by Paul Gitsham
A DCI Warren Jones novel – Book 1
When Professor Alan Tunbridge is discovered in his office with his throat slashed, the suspects start queuing up. The brilliant but unpleasant microbiologist had a genius for making enemies.
For Warren Jones, newly appointed Detective Chief Inspector to the Middlesbury force, a high-profile murder is the ideal opportunity. He’s determined to run a thorough and professional investigation but political pressure to resolve the case quickly and tensions in the office and at home make life anything but easy.
Everything seems to point to one vengeful man but the financial potential of the professor’s pioneering research takes the inquiry in an intriguing and, for Jones and his team, dangerous direction.
The Last Straw
A DCI Warren Jones Novel
Paul Gitsham
www.CarinaUK.com
PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.
Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said “he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve”. Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.*
Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. He is currently writing the third novel in the series, whilst looking over the balcony of a Spanish hotel.
Writing. It’s a hard job, but somebody has to do it.
You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones or twitter @dcijoneswriter
*This is a lie — just ask any of the students he has taught.
Acknowledgements
They say that writing is a lonely job — but that doesn’t mean you do it on your own. I will be eternally grateful for the many, many friends and colleagues who have read drafts of this book, giving invaluable feedback and encouragement in equal measure. To list all of those who had some hand in shaping the story that you hold in your hand would take up pages and I’d only embarrass myself by leaving somebody out. But keep your eyes peeled, guys, at least a few of the names in this and later books may sound familiar.
Nevertheless there are a few people I absolutely have to mention. First my parents, who are always full of encouragement for everything I do; my father proof-reads all of my novels, saving my blushes and making useful suggestions. My good friend Lawrence, whose mastery of the commenting functions in MS Word and enthusiastic use of the semi-colon is evident throughout the final manuscript. And of course my oldest friend Mark. It’s always helpful for a writer to have a tame English teacher on call who can wield a red-pen…
I must also mention my favourite lawyers Dan and Caroline. Their expert knowledge forced me to rewrite several key sections of the novel, not only ensuring accuracy, but also making those scenes far more dramatic. It goes without saying that any dubious points of law or dodgy renderings of custody procedure are down to me alone.
All writers need encouragement and support and I want to say a big thank you to my creative writing tutor Danielle Jawando and all the members, past and present, who’ve attended her wonderful writing courses, critically feeding back on the writing I have brought to class each week. Similarly I must mention the Hertford Writers’ Circle, whose monthly meetings are always a pleasure and whose encouragement and advice has been invaluable.
And last, but not least, the editorial team and staff at Carina UK and Harlequin, in particular Helen, Lucy and Victoria, for giving me this exciting opportunity.
For Nana. You never got to read it, but I think you’d have enjoyed it.
Disclaimer:
The town of Middlesbury, the University of Middle England, Middlesbury CID and all characters featured in this book are entirely fictional and not intended to represent any real-world individuals or organisations. It is also important to stress that whilst Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Constabularies are real organisations, they are not in any way affiliated to this book and my depiction of them and their officers are entirely imaginary. I have only the deepest respect for what they do.
Contents
Cover
Blurb
Title Page
Author Bio
Acknowledgement
Dedication
Disclaimer
Prologue
Friday
Chapter One
Saturday
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Monday
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wednesday
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thursday
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Friday
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Epilogue
Endpages
Copyright
Prologue
Blood.
Everywhere. Across the walls, over the desk, even splattered on the glowing laptop computer. The human heart is a powerful, muscular pump and a cut artery bleeds out in seconds, spraying red, freshly oxygenated blood across the room like a fire hose.
Tom Spencer removes his gloved hands from the dead man’s throat and rubs them down the front of his lab coat, leaving bloody trails across his chest. Hands shaking, he picks up the blood-covered telephone and presses 9 for an outside line, followed by another three 9s.
“You are through to the emergency services. Which service do you require?”
Spencer’s voice is shaky, his breathing rapid. “Police. There’s been a murder.”
Friday
Chapter 1
Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones slid to a halt with a faint squeak
of tyres outside the main entrance to the University of Middle England’s Department for Biological Sciences. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since he’d received the call and he doubted he could have done it much faster with blue lights and sirens. He switched off the engine and the sat nav on the dashboard beeped then went silent.
