‘Sir, we’ve got a witness who saw people coming in and out of the rear of the massage parlour on the day of Stevie Cullen’s killing.’ David Hutchinson looked excited.
‘Where did they turn up?’ asked Warren, in surprise. Over a week had passed since the killing. In the days following the murder, Hutchinson and his team had scoured the local area looking for witnesses from that day, as well as looking for evidence and the murder weapon. They had been unsuccessful, and when the CCTV from the rear-facing cameras had been restored, and it had become apparent that the masked intruder was a myth, the search had been wound down.
‘He walked in off the street,’ said Hutchinson. ‘Apparently he’s a rough sleeper by the name of Joey McGhee, and he kips down in the rear alley behind the massage parlour.’
‘Why has he only just come forward?’ asked Warren. ‘The murder was a week ago.’
‘Well the first thing he mentioned was the reward put up by Crimestoppers.’
‘OK, to be fair, that’s what the reward is there for,’ allowed Warren, trying not to sound disappointed. The rewards were a double-edged sword. On the one hand, they were sometimes the catalyst that could convince a person to come forward with vital evidence, but on the other hand, they increased the number of fantasists and chancers wasting police time. Hutchinson knew all this, but he still sounded excited and he wouldn’t have brought it to Warren, unless he thought it had merit.
‘We found an empty sleeping bag, and some clothes lying in the alleyway the day of the murder. The CSIs examined it at the scene, to check the killer hadn’t tossed the knife in there, and took away the clothes to check if they had been worn by the attacker.’
Warren remembered the detail from the report; nothing of value had been found.
‘So, where does our witness come in?’ asked Warren.
‘He said that he’s been sleeping down there for ages; he’s found himself a little hidey-hole behind some bins and some bushes. It’s out of the way and he reckons that as long as he keeps his head down, he’s out of sight of most of the people living and working in the area, and nobody bothers him.
‘On the day of the murder, he was in his sleeping bag eating his lunch. He said he knows most of the people who come and go each day by sight, but on that day, there was a lot of fuss around lunchtime, with people coming and going. He reckons he would recognize at least some of them if he saw some pictures.’
‘That could be useful,’ said Warren, ‘but where has he been?’
‘Well he says that he was watching all the activity but had no idea anything serious had happened. But when he heard the sound of police sirens, he decided he didn’t want to stick around, and went for a walk. When he came back later that evening, he found that the alleyway was all taped off.’
‘So, where did he go?’
‘Unfortunately, this is the bit the defence team will like,’ said Hutchinson. ‘He’s rather hazy on the exact sequence of events, as he had rather a bit too much cider. He’d lost his sleeping bag and the alleyway was still taped up, so he went for a wander and ended up in a fight. He’s spent the last few days in hospital. Now he’s out, and he says all of his belongings have gone and his shelter has been dismantled.’
Warren winced. The last thing that the CSIs would have considered was that they’d just dismantled a person’s home. Even if McGhee’s sleeping bag and belongings had been retained and not thrown away, they would be stored as evidence. The poor man had lost everything.
‘Where is he now?’ asked Warren.
‘Downstairs scoffing biscuits.’
‘Well let’s hope that he has something useful to say,’ said Warren. ‘That Crimestoppers reward money should buy him a new sleeping bag at least.’
Joey McGhee was a scrawny-looking man of indeterminate age. His hair was a dark grey colour, and the lower part of his face was covered by a thick, similarly coloured beard. A large sticking plaster covered his right eyebrow, with a smaller one attached to the bridge of his nose. The purple colour of his matching black eyes was fading to green. His bottom lip had scabbed over, where it had been split.
‘Looks painful,’ observed Warren.
When the man spoke, his Scottish accent had a whistling note from his missing teeth. ‘Bastard head-butted me. Never even saw it coming.’
‘Thank you for coming in,’ said Warren.
‘What do I have to do to get my reward? That sleeping bag was right comfortable. Some bloke gave it me, said he’d bought a new one to go climbing. It was much better than the ones they hand out in the shelter. And what about my clothes?’ He gestured to the cagoule he was wearing. ‘I spent ages finding that coat, now I only have this thing to get me through the winter.’
‘I’m really very sorry about what happened to your property. We were in the middle of a search, but we should have been more considerate.’
McGhee acknowledged the apology with a grunt.
Warren felt sorry for the man. He’d spent time with members of the homeless community on a previous case, and he knew how hard their lives were. On paper, there were enough spaces in shelters or emergency accommodation for all of Middlesbury’s homeless community, but in reality, the available places were unsuitable for many of those who found themselves on the street. Some didn’t feel safe living in such close proximity to complete strangers; others had complex mental health or social problems, such as addictions, that meant they struggled to cope in such a space. For many, sleeping rough was the best option available to them.
