Warren had no intention of letting Grayson change his mind about letting him back on the case, and so he was at his desk by six a.m., long before the superintendent usually made an appearance. Susan had not been happy when Warren explained why he was going back in.
‘Warren, just let it go. Let’s spend a long weekend together, just the two of us.’
After Warren had explained why he had to go back and finish the job, Susan had been even less happy.
‘Warren, if you’re right, and someone wants you off the case, then is it wise to challenge them? Next time they might try something more extreme. You’ve told John Grayson everything. You should stay away and let them think they’ve won. Your team can keep on working in your absence. You could even direct the investigation from here; keep a line open with John.’
Warren could see her point, but he couldn’t skulk at home. He was a police officer, involved in a lawful investigation. Attempts to take him off the case just showed how close he was to the truth. He had a duty to stay on the case.
No matter who wanted him off it.
Despite his bravado, Warren was no fool. He’d driven in by a different route that morning, and he’d arranged for a couple of uniformed officers to keep an eye on the house, and escort Susan to work. She’d refused to consider taking the day off.
Warren’s first phone call of the day was from Ballistics, who had been comparing the shotgun pellets recovered from the unknown man in the woods, with Ray Dorridge’s shotguns.
No sooner had he hung up, than Rachel Pymm rang, calling him over to her desk.
‘I’ve been cross-referencing Ray Dorridge’s financials with his mobile phone records, and I’ve spotted an interesting pattern.’
Warren stood silently whilst she talked him through her discovery.
By the time she had finished, Warren could feel the excitement coursing through his veins. Both findings confirmed what he had begun to suspect.
‘That’s fantastic work, Rachel. It looks as though we’ll be having another chat with our old friend Ray Dorridge.’
Warren had sent a team of uniformed officers to Ray Dorridge’s farm. As before, they would be inviting him to attend voluntarily – Warren was always loath to start the custody clock ticking until he had to. Not only did it impose a deadline on proceedings, it also meant that some of those precious hours would be wasted in the company of the custody sergeant. Furthermore, Warren wanted to surprise Dorridge during the interview. It was harder to do that, if you had already read out the grounds for the arrest.
But if he didn’t cooperate, they were under orders to cuff him and bring him in, whether he wanted to come or not.
As he was preparing his interview strategy with Moray Ruskin and John Grayson, Janice poked her head in.
‘Sorry to interrupt, but DS Hutchinson is on the phone. He says it’s urgent.’
Warren took the call in his office.
‘Sir, DSI Grayson asked for a team to canvass the local hospitals.’
Warren thought back to the request; Grayson had ordered it in his absence, and Warren had almost forgotten about it.
‘Go on.’
‘A young woman turned up in A&E at the Lister back in the summer. She was very distressed, dressed in filthy clothes and didn’t speak much English. She’d been picked up by a couple wandering around on the side of the A506, a couple of miles from Dorridge’s farm.’
‘What happened to her?’
‘Admissions couldn’t get a lot out of her. Apparently, they tracked down a nurse who spoke the same language, and she took her into a cubicle to check her whilst they waited for a consultant to come down and assess her. The nurse says she left to get some more bandages and when she came back, the young lady had done a bunk.
‘You’ve seen the Lister on a busy Friday night. Security were alerted, but they couldn’t find her on the CCTV, so they just logged it.’
‘Go on,’ said Warren. Hutchinson wouldn’t be in such a good mood if that was where the story ended.
‘As luck would have it, the nurse in question was just coming on shift when I was talking to the admissions desk. She was a bit reluctant to speak at first, but in the end agreed to speak to me as long as we didn’t tell her employers what she did. I said “no promises”, but by now I think her conscience was troubling her and she really wanted to talk.’
‘I think I can guess where this is going,’ said Warren. He fought down rising bile in his throat.
‘Yeah, the woman had just given birth to a stillborn baby. The nurse did a thorough exam, and said that aside from a little bleeding, she was essentially fit and healthy.’
Warren felt light-headed, memories of that night with Susan flooding back. Dealing with such a tragedy as a couple had been devastating. To deal with it on your own, in a foreign country …
‘I assume that she didn’t stick around, because she was in the country illegally?’ he managed.
‘Got it in one.’
‘I don’t suppose you got a name?’ said Warren.
‘I can do a lot better than that.’
Warren hung up his phone, already planning his next move. The story was nearly finished, with just a few more details needed. As if on cue, his phone went again. Rachel Pymm.
