by Paul Gitsham
Finally, crumpling his cup and tossing it in a nearby bin, Warren led the way into the room. “Sorry,” he apologised insincerely. “Urgent business.”
A more experienced solicitor would have recognised the officer’s tardiness for what it was — a crude attempt to unnerve his client. Although unable to do anything about it, he would have at least shot a scowl in the officer’s direction. Severino’s lawyer simply looked slightly bemused. Underneath the harsh fluorescent lighting, the mismatch between the solicitor’s jacket and trousers was even more obvious. Warren felt a slight twinge of sympathy for the young man, quickly suppressed. As a newly qualified solicitor he was probably earning little more than a probationary constable, with the added burden of thousands of pounds of student debt. The chances were he only had the one work suit. This could well be his first serious case.
Good, thought Warren, pushing the sympathy aside, that’ll make our job easier.
After starting the tape recorder, enquiring after the accused’s health and reminding him that he was still under caution, they started in again. As before, the interpreter sat mutely in the corner, her services not needed.
“Dr Severino, as we said yesterday, it would greatly help us if you could confirm your whereabouts between nine-thirty and ten-thirty p.m. on Friday the twelfth of August.”
“No comment,” answered the young man, this time more confidently. Clearly, his lawyer had explained to him that with no evidence disclosed he should continue to make no comment.
We’ll soon rattle that cage, thought Warren.
Opening his briefcase, he pulled out a glossy A4 print and pushed it across the table to Severino and his lawyer.
“DCI Jones is showing the accused an image, taken from CCTV cameras in the lobby of the University of Middle England’s Biological Sciences building. The image shows a figure in a grey hoodie entering the building at 21:35 hours on August twelfth — approximately the time that post-mortem analysis indicates Professor Tunbridge was murdered. A second image—” he slid it across the table “—shows the same figure leaving the building via the same door at 22:10 hours, this time carrying what appears to be a large black plastic bag. We have reason to believe that the person on these images is Dr Antonio Severino before and after he murdered Professor Tunbridge.”
Severino blanched again, what little colour there was in his cheeks immediately disappearing, although to everyone’s relief he showed no indication that he was feeling sick.
He looked at his lawyer, clearly unsure what to do. His lawyer was unable to request a break for a conference, that being the responsibility of the accused. Nevertheless, there were ways around that and, inexperienced as he was, he was practised in those basic tricks. “I would just like to remind my client that he is under no obligation to answer any questions and that he can ask for a break to speak to his legal representative at any time.”
Picking up on the massive hint, Severino requested the break.
* * *
Standing down the corridor, away from curious ears, Sutton and Jones held a hurried meeting of their own.
“Bloke’s clearly shitting himself,” opined Sutton. “I reckon if we keep to the game plan we might even get a confession. As long as he can keep his breakfast down.” He smiled wolfishly.
Warren couldn’t help a small smile himself. “I hope for his poor lawyer’s sake that he does — where the hell can you get dry-cleaning done on a Sunday?”
Sutton grinned. “Doesn’t matter, guv. This time of year, all of the major supermarkets are flogging school uniforms. Probably be cheaper for him to buy new.”
The two men were still chuckling when Severino’s lawyer signalled they were ready to restart the interview.
* * *
The moment that they were all seated and the voice recorder restarted, Severino’s lawyer went on the attack. “This is nonsense, Officers. My client denies categorically that this picture is of him. In terms of physical appearance, that individual is right in the middle of the bell-curve. Half the men in Middlesbury could be in that photo, myself included. If that’s the best you’ve got I demand that my client be released without charge immediately.”
Warren ignored the man’s bluster. “Tell me, Antonio, how would you describe your relationship with Professor Tunbridge? We know that the two of you had a big argument recently and that there were issues surrounding you writing up your research for publication. What were your feelings towards him?”
Severino’s lips clamped tight. “No comment,” he managed.
