The Serbian translator arrived shortly before eleven p.m. Warren had just returned to the station again. When he’d left the Cullens’ farm, a team had been searching Stevie’s room for clues. The family liaison officer had finally been allowed to do his job and was now arranging support for the Cullens over the coming days and weeks.
The newcomers had been identified as members of the sprawling Cullen family. All of them professed shock at their brother’s death and described a universally beloved man entirely at odds with the intelligence reports Warren had skimmed through earlier that day. Warren had arranged more detailed one-on-one interviews with all of them over the coming days to see if that assessment changed out of earshot of the rest of the family.
The translator was a middle-aged woman by the name of Neda Stojanović, dressed in a flowing tie-dyed dress. She shook Warren’s hand as she apologized for being unable to arrive sooner.
‘The only other available translator actually lives in Middlesbury. Given the close-knit local community, the agency thought it best that they send someone from farther afield.’
Warren thanked her. Police translators were registered and vetted by Language Line; nevertheless, he didn’t want any potential conflicts of interest this early in the investigation. If and when the case came to trial, the last thing he wanted was the veracity of the witnesses’ translation being called into question by a defence solicitor.
He decided to start with the younger of the two masseuses, Biljana, who had witnessed the stabbing. Known to everyone as Billy, the dark-haired nineteen-year-old looked tired, the adrenalin from the attack having worn off hours ago.
After explaining that she wasn’t under arrest, but that the interview was being video-recorded to ensure that others could check that the translation was accurate, Warren started with a few easy questions to get them all used to the three-way conversation.
‘What time did you start work this morning, Billy?’
‘About eight-thirty. Aunty Silvija picked Malina and me up from our house on the way to work.’
‘Malina is your sister, correct?’
‘Yes.’
‘What happened after you were picked up?’
‘We got the shop ready and put on our uniforms. Aunty Silvija counted the money from the safe and got it ready to take to the bank. Then we put the open sign on the door.’
‘What time was this?’
‘About nine o’clock.’
‘When did Silvija go to the bank?’
‘She had a cup of coffee first. Maybe nine-thirty?’ She took a sip of water.
‘Did you have many clients booked in for the day?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Monday is a quiet day. We had Mrs Green booked in, and that was all for the morning.’
‘What about Mr Cullen?’
‘He was booked in at one p.m.’
‘That’s not a lot of customers. I’m surprised that you open if there are so few customers.’
‘Silvija says that if we start closing during the week, it sends the wrong message and that we’ll lose our Saturday clients, because they think we are going to close.’
It didn’t sound like a very sound business model to Warren. He wondered just how financially viable the shop was. He made a note to look into that further, in case it was relevant.
‘How many staff were there when Silvija left for the bank?’
She thought for a moment. ‘Two. Me and Malina.’
‘What about the nail technicians?’
‘Monday is a quiet day; they weren’t in.’
‘Sounds like it can be a bit boring.’
She shrugged. ‘Sometimes. But we can do some study and talk to our friends and family on Facebook.’
‘What time did Mr Cullen arrive for his appointment? Was he on time?’
‘About ten to one. He was a little bit early.’ Her eyes were starting to fill with tears.
‘And where were you when he arrived?’
‘I was in the room, getting it ready.’
‘Ready how?’
‘Lighting the scented candles, dimming the lights, and fetching the towels and oils.’
‘Then what happened?’
Her lip trembled, and her eyes took on a faraway cast. ‘He came in and took off his clothes.’
‘Were you present then?’
‘No. We give customers privacy. When I came back, he was in his underwear lying on the bed, with a towel across his waist.’
‘On his front or his back?’
‘On his front. I always start with a shoulder massage, then do his back.’
‘You’ve had Mr Cullen as a client before?’
She nodded, the gathering tears now threatening to fall down her face.
‘After you had finished with his back, what did you do next?’
‘He rolled over and I loosened his leg muscles, before giving him a head and scalp massage.’
‘Then what?’
‘He likes to relax afterwards. Sometimes he falls asleep, so I turn the lights down and leave him in there.’
‘What time was that?’
She shrugged. ‘The massage takes about thirty minutes or so. I wasn’t wearing my watch.
‘Where did you go then?’
‘To wash the oil off my hands.’
‘Upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
She took out a tissue and blew her nose. Warren and the translator waited patiently for her to compose herself. She wasn’t even twenty years old yet, and Warren could barely imagine the trauma that she had experienced that day. Nevertheless, he needed her to tell him what happened next.
‘I was just coming back downstairs when I heard a scream from the room, so I ran in …’ She stopped, taking a deep breath, before starting again.