‘Sir, I just got the DNA back from the baby found in the woods.’
Warren knew what the results would be before she even said them. It was the only explanation that made any sense.
He left his office, heading straight for Richardson, Grimshaw and Martinez.
‘Shaun and Jorge, arrest Silvija Wilson. Mags, I want you to take a trip out to the Mount Prison.’
Ray Dorridge was in a very bad mood. He was sitting next to his solicitor with a face like thunder.
‘This is verging on harassment, DCI Jones,’ started the lawyer. ‘My client is a very busy man. Farming runs to a tight timetable and he can ill afford to spend the better part of a day cooped up in here. If you have more questions to ask Mr Dorridge, I would ask you to please consider calling him, or visiting him at his home at a mutually convenient time.’
‘I’ll bear that in mind,’ said Warren, before turning to Dorridge.
‘First of all, ballistic analysis has shown that the pellet that killed the man found in Farley Woods came from a shotgun cartridge incompatible with either of your guns. I will arrange for your guns to be returned to you.’
Dorridge acknowledged Warren with a grunt but didn’t look any less annoyed.
‘The last time we spoke, you denied any knowledge of the hole in the fence between your field and the woods.’
Dorridge sighed, a little too dramatically. ‘Yes, that’s correct.’
‘When were you last in that field?’ asked Warren.
‘As I said previously, when the fruit was being picked, back in early summer.’
‘And there was no hole in the fence then?’
‘Again, not that I saw.’
Warren made a note on his pad. Dorridge eyed it nervously. He’d already demonstrated that he wasn’t a natural liar; by ostentatiously recording the man’s words, Warren hoped to keep him on edge.
‘It’s a pretty big field. I imagine that you employ people to help you pick the fruit before it goes off.’
Dorridge shrugged, saying nothing.
‘When we interviewed you previously, you said that you were alone on the farm and that you hired workers “as and when you needed them”.’
Dorridge paused for a few seconds, before answering, his tone wary. ‘I guess so.’
‘Perhaps one of those workers saw the hole in the fence. Could you give me some names?’
‘I can’t remember.’
‘You must have records.’
‘I chucked them out.’
‘Why?’
‘I probably won’t use the firm again; they were too expensive.’
‘What was the name of the firm?’
‘I can’t remember.’
Warren looked at him for a few seconds, but Dorridge said nothing.
Warren pushed a sheaf of papers across the desk towards him. ‘Your bank statements for the past twelve months. Personal and business accounts. Interesting reading.’
Dorridge stared fixedly at a spot above Warren’s shoulder.
‘It looks as though you’re barely breaking even.’
Dorridge shrugged. ‘I’m hardly alone. Between cheap imports from abroad, and the supermarkets forcing us to accept less and less money each season, farming’s a dying business.’
‘We’ve been through these entries with a fine-tooth comb, matching them to all the different companies and people you’ve paid. Most of it’s pretty much what I’d expect.’ Warren ran his finger down the list. ‘Utility companies, feed suppliers, specialist equipment providers, an agricultural vehicle repair firm – that was an expensive one.’
‘The gearbox broke on the tractor. It was still cheaper than buying a new one.’
‘The thing is, I can’t find any companies that supply farm labourers.’
Dorridge shifted uncomfortably in his seat.
Warren continued, ‘However, I have found some very large cash withdrawals. Almost daily back in the summer. Would I be correct in assuming that you paid cash in hand?’
‘That’s not an offence, DCI Jones,’ interrupted Dorridge’s solicitor. ‘Farming is a casual business, and it’s the employee’s responsibility to ensure that all relevant taxes are paid.’
‘It might not be an offence, but it’s not exactly best accounting practice, is it?’
‘I hardly see the relevance …’
Warren pulled another sheet of paper out of his folder. ‘What’s really weird, is that if you had put these payroll payments through your accounts properly, you could have offset them against your profits and reduced your tax liability. I’m not self-employed, so I don’t fully understand these things, but as far as I can tell, that’s pretty much free money. Why wouldn’t you do that?’
Dorridge cleared his throat. ‘I’m not a very good businessman, I didn’t realize I could.’
‘Surely your accountant would have told you this? I see you pay an annual fee to a reputable accountancy firm that specialize in farming and agriculture.’
Dorridge said nothing.
‘How many workers do you employ to pick fruit on a field that size?’
Dorridge glanced over at his solicitor, who looked more interested in Warren’s line of questioning than his client’s discomfort.
