The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

  As he eased to a halt the barriers finally clanked into place. Now other headlines filled his mind, ‘Police Chief Inspector Found Frozen to Death by Mother-in-law’s Disapproving Stare’ being the most prominent. Warren shook his head. Mother-in-law jokes? He must be tired. Drumming his fingers impatiently on the steering wheel, Warren prayed for an express train. A minute passed.

  Nothing.

  With a sigh, he turned the engine off, deciding that he might as well save some fuel.

  Two minutes passed. The barrier was automatic, triggered by a passing train a couple of miles up the track. Unfortunately, the barriers didn’t differentiate between a fast-moving express train and a slow-moving freight train, the latter taking much longer to pass through than the express, of course. Finally the train arrived. Two locomotives hauling trucks laden with coal. It couldn’t have been travelling at more than twenty miles per hour. No wonder, thought Warren as almost two minutes later the fortieth and final truck passed by. Warren restarted his engine.

  Two minutes later he turned it off again. The alternating red lights remained stubbornly on, the barriers locked down. Finally a passenger train clanked past the barriers and into the station. Despite the train stopping past the crossing, leaving it clear, the barriers remained firmly in place. By now Warren was fantasising about ramming the barriers. In his mind’s eye he replayed scenes from 1980s’ TV shows, many of which featured reckless drivers either jumping over or smashing through level crossings without even scratching their paint.

  Finally, the passenger train started off again, crawling out of the station. Warren resisted the urge to start the engine again, a brief flash of superstition suddenly convincing him that to do so would simply result in the barriers remaining down for another train. Finally, with almost no warning, the barriers started to lift. Warren restarted his engine and shot over the crossing.

  He glanced at the clock. To his dismay, it was now gone seven and he had yet to buy any flowers and he still had to negotiate the Cambridge traffic. Entering the outskirts of the city, he sailed past the Trumpington Park and Ride. Even if he had the time to park up and wait for the bus, Warren had learnt the hard way that the park and ride was not designed for much more than afternoon shopping. He and Susan had decided to use it one Saturday but had then made the mistake of staying out on a whim for a quick bite to eat and an early-evening film at the leisure park. After waiting for thirty minutes in the rain opposite the sixth-form college, it soon became clear that the park and ride stopped running ridiculously early. A quick look on the internet had revealed a rather unpalatable choice between catching a regular bus to within a half mile or so of the park and ride then walking the rest of the way in the rain, or forking out fifteen quid for a cab to the car park. They chose the latter. The cab driver agreed with them that it was a farce and a disgrace, but seemed cheerful enough when they handed over their money.

  Warren kept his eyes peeled, looking for a garage. Finally, he spotted one and pulled into the forecourt. A plastic bucket by the front door held a single bunch of flowers. Warren didn’t know enough about flowers to even attempt to name the species, but he did know enough to see why these were the last bunch. Oh, well, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Entering the garage to pay for the flowers, Warren finally accepted that he had missed any chance of a meal at the restaurant. The small shop had a tiny refrigerator filled with cans and bottles of drink. He selected a bottle of Diet Coke for the caffeine, although he was tempted to go the whole hog and risk palpitations from one of the so-called ‘energy drinks’. The top shelf also held a couple of sandwiches and rolls. Picking through them, he saw that the selection included everything from mixed salad to ham and tomato and even coronation chicken, but no cheese. Not even something he could pick the crap off. The shelf below had a couple of Ginsters pasties — Spicy Chicken and Peppered Steak. Not even a Cornish or a cheese and onion slice. Warren’s stomach rumbled loudly. In desperation he turned to the snacks aisle. Finally, he settled on a couple of bags of crisps and a chocolate bar. As an afterthought, he also grabbed some strong mints to hide the smell of the crisps on his breath. Susan nagged him about his diet a lot. Since he’d met her, his palate had widened considerably; however Susan would eat pretty much anything and just couldn’t understand, try as she might, Warren’s faddy tastes.

