The day was finally here. Neither Susan nor Warren had slept for more than a few minutes at a time the night before. Late-night fireworks from their neighbours’ bonfire celebrations had hardly helped matters. By unspoken agreement, neither had mentioned what the morning might bring, as if sharing their hopes and fears might curse them.
They could have had a lie-in; both of them had booked the morning off, but by mutual assent, they got up at the same time as usual. Nevertheless, it took all of Warren’s willpower not to access his work email on his phone; today was about him and Susan. Everything else could take a back seat.
The later start meant they had time for a leisurely shower and a decent cooked breakfast. Neither of them had enough appetite to finish it.
Warren looked at his watch. ‘Let’s go – we don’t want to get stuck in traffic and end up being late.’
It would have taken a traffic jam the likes of which Hertfordshire had never experienced before, for them to be late for their ten o’clock appointment. Susan stood up immediately and picked up her bag.
‘Let’s leave the dishes until we get back.’
Arriving early had its advantages. No sooner had they sat down, than they were being ushered through the double doors to the ward.
‘We had a cancellation this morning, so we may as well see you now. Never hurts to get ahead of ourselves!’
The nurse was breezy and cheerful; Warren imagined that regardless of the overwhelming pressures on the NHS from years of cutbacks and under-funding, generally speaking she probably enjoyed her job. Warren tightened his grip on Susan’s hand; neither of them managed more than a perfunctory smile. That another couple had cancelled a scan reminded them that despite her upbeat demeanour, the nurse didn’t just deliver happy news.
Two hours later it was all over. Sitting in the clinic’s car park, the shaking in Warren’s hands had subsided enough for him to start the car engine.
‘I can lend you some mascara to fix your eyes,’ Susan teased.
‘Bugger off,’ said Warren, unable to stop smiling.
Twelve weeks in and finally, after years of trying, everything was going to plan.
And if a man wasn’t allowed to shed a tear or two during his wife’s ultrasound scan, when could he?
‘Silvija Wilson is a bit of a naughty girl,’ said Rachel Pymm triumphantly.
Warren moved around to stand behind her chair. He’d arrived back at the station just minutes before and had only just taken his coat off; his heart wanted nothing more than to stay at home with his wife, but Susan had only booked cover for the first part of the day, so there was no point in Warren staying home alone. Hopefully he’d get back at a decent hour, so they could celebrate properly. Moments later, Grimshaw, Martinez and Ruskin also joined him and Pymm.
Pymm’s workstation had three large screens arranged in a horseshoe. Each screen had a different spreadsheet on it.
‘What a waste – this would be the perfect set-up to play video games on,’ remarked Martinez.
‘Alex is into 3D gaming,’ remarked Ruskin. ‘He’s just bought a headset.’
‘I can’t wait to see what the porn industry does with that technology,’ said Grimshaw.
‘And there you go, lowering the tone again,’ said Pymm, her voice cold.
‘Shaun, save your fantasies for outside work,’ warned Warren.
Grimshaw smirked.
‘What have you found, Rachel?’ asked Martinez.
She pointed at the three screens in turn. ‘This is a copy of the handwritten appointments book for the past three months. I’ve listed the names of the customer, the treatments, the appointment times, contact numbers, the amount paid and the payment method. I have identified the older of the two customers that we saw on the CCTV prior to the killing, but her phone keeps going to voicemail. No luck with the other woman yet.’
‘Well keep at it,’ said Warren.
‘You’ll be interested to know that both Vicki Barclay and Anton Rimington have had treatments recently,’ continued Pymm.
‘So, they would know if the window to the massage parlour was routinely kept open, and presumably would know the two sisters,’ stated Warren.
‘Exactly.’ She moved to the next screen. ‘This is the accounts spreadsheet, detailing the numbers of treatments each day and the cost, including the payment method. In addition, it includes sales of consumables such as scented oils, gift bags, bath salts et cetera.’ She moved to the third screen. ‘This is the online banking spreadsheet. The cash deposited, and the electronic payments, match the accounts spreadsheet. It also includes the business costs.’ She paused. ‘After paying her overheads and her staff, most months she doesn’t make much of a profit from what I can see.’
‘So, the business was struggling?’
‘According to these spreadsheets, I’d say so.’
‘What are you holding back, Rachel?’ Warren knew the sergeant had a flair for the dramatic.
‘The handwritten appointments book doesn’t match the accounting spreadsheet. There are a significant number of appointments in the book that don’t appear in her accounts.’
‘Could they have been missed appointments?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Possibly, there’s no way to tell,’ conceded Pymm.
