The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

  The club had a number of different cameras, including wide-angled cameras above both bars and the beer garden, the front door and the staff-only areas. The footage Warren was most interested in was that from the camera mounted over the main door.

  Severino had been vague as to what time he and the mysterious young woman arrived at the club, but Warren doubted it could have been earlier than about ten p.m. The digital video footage was surprisingly easy to manipulate and, after a few moments of tutorial, Baker left Warren to get on with watching the video. He soon got into the rhythm of fast-forwarding the video at eight-times normal speed, then hitting the slow button as customers came through the door to get a good look at them. After a few false starts, Warren finally got what he was looking for. According to the time stamp on the bottom of the screen, Severino appeared, mystery woman in tow, at eleven fifty-two p.m. The camera showed a clear black and white image of Severino’s darkly handsome features. Even on the slowed-down video feed it was clear that Severino was very drunk; it took him a couple of attempts to get his wallet out of his pocket and he swayed as he did so.

  Unfortunately, the young woman was hanging off his arm, her face half turned towards him as he fumbled in his pocket for the entrance money. Warren slowed the video down again and replayed it, hissing in frustration. At no point did the young woman look at the camera directly. The best that Warren could make out was that she was of average size, wearing a light, probably pink top. Her hair was cut to a medium length and appeared blonde on the black and white image.

  Seeing that Warren had hit a brick wall, Baker returned to his side.

  “You are welcome to look at the footage from the other cameras and see if she looks towards the camera. If she got served, we probably have a good shot, but it was a busy night and you could spend a lot of time finding the image.”

  Warren nodded his agreement. It was frustrating, however; he was now convinced at least that Severino had met some mysterious woman in a bar. But it still left many unanswered questions: did this woman go back to Severino’s and take his swipe card and clothes? And if that was the case, who was she?

  Chapter 28

  After taking a copy of the footage that Baker had given him from the nightclub’s video feeds, Warren headed back to the station. He popped the USB memory stick containing the video footage into a Jiffy bag, addressed it to the Image Analysis department and slipped it into the internal mail. Then, to ensure that it didn’t go missing, he logged the request into the computer system and emailed the department to be on the lookout for its arrival.

  Warren spent the remainder of the afternoon shuffling paper, before deciding that, in view of the hours he’d already put in over the weekend, leaving work at a decent-ish hour wouldn’t be unreasonable. It would certainly stand him in good-stead with Susan and the in-laws. Nevertheless, before going home, Warren decided to try his luck with some more of Tunbridge’s acquaintances.

  Using the directions given by Annabel Tunbridge, Jones pulled into the car park at the Middlesbury Sports Centre. Getting out of the car, he locked up and looked around. Straight ahead of him was a wide-open cricket pitch. A half-dozen teenage boys dressed in shorts and T-shirts were playing catch with a cricket ball under the watchful eye of a middle-aged man. Two more sat on the ground tying on pads. The fresh scent of newly mown grass hung in the still air. To the right, a small pavilion with a canvas awning was home to a dozen or so folded plastic chairs and a handful of circular metal tables. Behind, a long, flat-roofed single-storey brick building bore the signs ‘Changing Rooms’ and ‘Clubhouse’. A large pair of padlocked double doors was flanked by a handful of metal beer barrels, presumably empty, awaiting pickup by the brewery.

  To the left of the cricket pitch another clubhouse, this one wooden and in need of a lick of paint, sat looking over a large square of tightly mown grass. On the grass seven or eight older men were playing bowls. The green was slightly sunken, surrounded by a gravel ditch with lane markers planted in it. Making his way across the car park to the bowls club, Warren stepped onto the concrete verge surrounding the grass. To his right a robust man, anywhere between the ages of fifty-five and seventy-five, was watching a pair of bowlers intently.

  “Excuse me, sir, I’m looking for the club captain.”

  Tearing his eyes away from the game, the man gave him a quick once-over.