Warren wondered what McGhee’s story was. It was clear from his appearance that he’d been living on the streets for some time. He seemed reasonably alert and focused, suggesting that he wasn’t under the influence of drugs at that moment, and although Warren could smell stale alcohol, it seemed to be from the man’s clothing, rather than his breath. However, it was impossible to be sure.
‘Why don’t you tell me what you saw,’ said Warren.
‘At first, it was just a normal morning. There’s a pretty, dark-haired girl that turns up first; she opens the back gate. Mondays she drags the bins out. Then two little oriental girls turn up. I reckon they get dropped off.’
‘Why do you think that?’
‘They come up the alleyway from the direction of the road. A white van goes past the mouth of the alley a few seconds later. Happens every morning, so it ain’t a coincidence.’
Warren made a note. They hadn’t yet found how the nail technicians arrived at work. Was somebody dropping them off?
‘Can you describe the van?’
McGhee shrugged. ‘Just a van. I only see the side of it. It’s white.’
‘Do you see where the dark-haired girl comes from?’
‘She comes the same way, walking. I can’t see if she’s being dropped off.’
That would fit with what the team already knew. It was obvious that Silvija Wilson didn’t want her illegal workers caught on the reception area’s camera. When she drove to work in the morning with her two nieces, she must have dropped Annie around the corner, so that she could go in via the rear entrance.
‘What happens then?’
‘Well usually, not a lot happens until about lunchtime. I normally do the crosswords in the papers from the day before. Then the dark-haired girl comes back out and walks to the road.’
That agreed with what Wilson had told them in the interview. Annie usually finished her duties by noon. The day of the killing, she’d been working later than usual.
‘What about the two oriental women?’
‘If I’m around, I see them leave about five o’clock.’
‘Do you see how they leave?’
‘They walk down the alley again.’
‘Do you know if they’re picked up?’
McGhee thought for a moment. ‘Probably. I’ve seen that white van go past afterwards a couple of times.’
‘So, what was different about last Monday?’
‘Well the dark-haired girl and the two little oriental girls arrived about the same time as usual, but I didn’t see the dark-haired girl leave at her usual time. Then about lunchtime, the two oriental girls suddenly ran out the gate. They were shitting themselves. They legged it down the alley and down the road.’
‘Did you see the van again?’ asked Warren.
McGhee shook his head.
‘What happened next?’
‘Well it all went quiet for a while, and I thought “show’s over”, so I carried on doing the cryptic crossword in The Times.’ He scowled. ‘I’d nearly finished it when you lot turned up. I should have took it with me.’
‘What then?’ Warren prompted.
‘This middle-aged woman comes running around the corner, all huffing and puffing and legs it in through the back gate. She’s in there maybe ten minutes? A bit less? Then she comes out with the dark-haired girl, who’s all sobbing and that.’
‘Where did they go?’
‘Down the alley again, towards the road.’ He thought for a second. ‘They turned right at the end. The same direction the older woman came in.’
That would have taken them away from the main road, which explained why nobody had seen Silvija Wilson’s car parked outside the massage parlour. She was certainly a cool customer, thought Warren.
‘Again, I thought, “show’s over” and went back to my crossword. Then about ten minutes later, I heard loads of sirens. I figured something was happening and so I decided to take a wander out to the road and take a look-see.’ He glared at Warren. ‘If I’d have known that you lot were going to tape the alley off, I’d have taken everything with me.’
So far, McGhee had confirmed what they already knew. Nevertheless, he figured he could probably fudge it so that McGhee could claim a reward from Crimestoppers; it was the least they could do, after they took away his clothing and bedding.
‘Did you see anything else suspicious that day? Did anyone else come by?’
McGhee frowned in concentration, before snapping his fingers. ‘There’s a northern bloke that comes by every so often. He arrived that day a couple of minutes after the older woman turned up. He didn’t go in the gate, but he spoke to her when she came out with the dark-haired girl, and she handed him something.’
‘Did you see what he gave her?’
McGhee thought for a moment. ‘It was small and black. Could have been a mobile phone or something.’
Warren felt his pulse rise; Cullen’s business phone was still missing.
‘What did he say to her?’
McGhee frowned. ‘I didn’t hear most of it. I was trying not to be seen, you know. I figured something was going down, so I buried myself in my sleeping bag.’
‘What did you hear?’
‘Something like “just do everything I said, and I’ll sort it”.’
‘What did the woman say?’
McGhee shrugged. ‘Dunno, the girl was making a right bloody racket.’
‘What happened then?’
‘The woman and the girl walked down the alley. The bloke hung around for a moment, then walked off the same way.’ He paused. ‘It looked like he didn’t want to be seen with them.’