  Back in the car, Warren texted Susan, telling her that he was in Cambridge and would meet her at the Corn Exchange, before setting off again. Warren disliked driving in Cambridge. The roads were narrow and the one-way system had no apparent logic. Added to that the seemingly endless roadworks and Warren could see why the park and ride, despite its limited running times, was so popular. Warren decided to follow the signs for the Grand Arcade car park, since that was the closest to the theatre. As ever, Warren kept his eyes firmly glued to the road, watching out for foreign students looking the wrong way when crossing and suicidally arrogant cyclists meandering from lane to lane without signalling.

  Somehow, Warren made it into the car park without any mishaps. He was exhausted. He tried to calculate how many hours he’d spent awake out of the past forty-eight, but his brain was too tired to process the calculation. He had a few minutes to spare and so devoured the crisps and chocolate bar. Temporarily sated, his stomach stopped rumbling for what seemed like the first time in hours. Unscrewing the bottle of Diet Coke, he chugged half of it before finally grabbing the flowers, locking the car and heading for the theatre.

  Warren arrived at the Corn Exchange at a quarter to eight. Pulling out his phone, he saw that he had just missed a text from Susan.

  ‘Inside. Your ticket’s at the box office.’

  No name or kisses. Damn, Susan must be pissed off, he realised. He’d hoped to at least make his apologies outside before going into the theatre, but never mind. Queuing impatiently, he finally retrieved his ticket.

  Glancing at the stub to remind himself what they were seeing, he realised that the show’s name meant nothing to him. He couldn’t tell if it was a comedy, a play or even a musical. Declining the offer of an exorbitantly priced programme from the young girl at the door to the auditorium, Warren made his way into the dimmed theatre. Whatever the play was, it was clearly popular. Almost every seat was filled. Naturally, his seat was in the middle of the row. Apologising profusely, he squeezed his way between the narrow seating, almost standing on Dennis’ foot, before finally reaching his seat. He was sandwiched between Susan and Bernice. At his arrival, he saw Susan relax. “Sorry,” he mouthed before turning to Bernice. “Happy birthday, Bernice, sorry I missed the meal.” He offered the flowers to her and pecked her proffered cheek.

  His mother-in-law had decided to go with what Warren privately termed her ‘Onassis’ look. A sharply tailored suit and bouffant hairdo, which accentuated her enviable figure. In all fairness to the woman, she was still elegantly attractive and could pass for ten years younger than her actual age. If Susan maintained her looks half as well as her mother had, Warren would count himself a lucky man. A faint whiff of Chanel No 5 completed the ensemble.

  The subdued lighting glinted off a pair of large earrings. With sudden inspiration, Warren decided on a gamble. “Are those new earrings, Bernice? They go well with your new haircut.”

  Miracle of miracles, Bernice actually smiled. “Yes, dear, Dennis bought me them. I’m glad you could make it.”

  “I’m sorry I’m so late. I’ll fill you in on everything when we get home. You’ll get to hear it before I give my press conference,” It was a shameless exaggeration, but it worked. Bernice looked impressed.

  Suddenly, the lights dimmed and music erupted from the orchestra pit. Warren quickly sat down, next to Susan. She held his arm and whispered into his ear, “Smooth operator, DCI Jones.” Warren simply smiled and kissed her on the lips.

  Susan frowned slightly. “Cheese and Onion or Prawn Cocktail?”

  * * *

  On his way out of the theatre, Warren looked frantically for somebody selling a souvenir programme
. Within two minutes of the curtain going up, the day’s stresses and strains had finally beaten him and he’d fallen sound asleep. He assumed that he hadn’t snored, otherwise Susan would have woken him up. He had no idea if Bernice had noticed. Nevertheless, he was determined not to get caught out by a grilling on the content of the show when he got home.

  No sellers were to be seen. Typical, he thought, they were practically forcing them on you on the way in. Warren made a mental note of the name of the play, deciding to do a quick Google search before driving home tonight. A basic familiarity with the plot and the parroting of a few reviews should let him bluff his way out of any awkwardness. Susan and Bernice were excitedly discussing what they had just seen, so, to play it safe, Warren tried to engage his father-in-law in conversation.