Now it was Sutton’s turn. “If that person shown entering the building isn’t you, Antonio, perhaps you could help us all by telling us where you were that night?”
Severino shook his head.
Warren again. “I think you won’t tell us where you were Friday night because you can’t tell us where you were. I think that picture is of you.” Severino continued to shake his head. “Tell me, Antonio, where did you do your first degree?”
The Italian blinked in surprise at the non sequitur, answering without thinking, “University Trieste, in Italy.”
Warren nodded, sliding another picture across the table.
“This, I believe, is the logo of the University of Trieste, just here above the left breast on the hoody that you are wearing.” The image enhancement was blurry but clear enough for a positive identification.
“It’s a little clearer here on the baseball cap.”
Severino’s eyes bulged. “No, there must be some mistake.”
“How many people in Middlesbury do you think own a University of Trieste hoodie and baseball cap, Dr Severino?”
“That’s circumstantial at best, DCI Jones,” interjected Stock before his client could answer.
Warren ignored the interruption. “Tell me, Dr Severino, if this person, who looks like you and is dressed in your old university’s hoodie, is not you and is in fact somebody else — then why did they swipe into and out of the building using your swipe card?” He thrust the annotated printout from university Security at Severino and his lawyer.
Warren generously decided to interpret Severino’s strangled squawk as a request for a break and client conference. For the first time since they had started the process, Warren saw doubt in Daniel Stock’s eyes. That’s good news for us, he thought with satisfaction. When even your own solicitor doesn’t believe you, maybe it’s time to think about cutting a deal.
* * *
Unfortunately, it wasn’t going to be as simple as cutting a deal. When Sutton and Jones re-entered the room, Stock again went on the attack.
“This evidence is purely circumstantial, Detectives, and I again request that my client be allowed to go free. You are coming perilously close to the twenty-four-hour detention limit. Either charge him or release him.”
“We’ve plenty of time, Mr Stock,” answered Warren pleasantly. “Now, Dr Severino, we can easily clear all of this up. Where were you on Friday night?”
Severino was slumped in his chair. He looked exhausted. Friday night’s excesses, followed by almost twenty-four hours in a police cell, had clearly taken their toll.
“I was at home, watching TV.”
“I see, and can anyone confirm that, Dr Severino? Was anyone with you at the time?”
He shook his head. “No, I was alone.”
Warren nodded in satisfaction.
Good, no alibi.
“So, you have no alibi and the building’s entry log registered your swipe card being used around the time of the murder. Tell me how that could happen if that isn’t you on the CCTV?”
“No. There must be some mistake. I have not been into the university for at least a month. I don’t even know where my swipe card is.”
At a silent signal from Jones, Sutton took over. “Ah, yes, tell us about that. Why haven’t you been to work for a month?”
Severino looked discomfited. “I have been working from home, finishing up before my contract runs out and I start a new job.”
&n
bsp; “Really? Where is that new job? I heard that the University of Leicester had turned you down.” It was a calculated risk, since Jones had only Crawley’s impression to go on. Severino swallowed hard. “I have applied for a few different posts,” he tried weakly.
Jones glanced again at Sutton, who took the cue and leant forward slightly. “Look, we know that’s you on the footage — why did you decide to go into the university? Did you want to speak to Tunbridge? See if you could get your old job back? Or a better reference maybe? As I said before, we all know what a bastard Tunbridge was and we know how he held your career in his hands. I imagine you wanted to try and reason with him in private when you knew that nobody is listening.”
Severino shook his head vigorously. “I did not go into university Friday night. I stayed at home, watched some TV, had a drink, a bit of puff then fell asleep. Next thing I remember, the doorbell is ringing and you are standing at my door.”
The lawyer spoke up. “My client is innocent. The evidence that you have shown is circumstantial. Your case seems to rest on nothing more than an inability to provide an alibi; a motive that from what I hear is shared by half the university to a greater or lesser degree; and some poor quality CCTV images that show nothing of any value at all. As for the swipe-card evidence, my client has not been into the university for over a month. Who knows what has happened to his swipe card?
