by Paul Gitsham
For that reason, Warren decided to chance it. He agreed to meet the lawyer outside the prison the following morning, before going in to see Severino together. Hanging up, Warren drummed his fingers on the table as he thought about the unexpected request. Eventually, he decided that he was wasting his time speculating and so headed back to the briefing. Nevertheless, a nagging feeling in his gut told him that something significant was about to happen.
Chapter 24
Warren finally made it home at eight that evening. The atmosphere in the house was strained, with Susan clearly still smarting from their argument on the phone that morning. Susan and her parents had already eaten, so Warren ended up eating reheated lasagne alone at the kitchen table, whilst the rest of the house watched TV.
Normally Warren and Susan made an effort to follow the advice given by Warren’s grandparents — married sixty-two years and counting — not to let the sun go down on an argument, but the presence of Susan’s parents inhibited Warren from speaking out to clear the air. Remarkably, it was Dennis that initiated the conversation as Susan and her mother watched old Inspector Morse repeats on the TV; his father-in-law was fascinated by the day’s events, completely ignoring the exploits of the famous TV detective as he quizzed Warren on how they had identified Severino as their suspect and his subsequent arrest and charging. He even expressed an interest in watching Severino’s eventual trial. Warren promised to let him know when the trial started and agreed to try and get him a seat in the public gallery.
Bernice, for her part, merely sniffed and carried on knitting, finding Colin Dexter’s intricate twists and plots in genteel Oxford to be far more interesting than the real-life grubbiness of Warren’s day-to-day existence. Susan said nothing.
Finally, Bernice announced that she and Dennis were tired and wanted to go to bed. Dennis didn’t seem particularly tired to Warren, but nevertheless he wished Warren and Susan goodnight, before dutifully following his wife up the stairs.
Susan remained on the couch, her eyes glued to the late-night news bulletin. Inwardly, Warren sighed. She clearly wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. He knew that he was in the wrong and that it was up to him to apologise; nevertheless he felt a little hurt that Susan didn’t seem interested in meeting him halfway.
Getting up from his armchair, he crossed the room and sat down on the couch next to his wife. The leather was still warm from where Bernice had vacated it a few moments before. Reaching over, he kissed her lightly on the side of her head. She didn’t flinch, which was something, but at the same time she didn’t take her eyes off the TV.
“I’m sorry, sweetheart. I’ve been neglecting you. I’ve been too wrapped up in my work to even ask how your day has been.”
Finally, Susan turned to look at him.
“Warren, what colour were the walls in the hall when you left for work this morning?”
Warren blinked in surprise at the apparent non sequitur, before groaning silently. He knew where this was going and there was nothing he could do about it. How could he not have even noticed the smell of fresh paint when he walked in the house? Resigned to his fate, he played along with the game.
“A pale cream colour.”
“And now?”
Warren wracked his brain, but it was useless. He sighed. “I’m so sorry, I never even noticed.”
“Pale blue. Mum chose it.” Susan looked close to tears. “We were supposed to choose that paint, not Mum. This is our first proper house, Warren. We were going to decorate it together. When we finished, we were supposed to be able to say, ‘This is Warren and Susan’s house.’ From the shade of the walls, to the colour of the carpets, it was supposed to be our house. The way we wanted it. This afternoon, Mum and I painted the hallway, whilst Dad fixed all of those shelves in the utility room.
“I wanted to wait until you weren’t busy any more, but I couldn’t hold out any longer. The holidays are nearly over; I’ll be back at school in three weeks. I have to start my planning by next week. Mum and Dad insisted that they help out and I couldn’t say no. I couldn’t tell them to leave it alone because I wanted to do it with you. They’ve been married forty years. To them it was just a job that needed doing and if you weren’t able to do it, they would.”
Warren felt helpless. She was right. It seemed such a small thing, but she was absolutely right. They had been planning their first proper home together ever since they had become engaged. Long nights lying in bed in their rented flat in Birmingham they’d fantasised about what they’d do and how it would look when they finished. At the time it had always seemed to be a few years away, but then suddenly Warren had been invited to apply for the job at Middlesbury and days later Susan had found herself handing in her notice to leave her current school.
Even then, they had expected to rent a flat whilst they looked around for somewhere more permanent; yet even as they’d visited the letting agency for the first time on a day trip to Middlesbury the picture in the estate agent’s window across the road had caught their eye. A chat with their bank manager had revealed that, much to their surprise, their savings were enough for a deposit and, with their combined salaries, the mortgage payments were not much different from what they had budgeted to spend on rent. Even better, the current owner was looking for a quick sale and Warren and Susan were first-time buyers.
The moment that they had walked into the house for a viewing, they had felt as if they had come home. Work needed to be done and the décor wasn’t to their taste, yet looking beyond the surface they had found exactly what they were looking for. It was fate, they had both decided as they lay in bed that night, their flat in Birmingham already feeling alien and cold to them; no longer a home but a way station as they headed for better things.
Warren was at a loss. All he could do was put his arms around his wife and whisper his apologies into her ear as her tears finally came. Eventually it was over, Susan dabbing at her eyes with her long-sleeved T-shirt.
