Ray Dorridge sat across the table from Warren yet again. The harsh fluorescent lighting highlighted the man’s lack of sleep, although to be fair, the face that had stared back at Warren that morning as he shaved hadn’t looked much better. At least his hair had less grey.
Dorridge looked nervous. He said nothing as his solicitor read a short statement.
‘My client wishes to make it categorically clear, yet again, that he had nothing to do with the death of Mr Stevie Cullen. So far, the evidence that the police have against Mr Dorridge is entirely circumstantial. Unfortunately, the late Mr Cullen was a very unpopular man, and there are many who might harbour a motive to kill him. My client has agreed, voluntarily, to questioning to clear this matter up, once and for all.’
‘Thank you, Mr Dorridge, your cooperation is appreciated,’ said Warren, ‘however, we are not here to discuss the death of Mr Cullen. Rather, we would like you to help us with another matter.’
Dorridge nodded, warily.
‘I believe that your land backs onto Farley Woods?’
Dorridge squirmed in his seat. ‘Yes, although it’s public land. I don’t ever go into it; there’s a perimeter fence.’
‘I’m sure you are aware that there is significant police activity going on there at the moment.’
‘I fail to see the relevance,’ interrupted the solicitor again. ‘Mr Dorridge’s property is separated from that land, which if memory serves, is fully accessible to the general public. I fail to see the link between Mr Dorridge and whatever you are currently investigating.’
Warren opened the folder again and took out a photograph. ‘Are you aware that a large hole has been cut in the fence between the woods and your field?’
‘No. I haven’t been down there since the summer. I’m not due to start planting down there for weeks.’
‘Have you been in Farley Woods recently?’
‘No. Like I said, it’s not my land.’
‘So, you don’t know anything about the dead body found there yesterday? A dead body that may have accessed the land via the hole cut in your fence?’
Dorridge went white. ‘I need a bathroom break.’
They’d deliberately held back on announcing the discovery of the body to the public until they could interview Dorridge again. He’d been shocked at the revelation of the discovery, but it was unclear if that reaction was because he knew nothing about the body, or because the crime had been uncovered.
‘Do we have anything more from Scenes of Crime?’ asked Warren.
‘Nothing much yet. The soil samples will take a while to process for blood, so we won’t know where he was shot for a while,’ said Pymm. ‘A search team with metal detectors is looking for more pellets, or discarded cartridges, but it’s slow going. They have his guns, so we can check for a match if we find anything.’
At the moment, Dorridge was the single point of contact between both murders, a coincidence too big to ignore. His fate would likely be determined by the outcomes of the search warrant and the forensic analysis of the body and the area surrounding its discovery, but that would take time.
‘Well let’s just hit him with what we know so far, and see if he gives us anything else,’ said Warren.
‘OK, Mr Dorridge, let’s turn to the body found at the edge of your property.’
Some of the colour had returned to the farmer’s cheeks, although his eyes still appeared hollow.
‘The body found in the publicly accessible woodland at the edge of his property,’ reminded the solicitor.
‘We believe that the victim accessed the wooded area from a hole in your fence. What can you tell us about that?’
Warren was gambling now. Forensics hadn’t yet confirmed that the victim and the hole cut in the fence were related, but the presence near the body of a pair of sharpened secateurs, capable of cutting such a hole, certainly pointed that way.
‘I don’t know anything about a body in the woods,’ said Dorridge.
‘The body has been there for some time, as has the hole cut in the fence. Can you remember anything unusual happening down there?’
‘No, nothing.’
Dorridge was sitting with his left leg crossed over his right. Warren glanced down at his foot. It was twitching, but not dancing as violently as it had in previous interviews when he’d been lying.
‘When was the last time you went down that field?’
‘Back in the summer, when the fruit was ready to pick. I haven’t been back since.’
‘What fruit were you picking?’
‘Gooseberries.’
‘And when did you pick them?’
‘End of June, beginning of July – I can’t remember exactly. I pick them before they fully ripen, so that they have more pectin for the jam manufacturers.’
‘And you didn’t see a hole in your fence then?’
Dorridge frowned in concentration. ‘I didn’t notice a hole in the middle of June, when I went down to check if the gooseberries were ripe enough to pick.’
