to hurt our beautiful boy. Somebody out there must know who killed Stevie, and we beg that you come forward and help the police with their investigation, to ensure that he gets the justice he deserves.’

Warren finished reading the statement and looked up, studiously avoiding the smirks on the faces of some of the local journalists, many of whom had made a good living out of reporting the various misdeeds of the Cullen family over the years.

The statement might have been somewhat over-flattering, but Stevie Cullen was a victim and deserved justice. Warren was determined to get it for him.

Chapter 11

At the same time that her old team were receiving their first briefing of the day, but on the other side of town, DC Karen Hardwick stared at the envelope. The crest in the corner told her who the sender was without any need to open it. She sat down, her legs suddenly weak. She’d filled in the forms weeks ago, then forgot all about them until the invitation to come and visit. Even then it hadn’t seemed real; more of a cosy chat than anything serious. But she’d enjoyed it and realized how much she’d missed that life.

For the past few years, almost her whole existence had been the police. First a constable on the beat, then a sideways move into CID as a detective constable. She’d enjoyed the intellectual challenge of working cases and DCI Jones and DI Sutton had been tremendous mentors.

And then there had been Gary. Awkward from the moment they’d met, it had been obvious the more experienced constable had fancied her from the outset, but she had been too engrossed in her new role to think about things like that. Besides, workplace romances were never a good idea, were they?

Of course, it had been nothing more than idle curiosity that had led her to looking up Hertfordshire Constabulary’s policy on relationships between colleagues. To her surprise it turned out that as long as there were no line management conflicts of interest and supervisors were apprised of the relationship, there was no problem at all.

In the end, there had been no need to inform DCI Jones of their burgeoning romance; he and the room full of detectives they worked with had seen the direction their friendship was going in before even she and Gary had realized what was happening.

The next two years had been the happiest of her life, as the two lovers had moved in together and started planning for a future that would forever include the two of them.

Tears pricked at her eyes, and she gently touched the diamond band on her left ring finger.

Fifteen months.

Fifteen months since a week that had seen the two of them reach new levels of happiness.

Fifteen months since her surprise discovery had turned their world upside down and made everything else seem trivial and unimportant.

Fifteen months since a glimpse at a future of love and excitement had been cruelly snatched away.

Fifteen months since a senseless act of violence had destroyed all of their futures.

As if sensing his mother’s distress, a fussing came from the baby carriage next to the armchair. Karen held her breath; she’d only finished feeding him twenty minutes before – at eight months old, Oliver was no longer so demanding, but he was still hard work. He continued to grizzle for a few moments before settling back to sleep.

She turned her attention back to the letter, picking it up and weighing it in her hand. Judging from the thickness of the envelope, it contained a single sheet of A4 paper folded three times.

What did a single sheet mean? Yes or No? For the first time since she had started the process, she realized that she was truly at a crossroads. The answer contained within the envelope was just one of several options, and whilst in theory she had until February to decide what she wanted to do, she needed to make her mind up sooner rather than later.

She placed it back on the table and walked over to the kitchen counter to fill the kettle, suddenly needing to do something – anything – rather than open the envelope. The threatened tears now started to roll down her cheeks again.

Fifteen months and sometimes the grief was as strong as the day that he’d been killed. Outwardly she appeared to be coping amazingly well; she’d lost count of the number of times she’d been told that, as if burying one’s true feelings and carrying on as if nothing happened was something to be proud of.

But inside …

Inside it was a different matter.

When Oliver finally went down for the night, and the bedroom door closed, she crumpled, climbing into her bed – their bed – and crammed the duvet into her mouth to muffle the sobs as she pressed her hands against her ears, trying to blot out the memory of the sound of Gary’s death; the deafening crash that cut him off in the middle of the last conversation she’d ever have with him.

Fifteen months and she still imagined she could smell Gary on his pillow.

Fifteen months and she could convince herself that any moment now she’d hear his key in the lock; the metallic chink as he dropped his key, coin wallet and ID badge into the bowl on the kitchen table. Then the quiet creak of the bedroom door as he slipped in, tired after a long shift but still wanting to steal a quick kiss before clambering into bed beside her.