An hour later, Warren lay awake in bed, staring at his wife’s sleeping form. He could see her outline clearly in the glow from the street light outside as it passed through the thin, inadequate bedroom curtains. Curtains that they were supposed to have been replacing together, he realised with a stab of shame.
As he looked at the back of Susan’s head he felt sadness at the way things had changed. When had he started taking Susan for granted? Only a few weeks ago he had lain in this same bed in their old flat marvelling at how lucky he was. As long as he had Susan to come home to, it didn’t matter what else was happening in the world.
Some said that there was no such thing as love at first sight, just a chemical, lustful attraction that with time grew into love. All Warren knew was that the first time he had clapped eyes on Susan he was smitten. To this day, Warren realised just how lucky he had been. Ordinarily there would have been no reason for their paths to cross. Susan had been undergoing teacher training at Birmingham University; Warren had been a detective sergeant working largely in Edgbaston near to the university campus, but he had hardly been a frequent visitor to that area.
The night that they met, Warren had been enjoying a few beers after a long shift, in one of the local bars. He and his three friends were winding down after a tiring day, looking forward to a relaxing weekend. By about ten p.m., it was all that Warren could do to keep his eyes open. Draining his pint, he decided to pay one last visit to the Gents, make his excuses, then leave.
Returning from the toilets, he saw that two of his friends had clearly had similar ideas and were nowhere to be seen, no doubt already trying to hail a cab outside. Suddenly, the fourth member of the party appeared at his elbow.
“You can’t leave now, mate,” he said urgently. The speaker was ‘Griffo’, Robert Griffiths, probably Warren’s closest friend on the force.
Warren stifled a yawn. “Sorry, mate, I’m running on empty here. Three early shifts in a row, I’m knackered.”
“Shit, I need you — you’re my wingman.” He jerked his
head in the direction of a group of young people that Warren had seen him talking to earlier in the evening.
Warren shook his head. “I can’t. I’m falling asleep here.”
But Griffo wouldn’t be dissuaded. “Come on, Jonesy, I’m on a winner here—– the blonde bird with the big tits is well up for it. Get a Red Bull down your neck. They’ve invited us to a party around the corner in their halls of residence.”
Warren sighed. The last thing he wanted was to spend the night with a group of pissed-up twenty-year-old students. It wasn’t that he hadn’t enjoyed his own time as a pissed-up twenty-year-old student — far from it, his university days were some of the best days of his life — however that time was years past now.
“Why don’t you go ahead? I’m tired. I wouldn’t want to cramp your style.”
Griffo snorted. “Don’t be such a wuss. Besides, I can’t go on me own, I’ll look like a complete ‘Johnny No Mates’.” His tone of voice turned to wheedling. “Come on, you know you’ll love it when you’re there. A couple of cans of Red Bull and you’ll be partying all night; then you’ve got the weekend to get over it.”
Warren groaned inwardly. He knew that he wouldn’t get any peace until he agreed. It would be far better, he decided, to go to the party, wait until Griffo was otherwise engaged then sneak out. Assuming the party really was around the corner, he could be back home in bed within the hour.
Reluctantly agreeing, Warren followed Griffo over to meet the group. They were a little older than he’d first assumed, he realised — postgraduate students, rather than undergraduates. After making their introductions, the group decided to leave the pub immediately and head for a local off-licence that Griffo’s new friend — Katy — insisted would serve them after hours. Warren wondered idly if Griffo had mentioned their day jobs or if their new friends assumed that they were also students.
Fifteen minutes later, Warren found himself squashed into the corner of a student common room, clutching the two bottles of beer that he’d bought from the small corner store on their way over. Griffo had immediately disappeared with the generously proportioned Katy, leaving Warren to fend for himself. Now look who’s Johnny No Mates, he thought darkly.
It was then that Warren saw her. Standing in the corner, looking similarly awkward, she was the most beautiful girl in the room: average height, with gentle curves, long, dark hair and a snub nose. Something clicked in his head when he saw her. He just had to go and introduce himself. Or at least that was how Warren would tell the story in years to come; truth be told, after a few pints of lager and not enough sleep he couldn’t remember exactly how the two of them had ended up chatting. Neither could Susan; nevertheless they had ended up shouting at each other over the music, until Warren had suggested they move somewhere a bit quieter.
Out in the corridor, Susan soon learnt that Warren was not a new postgraduate student enjoying a fresher-week bash, but rather a gate-crasher, albeit a rather reluctant one. As was often the case, Warren observed, the moment he mentioned he was a police officer to a pretty and intelligent woman the interest in her eyes waned. The old prejudice that police officers were under-educated thugs still reared its ugly head from time to time. Nevertheless, Warren was determined not to let that get in the way and contrived to mention his first-class joint-honours degree in English and History and that he was on the fast-track promotion scheme at work.
With his academic credentials firmly established, he found that Susan was a bit more responsive and pretty soon they were engaged in a friendly debate about the merits of different crime authors, with Warren ranking them in terms of both literary style — as befitted an English graduate — and their accuracy — as befitted a detective. Susan ranked them in terms of how many hours’ sleep she was prepared to sacrifice trying to reach the end.