‘Could they have been from the nail bar?’ asked Warren. ‘They just rent the space. Maybe they record appointments in the book, but they pay the nail technicians directly?’
‘Not from the treatment descriptions. They use their own shorthand, but they don’t sound like manicures or pedicures. The abbreviations also seem to match treatments that are paid for by card and recorded on the spreadsheet.’
‘So, she’s under-reporting some of her cash sales. Sounds like a clumsy attempt to avoid tax,’ said Warren. It was certainly interesting, but he doubted it had anything to do with their investigation.
‘I expect you’re wondering why I think this is interesting,’ said Pymm.
‘Practising your clairvoyance skills again, Rachel?’ said Warren.
‘Some customers seem to always be treated off the books. Want to have a guess who?’
‘Stevie Cullen,’ said Ruskin.
‘Stevie Cullen had a complicated personal life, but I think it important at this stage that we keep an open mind as to suspects and motives,’ said Warren.
‘I’d like to know more about his connection to the massage parlour,’ said Hutchinson. ‘There’s a reason he was either getting complimentary massages or he was paying cash and they were keeping it off the books.’
‘I still reckon he was enjoying services that weren’t advertised in the shop window,’ stated Grimshaw.
‘That explains why he was there,’ said Pymm, ‘but where’s the motive? Does it mean the workers in the parlour were involved in the killing?’
The team pondered the question.
‘Maybe they were accessories?’ said Ruskin.
‘In what way?’ prompted Warren.
‘Maybe they tipped off his killer that he was there? They might not even have thought he would be killed?’
‘That would explain why they were so shocked,’ said Pymm. ‘I’ve only seen the video recordings of their interviews, but they seemed genuinely horrified.’
Warren found himself agreeing. Over the course of his career, he’d met many killers. And he’d be the first to admit that he’d been fooled more than once, but his gut was telling him that the shock expressed by the two young masseuses was real. Nevertheless, he was reluctant to dismiss their involvement yet.
He said as much.
‘That still leaves us looking for a motive,’ said Pymm.
‘Let’s go back to the basics, then. Why do people kill?’ asked Warren.
‘Sex,’ said Grimshaw immediately.
‘Money,’ said Pymm.
‘Revenge,’ said Hutchinson.
‘Jealousy,’ suggested Richardson.
‘Blackmail or extortion,’ said Grimshaw.
‘All of the above,’ said Ruskin.
Warren tapped his pen against his teeth in frustration. Aside from random or chance killings, or mistaken identity, one of those core motives was usually at the heart of any murder. And where there was a motive, there was usually a suspect.
He dismissed the notion of a random killing almost immediately – the attack had to have been premeditated in some way. Even if the killer didn’t know who he was targeting, they had to know that there was a customer in that room at the time, and that the room was accessible from the rear of the building.
‘If we assume sex, and/or jealousy were the motives, that could lead back to the girls,’ said Grimshaw.
‘In what way?’ said Warren, ignoring Pymm’s sigh.
‘If they were servicing Cullen, maybe one of them had a jealous boyfriend?’
‘Shaun could be right,’ said Hutchinson. ‘I reckon we should look into the girls’ personal lives a bit more. Did either of them have a boyfriend or significant other who might be jealous? It might also explain why their descriptions of the attacker were so vague; they could be protecting him.’
Despite Pymm’s misgivings, Grimshaw’s theory had some merit.
‘Keep on looking at their social media accounts, Shaun. See if you can identify anyone of interest. Rachel, give him a hand. I’ll get DSI Grayson to authorize some more translation assistance. Any news on their mobile phone records?’
‘Still waiting,’ responded Pymm. ‘Bloody overseas providers are a nightmare to deal with.’
‘Well it can’t be helped,’ said Warren, knowing that Pymm had a tendency to take such things personally. ‘Hutch, we’re going to need some boots on the ground. The girls were part of our local Serbian community, so put some feelers out. Speak to their friends and acquaintances but keep it discreet.’
‘Should we bring them in for questioning again?’ asked Ruskin.
‘Not just yet, let’s see what we uncover first. I don’t want to go on a fishing expedition and scare them off. I don’t want them disappearing or tipping off the killer that we’re looking in their direction.’
‘If sex or jealousy weren’t the motives, what about money?’ said Pymm.
‘Organized Crime have been looking into the family’s business dealings for some time,’ Hutchinson said. ‘Given their history, they could have pissed someone off.’
‘He could even have been blackmailing or extorting someone,’ suggested Ruskin.
