The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

  Jones turned to Sutton.

  “First impressions, Inspector?” he asked quietly. Jones was already formulating a theory himself, but he liked to see what others had to say first.

  “I reckon he was sitting at the desk, probably working on his laptop by the looks of it. Whoever did it came up behind him and whacked him over the back of the head with that bloody great lump of rock. That probably stunned him enough for his attacker to slit his throat.”

  Jones nodded. “The question is, why didn’t he turn around? It looks as though he was facing away from the doorway when he was hit. And then, did his chair turn around after he was hit or whilst his throat was being slit?”

  “Well, either the attacker sneaked up on him, or he knew his attacker was around and wasn’t surprised by their approach.”

  Jones nodded his agreement.

  “And what about the angle of his chair?”

  “Too early to speculate.”

  “I agree, let’s not second-guess Scenes of Crime.” Jones was pleased with Sutton’s response. He was always a little wary of officers who jumped to conclusions without all of the facts. Good detectives, he felt, tempered their deductive reasoning with caution and were honest enough to admit ignorance, rather than stretching the evidence beyond breaking point.

  With nothing else to be gained from the bloody office, Jones turned away from the carnage. He glanced at his watch: eleven p.m.

  You were complaining how bored you were, Warren. Well, you know what they say: ‘be careful what you wish for’.

  It looked as though Susan and the in-laws would have to finish the wine without him.

  Saturday

  Chapter 2

  The alarm clock buzzed angrily. With a groan, Warren swiped the OFF button. Prising an eye open, he saw that it was six-thirty. His head felt mushy and his mouth was dry. It seemed as though he’d barely closed his eyes. That wasn’t a huge exaggeration, given that he’d arrived back home at well past four a.m. Resisting the urge to indulge himself in another ten minutes’ sleep, lest he didn’t awaken again, Warren swung his legs out, planting his feet on the woollen rug that covered the floor by the bed. Behind him, Susan grumbled in her sleep and rolled over.

  Ordinarily, when Warren worked night shifts or Susan stayed up late marking, the night owl would take the spare bed in the guest room to avoid waking the sleeping partner. With the in-laws visiting that wasn’t an option this time. It hadn’t mattered though. When Warren had tiptoed into the bedroom, Susan had been flat on her back, her comatose status testimony to the sedative effect of red wine. Indeed, Warren had noticed a second empty bottle on the coffee table in the lounge. He smiled to himself, glad that he wouldn’t be here in a few hours when his slumbering wife awoke. Never a morning person at the best of times, Susan also wasn’t a big drinker and he suspected she would wake up grumpy and feeling a little the worse for wear.

  He padded quietly into the bathroom, passing the guest room on his way. Through the closed door he could hear strident snoring. He wouldn’t like to put money on who was the culprit, Bernice or Dennis.

  Warren showered quickly and brushed his teeth. The elderly pipes in the house groaned, reminding Warren that he still hadn’t called a plumber, but the rhythmic noise from the guest room didn’t miss a beat. By now, Warren was feeling marginally more human. As he shaved he stared at the familiar face in the mirror. Aside from a little redness around the eyes and a couple of faint dark smudges beneath them, he didn’t look too bad. He still had the good looks that Susan claimed had attracted her years before; a firm jaw and eyes that could switch in an instant between friendly and hard, a trick he’d learnt during his earliest days on the force. His dark brown hair, just this side of black and still neat from his trip to the barber’s prior to starting this job, had yet to sport its first grey hair, although he was under no illusion that it would be long before his new position changed that.

  Creeping back into the master bedroom, Warren slipped on the previous night’s suit and tie, remembering this time to retrieve his warrant card from his other jacket. Pausing to look at his slumbering wife, he risked a peck on the lips, tasting the wine on her breath. Still asleep, she nevertheless smiled.