Two weeks into this new posting and the freshly promoted DCI was still reliant on the little device to get him around his new patch: the small Hertfordshire market town of Middlesbury. By driving everywhere with the device in map mode and where possible leaving for appointments early to take the most circuitous route, he was slowly building up a mental map of the local area. Although it was costing him a fortune in petrol — he felt guilty about passing on that cost to the force — it was the best way he knew to learn his way around.
The call could have been better timed, he supposed. He’d just finished pouring a bottle of Chilean red and was in the process of toasting his mother-in-law’s upcoming birthday when his mobile had rung. The temperature in the freshly decorated lounge had dropped precipitously. Bernice had never been impressed that her eldest daughter, Susan, had married a police officer — feeling that she and her monosyllabic, hen-pecked husband, Dennis, had raised their children to aspire to greater things. Private education and all the accoutrements of a wealthy middle-class upbringing in the leafiest part of Warwickshire had led Bernice to expect her daughters to marry well. That being said, she grudgingly acknowledged that Warren was a nice enough man and at least he was a Catholic.
Mumbling his apologies, he’d slipped on a jacket and left the house as quickly as possible.
Now that he was here, the familiar singing in the blood had started, mixed with a tightness in his gut. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, whilst rummaging around for a breath mint. He’d only had a sip of the wine, and had abstained completely at the restaurant so that he could drive, but the last thing he wanted was for somebody to smell alcohol on his breath. Not on his first big case. A murder. This was what he’d joined the force for; even more importantly what he’d trained as a detective for. For the past fortnight, he’d overseen his small team as they dealt with the endless tide of robberies, burglaries and low-level violence that plagued any society — a job that he was proud to do and that he knew was important to the public. But a murder was different. A murder was what got you known. A murder could make your career. It could also ruin your career before it really started...
Clambering out of the car into the hot, breathless, summer night, he scanned the largely deserted car park. Adjacent to the entrance an ambulance was parked up next to two police cars. At the other end of the car park a silver BMW sports car sat alone in the dark The ambulance’s blue lights were off, but the rear doors were open, light spilling out into the night, throwing shadows across the thick black tarmac. The paramedics stood by, chatting and smoking, relaxed, not expecting to have to do anything for a while. According to the call that Warren had received, the victim was beyond their help and they were now little more than a glorified taxi service to the morgue.
The front of the building was mostly glass, with two large, sliding doors leading into a well-lit reception area. As Jones strode briskly towards the building a young, uniformed police constable with a clipboard stepped out of the dark shadows to the side of the entrance.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I can’t let anybody enter the building at the moment.”
Jones reached inside his jacket for his warrant card. “DCI Jones.” Where the hell was his wallet? Bugger! He’d been in such a rush to leave, he’d grabbed the nearest suit jacket to hand. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the one he’d been wearing to the office during the week and so the pockets were empty.
The young constable clearly didn’t recognise either him or his name. Not for the first time, Jones regretted his forgettable surname. The PC flushed a little, clearly realising there was no way out of this awkward impasse without loss of dignity for one or both of the two men.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the day was saved by a booming Essex voice.
“Don’t you recognise the new boss, lad?” Jones suppressed a sigh. Great, his first big case and the DI first on the scene had to be Tony Sutton, the man who many believed should be the one wearing three Bath Stars on the epaulettes of his dress uniform, rather than this outsider, parachuted in from the West Midlands Police to clean up their mess.
Turning, he saw Sutton walking towards them, a barely concealed smirk on his face. Like Jones, he was dressed in a smart suit, although he wasn’t wearing a tie. But there the similarities ended. Where Jones was a slim six feet one inch, Sutton was a short, squat bear of a man, his pugnacious features and crooked nose a reminder of his days on the force’s rugby team. He was six years older than Jones, and most observers had expected him to be promoted when the previous DCI, Gavin Sheehy, retired. Unfortunately, Sheehy hadn’t made it to retirement and although Sutton had been fully cleared of any involvement in Sheehy’s disgrace he was nevertheless seen — rumour had it — to be too close to the shamed detective to be given such an important role. At least not yet. Hence Warren’s sudden and unexpected appointment.
“Sorry, sir.” The young lad was blushing now.
