The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

  Sutton grunted non-committally.

  “Second, as Officer in Charge of the Tunbridge murder, it is my duty to uncover the truth, no matter what that may be. I don’t give a shit how that plays in terms of your personal agenda, DI Sutton. Let me make one thing absolutely crystal — try and circumvent me again by going behind my back and I will kick you off my team and put you in charge of domestic violence. Believe me, I can play as dirty as anyone when I need to.”

  Sutton said nothing, but was unable to conceal a wince at the threat of reassignment. Domestic violence was an important and vital part of modern policing, but the cases were messy, frustrating and often unsatisfying. It took a special kind of person to do the job and Warren had read Sutton like a book — both of them knew that he wasn’t that kind of person.

  “Finally, you told me that you are a copper’s copper. Well, if that is the case put aside the political bullshit and look at this case as a bloody professional. You worry that if we reopen this case and admit we arrested the wrong person we’ll look like fools. Well, think what we’ll look like if it gets to court and it’s shown that we had the wrong man! You don’t have to believe that Severino’s innocent, but you have to admit that there is mounting evidence that at the very least he had an accomplice.”

  Sutton shrugged, still seemingly unswayed.

  “Look at it this way, even if he is the killer and acted alone, the case against him as it stands is flawed. If I can see the holes, then so can his defence team. If Severino walks because we put forward a weak case then Middlesbury CID will be closed overnight — and you know what? I’ll be the one closing it.”

  His piece said, Warren drained the last of his beer and sat back. Sutton stared moodily into space. After a moment’s thought, Warren gestured to the barman again. Sutton said nothing as another foaming pint was placed in front of him. Warren glanced at his wallet. He had no more cash — if Sutton didn’t start contributing soon, Warren would have to find a cashpoint.

  “I’m off for a piss,” growled Sutton, lurching to his feet. Warren noticed that he wobbled slightly as he headed toward the gents’ toilets. Glancing at his watch, Warren saw that it was almost five-thirty; soon the pub would start filling up with office workers. He’d also better phone Susan; he had a feeling that he had a lot more work to do with Sutton. Dialling her number, he refrained from opening the conversation with his customary, “Hello, darling,” in case Beatrice answered again.

  By the end of the conversation, he almost wished that his mother-in-law had answered. Susan had been extremely displeased when he explained that he was working late, not least because he slurred his speech slightly and was forced to admit that he was working in the pub. That ended the conversation rather abruptly.

  Sutton still hadn’t returned from the toilet, so Warren decided to make use of the cashpoint he’d spied next to the bar. Drawing out fifty pounds, he was not impressed to be charged a further two pounds for the privilege of accessing his own money. A further couple of pounds were exchanged for a random selection of bar snacks, the closest thing Warren had had approaching a meal since breakfast. Retaking his seat, he knocked the table with his knee, slopping beer over the dark wooden surface. Steady on, he admonished himself, time to start slowing down. If he drank much more, he would risk his professional standing.

  Finally, Sutton reappeared.

  “OK, I still think Severino did it, but let’s see if he had an accomplice,” he started without preamble. “Who could it have been and did they commit the murder with him, or were they just accessories?”

  Good, thought Warren. If not a victory, then at least some progress.

  “Let’s look at the second question first and go back to motives.” Warren held his hand out and started ticking things off on his fingers.

  “First, Spencer. Tunbridge treated him like shit and may well have screwed his career — he has as good a motive as Severino, I would say.”

  “But his alibi is tight. He was locked in that PRC room or whatever the damn thing’s called.”

  “I agree. He looks safe for now. If he was involved it was just during the planning — he may have told Severino when Tunbridge was alone and vulnerable. We could do with a look at his phone, but we’d need a warrant and we haven’t got probable cause. OK, let’s stick him on the possible list. Actually, have you got any paper?”

  Sutton pulled out his notebook. “No, that’s too small. Have you got any A4 paper?”

  Sutton looked at him incredulously. “Do I look like a branch of bloody WHSmiths?” He started patting his pockets. “Hang on a minute, I’m sure I had a ream of photocopy paper here somewhere.”

  Despite himself, Warren started to laugh. Sutton’s scowl turned into a grin. “Maybe the barman has some.” He scrambled to his feet and wound his way to the bar. Gaining the man’s attention, he asked for a few sheets of A4 paper and a couple of coloured pens. The barman’s response was much the same as Sutton’s had been to Warren a few moments before. Reaching into his wallet, Sutton pulled out his warrant card. “Detective Inspector Sutton, Middlesbury CID.” He made a show of sniffing the air, before looking at the two old men with their tobacco and rolling papers. “Smells a bit smoky in here. You wouldn’t be letting punters smoke in here, would you? That’s against the law now, you know — hefty fine.”

  The barman rolled his eyes in disbelief. “Oh, for fuck’s sake…wait here.” He disappeared through the kitchen doors, presumably heading towards an office. A few moments later he returned with a dozen sheets of laser-printer paper and some black and red ballpoint pens.

  As Sutton returned to his seat Warren smirked, pleased to see that he wasn’t the only one to use that little trick to ensure co-operation. “Community policing at its finest, DI Sutton.”

  For his part Sutton shrugged. “I think we’ll have to move on for the next one — we may have overstayed our welcome.”