  Outside, the sun was already up although it had yet to chase away the night’s chill. Warren had grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl before leaving the house, and now crammed the remains of it into his mouth as he unlocked his car. The birds were singing loudly, but the rest of the street was quiet. Most of Warren and Susan’s neighbours worked regular office hours, so few would be up and about at seven a.m. on a Saturday. Similarly, the roads were quiet and Warren pulled into the small staff car park at the rear of Middlesbury Police Station barely ten minutes later. A few cars dotted the tarmac, most noticeably a brand-new Mercedes. Warren felt his stomach contract: his boss, Detective Superintendent John Grayson, was already in.

  Middlesbury Station was something of an anomaly in Hertfordshire. Most of the county’s detectives now worked out of the joint Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Major Crime Unit based in Welwyn Garden City. However, a combination of the distance from Welwyn and the rapid growth of Middlesbury meant that the town’s police station sported several custody cells and despite the budget cutbacks had retained its small but fully operational CID unit. Many of the other towns in the local area had to make do with a reception desk manned nine-to-five with an emergency telephone connected to Welwyn for out-of-hours emergencies.

  Swiping his access card and keying in his pin number gave Jones access to the building and he headed directly for the largest of the incident rooms. He had scheduled this morning’s meeting for eight a.m., timing it to catch the day shift as they came on duty. He glanced at his watch: seven-fifteen. Plenty of time to go over his briefing notes and set up the chairs. As he approached the room he spotted that the door to the superintendent’s office was ajar. It would be rude not to pop his head in, he decided, plus it wouldn’t hurt for the boss to notice how early he was in.

  He rapped confidently on the door, his knock answered immediately with a curt, “Come in.” Stepping in, Jones stopped in surprise. Sprawled in a large, comfy-looking visitor’s chair, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee, was Detective Inspector Tony Sutton.

  “Ah, good morning, Warren. Tony was just filling me in on last night’s discovery.”

  So that’s how it is going to be, thought Jones, pushing down a sudden flash of annoyance. His first big case since moving here and already Sutton was trying to muscle in on his territory, ingratiating himself with the boss.

  Sutton smirked. “Just the juicy bits, guv. Thought I’d leave the details to you.”

  “So kind, Tony,” commented Jones. If the super noticed the tension crackling between the two men, he gave no sign of it.

  “This is a big case, Warren. A murder is a nasty business at the best of times, but this one could be especially problematic.” The superintendent leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. “The vice chancellor of the university phoned me at six this morning, ‘to express his concern’ and emphasise the need for a ‘speedy resolution’. If I ever find out which bugger gave him my home phone number, they’ll spend the next twelve months telling primary-school kids not to talk to strangers.

  “Either way, we do need to solve this quickly and decisively. A murderer running about the campus could be disastrous for the university’s reputation, especially with next month’s Controversies in Science conference. The guest list for that event looks like a who’s who of shit-stirrers. Richard Dawkins and the President of the British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection are some of the less controversial speakers. If they think we can’t guarantee their safety, the organisers may well cancel the conference or, worse, up sticks to bloody Cambridge.”

  Sutton grunted. “Rumour has it, King’s College wanted to host it, but Channel 4, who are footing the bill, reckoned it would seem too elitist. You can bet they’ll be the first in line to offer their facilities again if we
lose the conference.”

  Jones tried to hide his puzzlement. They seemed to be taking this whole thing rather personally. During his time in the West Midlands, Jones had worked dozens of serious cases linked to the region’s several universities. The reputation of the university in question hadn’t been a huge worry. As far as the police were concerned, a crime was a crime and it would be solved with no more or no less vigour than an offence occurring anywhere else on their patch. Seeing Jones’ lack of comprehension, Grayson leant back in his chair, assuming a professorial air.

