The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

“Maybe he wanted to find the body? He was covered in Tunbridge’s blood and the forensics do show some inconsistencies with the blood patterns and his claims that he found Tunbridge dead and for some reason checked his pulse in his throat,” Hastings suggested tentatively.

  Sutton was dismissive “The inconsistencies are weak and circumstantial. And what benefit was there in finding the body? The time between him leaving the PCR room and calling 999 isn’t enough for him to substantially alter the scene. Severino would be better off doing that.” He turned expectantly to Jones at the whiteboard, who was deep in thought.

  “If he was involved, then his motive would have to be more than revenge.” He pointed back to Crawley’s name with the question mark beside it. “If he was in a three-person conspiracy with Severino and Crawley then his motive could have been for Crawley to sign off on his PhD. If Crawley takes over Tunbridge’s group, then presumably he would also take over his responsibilities. From what Professor Tompkinson was saying, it was really only Tunbridge who was standing in the way of him submitting his PhD.

  “Crawley might be in a position to rehire Severino and ensure that Spencer gets his degree.” Warren thought a few seconds more. “No, I think that Spencer has to remain a possible.” And with that he drew a question mark next to the man’s name. Sutton grunted and crossed his arms, his scowl lending a silent voice to his disagreement.

  Ignoring him, Warren moved on. “That leaves Hemmingway.”

  “She’s got a solid alibi,” said Hastings.

  “That’s true,” allowed Jones, “but that doesn’t mean she couldn’t be involved. She certainly has a motive. Tunbridge treated her like trash — it could just be revenge, pure and simple. The question, though, is who was she working with? Severino? And what would her role be?”

  Karen shook her head, dubiously. “I don’t see it, sir. She had her affair with him back in November through until about March. Why would she suddenly, out of the blue, decide to murder him? And what does she gain? By all accounts, she is moving on with her life.”

  Warren nodded in agreement. “I see what you are saying, Karen. I don’t know what her motive would be, beyond revenge. And again, who would she be working with? Severino again? Why and how did they hook up? She only visited the lab a few times back in November when she was writing her essay. Her affair with Tunbridge lasted until March but they kept it under the radar. I doubt that she was turning up at the lab to share her sandwiches with him at lunchtime. Why would she suddenly hook up with Severino seven or eight months later to plot his murder?”

  Taking a deep breath, Warren put a question mark beside her name.

  Hastings raised a hand. “Um, guv, shouldn’t that be a cross?”

  “Maybe, maybe not. What if we are going about this the wrong way? What if Severino is right and he was set up?”

  “What?” The explosion predictably came from Sutton, his face reddening.

  Warren raised a calming hand. “Listen to me. What do we have on Severino?”

  Sutton answered immediately. “CCTV images, swipe-card logs, his clothes covered in Tunbridge’s blood, latex gloves, plastic overshoes and the blood-encrusted murder weapon stuffed down his drain. Not to mention, no alibi, a massive fucking motive and previous form.” He shook his head. “What else would you like? A confession signed in blood?”

  “Well, that would be nice,” snapped Warren, “but we aren’t going to get one of those.” He took a couple of calming breaths before continuing. He counted the points off on his fingers.

  “First, the CCTV images. None of them have a clear shot of the suspect’s face. We can match the clothes to Severino’s and the calculated height and build cannot exclude Severino but, it’s like his lawyer said, he’s right in the middle of the bell-curve. It would never stand up in court as a positive ID.

  “Second, the swipe-card logs only show that his card was used — it doesn’t prove that he used it. Third, we’ve established that they are his clothes, so the presence of his DNA is not unexpected. However, neither his DNA or fingerprints have been found on the gloves, the overshoes or the murder weapon. Furthermore, no traces of Tunbridge’s blood were found on his body.”

  Sutton interjected forcefully, “All that means is he watches CSI. The guy worked with DNA for a living — I’m sure he could figure out how to take off a pair of latex gloves without leaving his own trace evidence. He probably wore two pairs. And I’m sure he thought to shower after he got home.”