If what Dorridge was saying was true, then that meant the victim had been killed after that time. But when?
Then there was the question about whether Dorridge was actually complicit in the killing. The victim had been shot with a shotgun, of which he owned two. Would ballistic analysis be able to provide a match?
And if they did, what was his motive? Could he have found the victim trespassing on his fields? It seemed a rather extreme reaction, particularly if the victim was already running away, into the woods. Forensics were looking for any blood traces on Dorridge’s side of the fence, although Warren wasn’t expecting anything. Months had obviously passed since the shooting; the likelihood of any blood being found was slim on such exposed ground. They might find something in the forest, but again, his hopes weren’t high.
And then there was Stevie Cullen. Dorridge was the sole link so far between both murders. Warren couldn’t dismiss that.
For the time being, Dorridge had to remain on the suspect board.
‘Interview suspended.’
Warren only had enough time to drink a quick coffee and force down a sandwich, before his next interview. He went through the strategy Grayson had outlined. He’d considered passing the interview over to someone else, but he was desperate to meet the suspect himself, and the clock was ticking. Within reason, Grayson was happy to let Warren do things his way, even if it was unusual for such a senior officer to get so involved.
The young woman known only as Annie looked even more exhausted than Silvija Wilson. At first glance, she bore more than a passing resemblance to Biljana, with short, dark hair and a slim build. It was now obvious that she’d been visible at least once on the reception CCTV footage, but the team had mistaken her for Biljana from behind. Mags Richardson’s team were going back over the CCTV footage from the massage parlour’s reception area to see if they had made any more misidentifications and whether this affected their timeline of events. Annie was unquestionably the young woman appearing in the background of the two sisters’ social media posts.
Up close, however, she was several years older than they’d thought. Her nose had also been broken on at least one occasion, and one of her front teeth was chipped. Her left eyebrow was demarked by a small scar.
If what Silvija Wilson had told Warren was true, and the woman sat before him had been acting in self-defence, then she was worthy of his sympathy. However, they only had Wilson’s word about events that she hadn’t personally witnessed. On top of that, the woman’s story had changed so many times, anything she said had to be taken with a generous pinch of salt.
But Warren’s gut was telling him that they were getting closer to the truth. He just needed Annie to tell him her version of events.
‘Annie, can you look at me?’ said Warren, his voice gentle. He hoped that even if Annie was relying on the translator for the meaning of his words, she would pick up on his tone.
She looked up slowly. Her eyes were swollen from crying, the tip of her nose reddened.
‘Silvija has told us what she thinks happened that day, but we need you to explain your side of it.’
Annie shook her head. ‘No comment,’ she mumbled.
Warren tried again. ‘Biljana and Malina are in a lot of trouble. They need you to help them.’
Annie frowned, and looked over at the translator, obviously confused.
‘It’s true, Annie,’ said Warren. ‘Biljana and Malina have refused to tell us what happened. They then lied about a man dressed in black climbing through the window and committing the murder.’
Annie said nothing.
‘The problem is that we have no evidence that they weren’t involved. All we know is that the three of you were in that massage parlour when Stevie Cullen was killed.’
Warren leant forward, catching Annie’s eyes. ‘What Silvija has told us isn’t enough. She wasn’t there. We’ve had to charge them with his murder.’
Annie gasped, speaking for the first time. Even without the immediate translation, it was obvious what she had said. ‘No. They had nothing to do with it.’
‘Well they are prepared to go to court and perhaps even prison,’ said Warren. ‘They refuse to admit that you were even there.’
Annie was shaking her head. ‘No. That’s not fair; they didn’t kill him.’
‘Then who did kill him, Annie?’ Warren repeated, his tone firm. ‘Unless you can give me another suspect, then they are going to go to prison for you.’ Warren’s voice softened again. ‘They are prepared to sacrifice everything for you. Can you let them do that?’
Tears coursed down Annie’s cheeks. ‘No. They didn’t do it. Neither of them did it.’
‘Then who was it, Annie? There was nobody else there. The nail technicians had already left. There were no other customers, and we know that the man in black doesn’t exist. That only leaves one person.’
When she spoke, her voice was a sob, but it was clear enough for the translator. ‘I did it. I killed him.’