‘It depends.’
‘Well I had a chat with the National Farmers’ Union. They reckon that for a field that size, you’d be looking at about ten workers, probably working for about twelve hours a day in the peak season.
‘Now my maths isn’t great, but that’s one hundred and twenty paid hours each day.’
Reading upside down, he used his pen to circle the daily cash withdrawals on the statement. Each amounted to four hundred pounds.
‘Tell me Mr Dorridge, what’s the current minimum wage for a person over eighteen?’
‘Again, I hardly see the relevance …’ interjected the solicitor.
‘Please answer the question, Mr Dorridge.’
‘I’m not sure.’
‘Before October’s change, the rate was six pounds fifty per hour for adults. Even assuming your workers were under twenty-one, the rate was still five pounds thirteen pence. Now I’m willing to accept that I may have overestimated how many workers you employ, and how many hours they work per day, but you don’t have to be Einstein to see that four hundred quid doesn’t come close to a full day’s labour costs.’
‘What’s really interesting is what we find when we compare your mobile phone records with these cash withdrawals.’ Warren produced another sheet of paper.
‘Every one of these big cash withdrawals is preceded by a phone call to Stevie Cullen a day or two before. Why is that, Mr Dorridge?’
At Dorridge’s request, they had agreed to take a break. This was fine by Warren, who was keen to hear back from the rest of his team.
‘Detective Sergeants Martinez and Grimshaw are booking in Silvija Wilson as we speak,’ said Janice. ‘DS Richardson is out at the Mount, still interviewing.’
Warren felt as though he was spinning multiple plates at the same time. For the first time since the miscarriage he felt truly alive.
Ray Dorridge was a beaten man, but at the same time, there was a lightness to his posture. Dorridge knew that he was in a lot of trouble, yet he was clearly relieved to be unburdening himself.
‘Stevie Cullen supplied a van load of workers at knock-down rates during the fruit-picking season, and casual labour as and when I needed it.’
Warren and the team had guessed as much, but Dorridge’s apparent willingness to cooperate made things a lot easier.
‘How much?’
‘Four hundred quid a day, for eight of them.’
Not even close to the minimum wage.
‘And where did he source the workers?’
Dorridge shrugged. ‘I honestly don’t know.’ He paused. ‘I didn’t ask.’
‘How did it work?’
‘Stevie had been hanging around like a bad smell, ever since we came to our … arrangement over the fly-tipping. Anyway, I used to use a bloke over towards Baldock. But he was getting too expensive.’
‘How expensive?’ asked Warren.
Dorridge squirmed. ‘He wanted eight hundred a day.’
Warren did the sums in his head; depending on overheads, that was probably a lot closer to minimum wage.
Dorridge’s tone turned pleading. ‘I’m a small business. I’m barely breaking even. I can’t afford that sort of money.’
‘So, Stevie Cullen offered to undercut them?’
‘Yeah.’
‘What’s the name of this firm?’
‘North Herts Labour Recruitment.’
Warren made a note to check that Dorridge was telling the truth. ‘How did it work?’
Dorridge shrugged. ‘The usual arrangement. They all turned up in a van first thing. I showed them the field where they would be working. I supplied the tools and the equipment, showed them where the portaloos were and then left them to it.’
‘Who drove them in?’
‘Stevie dropped them off, and left his brother Frankie behind to supervise.’ Dorridge snorted. ‘Not that he was any use. He used to just crack open a bottle of cider and play on some hand-held video game. As long as the workers didn’t leave the field without his say-so, they could do jack shit, and he wouldn’t say a word.’
‘I assume that’s what you and Stevie were arguing about in the White Stag?’
‘Yeah. Some days, he even pissed off and left them to it. Lazy bastards would just down tools. They wouldn’t do anything unless I stood and watched them work, but I’m too busy to waste my time standing over some bone-idle farm worker.’
Warren resisted the urge to suggest that you got what you paid for.
‘What did Stevie say when you confronted him in the White Stag?’
‘The bastard just told me to suck it up.’
‘So, what happened at the end of the day?’
‘Stevie would turn up with the van again, and they’d all pile in and disappear.’
‘Where were they going?’
‘No idea. None of them spoke English; they were all Eastern Europeans and I never asked.’
‘Can you describe the van that he delivered them in?’
Dorridge thought for a moment. ‘White, no windows.’
‘So, it wasn’t a minibus?’
He squirmed slightly. ‘No, but I guess it must have had seats inside. I’m sure it was legal.’