  “Look around you, Warren. Middlesbury is a small market town, with bugger-all local industry. The decision to turn the technical college into a university forty-odd years ago gave this place a lease of life. It’s the biggest employer in the area and the students bring millions into the local economy. Part of the attraction for students is the location. We’re seen as a safe, quiet place to live and study. We have none of the hustle and bustle of Cambridge or the crime of some of the Essex cities. It’s a huge draw for overseas students, who bring in massive amounts of foreign money — even if some of our more conservatively minded residents aren’t too fond of them.”

  Nodding his understanding, Jones tried not to feel patronised by the unnecessary lecture and oblique reference to his status as a newcomer, opting to reply with a simple, “I see.”

  “So, DCI Jones, I want you to give this case top priority. I’ll back you completely resource-wise. Pull everyone off what they are doing and get them to focus fully on solving this murder. We have some spare money in the Major Incident Budget, so feel free to offer overtime and buy in all the forensics you need. I’ll sweet-talk Uniform into giving us some bodies for routine stuff. Let’s nail this bastard.”

  Jones nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He could see how it was going to be. This case was a big deal and a lot was resting on his shoulders. It was his first case as a DCI and it looked as though it was going to be sink or swim. He had the deeply uncomfortable feeling that the outcome of this case would set the tone for the rest of his time in Middlesbury. Suddenly, the banana he had eaten for breakfast seemed to be weighing heavily in his stomach. His palms felt damp and his collar too tight. As if a major incident such as this weren’t enough for him to deal with, now he had to negotiate local politics as well. For the first time since his move, Warren allowed the ever-present whisper of doubt that lurked in the back of his mind speak louder.

  He’d known that becoming the DCI of such a small unit in a semi-rural town would probably be less glamorous and exciting than his previous job with West Midlands Police and that the shameful downfall of DCI Gavin Sheehy had left a lot of collateral damage that he might well have to deal with, but the simple fact was that there were already plenty of DCIs in the WMP and he’d risked getting stuck in a rut as a detective inspector. If he ever wanted to make it as a detective superintendent or even a chief superintendent, he needed the command experience. Consequently, when the vacancy in the Middlesbury CID unit had become available, Jones had been encouraged to apply.

  Making his excuses and repressing the treacherous voice at the back of his mind again, Jones left the office and went into the main briefing room. A large conference room, it lacked the sophisticated wall-mounted plasma screens that were being installed as he left the West Midlands. Nevertheless there were several oversized marker boards on wheels and plenty of chairs. As a concession to the twenty-first century, a ceiling-mounted projector allowed video and computer imagery to be displayed on the back wall. Most importantly, a large urn bubbled away on a corner table, next to a wicker basket filled with packets of tea, coffee, sugar and powdered creamer. A stack of cardboard cups served those without a mug. The old coffee tin now doing double duty as an honesty jar was suspiciously empty, and Jones hid a smile. Human nature was human nature, and coppers were all too human. Before doing anything else, Jones made himself a strong black coffee. After a moment of indecision, he emptied three sachets of sugar into the cup. The resulting brew was far sweeter than he liked, but the caffeine and sugar hit would hopefully chase away the remaining cobwebs. As an afterthought he chucked a fifty-pence piece into the honesty jar — lead by example and all that…

  It was now five to eight and the CID day-shift were starting to file into the room. After two weeks, Warren could put a name and a rank to most of the faces. Some acknowledged him with a nod, one or two with a cautious, “Good morning, sir.” Warren was again reminded of the veiled scrutiny with which he was being viewed. Suspicion was probably too strong a word, but there was still a certain wariness. He was acutely aware that he was on probation with these people and that he had to prove himself to be up to the job.

  By eight, he judged the room to be full, with a couple of dozen detectives of various ranks seated in rows. Grayson and Sutton stood at the back, watching. Calling for quiet, he wished all those assembled a good morning. Taking a deep breath, he launched in.

