The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

  “Is that ethical?”

  “Absolutely not. But try and prove it. Severino did lodge a formal complaint with the university — and was no doubt planning on writing to the editor of whatever journal Alan finally submitted to — but it would have been his word against Alan’s and he wouldn’t have stood much chance.”

  “How did Severino take this?” Jones had already heard Crawley’s version of events; he was interested to see if Tompkinson agreed.

  “Badly. Apparently they had it out in the corridor and he very nearly got himself escorted off the premises. From what I’ve heard he made a beeline straight for the pub, before returning rather the worse for wear a few hours later and vandalising Alan’s car. Security prevented him from entering the building to find Alan.”

  “So what happened then?”

  “Alan was livid and wanted him arrested for criminal damage. However a few of his colleagues in the department calmed him down enough to agree not to press charges as it was in nobody’s interest to see it splashed across the newspapers. Mark Crawley brokered a peace deal in the end and I believe that Severino agreed to work out his notice from home and pay for the damage. In return, I think Alan agreed to let Mark write any job references that came his way.” Tompkinson shook his head. “I don’t know how he does it. Mark’s been with the bugger for over ten years. That man deserves a bloody medal.”

  So far at least, it seemed that Tompkinson’s story matched Crawley’s, although Jones still wanted to speak to Crawley again about the omissions he had made earlier.

  “Do you know of anyone else who may have harboured a grudge against Professor Tunbridge? I hear that other lab members have also left on bad terms. What about other current members of his lab?”

  Tompkinson chewed his lip thoughtfully. As he did so his head twitched forward and backward slightly and his hands, which were now resting in front of him, tapped out a rhythmless tune. Time for more medication? Warren wondered. As if noticing Jones’ scrutiny, Tompkinson clasped his hands together tightly, arresting the tremors.

  “You’d need to speak to them, I would imagine. Personnel can give you the details of all the current and former members of the lab. As to whether any still bear a grudge, that’s hard to say. He did have two technicians speak to their unions about a constructive dismissal case concerning alleged bullying. However they decided not to pursue the case after finding better-compensated work elsewhere in the department.”

  “You bought them off?”

  Tompkinson’s shrug was non-committal. “They found a better position and decided it wasn’t worth their time and effort to pursue the case.”

  I’ll bet the unions were annoyed about that! thought Jones, but said nothing.

  “I believe that he also had run-ins with some of his other graduate students, although nothing serious enough to cross my desk.”

  Jones made a quick note to get onto Personnel and Student Services to find out their details. His list of potential suspects and people to interview was growing longer and longer.

  Karen Hardwick had remained silent throughout most of the interview, but Jones could see that she had been paying close attention.

  “What will happen to Professor Tunbridge’s research group, now that he is gone?”

  “A tricky question. This has never really happened before. A few years ago a young Principal Investigator was tragically killed on holiday. However, he only had a single PhD student and a research technician. The student moved into another lab, taking enough of the lab’s funding to complete his project. The research technician was also redeployed and the research group was wound up. It was a bit messy for a few weeks, but it all sorted itself out.

  “Alan’s lab is another matter. For a start it’s much larger and it has rather a lot of allocated funding. I suppose there will have to be a meeting of all of those concerned. In the interim at least, the lab will probably continue running under Mark Crawley. The students will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis — some may go and work in different laboratories with like-minded research groups, others may continue to work with Mark. As to the long-term, the funding agencies and the university will have to decide what happens.”

  So, it seemed as though Crawley might be the heir apparent to the research group after all. Would he want it, though, or would it be, as he’d claimed, a weight of responsibility he could do without? A point for future consideration, Jones decided.

  “Well, thank you for your time, Professor. We may need to ask you a few more questions in the future. In the meantime, could you speak to your Personnel and Student Services department and let them know that we will be asking to see your records?”

  “Of course. I suspect I’ll be in here all day if you want to contact me. But I’m surprised that you are leaving so soon.”

  Jones blinked in surprise. “I’m not sure I see what you are getting at.”

  “Well, it would seem that you have missed the most obvious motive, Chief Inspector.”

  “Oh? What might that be, then?”

  “Well, money, of course.”

  Jones blinked in surprise.

  “Money? How would killing Professor Tunbridge make his killer rich? Was Professor Tunbridge particularly wealthy?”

  “No, at least not that I know of. However, Alan’s work was potentially very lucrative.”

  “So, tell me about Professor Tunbridge’s research and why you think it provides a motive.”

  Tompkinson took off his glasses and polished them again, before replacing them and resuming his ‘teacher pose’.

  “Where to start? OK, to fully appreciate how big a motive this is, you need to understand some basic science. I’m sure that you’ve heard about the problems with bacteria becoming resistant to antibiotics? So-called ‘hospital superbugs’ such as MRSA, resistant to even the strongest of antibiotics?” Jones and Hardwick both nodded.

