‘How are you doing with the social media, Shaun?’ asked Warren.
Grimshaw was slouched in his chair, shirtsleeves rolled up, his tie nowhere to be seen.
‘Losing the will to live, Boss.’
Beside him Martinez openly sniggered at his friend’s plight.
‘Those two girls practically lived on their phones: Facebook, Instagram, WhatsApp, SnapChat, Twitter – and those are only the ones I’d heard of. Some of their social media apps aren’t even English-language based. I’ve sent them off for translation. The Social Media Intelligence Unit are doing deep data mining of their contact lists and building a network of their friends. So far, neither of them seems to be friends or followers of Stevie Cullen, so now they’re looking to see if they share any common friends, such as Ray Dorridge, Anton Rimington or Vicki Barclay. Muggins here is looking to see if Cullen appears in any of their photos, or if there are any other people of interest.’
‘Slow going?’ asked Warren, with some sympathy.
‘Like you wouldn’t believe. The only good news is that they were obsessed with tagging their friends, so I’m saving pictures with anyone they haven’t tagged for later analysis.’ He turned to look at Warren. ‘I’ll send those to Welwyn and see if they can do anything with them.’
It was clear from his tone that the sooner he washed his hands of the task the better.
‘Well at least the time window is relatively short. They didn’t move to the UK until last year.’
He turned to leave, but it was clear Grimshaw hadn’t finished.
‘Seriously, what is it with kids these days?’
‘Kids?’ repeated Warren. Grimshaw was thirty-five – he sounded like an old man. Beside him, Martinez let out a sigh – he’d obviously been listening to Grimshaw grumble all day.
Grimshaw continued, either missing or ignoring Warren’s teasing.
‘Yeah, when we were their age, when somebody told you to pose for a photo, it just meant smiling or sticking your fingers up at the camera. These two stage mini-photoshoots. You just know the photo we’re seeing is only the best one from about twenty. And what’s with these bloody filters? Even the ones without cartoon bunny ears and dog noses are processed to hell. Nobody has skin that smooth.’
‘Oh for the good old days, eh?’ interjected Martinez. ‘When you had to wait two weeks for the photos to return from Boots to find out you’d cut somebody’s head off or they’d blinked. I tell you Shaun, it was all downhill from the moment the photographer no longer needed to hide under a black cloth and hold the flashgun above his head.’
‘Piss off, Jorge,’ muttered Grimshaw, as Warren laughed.
‘I tell you one thing,’ Grimshaw muttered darkly, ‘if my old mum is right, then should the wind ever change direction when these girls are pouting for the camera, they’ll end up permanently looking like goldfish.’
Suppressing another laugh at his colleague’s misfortune, Warren patted him on the shoulder.
‘Well you’re doing a fine job, Shaun. Keep me up to date on anything interesting,’ said Warren leaving the disgruntled sergeant to his work.
As soon as Warren was out of earshot, Grimshaw twisted his monitor around so that his colleague could see it more clearly.
‘There is one compensation to this job.’
‘What’s that?’ asked Martinez, knowing that if he didn’t indulge his friend, he’d never get any peace.
Grimshaw grinned. ‘They take their camera phones to the beach with them.’
‘Seriously, Shaun? You’re perving over suspected murderers now? Some days I worry about you, I really do.’
After the arrest of Malina and Biljana Dragić, search teams had moved into the flat that they shared. After seeing the size of his email inbox, Warren decided to stop by; he was in no mood to look at budget projections. Crime Scene Manager Andy Harrison’s deputy, Meera Gupta, was in charge of the search and gave him a tour of the property, alongside David Hutchinson, who had been supervising door-to-door inquiries with the neighbours.
‘According to the woman next door, their Aunt Silvija has owned the flat for years,’ said Hutchinson. ‘She often rents it out to young Serbians and Eastern Europeans. Before the two sisters moved in last year there were many different residents. She thinks that a lot of Silvija’s extended family send their kids over to learn English and gain work experience. Silvija was something of a mother figure to them.’
That fitted with what Silvija Wilson had told them the night of the killing.