  “You’re speaking to him. Graham Weatherby. I take it you’re here about Alan Tunbridge.” It was a statement, not a question.

  Jones raised an eyebrow quizzically.

  “You’re hardly dressed to play a game and after thirty years on the force, I’d recognise CID a mile off. We’ve all heard about Alan, of course. Terrible business.”

  Jones found the man’s upfront manner refreshing, “DCI Warren Jones. I wondered if I might have a word, sir.”

  “Of course, although I’m not sure about a detective chief inspector calling a lowly sergeant like me ‘sir’”. The man gave a grin and stuck out a dry, weathered paw for Jones to shake. He motioned towards a park bench next to the clubhouse.

  “You’ll be after background, I suppose. Tying up those annoying loose ends after that remarkably quick arrest?”

  “Pretty much,” admitted Jones. “We’re still dotting the Is and crossing the Ts on the prosecution case. The suspect in custody isn’t admitting anything, so we’re doing all the legwork.”

  The former policeman snorted. “I’ve been there, lad. What would you like to know?”

  “Well, first of all, how well did you know Professor Tunbridge? What sort of a man was he?”

  Weatherby thought for a moment. “Alan started playing here six, seven years ago. Not a bad player. He’d join us for a roll-up most Tuesday nights and played a few matches for us on a Saturday.”

  Jones raised an eyebrow in surprise and Weatherby chuckled. “Bowling slang, a roll-up’s what we call a practice session. He had the makings of a good player, although he was a busy man and couldn’t really commit to all the fixtures. We try to get younger players in, but there’s no getting round the fact that most of us are retired and can play pretty much whenever we’re needed.” As if to emphasise his point he gestured at the players, all of whom were free early on a weekday evening. “To be honest, we’re more of a social club than anything. All the decent players go off to join the Avenue. We just enjoy ourselves.”

  “I see. How well did you know him?”

  “Not as well as I know some of the blokes. He didn’t come to many away fixtures, so we didn’t spend a lot of time chatting on the bus. All I really knew was that he was some sort of scientist at the university. Had no idea he was a professor until I saw the paper yesterday. He was polite enough most of the time, followed the etiquette, like, and bought his opponent a drink, but as soon as he’d finished it he’d usually disappear off. Most of the lads here are working class, builders, brickies, a couple of ex-coppers. We didn’t really have that much in common.”

  “Would you say he was well liked?”

  Weatherby sighed, clearly unwilling to speak ill of the dead. “To be honest, not really. He didn’t have much of a sense of humour and could be a bit rude on the green. I had to have words with him last season about his attitude. He didn’t suffer fools gladly and was rather arrogant.” He nodded in the direction of a stooped, elderly man with a walking stick talking to another player. “That’s Ernie over there. The old boy’s eighty-seven years old and, to be honest, his best days are well behind him. He’s as deaf as a post and half blind. He struggles to get it up some evenings — that’s more bowls terminology, before you ask, means he can’t always get the bowl far enough up the rink — but he’s been a member of this club for forty years. Until he had his hips done he mowed the lawn twice a week and was always first in line to do any repairs to the clubhouse. Ever since his old lady passed away a couple of years ago, we’ve made sure we look after him. Drag him out of an evening to stop him getting lonely, that sort of thing.

  “Anyway, unle
ss it’s an important match we select our teams by lottery and Alan was drawn with Ernie, Fred and Ronnie in the fours. They drew straws and Ernie ended up as Skip, which means he was always the last on the team to play each end. Anyhow, Alan was third to play and placed a lovely shot right on the jack. Unfortunately, Ernie came in a bit heavy and knocked Alan into the gutter and gifted three shots to their opponents. Well, the language he used just wasn’t on. I was a copper for thirty years and I can swear with the best of them, but he shocked me. Poor old Ernie might not have heard all of it, but he got the bloody gist. Fred and Ronnie nearly threw in the towel, they were so disgusted. God only knows what our guests thought. I’m just glad that none of the ladies were in earshot.”