‘I can look into that,’ volunteered Martinez. ‘I’m familiar with the team working that angle.’
‘Do it,’ ordered Warren. ‘In the meantime, I think another chat with Benny Masterson is in order. He was Stevie Cullen’s best friend, and I think he has a lot more to share with us. If he and Stevie were as close as he claims, he may know why he visited the massage parlour. He might even be persuaded to tell us about any business dealings.’
This time Benny Masterson was asleep in bed in his bedsit when officers turned up to request his presence at the station. Following a heads-up, Warren was waiting for him with a strong cup of coffee and a packet of paracetamol.
The man’s eyes were bloodshot, and the smell of stale booze was even stronger than before. Fresh scratches and mud on the side of his face suggested that his journey home after being kicked out of the White Stag the night before hadn’t been entirely without incident. However, he appeared sober and willing to help.
‘Thanks again for your time, Benny.’
The farmhand grunted in response.
‘We took the information you presented us with seriously, but we are still pursuing other lines of inquiry. We are particularly interested in why Stevie was present at the massage parlour where he was attacked. Can you shed any light on that?’
‘Why does anyone go to one of those places?’ asked Masterson.
‘Why don’t you tell us? It’s not the only place in town offering those services. Do you know why Stevie chose that particular place?’
Masterson shrugged, but his eyes remained fixed on the table.
‘Did you ever go there with him?’
He shook his head. ‘Not my kind of thing. Seems a bit pricey for smelly candles and baby oil.’
‘Did Stevie ever talk about it?’
‘No. Why would he?’
Masterson looked up, but his eyes were clouded.
He’s hiding something, Warren decided.
‘Did Stevie visit there very often?’
Masterson shrugged again. ‘Dunno, I never asked him.’
Warren let the silence stretch a little longer.
‘Do you know if Stevie had any … special relationship … with any of the workers at the parlour?’
‘I just said, we never spoke about it.’
Noting the edge to Masterson’s voice, Warren decided to change the subject slightly. Aware that the man was there voluntarily, he didn’t want him leaving before he finished asking questions.
‘OK, let’s leave that to one side. How did Stevie earn his living?’
‘He worked on his mum and dad’s farm.’
‘Doing what?’
‘A bit of everything you know. Working the fields, feeding the pigs, looking after the farmhands, that sort of thing. It doesn’t exactly come with a job description.’
‘And that’s all he did?’
Masterson picked at a dirty thumbnail. ‘Like I said, he did a bit of everything.’
Warren let the silence stretch again; he could see that Masterson was conflicted.
‘Benny, help us out here. Your best friend was killed brutally. I need to know why. What was the motive? Was it a jealous boyfriend, or was it something else? I understand that he may have been doing things he shouldn’t have. He might even have been doing things you didn’t agree with. But unless you help us, we might never find out who did this to him.’
He paused. ‘You said before that his parents were kind to you when you were a kid. Have you visited them since he died?’
Masterson nodded, his eyes wet.
‘They’re hurting, Benny,’ Warren said softly. ‘You’re hurting. Stevie didn’t deserve this; I want to bring his killer to justice. For him. And for you. But I need your help.’
Masterson was silent. Warren said nothing. He could see that his words had got through, but he needed to give him time.
‘There was something going on with the massage parlour.’
‘Like what?’
‘I don’t know. He wouldn’t tell me.’
‘Was it sexual?’
‘I really don’t know. Maybe.’ A flash of pain crossed Masterson’s face. ‘Stevie didn’t always talk to me about those sorts of things. He said …’ Masterson cleared his throat ‘… he said I couldn’t be trusted. He said that I couldn’t keep my mouth shut when I’d … you know, been drinking.’
Warren could see how much the admission had cost the man.
‘Thank you, Benny,’ he said quietly.
Masterson stared into space. To Warren’s surprise, he started talking again. ‘Stevie had ambitions, you know?’
‘What sort of ambitions?’
‘He wanted something better. Better than working for his mum and dad. He used to say, “farming’s dying”. He’s right. There’s no future for small farmers these days, not with the supermarkets pushing their prices down. The profit margins are too narrow. His parents work twelve hours a day, seven days a week, and it still isn’t enough. They got out of milking when they ended up selling the milk for less than it cost to produce. It’s why they do all the other stuff, you know?’
Warren didn’t know, but he could hazard a guess based on what Ian Bergen from Organized Crime had told them during his briefing.
‘What was he doing?’
‘He wouldn’t tell me. But I know he was visiting all the other farms in the area regularly. He used to carry two mobile phones, one just for business. I never knew the number.’