  It was like trying to interrogate a Trappist monk, he soon decided. It was a ten-minute stroll to the car park, during which time Warren ascertained that, yes, the garden was growing well; no, the recent dry spell hadn’t done the lawn any favours but the hosepipe was compensating, and no, Dennis didn’t think the England cricket team’s recent performance was a promise of the beginning of a new golden age for the English game.

  Finally, they reached the car park. Bernice and Susan got into her car on the ground floor. “Why don’t you go with Warren, dear? Susan and I have things to talk about.”

  Just great, thought Warren, no chance for a crafty Internet search to swot up on the play. Still, the look on Susan’s face suggested that she wasn’t looking forward to the drive home with her mother either. Warren had a feeling that the subject of grandchildren, or rather lack of, was probably on the agenda.

  Susan’s decisions to marry a police officer and become a Biology teacher — in a comprehensive school of all things — were perhaps less of a disappointment than her apparent unwillingness to produce a grandchild. Moments before the phone had rung the previous night, Bernice had been rummaging in her oversized handbag for the newest collection of photographs from her latest visit to Susan’s remarkably fecund younger sister, Felicity. This had almost certainly been the prologue to an uncomfortable discussion in which Bernice would have reminded Susan that she wasn’t getting any younger. Warren experienced a brief stab of guilt at the relief he felt that he had been spared that conversation.

  As for Felicity, married barely three years, baby number three had arrived only a few weeks ago. There was no suggestion that Felicity had married beneath her station; her husband Jeff was an investment banker in London earning at least ten times Warren and Susan’s salaries combined. So impressed was Bernice by this that the fact that the couple’s first child was born considerably less than nine months after their wedding was never discussed.

  No, he’d rather take his chances with Dennis, he decided.

  After waving the women off, Dennis and Warren climbed another flight of stairs to Warren’s car. Getting in, Warren decided he might as well do some fishing, to see if he could gain some idea as to what they’d just seen. “So what did you think of the play, Dennis?”

  The older man grunted. “Not a bloody clue, lad. I slept right through it.”

  Sunday

  Chapter 14

  For a second morning, Warren swatted the alarm clock’s off button at 6:30. He groaned. He’d gone to bed relatively early the night before. After arriving home from the theatre, the foursome had enjoyed a leisurely nightcap, before retiring shortly before midnight. Bernice had been impressed when Warren had related the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Even Dennis had ventured an opinion, commenting on the speed with which they had tracked down Tunbridge’s suspected killer. Warren had apologised in advance for missing church the following morning and warned that, depending on how the day’s events played out, he might not be back until late. That her son-in-law would be giving a press conference the next morning was enough to appease Bernice, who he suspected would be phoning her friends as soon as it aired to get them to watch it. In reality, Warren doubted that he would be saying anything. John Grayson would be the one to take the limelight — he’d probably even wear his uniform. Besides which, if Severino didn’t hurry up and confess, there wouldn’t be too much limelight to go around. He’d deal with Bernice’s disappointment at his small role when the time came, he decided.

  Despite his weariness, however, Warren hadn’t been able to sleep. As he had lain awake, listening to the snores from the guest room, his mind had buzzed with doubts.

  Foremost was the nagging thought that it seemed too easy. True, most murders were uncomplicated affairs, but this one wasn’t. Severino hadn’t just stuck a knife in Tunbridge on a street corner, or strangled him in a fit of jealous rage. He’d gone into the university late at night, snuck up behind his victim, bludgeoned him and slit his throat. It wasn’t a crime of passion per se. And how had he known that Tunbridge would be in his office so late? Was that normal behaviour for the professor? And what about the evidence? At first glance, it looked pretty damning, but on the other hand Forensics had yet to find any of Tunbridge’s blood on Severino, whilst the CCTV images were far from conclusive.