“By my watch, you have less than two hours to charge or release my client.”
Warren shook his head, reaching inside his jacket pocket. “Not quite. Detective Superintendent Grayson has agreed to my request for a further twelve hours’ detention. Don’t go anywhere, Mr Stock — this isn’t over yet.”
Chapter 16
Leaving Severino to stew a bit, Jones jogged up to Grayson’s office to discuss the upcoming press conference. As he’d predicted, Grayson had taken the opportunity to dig out his dress uniform. To be fair to the man, a small police unit such as Middlesbury didn’t get to make these sorts of announcements very often, so Warren couldn’t really blame him for milking his fifteen minutes of fame — fifteen seconds by the time it was edited.
Grayson had two different sheets of paper on his desk. He gestured at them. “Which one do I use, Warren? The one that describes how we have just charged Professor Tunbridge’s murderer; or the one where I feed the gentlemen of the press the exact same thing we gave them yesterday evening?”
It was a loaded question and an unfair one. Grayson had insisted on scheduling a press conference before he knew if they were ready to charge or not; frankly Warren had no sympathy for him. Nevertheless, Warren’s desire for self-preservation kicked in and he bit his tongue. “Short and sweet, guv, I’m afraid. Maybe we’ll have something later for tomorrow’s papers.”
Grayson’s grunt spoke volumes.
* * *
The press conference was held at Hertfordshire’s headquarters in Welwyn Garden City, a forty-minute drive normally. Of course, one of the advantages of being a detective superintendent was access to the pool of police drivers and their high-speed cars. Sergeant Kearns was only too pleased to take a break from stopping speeding motorists and do a little speeding of his own down the A1. Consequently, the journey took little more than twenty-five minutes. This was clearly something that Grayson was accustomed to. Warren was somewhat less sanguine about the drive and he hoped the marks where his fingernails had dug into his palms wouldn’t be too obvious.
The room was set up by the book, with a table at the front covered in blue drop cloths. Behind the table tall poster boards featured the force’s insignia, plus an array of telephone numbers and web addresses. Superintendent Grayson sat centre, flanked by Jones on his right and the force’s press liaison officer on his left.
In front of the three officers a bank of bright lights had been set up for the TV cameras. Grayson was wearing make-up, Jones noticed with a jolt, before wondering if he should be also. Memories of a recent TV documentary showing Richard Nixon sweating heavily, with five-o’clock-shadow, opposite a seemingly cool and collected John F. Kennedy came to mind. Warren pushed away the uncomfortable comparison and looked out. Behind the lights sat several rows of chairs, about half occupied by reporters. Most were busy tapping away on their mobile phones, looking bored.
Eventually, the clock ticked around to eleven and Grayson started the conference. After thanking all those present for attending, he extended the force’s condolences to the family and loved ones of Professor Tunbridge. It had been decided that an appearance by the grieving widow wasn’t really necessary, since they had a suspect and plenty of leads.
He briefly introduced Warren, before outlining the facts of the case and that a twenty-eight-year-old man was helping them with their enquiries. In response to a question from a local journalist, Grayson confirmed that they had applied for an extension to interview him longer. Warren had to admire the man’s panache; by giving Severino’s age and confirming that he had had his detention extended, Grayson had implied, without saying as much, that they had a suspect and were probably going to charge him.
The press asked a few more questions, most of which were politely rebuffed, given that it was an ongoing investigation. Warren had attended many of these press conferences but this was the first time he had ever been involved in one as a participant — albeit a rather inactive one. He was struck as always by how much of the whole exercise was a well-rehearsed game. The police knew precisely what they were prepared to give out and the press, courtesy of the briefing sheet distributed to everyone in the room, knew exactly what the police wanted them to know. The questions from the floor, with the hastily scribbling journalists, were nothing more than a show for the cameras. The public expected their press to ask certain questions and so they obliged. Everyone was happy.