Finally, Warren mentioned that he had just finished reading Lee Child’s latest thriller and found to his delight that Susan was also a fan of the gigantic, taciturn hero Jack ‘None’ Reacher. Even better, she hadn’t read the latest novel yet. Without even thinking, Warren had found himself promising to lend her his copy of the book, if only she would meet him for coffee the next day. To his amazement she agreed.
A few days later when he recounted the tale to Griffo — whose luck had run out after the buxom Katy’s boyfriend had appeared unexpectedly — his friend’s response had been surprisingly negative.
“Never lend a bird a Lee Child novel until you’ve had at least three dates, otherwise you’ll never see that book again. Or her, for that matter. And especially don’t lend them a hardback — that’s just asking for trouble.” And that was all he had to say on the subject.
Remembering those early days made Warren long for simpler times. One thing was certain though, his priorities had to change, he decided. Time to remember the old adage, ‘Work to live; don’t live to work’.
With that thought echoing in his mind, he finally fell into a shallow, fitful sleep.
Tuesday
Chapter 25
Warren arrived at The Mount Prison on the outskirts of Bovingdon village a little after eleven-fifteen the following morning. Daniel Stock, Severino’s solicitor, was waiting in the car park for him. Warren apologised for his tardiness. “Sorry, I put the postcode into the sat nav and ended up at a bloody paintballing place down the road. Happens all the time apparently.”
Stock smiled, tightly. “I guess you must be new to the area. I’d have warned you if I’d known.”
Leaving the car park, the two men walked in silence to the gatehouse. No matter how many times Warren visited prisons, he never got used to them. The Mount was a category C prison built in the late 1980s on the site of a former RAF base. Despite its red-brick façade, which at first glance could have housed anything from a factory to an office complex, close inspection soon revealed its true purpose. Even in the warm summer sun, Warren felt a chill. He glanced over at his young companion and saw a similar look of discomfort on his face. This place housed misery; despondency hung thickly in the air.
Inside its walls seven hundred or more individuals wasted their lives, marking the passage of time in a frozen limbo whilst the world outside continued without them. Some might emerge better men, willing to seize the second — or third or fourth — chance that life had given them, but Warren knew the statistics as well as anyone. A hefty percentage would end up back here or in another, similar institution. Of those that remained outside, many would live unfulfilled lives, struggling to get a job and forever fighting against the demons that had led them down this path in the first place.
A few paces away a young mother with a hard face and blue tattoos up her skinny, bare arms dragged a scowling child in T-shirt and shorts behind her. The young boy’s face was a mirror image of his mother’s, a vicious crew cut adding to his thuggish look. Warren knew he shouldn’t judge by appearances, but he couldn’t help it. Deep in the recesses of his brain, in the part that harboured the thoughts that he could never express out loud, a little voice said, ‘She’ll be visiting him before long.’ Turning away, he buried the petty little thought as they approached the entrance.
The procedures at The Mount were largely the same as at any other category C prison that Warren had visited. His warrant card cut little ice here and he underwent much the same process as any other visitor. In deference to his position, Warren was spared an intimate body search, but he nevertheless had to empty his pockets, surrendering his wallet, keys and mobile phone. Stock fared little better, although his legally protected status as Severino’s lawyer meant that he was allowed to keep his briefcase and a small Dictaphone.
After the preliminaries were concluded, both men were led to a private interview room where Severino was seated, alone at a metal table. Because, in the jargon of the Home Office, he was a non-convicted prisoner, Severino wore his own clothes, albeit without any laces or a belt, lest he killed himself or someone else.
Severino looked even worse, if that was possible, than the last time Warre
n had seen him — in the dock as he was remanded in custody. His face was gaunt, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken. The thick stubble on his chin and jowls now covered the whole of his lower face. He slumped forward as if even his spine had been confiscated, staring at the table top listlessly. When Warren and Stock entered, though, he sat up straighter, making eye contact with both men.
He half rose as if to shake hands, before remembering where he was and instead remained in an awkward half-pose, gesturing to the two other chairs as if he were inviting dinner companions to make themselves comfortable.
“Thank you for coming, DCI Jones.”
Warren said nothing, merely nodding his greeting. Stock placed the Dictaphone on the table between the three men, quietly checking the levels. Warren and Severino eyed each other warily. Severino had asked Jones to visit him, a move which at first glance seemed to award Severino a degree of control over him when one considered the rules of this primal setting. However the prisoner’s precarious position instead meant the invitation was in fact Warren’s to turn down. Overall, Warren figured he had the upper hand. Ultimately, he had something that Severino had to respect — the power to decide if he would listen to his story, take it seriously and perhaps set the wheels in motion for his release. Warren was a long way from being convinced so far.
Daniel Stock cleared his throat, causing the two men to break eye contact finally.
“This is Daniel Stock representing Dr Antonio Severino. We have requested an interview with DCI Warren Jones at The Mount Prison, as we believe that Dr Severino may have new information pertinent to the current investigation, which we hope may lead to the release of Dr Severino on bail and ultimately, the dropping of charges.”