What she wouldn’t give to have him here now. Gary would help her decide. Gary would listen and help her make up her own mind without pushing her either way, and even if he disagreed with her decision, he would support her one hundred per cent. But that was no longer possible.

Who else could she ask for advice? Who else would be an impartial sounding board? Everyone who loved her wanted the best for her, but they all had their own views about what she should do.

She knew what her parents would want. They’d be delighted if she moved back to where she was brought up. Since her grandmother’s passing, the small, self-contained granny flat that she’d spent her last few years in had been empty. It would be the perfect size for her and Oliver. Her father had never been anything but one hundred per cent supportive of her career choices, but she knew he had been disappointed when she’d joined the police, rather than continuing the career in science that she’d seemed destined to follow since childhood.

Then there were Gary’s parents. They’d be equally delighted if she moved closer to them. Oliver was the only living evidence that their son had once walked the earth. They meant well, but sometimes she just wanted to scream ‘leave us alone’. If she accepted the offer in the letter, living in Middlesbury was no longer an option. Gary’s Mum and Dad had already promised to help her with the deposit on a flat if she moved nearer; it would also mean free childcare as both his parents were retired. Their offer was generous, and God knows it would be one less worry, but she wasn’t sure she wanted to be that close. She loved the couple who would have been her in-laws to bits, but sometimes she felt smothered as they sought to lessen their grief by focusing on Gary’s legacy.

And what about DCI Jones? Over the years, she’d come to value his opinion and guidance on so much, but she knew he couldn’t be impartial. He was desperate for her to return to Middlesbury CID. But could she face it? Could she go to work every day in the same office where she’d met and fallen in love with Gary, working for the man who’d held her fiancé’s hand as his life ebbed away? She’d heard everything that happened over the open telephone line and she’d remember Jones’s panicked response until the day she died.

But then again, did she want to work in a different unit or even a different force? Middlesbury was unique, and she wasn’t sure she’d ever find a team she’d feel as comfortable in.

In a way, the direction that she chose was less to do with her future career and more to do with a more straightforward yet more difficult choice: should she try to pick up the pieces and continue as before, or make a clean break of it?

She picked up the envelope again. Over the baby monitor, she could hear the quiet rasp of Oliver’s breathing. The contents of the envelope were as important to his future as hers. She took a sip of her coffee. Lukewarm already.

Time to stop procrastinating.

Before she could find another excuse to delay, she slipped her finger under the flap and pulled the two edges apart. She removed the sheet of paper, unfolding it as she did so.

The top third confirmed the identity of the sender on the right and her mailing address on the left. A single line before the fold.

Dear Ms Hardwick,

Hands trembling, she turned it over.

After a successful interview, we are delighted to offer you a place studying for the degree of Doctor of Philosophy in the School of Biosciences at the University of Nottingham for the academic year commencing September 1st 2016.

We would be grateful if you could communicate your intentions to us no later than Friday December 4th 2015.

Chapter 12

Vicki Barclay’s fiancé, Anton Rimington, had been located as soon as he powered up his mobile phone mid-morning. Sitting on his best friend Leroy McGiven’s sofa, where he’d been sleeping since Sunday, he was valiantly fighting a hangover with black coffee, a fizzing glass of Alka-Seltzer, and if that didn’t work, what appeared to be a line of cocaine.

Despite his fragile condition, and the fact he was only wearing a pair of boxer shorts, he declined to attend the station voluntarily, and was forcibly arrested after throwing a punch at one of the arresting officers and trying to escape through the kitchen window.

Possession of suspected class A drugs and assault of a police officer was enough to ensure that he could be detained for the next twenty-four hours without charge, giving Warren and his team plenty of time to plan their next move.

By midday, Rimington had found himself a solicitor and been pronounced fit and healthy enough to be interviewed. Already, his friend’s flat and both men’s cars were being searched by a CSI team.

After Grimshaw had finished setting up the recording, Warren got straight down to business. ‘Anton, can you tell me your whereabouts Monday afternoon?’

Rimington blinked in surprise. ‘Why? What’s it to you?’

His solicitor looked similarly puzzled, as well he might. ‘According to the charge sheet, I was under the impression that Mr Rimington was here in relation to alleged drug possession and an alleged assault on a police officer. These incidents supposedly occurred early this morning, and my client strenuously denies them both.’