  “Well, the problem cannot be over-stated. There are strains of Staphylococcus aureus, the bacterium that MRSA stems from, that are resistant to all commonly used antibiotics, even the so-called ‘last resort’ drugs such as vancomycin. Let me be clear, here. If you develop an infection from this strain of bacteria, you will die. And it’s not just hospital superbugs. Extreme Drug-Resistant Tuberculosis, or XDRTB, is now being seen in TB hotspots around the globe. The current vaccination against TB, the BCG, is woefully poor and it’ll be years before the latest version comes online. TB is spread by coughing and sneezing. Regular TB still kills millions of people each year. Without antibiotics to kill off the infection, the death rate will soar. These days, a person with TB can pick it up on one side of the world and cough and sneeze his way across the globe in twenty-four hours, infecting everyone he comes in contact with. Can you imagine what it would be like if the strain that the person was carrying was XDRTB?”

  Jones tried to imagine such a scenario and felt a cold chill sweep over him.

  “Of course, drug companies are trying to develop new antibiotics as we speak. however the speed at which bacteria can become resistant to these drugs is frightening. Did you know that the first antibiotic, penicillin, was first used to treat patients in the 1940s yet within four years cases of resistant bacteria were reported? By the 1960s it was present in hospitals and by the end of the 1990s almost forty per cent of Staphylococcus bacteria were resistant. Since penicillin’s discovery, dozens of different antibiotics have been discovered — almost all of which are now resisted by bacteria. Some of those antibiotics were rendered all but useless within ten years. Because of that, there is actually less incentive for drugs companies to invest in new antibiotics.”

  “Huh? You’ve lost me, Professor. Surely with such a need for new antibiotics, whoever discovers a new one stands to make a fortune!”

  Tompkinson smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. It takes up to a billion US dollars and anything up to fifteen years to develop a new drug. The success rate from good idea to pharmacy counter is tiny. The vast majority of potentia
l drugs are eliminated in the early stages of development because they don’t work or have unacceptable side effects. Drug research is an incredible gamble, with the pay-off being massive exclusive sales in the years before the patent expires after which everyone and his uncle can use your research to make your drug at a fraction of the cost and undercut you. Because of that, pharmaceutical firms favour drugs that will recoup that investment. They like to play safe. So what’s the point of spending a billion dollars developing a new antibiotic that ninety per cent of bugs are going to be resistant to before you’ve even made your investment back?”

  The question hung in the air.

  Scratching his head and trying to keep up, Jones asked the obvious.

  “So where is the motive, then? Presumably anyone stealing his idea would still have to spend millions doing the safety trials. I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but I seem to recall from an article in some Sunday supplement that the bulk of the cost of developing a drug lies with the safety testing. Who is going to murder the prof over something that won’t make them any money?”

  The professor nodded.

  “You are quite right, of course. As regards the bacteria acquiring resistance, rumour has it Professor Tunbridge had solved that particular conundrum.”

  “He’s developed a multi-pronged attack to delay the onset of antibiotic resistance, hasn’t he?”

  The question was blurted out from DC Hardwick.

  Tompkinson nodded enthusiastically as if praising a favourite student.

  “Very good. I see that you know something about this, Constable. Did you study at university before joining the police?”

  She nodded, confidence buoyed somewhat by the praise.

  “Yes, sir. I did a Molecular Biology degree and we learnt a lot about antibiotic resistance. You mentioned that Professor Tunbridge was planning on going commercial with his work — is this what you meant?”

  “Yes, ‘Trident Antibacterials’ was the name he was considering. Alan was just starting to put out feelers for potential backers. It was all very hush-hush, of course. I believe that he was in the process of protecting the work with patents before he went public. The word on the grapevine is that he had successfully developed a drug system that attacked three unrelated drug targets simultaneously. The theory is that whilst the odds of one bacterium developing a chance mutation that renders the cell resistant to an antibiotic is fairly good when you consider the trillions of bacterial cells that will be treated over time, the likelihood of all three targets being thwarted simultaneously is infinitesimal. Even if a cell becomes resistant to one or even two of the methods of attack, the remaining drug target will still remain viable.”

  “So you are saying that Tunbridge’s murder may have been, for want of a better word, industrial espionage?”

  Tompkinson shrugged. “I would say it’s a possibility.”

  “Who would benefit from his death, then, and how?”

  “I suppose the most obvious candidate would be a rival pharmaceutical company. The idea of a multi-pronged attack isn’t in itself brand new. I’ve no doubt that dozens of laboratories around the world are working on similar approaches. Stopping Tunbridge from launching Trident would buy them time.”

  “Murder seems a bit extreme. Why not just buy him out? If the stakes are as high as you say they are, surely somebody could just throw a few million quid his way to sell them his work, or even offer him a job in their company to finish it with them.”

  “That may well have happened. However, knowing Alan as I do, working for another company wouldn’t appeal to his ego. For Alan, being the CEO of his own company that produced this miracle cure would be the ultimate goal. He was a huge self-publicist and he’d have relished the idea of a four-page spread in New Scientist or even the front cover of a major news magazine such as Time. In terms of money, if he wanted to sell his work, then he’d make much more if he was able to sell a fully working product. If it is as successful as he wanted it to be — and it is still a big if — he could float Trident on the stock exchange or even license it to the highest bidder. In this case we could be talking hundreds of millions, if not billions.”