‘Were they good neighbours?’ asked Warren.
‘Not too bad, apparently. They liked to party, but were usually considerate enough to turn the music down when it got late.’
‘What about regular visitors? Boyfriends or girlfriends perhaps?’ asked Warren, remembering Wilson’s comment about the young women being distracted by male friends and not socializing enough with English speakers.
‘Difficult to say. The layout of the flats means that she can’t see who comes in and out of the communal door. I showed them headshots of Rimington and Dorridge, but she didn’t recognize either of them. She also doesn’t recall seeing anyone pregnant.’
Warren wasn’t surprised; it had been a long shot anyway.
The flat was on the first floor, and was a small affair, with two tiny bedrooms, easily identified as belonging to the two sisters. The compact kitchen was untidy, but clean, its cupboards stocked with a mixture of supermarket own brands, and unfamiliar items, some with Cyrillic script.
‘Looks like a few comfort foods from home. They probably use the little Serbian deli around the corner,’ said Harrison.
‘Check if the shop workers know them. I really want to know if either girl had a partner, or someone special. A jealous boyfriend could be a suspect and lend weight to the conspiracy theory.’
A cantilevered door revealed a tiny, but well-organized bathroom, with a shower, toilet and sink, with a mirrored medicine cabinet above it. A white-suited CSI was busy dismantling the sink trap to check for trace evidence, whilst another technician took photographs of the medicine cabinet.
‘We’ll see what we find, although from what we know of the aftermath of the killing, the girls presumably still had traces of the victim’s blood on them when they returned home,’ said Gupta.
The living room, familiar from the pictures that the girls had shared on social media, had a sofa bed, a small TV and DVD player, and a couple of bookcases filled with DVDs; a mixture of familiar Western films and others, again with titles in Cyrillic or a complex Roman script, presumably Serbian.
‘Looks as though they were fans of CSI,’ remarked Warren looking at a battered boxset.
‘Andy calls CSI the “Open University for Burglars”,’ said Gupta. Warren agreed. The popular TV series, not to mention the countless true-crime series that now flooded the airwaves, had doubtless contributed to the rise in more forensically aware criminals that he and his team were now encountering.
‘So far, we’ve found no obvious trace of the murder weapon; however, there are spaces in the knife block in the kitchen. The problem is that the knives that are present are a real mix and match, probably bought individually, so it’s unclear if the gaps are due to missing items or if they were never filled.’
‘Well keep on looking. We haven’t found the murder weapon yet. You never know, they might have smuggled it back to dispose of it later.’
It was a long shot, but murderers, even those who planned their attacks, often didn’t fully think through the aftermath of their actions.
Standing in the middle of the room, Warren did a slow circle, his plastic booties rustling on the carpet.
In his mind’s eye, he could picture the two sisters seated on the sofa bed, watching TV together, taking a seemingly endless series of selfies as they played with the photo filters on their camera phones.
The photos that he had seen on Grimshaw’s screen had painted a picture of two young women enjoying their time in England, working and partying with friends.
What had gone wrong?
Neither of them seemed like a murderer. But then, they rarely did.
Janice, Warren’s unofficial PA, snagged him as soon as he returned to CID. ‘Silvija Wilson is waiting in reception, Sir. And she’s not a happy bunny.’
‘Good, that saves us going to the trouble of tracking her down. I’ve got a lot of questions to ask her.’
‘Not a happy bunny’ was an understatement. Warren had only spoken to her briefly on the day of the murder, and he spent the time that it took to set up the interview room for recording to look at the woman fuming in front of him.
Silvija Wilson was a woman somewhere between forty and sixty years old, Warren guessed. It was hard to be sure, given the amount of make-up she was wearing and the liberal use of age-defying cosmetic surgery. Up close, her red hair was clearly not her natural shade. A couple of inches shorter, and a good bit heavier, than her nieces, the family resemblance was nevertheless obvious to see.
‘What is the meaning of this? Those girls have been through hell, and you arrest them? After what they saw, they are as much a victim as that poor man.’