Jones patted him on the shoulder encouragingly. “Never apologise for doing your job, son.”
Son? Bloody hell, when did I get so old that I call twenty-year-old constables ‘son’? thought Warren.
Putting aside his discomfort, Jones walked to join Sutton, who led them through the front doors into the lobby. Inside was a large reception desk with a computer and a bank of telephones, behind a reinforced glass screen, rather like a bank teller. To the right of the desk two large double doors were held open by another uniformed PC. A swipe-card lock flashed red and an angry-sounding electronic alarm buzzed insistently, no doubt triggered by the door being held open so long.
“What have we got, Tony?”
“Nasty one, guv. White middle-aged man, identified as a Professor Alan Tunbridge, throat slit right open and head bashed in, sitting in his office.”
Sutton led Jones up a flight of stairs to the right of the entrance, before proceeding along a wide open corridor deeper into the building.
“Who found the body?”
“A young man named Tom Spencer, apparently one of the late professor’s students. Claims he was working late, came back to the lab and noticed the prof’s office door was open and the lights on. Figured he’d pop his head round and say ‘Hi’. Found him in his chair, blood everywhere. Reckons he took his pulse but couldn’t find anything, then phoned 999 on the office phone.”
“What state is the crime scene in?”
“Untouched, except by Spencer. Two uniforms were first to respond and were let in by campus Security. They took one look and figured there was nothing they could do for him. Paramedics arrived a few minutes later and agreed, pronounced him dead at the scene, probably from loss of blood. Yours truly arrived just after the paramedics. Scenes of Crime are on their way.”
At the end of the corridor, Jones and Sutton turned a corner. “Here it is,” said Sutton somewhat unnecessarily.
The corridor was crowded; two pale-looking uniformed constables were standing guard either side of an open office door. A couple of middle-aged men wearing blue woollen jumpers with ‘Security’ stitched in white writing on the left of the chest leant against the opposite wall, looking decidedly shaken. Standing awkwardly, answering questions to a uniformed sergeant, and looking like the demon barber of Fleet Street, stood a young man in a blood-stained white lab coat. His hands were covered in white latex gloves, also smeared with blood. A surgical face mask, rather like the ones worn by carpenters or DIY enthusiasts, hung on an elastic band around his chin. His shoes were blood spattered and crimson footprints led from the open office door to him.
Slipping his hands into his pockets and moving as close to the door as he could without stepping in any blood, Jones peered into the office and almost wished he hadn’t
.
As a detective with many years of experience, Jones was used to the sight of blood, of course. But this broke new ground. It looked as if every last millilitre of the life-giving red liquid had been forcibly ejected from the man’s body. The pasty, greyish-blue tint of the corpse’s skin confirmed the observation. He could see why the responding officers hadn’t felt the need to contaminate the scene by checking his pulse. The Scenes of Crime team would have to check with the paramedics to see if they had touched the body.
The late professor had been a man in his fifties, with a shock of grey, unruly hair. About average height and weight for a man of his age, he was clad in brown corduroy trousers and a white polo shirt. That was about all that Jones could make out amidst the blood. The man was slumped to one side in a comfortable-looking padded leather office chair, pointed halfway towards the office’s only door. The seat was a swivel chair, positioned so that the occupant could easily operate the laptop, answer the phone and reach the various pieces of paper that were piled carelessly on the remaining surface of the desk. A selection of different-coloured ballpoint pens was scattered across the workspace. A clear area to the right of the laptop suggested a space for a mouse.
The professor’s throat had been slit, clearly by something very sharp. Whoever had wielded the blade had done so efficiently. It looked to Jones’ eye as if the blade had managed to sever both carotid arteries. If that was the case, it put a different complexion on the attack. Contrary to Hollywood movies, cutting the throat of a surprised man wasn’t a simple affair. The victim would almost certainly have struggled. Looking closer, Jones could see that, aside from the cut throat, the back of the professor’s head — facing away from the doorway — looked to be a bloody mess. On the floor next to the chair sat what appeared to be a large lump of granite rock on a pedestal, blood and matted hair covering a particularly prominent edge. Jones could just make out the words “Boulder, Colorado” stencilled on the base. A souvenir perhaps? Significant or not?