  Warren struggled to maintain his composure. “You know as well as I do how hard it is to remove traces of blood. And there was nothing in the plugholes of his sink or his bathtub. Besides which, you saw him when we arrested him. Did he look like he’d showered in the past forty-eight hours, let alone twelve?”

  Sutton was unwilling to concede the point. “That’s all conjecture. No jury would believe that.”

  Warren batted the point right back. “You forget, it’s not up to him to prove he didn’t do it, it’s up to us to prove that he did! Beyond reasonable doubt. And everything we have got can be explained away as circumstantial. And all the stuff about his previous form is inadmissible. The charges were dropped. It’s hearsay and nothing more. Plus, as you said yourself, everybody who ever met this bugger had a motive to kill him.”

  Sutton’s face didn’t change, Warren could see that he still had a long way to go to convince him. He decided to pull rank.

  “Regardless, Inspector, let’s look at some of the other problems. First of all, where does this mystery woman fit in? Who is she and did she steal Severino’s clothes and swipe card to help set him up?”

  Sutton snorted dismissively, but wisely decided to hold his peace. Jones ignored him and continued, “We know at least that this woman exists. Eyewitness accounts, plus CCTV, show that he was with a young blonde woman on the Friday night before Tunbridge’s murder. The question is, did she set him up?”

  The question lay heavy in the air. Nobody could think of a way to answer it.

  “Assuming that Severino was telling the truth, then we have her mobile-phone number. Karen, why don’t you bring everyone up to speed on what you found out?”

  Karen cleared her throat, glancing nervously at Sutton. The detective inspector’s brooding presence clearly bothered her, “The mobile-phone number that we believe belongs to this young woman is linked to an anonymous Pay-As-You-Go SIM card that we have yet to trace. We have the telephone handset’s unique IMEI code, but it is unregistered and we can’t link it to anyone.”

  Sutton rolled his eyes, but said nothing. Rather than being intimidated by this, Karen instead flushed slightly pink and shot a glare at him, her voice becoming stronger. “What we do know is that this SIM card only contacted Severino and three other anonymous SIM cards, all of which were activated at the same time. Furthermore, these anonymous SIM cards — sorry, unknown users — only phoned each other. On the night of Tunbridge’s murder, there was a lot of traffic between these phones, before and after the time of death.”

  Despite himself, Sutton started to look interested. “So where does Severino fit in?” he asked.

  “He doesn’t. Not unless he has a second phone with one of these anonymous SIM cards in it. His phone repeatedly called the young woman’s phone on the night of Tunbridge’s murder, the night that he claims she was supposed to be visiting him. She never picked up. If he did murder Tunbridge, then he kept on ringing this girl throughout the murder.”

  “Or somebody else used his phone to provide him with an alibi,” Sutton suggested, still unwilling to drop Severino.

  “A pretty weak alibi,” commented Hastings, earning a poisonous look from Sutton.

  “Either way,” interjected Jones, “it would seem that whoever this mysterious woman is, these phone records suggest that she is tied into a conspiracy with at least three other people. This little network of four people activated their SIM cards on the same date, and on the night of Tunbridge’s murder spoke exclusively to one another, before going silent a
gain. That is far too big a coincidence for me. We need to identify who these four people are. We may be able to charge them with conspiracy to murder at least.”

  Silence around the table again. Hastings finally spoke up. “I know it sounds daft, but the only blonde girl that answers the description of the mystery woman is Clara Hemmingway.” He pulled over one of the still images taken from Mr G’s nightclub security camera. The image was too blurry, however, to be any use. The picture could easily have been Hemmingway or one of a hundred other girls in Middlesbury town centre that night.

  “There’s no way to tell from that image, without it being enhanced—” Jones sighed “—but I can’t see how it would be possible. Hemmingway was taken on a guided tour of Tunbridge’s laboratory as part of the preparation for her essay, way back in November. Apparently it’s a big tradition at the university — the whole lab even goes out for lunch together. I don’t see how Severino couldn’t have recognised her when she turned up in the bar that night.”