Warren was equally sure it wasn’t, but they’d deal with that at a later date.
Warren had an envelope of photographs in front of him. Unfortunately, a mug shot was out of the question, but the clothing that the victim had been wearing had been photographed. Hard work by DC Marshall had narrowed the man’s trainers down to a make sold across Eastern Europe. The logo on the T-shirt had been similarly identified, again to a cheap brand sold in several Eastern European countries. Marshall had found some images online of models wearing the same garments. Hopefully, they might jog Dorridge’s memory.
‘The man found in Farley Woods was dressed in these clothes,’ said Warren. ‘Do they look familiar?’
Dorridge looked at the pictures for a several seconds each. ‘I’m sorry. I might have seen them, but I can’t be certain.’
Warren wasn’t too disappointed; it had been a long shot.
‘Forensic analysis indicates that the body has probably been lying where we found it since the summer. Did you have workers employed in that field around that time?’
Dorridge sighed. ‘Yeah.’
‘Remind me what they were harvesting?’
‘Gooseberries.’
That matched the hairs found in the turn-ups of the victim’s trousers. They were awaiting analysis of the victim’s stomach contents.
Warren pushed across the picture of the hole in the fence. ‘There were fibres from the victim’s clothing, and traces of blood that match him on the jagged edges of the hole. We are confident that the victim pushed himself through that hole.’
Dorridge looked frustrated. ‘I’m sorry, DCI Jones, I really can’t help you.’
In the grand scheme of things, it didn’t really matter. All the evidence seemed to point towards the victim coming from the direction of Dorridge’s field, having cut a hole in the perimeter fence, before climbing through, catching himself on the jagged edge. Dorridge had admitted to having employed illegal workers in that field, at approximately the time that the victim was believed to have died. The clothes suggested that he was from Eastern Europe and the gooseberry hairs matched those from his field.
It was clear to Warren that the victim had been one of Stevie Cullen’s illegal workers, who had presumably decided to make a bid for escape.
The question was, how complicit had Dorridge been in the death of the worker? They knew that neither of the guns recovered from Dorridge’s property had fired the fatal shot, but that didn’t entirely exonerate him.
‘According to our previous interview, you said that you own a dog. What breed is it?’
‘Collie,’ Dorridge looked at Warren curiously. ‘Why do you ask?’
‘There were dog hairs, from a short-haired breed like a Rottweiler, found on the edges of the hole in the fence.’
Dorridge frowned. ‘I don’t own a Rottweiler but …’
Warren held his breath.
Dorridge brightened. ‘Of course, I completely forgot.’
‘Forgot what?’
‘Because the workers were so lazy, we got behind in the fruit-picking. I ended up having to borrow some arc lamps and a generator from a mate so we could work after the sun went down. It cost a fortune in bloody diesel and extra wages, but it was better than letting the unpicked fruit ripen too much.’
‘Go on.’
‘Well Stevie wasn’t happy about it, and so he brought his dad and his other brother, Paddy, down with a couple of dogs. Rotties I think.’ Dorridge looked ashamed. ‘I guess they must have been worried that the workers would do a runner in the dark.’
Dorridge damn well ought to be ashamed, thought Warren. Legitimate workers didn’t run away as soon as they got the chance. He fought to keep his face neutral.
‘The last night they were here, there was a hell of a big fuss. I heard the dogs barking and shouting coming from the field, then what sounded like gunshots. I was in the kitchen, and ran outside, but Seamus, Stevie’s old man, told me it was fine, and to go back inside.’ Dorridge looked down at the table. ‘It wasn’t a request.’
‘What happened?’
‘I don’t know. After about ten minutes they reappeared and loaded the van up with everyone and then cleared off sharpish. That was the last I saw of them. They didn’t come back the next day. Fortunately, the job was pretty much done. I managed to finish picking the last bits of fruit myself.’
‘Why did they leave so quickly?’
‘I’m not sure, but a helicopter with a searchlight was flying around. I think that might have spooked them.’
Warren was now almost certain that he knew what had happened that night, but he had a couple more loose ends to tie up.
‘In addition to Stevie and Frankie, were there any other people involved in the operation?’
‘Not really, old man Cullen drove the van one morning, but that was it.’
For the first time since he’d started talking, Dorridge looked away.
‘Nobody else at all?’ pressed Warren.
‘Nobody.’
Warren looked down at the man’s foot. Dorridge was lying.