  So it seemed that Tunbridge was as belligerent in his private life as he was in his professional life, mused Warren.

  “Based on what you know about Professor Tunbridge, could he have upset anyone enough to have made them want to kill him?”

  Weatherby snorted. “Well, nobody here takes things that seriously — a handshake and a pint will usually smooth over most disagreements. But I’ll tell you one thing — that man had a nasty streak to him. I can see him upsetting someone enough for them to have a pop at him. And he was a randy old bugger, made a right nuisance of himself in the clubhouse with the barmaids. Landlord had to have words with him. Makes you wonder if there are any jealous husbands out there.”

  He looked Jones up and down shrewdly.

  “Of course, you already have your man in custody. Not having second thoughts, are you? Between you and me, I’ve seen a few convictions over the years that I’ve had my doubts about. None of them have ever succeeded on appeal and, on balance, I reckon we got the right man, but take a little bit of advice from someone who’s been there. Follow your gut. If it’s telling you something ain’t quite right, it’s probably worth checking. Don’t take someone else’s word for it — make certain in your own mind. It’s you who has to sleep at night.”

  Jones nodded thoughtfully. The old copper spoke a lot of sense. In the meantime, he decided that there was nothing else to be gained by staying here any longer. Standing up, he stuck his hand out again.

  “Good to speak to you, Sergeant.”

  “And you too, Detective Chief Inspector. Any time you fancy a roll-up, we’re always on the lookout for young blood and I’d love to hear the full story when it’s all wrapped up.”

  Warren smiled. He had to confess to being just a little tempted. The gentle clack of the bowls against each other seemed light years away from the pressures of work. And since moving to Middlesbury, he and Susan had yet to make many friends outside work. Who said he had to retire first?

  Saying goodbye, he headed off towards his car.

  “Oh, DCI Jones, just a quick question.” It was Weatherby again. “I was wondering, do you think it would be appropriate for us to send flowers to Mrs Tunbridge, or do you think we’d be better off sending them to his kids?”

  Jones blinked in surprise. “I don’t see why not. Why wouldn’t Mrs Tunbridge want them? It would be a very thoughtful gesture.”

  “Well, what with all the trouble they’ve been having, I didn’t want to upset anybody.”

  Jones’ mouth ran dry. “What trouble would that be?”

  “Oh, I assumed you’d know — he was quite open about it. He’d just left her.”

  * * *

  Arriving home that night, Warren found a somewhat warmer atmosphere than he had been greeted with the previous evening. Instead of reheated leftovers, he found that the others had waited for him to return and they all sat down to a pleasant meal of risotto, washed down by a couple of glasses of a light white wine.

  This time, Susan had been to the hardware store during the day but had insisted on returning with nothing more than a dozen sampler paint tins. Whilst Bernice and Dennis sat in the living room, Warren and Susan daubed the different-coloured paints on the kitchen walls, before both deciding on a pale cream scheme that would contrast nicely with the darker wooden kitchen units due to be delivered later in the week.

  This time, the young couple had retired to bed early and Susan, always the first to fall asleep, had nodded off with a happy smile on her face. Warren for his part lay awake for a few minutes, enjoying the sound of his wife’s relaxed, peaceful breathing.

  Soon, however, his thoughts turned to the day’s events. It had been a long busy day, with lots of twists and turns. Deep within his gut, Warren felt the doubts rolling around, almost like a stomach ache. The wise words of the retired detective sergeant that he’d met at Tunbridge’s bowls club echoed in his mind: “Follow your gut. If it’s telling you something ain’t quite right, it’s probably worth checking. Don’t take someone else’s word for it — make certain in your own mind. It’s you who has to sleep at night.”

  His gut certainly was telling him something. What was the significance of the mystery woman who had seduced Severino the week before the murder? Who was the mysterious John Priest? And was Severino working alone or was he just one member of a conspiracy? These questions churned around in Warren’s head, keeping his exhausted mind from closing down. Finally, some time after the digital display on the alarm clock changed to three a.m, he finally started that slow, delicious descent towards darkness.

