The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

  Warren maintained his poker face, hiding his true feelings. In his experience, few of these visiting-hour meetings had ever yielded useful information. When a suspect had been remanded in custody, especially for a crime as serious as murder, his world came crashing down. All but the most hardened criminals would start wracking their brains for a means to clear their name, whether by truth or lies. Warren knew that the odds were good that this meeting would be no different.

  “Why don’t you explain to DCI Jones what you told me yesterday?” invited Stock.

  Severino leant forward, licking his lips nervously. Nevertheless, his voice was clear and strong and Warren got the impression that he had been planning what he wanted to say carefully. That in itself was not an indicator of guilt, Warren reminded himself. Severino might speak impeccable English, but it was still his second language. Furthermore, he had spent much of the past twenty-four hours waiting for this meeting. It was inevitable that he’d rehearse what he wanted to say.

  “I may be able to explain where the blood-stained clothes that you found stuffed down my drain have come from—”

  At this point his lawyer leant forward, interrupting. “It should be noted that it has not yet been determined that the clothes belonged to my client and he has not admitted to owning them or seeing them before.”

  Warren resisted the urge to roll his eyes; even Severino didn’t seem impressed by the interruption. If the clothes weren’t Severino’s then who the hell else in Middlesbury was wandering around wearing jeans from the Italian equivalent of Marks … Spencer and a hooded top from the University of Trieste with the name ‘Antonio’ stitched on the left of its chest? Regardless, a positive ID would come back pretty soon from Forensics, Warren was certain.

  “A few days ago, the Friday before Professor Tunbridge was murdered, I met a girl in a bar.” The Italian looked uncomfortable.

  “Go on.”

  “I had been drinking a lot and I was pretty drunk. Anyway, we got on very well and she came back to my house.”

  “Where was your fiancée at this time, Dr Severino?”

  He looked guilty and ashamed.

  “She is visiting her parents in Germany. Things have not been so good between us since I lose my job. She wanted to take a break. To ‘clear her head’ as you say.” Warren made a note to get this checked out, as much to check on the safety of his fiancée as anything else. The man had after all been charged with murder. Severino couldn’t remember her parents’ address off the top of his head, but pointed Warren to the address book on his mobile phone, which the police had confiscated when he was arrested.

  “So what happened next, Dr Severino?”

  “We had some more to drink. A lot more—” he looked embarrassed “—and we went to bed. I woke up the next morning feeling sick, and she was gone. She could have stolen my clothes and my swipe card then.”

  “I see. Were they missing?”

  Severino paused, then sighed, clearly not wanting to be caught out in a lie. “I don’t know. I never notice. I tend to wear whatever is on top of the pile of clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe. I haven’t seen my swipe card for long time. I assume it hanging on the back of the door with my coat, but it could have been gone for ages and I wouldn’t have noticed.”

  “So, what was her name? Had you met her before?”

  A slightly embarrassed shrug. “I’d never met her before that night, I’m pretty sure of that. Her name was Joanna, I think. She said to call her Jo.”

  “Can you describe her at all? Her appearance? How she sounded? Did she have an accent?”

  Severino shook his head slowly. “I was so drunk. She was blonde and pretty — I remember that from the bar. I don’t remember her being very tall or fat. She was…average, maybe in her twenties.”

  “How did she sound? Was she British or foreign?”

  “I am not so good with accents, you know. But I think she was English. Normal like they have around here, not weird like Georgies or Broomies I think you call them.”

  Warren ignored the slight. A Coventry native, to the uneducated he sometimes sounded like his Brummie cousins twenty miles down the road in Birmingham.

  “Are there any witnesses who can back up your story? Where did you go?”

  “No, I am sorry. I was on my own until this girl came over. I was in a small pub in town, the White Bear I think it was called. It was quiet. After a few more drinks we went to a club, Mr G’s in town, then we walked back to my house. I had wine and some weed.”

  Warren sighed. “You haven’t given us a lot to go on, Dr Severino. You go out to a bar, get drunk and stoned then claim a mystery woman seduces you and steals your clothes whilst you sleep. You can’t describe her, there are no witnesses and you don’t have any evidence. Is that about right?” He was starting to get annoyed. Yet another bloody time-waster.

  “I am sorry.” Severino looked crestfallen and Warren almost felt sorry for the young man. Almost, but not quite.

  “Tell DCI Jones about this Friday.”

  Severino perked up slightly. “I gave her my number in the pub, before we decided to go clubbing. She called me Tuesday night and asked if she could come over on Friday night.”

  Warren blinked. The girl, if she existed, could potentially supply Severino with an alibi. Why in God’s name was he only just mentioning this now? He put the question to the young researcher. Severino looked embarrassed. “She never came. I went out and bought some drinks and sorted out some weed from a friend. She said that she be over about eight p.m. When she didn’t turn up I phoned her, but it wasn’t answered. She didn’t have any voicemail. I text her, but she didn’t reply. I phone her a few more times but nothing. In the end I smoked the weed and I think I must have drunk all of the booze. I don’t remember anything until you woke me up banging on the door.”