‘There was a man … He had a knife and he was plunging it into Stevie’s chest.’
‘What sort of knife?’
‘I don’t know. I didn’t see.’
‘OK. Can you describe the man to me?’
‘He was wearing a black hooded jumper and a black baseball cap.’
‘What about his build? Was he tall, short? Fat, skinny?’
She shrugged. ‘He was normal size.’
‘Did you see his face?’
She shook her head. ‘No.’
‘Did he say anything?’
‘No.’
‘Then what happened?’
‘He pulled the knife out and climbed out of the window.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I tried to stop the bleeding. Malina heard the screaming and came in and she helped me.’ She covered her face with her hands and the interpreter leant closer to hear what she was saying. ‘But he died.’
After a suitable pause, Warren continued. ‘Where was Mr Cullen?’
‘On the bed.’
‘What position was he in?’
‘On his back … his eyes were open … he was staring …’
Again, she dissolved into tears. The interpreter looked towards Warren for permission before slipping her arm around the girl’s shoulders.
After a few moments, she indicated that she was ready to continue.
The pause gave Warren a few moments to review his notes. He wanted to make certain that he had everything he needed before asking his final question, which he knew might cause offence.
‘Billy, I need to ask if there is anything you haven’t told me about Mr Cullen.’
‘No. He was just a client.’
‘Did you and Mr Cullen ever have any sort of relationship?’
‘No, he was just a client.’
‘I need to know if he ever asked you to perform any intimate acts or acts that you might have felt uncomfortable performing? I promise you that you won’t be charged with any offences.’
She sat up straight. ‘I am not a prostitute, Mr Jones.’
And that was the end of the interview.
By the time Warren had finished interviewing Biljana Dragić, it was almost midnight. He debated calling it a night, but he didn’t want to let the two sisters spend too much time comparing stories. They’d already spent much of the day together, which couldn’t really be helped, and he was reluctant to let Biljana tell her older sister, Malina, too much about his line of questioning.
The translator declined his offer of a coffee, saying it was too late for her. Warren knew that caffeine was the only thing that would get him through the night, although he’d pay for it when he finally got his head down.
Up close, the familial relationship between the two girls was even more marked; hair colour aside they could almost have passed for twins.
The story Malina told was nearly identical to her sister’s. She could give no more details about the hooded attacker who she and Biljana had witnessed plunging the knife into the supine body of Stevie Cullen.
The older woman was less tearful, but still clearly in shock.
‘After you and Biljana realized he was dead, what did you do?’
‘I called the police.’
Warren had reviewed the recording from the emergency operator. The call had come in at 13.40. The female caller had a strong Eastern European accent and was so panicked it took the call-taker some time to get her name and the address of the massage parlour. It took a further minute to ascertain that the attacker had left the premises and get a basic description for officers in the area. Unfortunately, every minute of delay had allowed the attacker to cover his tracks more efficiently.
‘Where were you before the attack?’
‘I was in the front at the desk.’
‘Where there any other clients with you?’
‘No. Monday is a quiet day.’
‘What about other members of staff?’
‘No. Only Billy and I were working.’
‘What about the technicians in the nail bar?’
‘They do not work Monday. It is a quiet day.’
‘And you ran in immediately when you heard Billy scream?’
‘Yes.’
‘How well did you know Mr Cullen?’
‘Not well. He was a client.’
‘Did you ever give Mr Cullen a massage?’
‘No. Billy always gave him his treatments.’
‘Why do you think that was?’
‘He liked Billy. If a customer has had a good massage, then we try and make sure they have the same person next time.’
‘Did Billy and Mr Cullen have any sort of relationship?’
‘I don’t know what you mean.’
‘Did she ever see him outside work?’
‘No, of course not.’
‘You sound surprised that I asked. Are you not allowed to make friends with clients?’
She paused. ‘We can be friends with anyone we like, but my sister was not friends with Stevie.’
Warren paused. Again, he had a feeling that his next question would bring the interview to a close.
‘I’m sorry, but I need to ask. Did you or your sister ever have a more intimate relationship with Mr Cullen? You won’t be in any trouble.’
‘No. Just because we work in a massage parlour does not make us whores.’
She seemed as angered as her sister at the suggestion.
She settled back in her chair, her arms folded.
Whatever the truth of the relationship between Stevie Cullen and the two masseuses, he could see that he wasn’t going to get any more from her at that time of night. He’d review the interview tapes in the morning with the team, but already he had identified several discrepancies in their accounts.
He was far from finished with the two women.