  “What about the research that he has already published? Surely, the cat’s out of the bag now. Isn’t it just a question of time before somebody else follows his work? What about the other members of his lab? Surely, if they got together they could assemble the pieces and finish the work?”

  “Perhaps one day, but you have to realise how controlling Alan was. He still performed some of his own research. That’s rare — most professors of his standing haven’t wielded a pipette in anger for years. I would imagine that the central piece of the jigsaw is all Alan’s own work and he probably hasn’t shared his data with anybody else. I fear that when Alan died, Trident died with him. And with him millions of people who could have been saved from a horrible death.”

  Chapter 6

  As Jones and Hardwick left Professor Tompkinson’s office they were met by a young PC. “Sir, DI Sutton has found something at the main campus security office he thinks you should see.”

  Motioning for the young man to lead on, Jones and Hardwick followed him out of the Biology building into the bright sunlight. “Main campus Security is just along here, sir, a few minutes’ walk.”

  The temperature had picked up a little now, but the air was still fresh. In a couple of hours it would be too warm for his suit jacket, Warren judged. Impatient to see what Sutton had discovered, he walked as briskly as possible, arriving at the small building slightly out of breath, his calf muscles aching. His more youthful colleagues, he noticed with mild shame, seemed to have taken the rapid pace completely in their stride, so to speak.

  You’re getting old, Warren. Too much time behind a desk, not enough time on the beat, he admonished himself.

  The campus security centre was a nondescript building, tucked away next to the library on a busy main road. Seeing them arrive, Sutton opened the door to let them in. In his hand he held a sheaf of printed sheets of A4 paper. He was clearly excited; even his customary smirk was absent. As quickly as was polite he introduced Jones to Terry Raworth, Head of Security. A solidly built man his ram-rod straight bearing and no-nonsense attitude suggesting either ex-police or former military. Noting the tattoos on the backs of his wrists as they shook hands, Jones decided upon ex-military. Tattoos hadn’t been encouraged in the police back when this man would have been serving and it seemed unlikely that a retired copper would suddenly develop an interest in body art.

  Raworth led them through the back into the main control room. It was small and cramped, one whole wall given over to banks of black and white TV screens, with digital video recorders blinking below. An ancient desktop computer sat on a rickety desk, its fan wheezing loudly. The air was close, smelling of stale coffee and unwashed bodies. Sitting on an even more rickety-looking plastic chair in front of the monitors was another man, similar in age although without Raworth’s military demeanour.

  “What have we got, Inspector?”

  “First things, first — it looks as though Spencer is off the hook. The security logs for the PCR room show him swiping in at 21:05 hours. He remained in there until 22:13, six minutes before he reported the murder. Coroner reckons the time of death was about 21:30 to 22:00 at the latest. Furthermore, if he’d done it, he’d have been covered with a lot more blood. I can’t see how he could have killed the professor, changed out of his blood-stained clothes and got rid of them in six minutes.”

  “What if he had an accomplice?” Jones was unwilling to dismiss Spencer just yet.

  “The logs for the main entrance show that building was completely empty by twenty-past nine that night, except for Spencer and Tunbridge. The last half-dozen to leave included the two graduate students that Spencer claims he spoke to just before he went into the PCR room. We’ll have to review the full CCTV footage to make sure that we didn’t get anybody sneaking in on somebody else’s coat tails earlier in the day,
but it seems unlikely.”

  “So who the hell killed Tunbridge, then?”

  Sutton smiled, clearly enjoying himself.

  “Well, guv, I think we might just be able to answer that little question.” With a flourish he motioned towards the bank of video monitors. As if on cue, the video started playing.

  “This is the front reception desk in the Biology building. It’s the only entrance to the building and the only security camera inside the building.” The image was black and white but clear, evidently shot from a camera positioned above the swipe-card doors, angled to take in as much of the reception area as possible.

  Raworth took over the commentary, pointed a stubby finger at the screen. “During the day, whoever is manning the reception desk can control the cameras, panning around or zooming in and out if they want to. The rest of the time it can be controlled from here. At that time of the night it is left in standby mode, covering as much of the lobby as possible with a wide-angled lens, recording only when it detects movement. A rolling buffer means that the system also saves fifteen seconds either side of the trigger, to ensure that nothing is missed.”

  He pointed at the time stamp at the bottom of the screen. 21:35h. As he did so a figure emerged from the right of the screen, outside the building, the automatic glass doors opening to admit it. The person — it looked like a man to Jones — walked beneath the camera. The footage was slightly jerky, but from what Jones could see the man appeared to be of average height, wearing a dark-coloured hoodie. Underneath the hoodie was a baseball cap, completely obscuring the mystery person’s features. A crude, but effective, disguise. Both the hoodie and the baseball cap had what appeared to be small logos. Warren felt his heart skip a beat. He was certain that image analysis could identify them. Clearly visible in the mystery man’s hand was a credit-card-sized white plastic rectangle. Without hesitation, or so much as a glance up towards the camera, he swiped the card through the machine and entered the building proper. A few more seconds elapsed before the footage stopped.