Warren felt a stirring of excitement. Silvija Wilson hadn’t mentioned meeting anybody else, and it looked as though the man had done his best to avoid being seen on the security camera. If McGhee was correct, the man had been a regular visitor to the massage parlour. Why?
‘You said you’d seen the man before. Can you be more specific?’
McGhee looked into space. ‘He turns up every few weeks. He never goes in, but the middle-aged woman comes out to speak to him. She usually gives him something.’
‘Like what?’
McGhee shrugged. ‘An envelope or something. I don’t really pay any attention.’
Warren was starting to have his suspicions. Silvija Wilson claimed that both ‘Annie’ and her illegal nail technicians had simply walked in off the street, and she’d offered them a job, or let them rent a nail station. But what if they weren’t self-employed? Could Wilson be paying a middleman?
‘Would you be able to describe the man to a police sketch artist?’
‘Maybe. I don’t really pay that much attention. He usually wears a hoodie, so I can’t see his face. I’m not great with English accents, but I know he’s a northerner.’
It was certainly worth a go, decided Warren. If the man was some sort of fixer, then if they tracked him down, they might be able to locate the nail technicians. Warren had a feeling that they might be vital witnesses. He wondered if Organized Crime might be able to identify him?
Suddenly, McGhee sat bolt upright, looking over Warren’s shoulder at the clock.
‘Shit, is that the time? They’ll be out of food.’
‘Who?’
‘The Sikhs. They serve food at this time of night.’ He got to his feet. ‘I’ve got to go. If I hurry, there might still be some food left …’ He swore again. ‘It’s curry tonight as well.’
Warren cursed the bad timing. He knew that the Sikh community centre served langar to the homeless community every evening. The centre was on the other side of town; McGhee would need to get his skates on, if he was going to make it in time.
‘Perhaps I could get you something to eat?’ suggested Warren.
McGhee looked away. ‘Nah, you’re all right. Got to see a mate first.’
It was obvious why he needed to see his ‘mate’, and it wasn’t exactly something Warren could help him with.
‘Will you be able to come back tomorrow?’ he asked. He desperately needed McGhee to help him identify the mysterious man. ‘I’d really like to help you earn that money from Crimestoppers.’ Warren hoped that the sweetener would ensure the man returned.
McGhee shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
The man’s focus was clearly elsewhere now. Warren could hardly blame him. He’d lost pretty much everything; getting a bellyful of food was probably next on his agenda, after scoring his fix.
Warren walked him out of the interview suite and back to reception to sign out.
‘What’ll you do if there isn’t any food left?’
‘Dunno. I might be able to beg and get enough money for some chips.’
Warren looked out of the window; he could see the rain pounding the window. A sudden gust of wind picked up a carrier bag and blew it across the car park.
‘Where are you staying tonight?’
‘I might be able to scrape enough to get into a shelter.’ He shrugged. ‘If not, I can probably find somewhere to kip down by the arches.’ He grunted. ‘I could really do with that sleeping bag, right now.’
Warren looked at the man in front of him. He was potentially a vital witness in the case; they really needed to look after him. But more than that, the man was living on the very edge, even more so now that the police had thoughtlessly taken away his shelter. Again, Warren wondered what McGhee’s story was. How had he fallen so far? He claimed to regularly do the cryptic crossword in The Times, so he was no intellectual slouch. What had gone so wrong in his life?
For a moment, he considered fabricating a charge that would get McGhee a place in a cell for the night. It would be warm, he’d be fed, and the police doctor would come by and at least change his dressings. He dismissed the idea as soon as it occurred. There was too much paperwork that could come back and bite him, and he couldn’t ask the duty sergeant to bend the rules that much. Besides, it was increasingly obvious that McGhee needed more than a hot meal.
‘Hold on a minute,’ he said, as McGhee headed out the door. The man turned in exasperation, clearly desperate to go.
Warren took out his wallet. Tucked amongst the receipts and shopping lists, he found two ten-pound notes, a twenty and a fiver. He held out the wad of notes.
‘Get yourself some food and a bed for the night,’ he said.
McGhee looked at the money in surprise, before taking it and shoving it in his pocket.
‘I’ll see you tomorrow, yeah?’ asked Warren.
McGhee nodded. When he spoke, his voice was thick. ‘You’re all right for a copper.’
Warren wasn’t sure how to respond to that, as the man gave a half-wave, and walked through the door.
‘You know he’ll just spend it on drugs, don’t you, Boss?’
Shaun Grimshaw was standing at the edge of the reception area.
Warren shrugged; he didn’t have the energy to argue with the man. ‘Well, that’s just a chance I’ll have to take.’