  Assuming that Severino was the murderer, was he working alone? Tunbridge had been a pretty obnoxious individual — could this have been a team effort?

  Other small questions also worried away at Warren’s confidence. Mark Crawley had been cagey when interviewed and both Spencer and Hemmingway had struck Warren as not entirely forthcoming.

  Ultimately, Warren knew that the charging of Severino would only be the first step. The case was messy and they had to clean up a dozen and one loose ends before the case came to trial. Unfortunately, no prosecution was perfect. Life just wasn’t like that; there would always be a few unexplained facts. Warren’s job now was to make sure that none of those facts would trip them up in court and lose them the conviction.

  As he had finally drifted off to sleep, Warren had been haunted by one last image. The look of uncomprehending fear in Severino’s eyes just before he threw up, ending the interview. Was it the look of a guilty man who had just been caught, or the look of an innocent man facing his worst nightmare?

  After a shower and shave, Warren tiptoed quietly downstairs. He’d put on his best suit and smartest tie. His dress uniform remained in the wardrobe in a plastic suit carrier. Unlike some officers, Warren believed that, now he was in CID, the uniform should remain for purely ceremonial occasions and a conference to update the press on the progress of a murder case hardly counted, he felt. His lesson learnt from the day before, Warren quickly made some sandwiches and grabbed several pieces of fruit. Despite Susan’s nagging he’d never really been a breakfast person, but this morning he was ravenous, his paltry diet from the previous day having left its mark. Not willing to risk slopping milk down his suit and tie, Warren settled for toast and marmalade and a slug of orange juice, tucking a tea towel into his lapel to catch any crumbs.

  Warren arrived at the station at the same time as Severino’s solicitor. In the early morning sun, Stock looked even younger to Warren. He drove a battered, twelve-year-old Vauxhall Corsa and his trousers weren’t an exact match for his suit jacket — the same suit jacket he had been wearing the day before when his client had vomited in his lap. The two men exchanged a cordial good morning, then separated as they entered the police station, Warren heading up to his office, the young solicitor to the reception desk to announce his presence and get a visitor’s pass.

  Warren’s office was pretty much as he had left it the previous night, with the exception of a number of scribbled messages, including several different ones from the numerous divisions within Welwyn’s forensic department that were assisting on the case. Warren decided to deal with them later in the morning after he and Sutton had their first go at cracking Severino. Besides which, it wasn’t even eight on a Sunday morning, he could spend hours playing voicemail tennis before tracking down what he wanted — he might as well just wait until a more civilised hour. The final note confirmed that CCTV from Tesco corroborated Clara
Hemmingway’s alibi. Warren made a note to remove her from the suspects board.

  At eight a.m., Sutton poked his head around the door. “Morning, guv. Good night out with the in-laws?” Jones’ grunt said all that needed to be said.

  “How we going to play this, then?”

  “I’m not in the mood for pissing about this morning. Let’s just haul him in, give him a chance to confess if he wants to, then turn up the heat. The super wants to give a press conference at eleven. If Severino confesses first thing, we’ll charge him and announce it at the conference. Otherwise, we’ll just keep the press dangling. Regardless, I want him charged by this evening at the latest, and in front of the magistrate tomorrow morning.”

  Sutton nodded his approval. “Sounds like a plan, Chief. I’ll ring downstairs and get them to bring him in.”

  Chapter 15

  By eight-fifteen, the two detectives were ready to start again. The custody sergeant had led Severino and his lawyer back into the interview suite a few minutes earlier. Their client conference had finished and they were now waiting for the interview to recommence. Sutton and Jones stood outside the room sipping coffee. “No rush, Tony. Why don’t we let Dr Severino soak up the ambience of the room?”

  Sutton smiled. “Seems only fair considering his contribution to that ambience.” Warren had already been in the room to check the PACE voice recorder was working correctly. The pungent smell of bleach almost, but not quite, masked the smell of stale vomit from the previous day’s interview. He doubted it would help the accused’s frame of mind. Good.