  “As I am sure that most of you have heard, there has been a murder at the university in the Biology building up on Mills Road. At 22:19 hours last night a call was received from a member of the public and approximately ten minutes later two uniform colleagues on patrol confirmed the finding of the body of a middle-aged white male in a first-floor office within the main research wing. Paramedics confirmed that the victim was dead when they arrived. Preliminary identification is that of a Professor Alan Tunbridge, the occupant of the office. The PM will be held later today, but early indications are that the deceased was bludgeoned, possibly with a souvenir granite rock, before having his throat sliced open. Probable cause of death, exsanguination.”

  A low murmur rippled around the room. Looking around, Warren was relieved to see that he had everyone’s attention. Or almost everyone — Grayson and Sutton had their heads together, quietly talking. Neither of them glanced his way. Forcing away any thoughts about what they might be discussing, Warren continued.

  “The body was found by a Thomas Spencer, one of the professor’s graduate students who happened to be working late that night also. Time of death has been tentatively put at no earlier than about 21:30 hours. Scenes of Crime officers made a preliminary investigation and will resume their work this morning.”

  A hand promptly went up: Detective Sergeant Hutchinson.

  “Do we know who was in the building at that time and does Spencer have an alibi?”

  “Unfortunately, we’re waiting for the head of campus Security to return from up north before we can review the CCTV footage and the building’s swipe-card logs to see who came in and out. The two guards on duty last night were based in the main security building on the other side of the campus and don’t have the know-how or the computer passwords to access that information.”

  A few grumbles went around the room and Jones heard at least one muttered utterance about “bloody rent-a-cops”.

  Ignoring the dissent, Warren continued.

  “The building’s fire-safety log claims that when we arrived there were only two people in the building, although we can’t yet identify them. The system simply counts people in and people out. The two occupants were presumably Spencer and the deceased. None of the building’s fire exits had been opened and all the windows were shut. A search by uniform found no other people in the building. Spencer claims that he was working alone in a small equipment room at the opposite end of the building for about an hour before he discovered the professor’s body. There are no direct eyewitnesses but he says he bumped into two other students on the way over there who were just leaving for the pub. Apparently the room also has a swipe-card entry system to protect the expensive equipment inside. First thing we need to do when the head of Security arrives is check out Spencer’s story.”

  A hand rose at the back. “Where is Spencer at the moment?”

  “Back home. He’s due to come in for another interview this afternoon. Forensics bagged him and tagged him at the scene last night and he accompanied us here for a full trace-evidence exam and to g
ive a preliminary statement. So far he hasn’t called for a lawyer and is co-operating fully, so we haven’t yet arrested him.” This last point was important. The moment that a suspect was arrested the clock started ticking and the police only had a short time to decide whether to release the suspect — on police bail if appropriate — or charge him and get him before a judge. By delaying arresting Spencer, Jones had successfully pushed back that deadline. However, it was a dangerous game and those questioning him would have to be very careful about making sure that he knew and understood his legal rights, lest they incur the wrath of any future defence counsel and scupper any prosecution before it even got off the ground.

  Another hand went up. “What about Tunbridge’s immediate family: wife, partner, kids?”

  “Family Liaison broke the news to his wife last night. His kids live away and are on their way home. Early indications are that the wife was having a meal in a busy restaurant with a half-dozen friends at the time of the murder. We’ll check out her alibi later today.”

  Looking around the room, Jones saw that nobody else had any questions. They seemed to be happy to let him get on at his own pace. Jones decided to paraphrase what the super had said to him before this meeting, figuring he couldn’t really put a foot wrong if he quoted the boss.

  “OK, people. This case is to be treated as our number one priority. I don’t need to remind you that most murders are solved in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours; the clock is already ticking. I will start assigning roles in a moment. Those of you that aren’t given an immediate task should use the time to lock down any outstanding jobs so that we can turn all of our attention over to solving this case.” Around the room there were a few quiet grumbles, no doubt from those worrying about the impact this temporary shutdown might have on their own caseload, but nobody dissented openly. They all knew the score without being told, Warren realised. Yet another example of the local instincts that he would need to develop if he was to succeed in this posting.