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.
‘What is it about these bastards?’ Moray Ruskin voiced his disgust. ‘He’s got two convictions for domestic violence already; why do women think that he’ll behave differently with them?’
‘Maybe she didn’t know his reputation?’ said Rachel Pymm. ‘She wasn’t brought up locally; she moved here from Kent, a couple of years ago.’
‘And she was definitely vulnerable,’ said Warren. ‘From what I can tell, she left her family after some sort of row, answering a job advert she saw online. That lasted six months, by which time she had met Rimington. He’s six years older, not bad-looking, and earns a decent wage as a slaughterman.’
‘He just gets better,’ snorted Grimshaw.
‘Either way, he pops the question and when she’s threatened with eviction for not paying her rent, he swoops in and lets her move in with him. She probably didn’t even know about his previous convictions,’ said Warren.
‘And that’s why these bastards need a tattoo on their forehead,’ said Grimshaw. ‘The word “wife beater” in big black letters should make a few women think twice.’
‘It’s not often I agree with Shaun, but I think I’ll make an exception today,’ said Pymm.
‘Regardless, I think he has to be our number-one suspect at the moment,’ said Warren, bringing the meeting back to the main topic at hand.
‘He’s clearly a violent and dangerous man and I’d imagine he’s pretty handy with a knife, and not too bothered by the sight of blood,’ said Grimshaw.
‘Animal blood, not human blood,’ Warren reminded him.
Grimshaw shrugged.
‘Does it fit his offending pattern, though?’ asked Pymm. ‘Domestic abusers are usually pretty cowardly. Can you see him attacking Stevie Cullen? Cullen was a fit, well-built farmhand. That’s a lot different to hitting a tiny, pregnant woman.’
‘Cullen was also helpless on his back, probably half-asleep,’ pointed out Ruskin.
‘His previous assaults have also been heat-of-the-moment,’ said Pymm. ‘Killing Stevie Cullen would take significant planning. He had to know that he was going to be in the massage parlour at that time; he also needed to know that he could get in through that back window.’
‘Has Rimington been to the massage parlour before?’ asked Ruskin. ‘If he has, he might know that the back window is accessible.’
‘That also means he’d know the two sisters,’ said Hutchinson.
‘I’ll check the ledger,’ said Pymm.
‘That still doesn’t explain how he knew that Cullen would be there,’ said Warren. ‘Even if Cullen had a regular appointment, I’d still want to know how he knew that.’
‘Maybe he just got lucky?’ said Grimshaw. ‘He could have been following Cullen all morning, waiting for him to wander down a dark alley so he could stab him. Most murders aren’t committed by some great criminal mastermind; hell, he might not even have intended to kill him. He might just have been planning on confronting him.’
Martinez was already shaking his head. ‘The girls claim that he climbed in the window and killed Cullen before he could react. No, the bastard was definitely out to murder him.’
‘Then let’s see if we can pin him down to the area,’ said Warren. ‘Mags, can you add any vehicles that Rimington had access to, to the CCTV and ANPR search? Hutch, give Rimington’s picture to the door-knockers; see if anyone spotted him in the area.’ He thought for a moment. ‘Give them a photo of Vicki Barclay as well. If she was involved, then a pregnant woman might jog a few more memories.’