  As the world finally slipped away, though, the last conscious image that flitted through his mind was that of the desperate Antonio Severino, tears coursing down his cheeks as the prison guards restrained him.

  Wednesday

  Chapter 29

  Wednesday morning arrived all too soon, the alarm clock pulling Warren from a fitful sleep far too early. A muffled curse from Susan’s direction reminded him that if it weren’t for the presence of the in-laws he would probably have been banished to the spare room long ago. After all, it was the school holidays and no way was Susan getting up at the same time as she would during term-time.

  Barely an hour later, Jones sat in his office planning his itinerary for the morning briefing, a steaming cup of coffee by his elbow. A sudden knock on the door startled him from his reverie. Sutton stood outside, his face red with excitement. “Sorry, guv, but we’ve just had a call from The Mount. Severino’s tried to kill himself.”

  * * *

  It took the better part of an hour for Warren to finally speak to The Mount’s governor, who was clearly in damage-limitation mode and reluctant to give out any details that might get into the media and prejudice the inquiry now under way. Eventually, after Warren promised to keep everything off the record and away from the press, the harried official relented, and furnished Jones with the details that he had available.

  After Jones’ visit the previous day, Severino had been returned to his cell. He’d been looked over by the prison doctor and moved to the suicide wing as a precaution until he calmed down. After a restless night, he’d finally settled down and was believed to be asleep until early morning when the prisoner in the adjacent cell had alerted the guards to strange noises coming from his neighbour.

  Guards had entered to find Severino unconscious, with a makeshift noose around his neck. After promptly administering CPR, they had transferred him by emergency ambulance to the nearby A and E, by which time he had regained consciousness. He was expected to remain overnight for observation, but should make a full recovery. The governor sounded relieved at that fact, but Warren could tell he was still worried — and understandably so. Prisoners should not be able to attempt suicide in a well-run prison, least of all prisoners on suicide watch. Reading between the lines, Warren surmised that if the prisoner next door hadn’t raised the alarm Severino might well have succeeded in killing himself before the guards did their next check.

  How did he manage it? he wondered. Prisoners weren’t allowed belts or shoelaces, to prevent just this type of thing occurring. Furthermore, prison cells were designed so that prisoners couldn’t hang themselves. There was nowhere high enough for them to loop the noose and drop. The governor was cagey at first, but after re
assurances again that nothing would be leaked to the media before the prison’s official statement and the results of their inquiry he had admitted that Severino had wrapped his jeans around his neck, then around the frame of the bunk-bed — and simply fallen backwards.

  Whether Severino had known that there was no way to achieve a hangman’s drop in such a short distance and so throttling was the only way to cause death was not yet known: he wasn’t ready to be interviewed just yet. Nevertheless, the technique appeared reasonably effective. The governor had a note of grudging admiration in his voice as he noted that very few people had the strength of will to throttle themselves to unconsciousness. Their survival instinct almost always kicked in and saved them. It appeared that Severino had managed to override this instinct until it was almost too late, although the prisoner who raised the alarm said that he was alerted by thrashing noises, so it seemed that he had saved himself in the end.

  Nevertheless it had been a close call. Thanking the governor and once again promising not to say anything to the media, Warren hung up. Staring at the wall, he thought back to the meeting the day before. A cold chill ran through his body, before settling in the pit of his stomach as he remembered his last look at Severino. Warren knew that the look of terror on the man’s face would stay with him for a long time.

  * * *

  The unpleasantness of the conversation with the governor of The Mount weighed heavily on Warren’s mind and he was therefore glad when Karen Hardwick knocked on his office door a few minutes after he hung up.

  “Guv, I’ve just got back the information on the mobile phone that the mystery woman used to contact Severino, but it doesn’t look as if it will be much use.” Karen Hardwick tried to keep the disappointment out of her voice as she handed the email that she’d just printed over to Jones.