  Silence fell again.

  “So where does that leave us, sir?” Sutton looked directly at Jones, the look in his eyes almost daring Jones to say what he knew was coming next. Jones locked eyes with him, briefly, before standing straight and addressing the whole table. His voice was steady.

  “We reopen the investigation and start over again. If Antonio Severino did commit this murder, he didn’t do so alone.”

  “I knew it,” snapped Tony Sutton.

  “Inspector…” warned Jones.

  “The moment his bloody mum came on TV complaining that her son couldn’t possibly have done it and that he’s so scared of prison he’d rather commit suicide…” Sutton stood up, unwilling or unable to finish his thought.

  “Sit back down, Inspector,” Jones ordered.

  Sutton ignored him. “Of course he tried to commit suicide. For once in his privileged life, he’s actually going to face the consequences of his actions. He fucked up. This isn’t Italy, where his family can just buy off whoever they need to. It’s England, where nobody gives a shit how much wine his family flogs. He’s going down and he knows it.”

  Jones turned to Hardwick and Hastings. “I think this meeting is over. DI Sutton and I need a private chat.” The two detective constables left the room as fast as possible, without so much as a backward glance.

  The door swung closed behind them. “Are you quite finished, Inspector?” demanded Jones, for the first time letting his anger show.

  Sutton ignored the warning signs. “No. We have a perfectly good suspect in custody, with the means, the motive and the opportunity. He has no alibi and the murder weapon was found in his possession. Why do you want to scupper that? We solved a high-profile murder in barely twenty-four hours and had the suspect charged, in front of a judge and remanded in custody in little more than forty-eight. Now, you want to tell everyone, ‘oops, maybe we were a bit hasty. Maybe we were wrong. He’s all upset and says he didn’t do it and his mum says he’s a good boy really’. We’ll be a fucking laughing stock!”

  Enough was enough, Warren decided. “If you have such a big problem with this case, then there’s the door. You can leave right now and I’ll get you reassigned to something else.”

  He stepped closer, deliberately invading Sutton’s personal space. “And another thing. Don’t you ever question my orders in such an insubordinate tone in front of junior officers again. I will have you put on report for the next six months if you ever behave like that again. You can consider this your first verbal warning. Do I make myself clear?”

  Sutton smouldered silently. Warren stared at him expectantly. After a few seconds, the older man looked down. “Yes, sir. Perfectly clear.”

  “Dismissed.”

  Sutton turned on his heel and marched out of the room. The moment the door slammed shut behind him, Warren sat down and let out a deep shuddering breath. His hands were shaking. What the hell had just happened? It was the first time in Warren’s career that he had ever had a stand-up row with a junior officer. He’d had plenty of disagreements; in fact he positively encouraged dissenting viewpoints. But Sutton was downright insubordinate.

  He thought back over the last hour, before casting his mind back even further. That Sutton had been less than enthused at his arrival at Middlesbury was no great secret, but so what? This was his first real command experience. Had he misinterpreted the signs? Should he have dealt with Sutton sooner? Did his habit of letting colleagues debate with him translate into a lack of respect?

  He was reminded of the battles Susan had fought with some of her classes when she first became a teacher. Like most teachers she had learnt the hard way that it was better to start the term too hard and then relax, than try to do it the other way around. He smiled humourlessly; maybe he should make Tony Sutton write lines in his lunch hour: ‘I shall not question the boss in front of junior officers’.

  The smile slipped. Just what was he going to do with Sutton? The fact was that he had to work with the man. Middlesbury CID was too small for him to simply kick him off the case and replace him with another detective inspector or detective sergeant. And what signal did it send out to those watching, both above and below him in the chain of command? It suggested that he couldn’t deal with junior officers effectively. What should be a punishment for Sutton’s insubordination would rebound on Warren as an indictment of his management skills.