Wilson’s English was perfect, but her native accent, buried under years of living in England, could be heard trying to break through.
‘Mrs Wilson, Malina and Biljana are key witnesses in this investigation.’ Warren’s tone was firm. ‘At present, they are helping with our inquiries. Key aspects of their story don’t add up. Perhaps you can help explain what happened, and then maybe they could be released?’
Wilson sat back in her chair, her arms folded. She continued to glare but said nothing.
‘You’ve turned up voluntarily, Mrs Wilson, but if you wish to have a solicitor present, you are welcome to do so. We can provide one, if you can’t afford to pay for one.’
Wilson looked at him, before shrugging. ‘I have nothing to hide. And neither do my nieces.’
‘OK, well let’s start by you telling me a little about your business. Are you the sole owner?’
‘Yes. I owned it with my husband, until he died three years ago.’ She paused. ‘Owning our own business had been our dream, ever since we married. At the time we met, I was a nurse. I specialized in midwifery, but when we found that we couldn’t have children … it was hard.’
Warren felt a wave of sympathy. He could imagine how difficult it must have been, surrounded by women welcoming their children into the world, all the time knowing you would never do the same. God knows, he and Susan had stared into that abyss enough times in recent years.
‘Anyway, I tried retraining, but I didn’t enjoy my new job, and I started to suffer from depression. One day I saw an advert in the local paper advertising courses at the local college teaching massage. I’d always loved the hands-on aspects of nursing, and so I decided to give it a go. I loved it.
‘After a few years working at different parlours, I really wanted to set up my own business. Ten years ago, my husband was offered redundancy, and we took the plunge. He did the accounts and that side of it, and I did the massage. We were a really good team.’
She cleared her throat. ‘And then three years ago he died suddenly. No warning.’
Warren gave her a moment to compose herself.
‘You said that Biljana and Malina are your nieces?’
‘Yes, I have a big family back in Serbia. I haven’t lived there since I left as a young woman to join the NHS. Then I met my husband and stayed. But recently, my nieces and nephews have started coming over to England to learn to speak English or go to college. My husband and I owned a small flat, and so I can put them up. I only charge enough to cover the mortgage. It works out very well for all of us.’
‘Do you have anyone else staying at the flat?’
‘No, just Billy and Malina at the moment. It only has two bedrooms, so there isn’t enough space for anyone else.’
By now, Wilson had relaxed somewhat. Her indignation had largely subsided, and so Warren decided to move on.
‘You said that you were looking after your mother-in-law, the day of the attack. Where was that again?’
‘My father-in-law and he lives in a hospice in Stenfield.’
‘I apologize. Did you visit him on your own?’
‘Yes. My husband didn’t have any brothers or sisters, and his mother died many years ago. His father is all alone.’
‘And how long were you with him for that day?’
Wilson frowned in concentration. ‘I went there after the bank run, then stayed until mid-afternoon.’
‘According to Malina, she called you just after half-past three. Yet you didn’t arrive at the massage parlour until twenty-to-five. It’s only a fifteen-minute drive, why did it take so long?’
‘I had taken my father-in-law out for the day. I had to return him to the home. And then I got stuck in traffic.’
‘Forgive me, Mrs Wilson, but I’m a little surprised that you didn’t drive immediately to the massage parlour and bring your father-in-law with you.’
‘My father-in-law has dementia; he gets confused very easily. I couldn’t really bring him to the massage parlour after what had happened, could I?’
‘I suppose not,’ said Warren. ‘What do you know about the events that took place that afternoon?’
‘Only what the girls have told me.’
‘Which is?’
‘That Mr Cullen arrived just before one p.m. Billy gave him his massage, then went upstairs. Whilst upstairs, she heard him scream. She and Malina then raced into the massage room and saw a man dressed in black stabbing Mr Cullen.’
‘What happened after that?’
‘The man jumped out of the window. They tried to stop the bleeding, then called an ambulance.’
‘Do you know if they called anyone else before the ambulance came?’
Wilson shook her head. ‘I don’t think so.’