  Warren mulled this over silently. If Severino was telling the truth — and he was far from convinced yet — then this mysterious girl could have set him up. Seducing him in the pub, stealing his clothes and swipe card, then later making sure that he was home alone without an alibi whilst the murder was committed. It seemed almost too far-fetched.

  “And you have no idea who this girl was? Can you think of any other details about her? What she was wearing maybe?”

  Severino screwed up his face in concentration. “I was so drunk… I think she might have been wearing jeans and a pink top. That’s all I can remember.”

  Suddenly, Warren had a thought. “If she phoned you Tuesday and you texted her Friday, then you must have her number.”

  Severino looked excited, then dismayed. “I never saved the number.” Then he perked up again, speaking at the same time as Warren and his lawyer. “The phone’s call log!”

  Forensics had seized Severino’s mobile phone and laptop computer when his house was searched. Warren made a note to have Welwyn prioritise their analysis; he also noted down the need for a warrant to look at Severino’s phone records.

  With nothing else forthcoming from the prisoner, Warren stood up to leave. As he did so Severino leapt to his feet, his expression desperate. Ignoring his solicitor’s repeated instructions to sit back down, he half lunged towards Warren, who backed up so fast he knocked his chair over.

  “Mr Jones, you must believe me. I did not kill Professor Tunbridge. I am innocent.” With Warren safely out of reach, he turned to his lawyer who still sat, his mouth open in surprise. He grabbed the young man’s wrist, pulling him closer. “Please, Mr Stock, you must get me out of here. I am innocent.” At the sound of raised voices, the guard, a large white man with a shaven head, entered the room, grabbing the thin Italian, pulling him backwards as he shouted for assistance. Stock tried to pull away, but Severino was stronger than he looked. Warren grabbed at the man’s hands, trying to prise his fingers from the terrified lawyer’s wrist. The door crashed open and two more guards raced in.

  Barely pausing to assess the situation, the newcomers waded in. The first guard rapped Severino smartly
on the forearm, breaking the man’s grip, whilst the second struck him twice on the back of the knees, causing them to buckle. Finally the three of them wrestled the now barely coherent Severino to the hard, concrete floor. With practised moves, the guards pulled Severino’s hands behind his back and secured them with plasti-cuffs. Face down now and breathing heavily, Severino had quietened to a whisper. “Please get me out, I didn’t kill him,” he repeated again and again.

  Warren took the shaken solicitor by the shoulders and led him out of the room. Unable to resist one last glance back, he looked at the accused prisoner, lying face down on the floor, sobbing. Twisting his head, Severino managed to look towards the departing men, locking tear-filled eyes with Warren. “Please,” he mouthed as the door clanged shut behind them.

  Shaken more than he would have thought possible, Warren nevertheless looked over to the solicitor. The young man was a ghastly shade of white, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He had clearly never experienced anything like that in his short career. Warren felt sorry for the poor lad.

  “Puked on and attacked by the same client within three days. I hope you charge extra for that type of treatment.”

  The white-faced brief looked at Warren for a few long seconds, before managing the barest of smiles. “No chance. God, I hate fucking legal aid cases.”

  Chapter 26

  After collecting his belongings and being let back out of the prison, Warren headed immediately back to the station. Ordinarily, Warren experienced a sensation of relief as he drove away from a prison visit. The feeling usually gained in intensity as he put more miles between himself and those places of misery.

  Today was different somehow. Warren didn’t feel his usual cynical annoyance. Naturally the prisoner had professed his innocence — rarely if ever did they call you in to confess — so that didn’t bother him. Even the tears hadn’t fazed him or the violent end to the meeting. He’d experienced them all before. It was the eyes, he decided. The raw terror and pleading had left him feeling more shaken than he’d been willing to show in front of Stock or the prison staff.

  Stopping by Sutton’s desk, he filled the detective inspector in on the interview. Sutton had been unimpressed the previous evening when Warren had received the phone call, describing the visit as a waste of time. Today, he went further, his rudeness bordering on the insubordinate.

  “Of course he claims he didn’t do it. And this mysterious bird who’s supposed to have seduced him then stolen his clothes and his swipe card, who he conveniently can’t describe, frankly I’m disappointed that’s the best he was able to come up with after spending twenty-four hours cooling his heels at Her Majesty and the tax-payers’ pleasure.”

  Warren briefly considered hauling Sutton into his office for a tongue-lashing about his attitude, but he decided to choose his battles. Nevertheless, he was unwilling to let Sutton have it all his own way.

  “Well, whilst I’m out checking Severino’s story, you can keep yourself busy tracking down his missing fiancée. He claims that she returned home to her parents in Germany a few weeks ago. See if you can speak to her. She’s been here for several years, so she should speak English.” He handed over the details that he had taken from Severino’s lawyer. “I’d also like you to speak to the Italian police and see if they have had any previous contact with him. Check with International Liaison about what warrants might be needed and who is the best person to contact.”

  Sutton didn’t even try to hide his groan. Trying to get information from one EU country was hassle enough. Dealing with two countries promised to be a nightmare. Warren successfully hid his smile until he had his back turned.