‘We will get onto that in due course, but in the meantime, I would like to deal with another matter.’

Warren awaited the solicitor’s response but didn’t take his eyes off Rimington.

The lawyer looked over at his client, who shrugged. His expression and his body language both suggested that he was confused. Did he really have no idea why the police had arrived that morning and what had happened Monday afternoon, or was he just a good actor?

‘This is most irregular, DCI Jones. My client has a right to know what he is being accused of.’

Doubtless the solicitor would put a complaint in, but Warren knew that his strategy was on the right side of the law.

‘Mr Rimington? Could you tell me your whereabouts Monday afternoon?’

‘I can’t remember.’

‘It was only forty-eight hours ago,’ prompted Warren.

‘Yeah, well, I’ve been on a bit of a bender since Sunday night.’

‘Would that be the night you punched your fiancée?’ asked Grimshaw.

‘What’s the bitch been telling you?’ snapped Rimington.

‘Why don’t you tell us what happened Sunday night?’ suggested Warren.

Rimington took a breath. When he spoke again, his tone was conciliatory.

‘Look. Vicki and me had a bit of a tiff, Sunday night. Nothing too serious. I decided I wanted a bit of time to think, so I came round to Leroy’s. He said I could stay for a bit. You know, just until things calmed down.’

‘What was the row about?’ asked Warren.

‘Just the usual. Nothing important.’ His tone was a study in nonchalance. ‘It’s hardly worth talking about.’

‘It was important enough to leave Vicki with a black eye,’ said Grimshaw.

‘Is that what this is about? Seriously, she’s pregnant. You know what they’re like when they’re up the spout. Hormones and all that shit. She’s just pissed at me. She’s so clumsy, she probably bumped her head on a cupboard.’ Again, his tone seemed forced. ‘Anyhow, I haven’t been back around there since Sunday. I definitely wasn’t round there Monday afternoon.’

‘I thought you said you were on a bender? How do you know if you weren’t around there Monday?’ asked Grimshaw.

‘Look, I’ve been on the piss and the days are a bit blurred, but I’d remember if I went back around there.’ He settled back in his chair and folded his arms.

‘Tell me, do you know a Stevie Cullen?’ asked Warren.

There was a sharp intake of breath from the solicitor, who’d clearly just started to put the pieces together.

Rimington gave a shrug of the shoulders. ‘Yeah, he drinks in the White Stag sometimes. Can’t say I really know him.’

Again, his attitude was forced, but Warren had caught the flash of anger as it crossed his face. Once again, Warren was glad of the decision to upgrade the interview suites to include video evidence. Micro-expressions could be persuasive to a jury.

The question was, what did the anger signify?

Warren now needed to be careful with what he said. It wasn’t clear from his interview with Vicki Barclay whether Rimington definitely knew that the likely father of her unborn child was Cullen, or even that she had confirmed that her fiancé wasn’t the father. On the one hand, if Rimington appeared genuinely surprised that Cullen was the father, that potentially removed his motive. On the other hand, confirming his suspicions potentially placed Barclay in even more danger, should Rimington be released on bail or without charge. He probably already thought that she had reported him for assault. The man’s record suggested that he wouldn’t take kindly to that.

At the moment though, something else bothered him about the man’s reaction.

His solicitor clearly recognized Cullen’s name. The murder at the massage parlour had been on both regional and national news bulletins, front page of the local newspaper and all over the internet. Although Cullen’s identity had only just been released formally, it had been freely circulating on social media for the past twenty-four hours.

Yet Rimington gave the impression that he was unaware of the man’s demise. If he really had been on a forty-eight-hour drinking session, and his phone had been turned off during that time, then unless he had been told by a friend or he was directly involved in the killing, he probably wouldn’t know about the murder. In which case he was probably not involved.

So, was he truly innocent, or just a very good actor?

Warren called an impromptu team meeting to discuss the interview with Anton Rimington. He’d already proven that he had a violent streak – Vicki Barclay’s swollen cheek was clear evidence of that – but was he capable of murder? If he was, the murder was cold-blooded and pre-planned. It marked a change in his offending pattern. Anton Rimington had two previous convictions for violence, both against previous partners. The first had resulted in a suspended jail sentence, the second in a three-month spell inside.