  Sighing, Warren rubbed his eyes and straightened his tie, before walking out of the briefing room and into the main office. The room was buzzing quietly. The clicking of keys on keyboards, the murmur of voices on telephones and the quiet mutter of conversations mingled together in a familiar noise. Yet where the noise was normally comforting, today it felt strained. Walking steadily to his own office, Warren felt as if every pair of eyes in the room was surreptitiously watching him. Judging him. Was it just his imagination? He glanced over at Hastings and Hardwick, who studiously avoided his glance. Sutton was nowhere to be seen. Probably cooling off outside, Warren hoped. Closing the door behind him, he slumped into his chair, all of the energy drained from him.

  He closed his eyes briefly, marshalling the strength necessary to follow his own order and start over again. The phone rang. Caller ID showed it to be an internal call. Warren groaned; ignoring it wasn’t an option.

  “DCI Jones, my office, now.”

  Superintendent Grayson. Perfect.

  Chapter 35

  Warren had known that he would need to convince his superior officer of the need to reopen the case, but he had hoped for a few minutes’ respite after his bruising encounter with Sutton. It soon became apparent that Sutton had needed no such pause. It transpired that he had walked straight out of the meeting with Jones and into Grayson’s office. Warren felt a flash of anger with the realisation that when he’d thought Sutton was outside cooling his heels, he was in actual fact in Grayson’s office bad-mouthing his DCI.

  Grayson still wore his suit jacket, clearly having been button-holed by Sutton the moment he’d returned from his various meetings with the forces’s lawyers and press liaison officers. He sat back in his chair, his face a mask. His voice was cold and detached, probably not a good sign, thought Warren.

  “Warren, a couple of hours ago, we had a discussion in which I underlined the need for this investigation to be completed in a timely fashion and for us to make sure that we made our case against Severino water-tight.

  “I now find out, without any warning, that you have decided to reopen the investigation, essentially starting again from scratch. What next, Warren? Would you like us to release Antonio Severino, drop all charges and issue a public apology as well?” The sarcasm had a dangerous undercurrent that matched the glint in his eye. A small, compact man with greying hair, the superintendent nevertheless seemed to fill the office. Warren felt his temperature rise. He was stepping into politics now, he realised, an arena in which he had never felt entirely at home.

  “I think that new evidence suggests that Severino may not be our
man, or at the very least was not working alone,” Warren suggested, his voice firm and confident, belying his discomfort.

  “Well, let’s see what we have on Severino. CCTV images, logs from the university swipe-card system, a bag containing his clothes covered in Tunbridge’s blood, plus latex gloves, plastic overshoes and the murder weapon, also covered in his blood, stuffed down his drain. On top of that he has a huge motive, no alibi and it would seem previous charges, if not convictions, demonstrating a violent personality and an apparent belief that his family will come swooping in to clean up his mess. What the hell else do you need — a confession signed in blood?” Grayson’s voice dripped with sarcasm and Warren could see that he thought that Warren was wasting his time. His use of the last phrase convinced Warren beyond a doubt that Sutton had been in here poisoning the superintendent against him.

  Warren took a deep breath; he would deal with Sutton later. For the time being, he had to deal with Grayson. With as much patience as he could muster, he repeated everything that the team had just discussed, deconstructing the evidence against Severino point by-point. By the time he had finished, Grayson’s expression had changed from sceptical to thoughtful.

  The silence grew as the superintendent contemplated what Warren had told him.

  “I’m still not convinced that Severino is innocent, but you are right that there is more to this case than meets the eye. The official line of this department is that Antonio Severino killed Professor Alan Tunbridge as revenge for his poor treatment. We are now simply tying up loose ends. You can have a small team to do just that: a senior officer and a couple of detective constables to do the legwork.

  “Either this case is closed by Monday morning or you are standing in front of me justifying how you’ve fucked up and explaining why this town’s university’s reputation as a safe place to live and work is suddenly in the shitter. Do I make myself clear?”

  Warren fought back a half-dozen comments. He couldn’t believe the superintendent was turning this whole thing around and laying it on him. Nevertheless, he had a job to do. Not trusting himself to say any more, he merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”