Masterson took a sip of his cooling coffee and made a face. ‘One day I saw him over at Dorridge Farm, talking to Ray, where I was doing some work. I asked him what it was about, and he changed the subject. I asked him if he needed some help – it’s tough to get work around here with all the Eastern Europeans sometimes; they push the wages down – but he said he had nothing going.’
Masterson pushed the polystyrene cup away. ‘I’m not an idiot,’ he said, his voice dripping with self-loathing. ‘Everyone sees me down the Stag and they think I’m some sort of drunk … maybe I am. But I work hard, and I’m never late for work no matter what I did the night before.’
He wiped his nose on his sleeve. ‘I just want a chance you know? And I thought maybe he could give me one.’
Warren hated seeing the man in front of him crumbling, but he knew he couldn’t afford to let that stop him.
‘Witnesses saw Ray Dorridge arguing with Stevie a few weeks ago. Do you have any idea what that might have been about?’
Masterson wiped his nose again. ‘I heard some rumours. About dumping.’
‘Dumping?’
‘Yeah, fly-tipping. It’s big business now. The council charge a fortune to dispose of rubbish for you, and they’re really fussy about what they’ll take. If you can’t load a van and take it down the dump what can you do?’
‘He was involved in illegal fly-tipping?’
‘Yeah. I don’t know how it works exactly, but if you look online you can find mobile phone numbers you can call. You ring them, give them some cash and they’ll take it away for you, no questions asked.’
Warren was aware of the growing problem. It seemed that every time he and Susan drove out to their favourite country pub, new rubbish had been dumped on the side of the road. Mattresses, old fridges, even bags of builders’ rubble filled the lay-bys. But he couldn’t see the connection with Dorridge.
‘Apparently, if a farmer or landowner reports fly-tipping on their land, the council takes it away for free. Sometimes farmers get a cut of the money paid to the fly-tipper, sometimes they don’t.’
‘What about Mr Dorridge?’
‘Dunno. It was just a rumour I heard.’
It seemed far-fetched, but perhaps Dorridge had objected to Cullen using his land for illegal dumping. Yet that didn’t seem to match the comments that Selina, the glass collector at the White Stag, had overheard about him not paying a bill for a job half-done. If Cullen was using Dorridge’s land for his illegal dumping, wouldn’t he be paying Dorridge? Unless Dorridge was paying Cullen to get rid of his waste?
And what did Dorridge mean by ‘the job taking twice as long as necessary’ and not having the time ‘to keep on chasing and nagging’? Either way, killing Cullen seemed extreme.
‘We can rule out Vicki Barclay, Boss,’ Grimshaw greeted Warren as he came back into the office, shrugging off his jacket. As usual, a fug of stale cigarette smoke hung around him.
‘She claimed that she was at an NCT class at the time of the murder. NCT, in case you’re wondering, stands for the National Childbirth Trust and it helps prepare women for having a baby.’
Warren fought down a smile. He knew very well what NCT stood for, and after that morning’s good news he was looking forward to attending classes with Susan in the not-too-distant future.
‘The class meets up at the community centre at midday and runs for about an hour. I went and spoke to the woman running it.’ Grimshaw smirked. ‘After class, Barclay went out for lunch with a few of the yummy mummies-to-be. I spoke to a couple, and they reckon it was a pretty leisurely affair. There’s no way that she could have been over at the massage parlour within at least an hour either side of the killing, longer if you factor in the fact that she doesn’t drive.’
The news wasn’t a big surprise; even allowing for the two sisters’ muddled accounts of the events that day, it was unlikely that they could have failed to notice that the killer was heavily pregnant.
Nevertheless, it didn’t rule her out of the killing entirely. Her fiancé, Anton Rimington, was still a suspect; it wasn’t beyond the realms of possibility that she had conspired with Rimington to kill his rival. Her name would stay on the board for the time being at least.
Thanking Grimshaw, Warren headed back to his office. Unfortunately, he didn’t walk quickly enough to miss Grimshaw’s aside to Martinez.
‘I tell you what, Jorge, I might start going to those NCT classes myself. There’s something about a pregnant woman that does it for me.’
Warren paused; he was losing count of the number of times he had spoken to Grimshaw about inappropriate ‘banter’ in the office. He looked over his shoulder. Nobody else seemed to have heard Grimshaw’s comment and Martinez was studiously ignoring his colleague’s boorishness. Warren sighed; he’d bring it up at their next meeting. He didn’t have the time right now.