By twenty-past eleven, everything was over. After another high-speed race up the motorway, Jones was deposited back at Middlesbury station and left to get on with his work for the day. Grayson, for his part, jumped straight into his own car, still wearing his dress uniform, and left in a cloud of dust, instructing Warren through the Mercedes’ open window to keep him posted on any breakthroughs, adding, “Have a good weekend,” as an afterthought.
And you too, Boss, Warren added silently in his head, before trudging back into the station to continue his working day. The security door had barely swung closed behind him, when DS Kent appeared, slightly out of breath.
“Chief, Forensics are on the line from Severino’s house. We’ve got the bastard.”
Chapter 17
Sutton and Jones fought to maintain their calm outward appearances as they recalled Severino to the interview suite. They had deliberately not said anything to his lawyer about what time they expected to recommence the interview and knew it was likely that he would be hungry and bad-tempered by now. After concluding their latest client conference, Severino had returned to his cell and his lawyer to the small waiting room reserved for family and solicitors. The room consisted of four badly plastered walls, one with a scenic view of the next-door hotel’s recycling bins. The posters on the wall were the usual Home Office approved notices about preventing crime, dealing with alcohol and drug problems and reporting domestic abuse. Between them, the posters contained enough words to keep a moderately literate adult occupied for two minutes at most.
By happy coincidence, the room had a clear mobile phone signal, but no 3G signal. After about forty minutes the desk sergeant, who could keep an eye on the room from his post at the building’s entrance, reported that Stock had apparently phoned or texted everyone that he knew, given up on trying to get a strong enough 3G signal to surf the web and was now sitting, staring into space, with a look of utter boredom on his face.
He’ll learn, thought Warren with amusement. The job of a police representative was to wait around. More experienced solicitors never went anywhere without their briefcases, which always contained something to read and something to eat.
“Why did you murder Professor Tunbrid
ge Friday night, Dr Severino?” started Jones, back in the increasingly claustrophobic interview room. As intended, the question jolted Severino, who flushed red. Before he could answer, his lawyer stepped in.
“Hold on, Chief Inspector. It has yet to be established that my client had anything to do with the murder on Friday night.”
Jones inclined his head slightly as if conceding a point. “You’ve had some time to reflect upon your situation, Dr Severino, and I wonder if you have perhaps come to any decisions about confessing to Professor Tunbridge’s murder?”
Severino shook his head emphatically and his lawyer looked relaxed. Warren hid a smile at the young man’s inexperience.
“DCI Jones, my client maintains that he is an innocent man and that the evidence you present is poor at best. I again ask you to release my client without charge and stop this foolish charade.” The young man was trying to out-bluster experienced CID officers. It wasn’t going to happen.
“If you are innocent as you say, Dr Severino, could you please explain why we found these stuffed down a drain at the back of your house?” Warren pushed over the glossy A4 photographs and sat back in satisfaction. The look of horror and muttered, “Shit!” from Severino’s lawyer, Daniel Stock, would probably be the highlight of his week, decided Warren.
* * *
The telephone call from Forensics had been better than Jones could have hoped for. Although the inside of the house had yielded little in the way of evidence, it confirmed that Severino had certainly partied hard the night before. The coffee table in the lounge had been covered with the empty trays from ready meals, several days’ worth at least and two near-empty bottles, one of vodka, one of whiskey. The overflowing ashtray was home to the nub ends of several joints. Small wonder he had looked so ill when they had arrested him, Jones thought with a small amount of satisfaction. The house’s décor supported the story that Severino shared it with his fiancée. However, there was no sign of her and the neighbours claimed not to have seen her for a fortnight. To Warren’s experienced eyes and those of the even longer-serving Crime Scene Manager, the state of the flat suggested Severino had been slumming it on his own for a couple of weeks. It was unlikely, albeit not impossible, that the house would be in such a state if he was sharing it with his fiancée.