‘Do you know what time they heard Mr Cullen scream?’
‘A little after half-past one.’
‘So, the massage had finished, and Biljana had gone back upstairs?’
‘Yes.’
‘What was Mr Cullen doing at this time?’
‘I believe he was resting after his massage.’
‘Is that normal? I assumed he had paid for a full hour?’
Wilson paused. ‘It depends on the type of treatment he paid for.’
Warren nodded understandingly. ‘I believe that Mr Cullen had been for treatments before?’
‘Yes.’
‘And he always asked for Biljana?’
‘I believe so.’ Wilson’s tone was wary.
‘Do you know if the girls knew Mr Cullen on non-professional terms?’
Wilson scowled. ‘They are not prostitutes. They told me what you asked them the night that you interviewed them. I don’t run that sort of establishment, and I certainly don’t pimp out my own nieces.’
Warren held up a placating hand. ‘Of course, Mrs Wilson, I never meant to imply otherwise. I meant socially, outside work?’
‘No, I do not believe so.’
‘What about you?’
‘No.’
Warren thought about what he wanted to ask next. It was tempting just to dive in and ask her about why Stevie Cullen seemed to be receiving his massages off the books, but he knew he had to be careful. There was no evidence that Wilson was involved in the events of that afternoon, but if she was, the last thing he wanted to do was tip her off. Similarly, asking her about Ray Dorridge might alert her to the direction that their investigation was taking.
Furthermore, even if she wasn’t involved, she clearly cared deeply about her two nieces. The last thing the investigation needed was her trying to protect the two sisters by destroying evidence or muddying the waters with lies. He thought briefly about chancing his arm and arresting Silvija Wilson as a precaution, but he knew that they had no compelling evidence to suggest that she was in any way involved. Even if the custody sergeant agreed to her initial detention, they’d never get an extension beyond twenty-four hours.
Besides which, after his sudden realization the previous night, the massage parlour remained sealed as a crime scene and the girls’ flat was still being searched. On balance, there was probably little that the concerned aunt could do to interfere with the investigation.
‘Thank you for coming along today, Mrs Wilson, you’ve been very helpful.’
‘When can I see the girls?’ Her lip trembled, and Warren was reminded of the reason she had turned up that day.
‘I’m afraid that won’t be possible until we’ve completed our inquiries.’
Wilson looked as though she was about to object, until her shoulders dropped, and she nodded quietly.
Warren felt a flash of sympathy, quickly suppressed. Silvija Wilson was clearly worried and upset about her two nieces. But that was nothing compared to the agony being experienced by the family and loved ones of Stevie Cullen.
Warren had finished for the day. It was a little later than he’d intended, but as soon as he finished filling in Grayson on the day’s events, Susan would be picking him up.
There was a quiet knock at the door.
Ruskin. ‘Sorry to interrupt, Sirs, but I thought you’d want to see what I’ve found.’
‘That’s a bright lad; he’ll go far,’ opined Grayson after Ruskin had left.
Warren agreed, although he couldn’t help feeling disappointed. With a cast-iron alibi, Rimington was no longer a suspect. He made a note to ensure that somebody warned Vicki Barclay that her potentially violent ex was no longer a person of interest. He hoped that she was right about Rimington not knowing where her cousin lived.
Ruskin had recalled Rimington’s friend saying that the two men had drunk the house dry Sunday night. Yet Rimington had found something else to drink on Monday. A quick trip to the small shop a five-minute walk from the flat had yielded CCTV footage of Rimington buying cheap cider and cigarettes at almost exactly the time that Stevie Cullen had been bleeding to death on the other side of Middlesbury. Furthermore, Rachel Pymm had yet to uncover any overlap between Rimington and Barclay, and Ray Dorridge.
Ruskin had also eliminated Harry and Teri Raynor, the married couple that Ray Dorridge had suggested Cullen might have come between. It would seem that Benny Masterson was wrong, and despite Cullen’s best efforts, the couple were still together – they were currently enjoying a two-week cruise in the Caribbean. As alibis went, that was even stronger than Rimington’s.