  Before he wasted any time tracking down a mystery woman that might not even exist, Warren phoned Welwyn’s IT department. As a matter of routine, they’d requested Severino’s phone records when they had arrested him on Saturday. The delay caused by the weekend meant that they had yet to appear from the phone company. Warren had seen no point at the time in asking for a rush job, since they hadn’t seemed important. Now he wished he had.

  According to the helpful civilian worker at the end of the line, the phone provider had promised the records would be with Warren by late afternoon. Unwilling to wait that long, Warren asked to be reconnected to the evidence room.

  After identifying himself to the officer in charge and giving the case number, he asked for Severino’s mobile phone to be pulled out. His next request was met with some incredulity.

  “You want me to do what?”

  “I just need you to power it up, enter his recent calls list and tell me any numbers that he called Friday night.”

  “Are you taking the piss? Is this a wind-up? I’m fifty-three years old — I still miss using a bloody dial. I can barely send a text message.”

  Warren closed his eyes briefly. “No, Sergeant, I’m serious. I need those numbers and don’t have time for the hour-long round trip down to Welwyn to pick up the phone and do it myself. Is there somebody…” he almost said ‘younger’ but bit his tongue at the last second “… more used to mobile phones that could perhaps try for me?”

  Warren chose to ignore the mumbled profanities and references to ‘the Carphone Fucking Warehouse’, as the grumpy, veteran police officer stamped off down the corridor in search of a member of the mobile generation.

  A few moments later a flustered constable who sounded as if his voice had barely broken came on the line. Warren explained what he wanted him to do. Fortunately, the phone had enough battery-life left to fulfil this simple task — Warren could only imagine the response he’d have received if he’d asked them to track down a charger as well.

  The phone’s log confirmed an incoming call lasting less than three minutes from another mobile phone on Tuesday evening and then showed several outgoing calls to the same number on the Friday evening, none of which were answered. It seemed that Severino’s story was at least partially true. With that accomplished, he next got the officer to look up Severino’s fiancée’s and parents’ numbers and address for Sutton.

  Finishing his call, Warren returned to the main office. Sutton was away from his desk, so Warren left the numbers and addresses on a Post-it note stuck to the screen of his computer.

  Calling over Gary Hastings and Karen Hardwick, he filled the two young constables in on his morning. He handed over the number that Severino claimed belonged to his mysterious liaison.

  “Have either of you ever requested telephone records before?”

  Hardwick shook her head immediately. It wasn’t that surprising given that she had only just joined CID. Hastings had assisted in drafting a warrant a couple of times. Warren reminded them how under the Regulation of Investigationary Powers Act, police had to fill in a special warrant for every phone, computer or similar device that they wanted information on. Each device was dealt with separately and a justification given each time. The amount of information they could request varied, from a simple enquiry about a phone’s ownership, to a list of calls made and or received; a track of the phone’s historic movements, using either GPS or cell tower triangulation; a track of its current whereabouts; or in the rarest of cases an interception of calls, text messages, instant messages, emails or anything else that could be thought of.

  Warren asked Hastings to show Hardwick how to draft a request for the ownership details and the previous twelve-months’ usage records for the number found on Severino’s phone. He had a feeling that RIPA was going to be an increasing part of a police officer’s day-to-day governance and he wanted all of his officers trained in its use. When they had completed the request, he told them they were to show it to DS Kent, who was an expert at finessing such requests to get what information they needed.

  Before leaving the office, Warren did a quick Internet search and located the pub and club that Severino claimed to have been drinking in. Both were in the town centre, within easy staggering distance of each other and Severino’s house. Grabbing his car keys, he decided to target the White Bear first
, before retracing the couple’s steps to Mr G’s nightclub.

  Situated at the north end of the town centre, the pub had a large plastic polar bear sitting above the porch-style entrance. Surrounded by neon lights, it might look enticing and exciting in the dark, after a few beers and if small market towns in north Hertfordshire were your sole experience of big city night-life. At one forty-five on a Tuesday afternoon it just seemed seedy to Warren, who was used to the somewhat more glamorous drinking establishments on offer in Birmingham or London. The fact that the once-white polar bear was largely covered by the green mould that covered white plastic garden furniture if it was left outside too long further dispelled the illusion.

  The sturdy front door was locked, but inside Warren could hear the sound of a vacuum cleaner. Peering through the window into the gloom beyond, he could make out someone behind the bar doing something with the till. Next to the door was a doorbell. Warren pressed it.

  “Deliveries round the back!” a voice shouted over the din of the vacuum cleaner.

  “I’m not delivering…” started Warren before being interrupted.

  “Then come back in fifteen minutes. We ain’t reopened yet.”

  “It’s the police. Could you open the door please, Mr…Stribling?” Warren took a guess that the person most likely to be opening the till early afternoon on a weekday would be the landlord, whose name was listed on the licence above the door.

  “Oh, bollocks. What now?” Warren watched through the window as the landlord made his way to the door. It took almost a minute for him to open it, turning three different keys and sliding across two different bolts. The man was short and portly with dirty-grey hair slicked down with gel. A scraggly moustache clung to his top lip, its colour a mixture of white, grey and nicotine yellow. He had one of those smoker’s faces that could be anywhere between forty-five and sixty-five.