  Returning to the matter in hand, Warren spread the paper out on the table, careful to avoid the spilt beer. He jotted down their notes about Spencer.

  “Moving on, who’s next? What about the wife?”

  Sutton nodded. “She’s just found out that he wants a divorce and she knows that he stands to make a load of money if his company takes off. But what does she gain by killing him now?”

  “He has life insurance and she’ll be entitled to his pension. We should check and see how much that’s worth. However, we know that she was at a restaurant that night, so she might be an accessory but wasn’t the killer.”

  “In which case, what could she offer Severino? Half the life insurance money — a cut of the pension?”

  “Hmm, when you put it like that, it doesn’t seem worth it for either of them — stick her on the unlikely list, I reckon. Same would go for his kids.”

  Warren ticked off another finger. “Crawley. Again, his alibi’s sound. The question is, what does he have to gain? He told us that he isn’t in a position to take over the lab and that he’s too expensive to find other employment. On the face of it, he’s the last person who would want to kill Tunbridge at the moment.”

  “Strike him off, then.” Sutton reached for the pen but Warren shook his head. “So far we only have his word for it that he wouldn’t want to run the lab, but we know that he is financially under pressure. And if Tunbridge’s research has been stolen, there can’t be many who would be in a better position to exploit it.”

  “It would be a bit suspicious, though, don’t you think? Tunbridge is murdered and two years later his former experimental officer is making millions out of his research.”

  Warren shrugged. “I don’t know. I have no idea if that would be suspicious or not. Tompkinson implied that it was a hot topic of research — surely that means that there must be others capable of one day catching up? In that case, it might not be a surprise at all if he’s the one to do so. Leave him on the maybe list and make a note to do some more digging around his private life. I’ll have a word with Tompkinson about what will happe
n to Tunbridge’s research group and research, now he’s gone.”

  “Speaking of Tompkinson…”

  Warren shook his head. “I don’t see it. He has some motive, I grant you, but if what he says is true he isn’t in any state to benefit from Tunbridge’s death. We need to confirm everything he says about his health and double-check his alibi, but it’s a hell of a stretch.

  “Next up, Hemmingway.”

  “Now, of all of the suspects so far, I could see her being one. She’s a hard-nosed bitch, mark my words.”

  Warren blinked in surprise. “I didn’t have her down as particularly likely.”

  Sutton leant forward, his former reluctance apparently gone now as he became involved in the intellectual challenge.

  “Well, think about it. She has a hell of a motive — Tunbridge was an absolute bastard to her. Trust me, people have killed for less.”

  “Maybe so, but she didn’t kill him. She has a strong alibi for the night in question, so she could only have been an accessory. In which case we’re back to who else benefits? And how likely is it that she and Severino decided to team up and get revenge on the man that ruined their lives? I can see them both being happy that he’s gone, but I can’t see any prior link. Did they really get to know each other so well during her handful of visits to the lab to discuss her essay that they would later get together to kill him? And I can’t see any possible financial motive.”

  Sutton looked thoughtful. “Well, if Severino is to be believed, a young woman who could certainly match Hemmingway’s description set him up by stealing his swipe card and some of his clothes.”

  Warren shook his head in frustration. “But that wouldn’t make any sense. Surely Severino wouldn’t have brought up Hemmingway if they were in partnership — or if he was confessing and seeking to spread the blame, he would have named her outright. However, if he is telling the truth and this mysterious blonde woman did seduce him in the bar, then wouldn’t he have recognised her? They had sex. This isn’t Hollywood — she can’t have disguised herself that effectively.”

  Sutton looked dissatisfied, clearly unwilling to dismiss her entirely. “We should probe a bit more. Something smells about that girl and I ain’t talking about her cheap perfume.”

  Warren shrugged. “Fine, keep her on the further investigation list. We should at least put her photo around, see if anybody recognises her and have her back in for a follow-up interview.

  “Now we get into the realms of the unknown. Who is this mysterious John Priest that has been contacting Tunbridge and why did his website disappear so suddenly?”

  “That’s a weird one, I grant you. And it could explain how the killer knew that Tunbridge would be in his office that night. The question again is, who did the killing?”

  “IT support are trying to track down the owner of the website and who this person is. It would help if we had access to Tunbridge’s diary. I bet he’s recorded details of any conversations that he’s had with this person. And who downloaded his data the night he was killed? Presumably that was his killer — why? I guess they intend to use it, but how?”

  “You know, it does add a whole different complexion to this case,” Sutton suggested thoughtfully. “Severino could have been a hired gun. He could have been employed by some commercial rival to bump off Tunbridge and steal his data.”

  “If that was the case, it was pretty bloody amateurish. Surely, the last thing they’d want is for him to be caught so easily — there’s no guarantee he won’t talk and lead us right back to them.”

  “True.”

  The two men lapsed into thoughtful silence.

  “Of course, this all assumes that Severino did the killing and was he alone?”

  Sutton sighed. “Look, guv, realistically who else could it have been? Severino was present — who else could he have met up with? Spencer was locked in that little room and the only other person in the building was Tunbridge. The only thing that makes sense is that Severino comes in, does Tunbridge, then legs it before Spencer returns.”

  “But how did he time it so well? How did he know that Tunbridge would be in his office so late at night?”

  “Well, the obvious answer is that Severino is this John Priest and he lured Tunbridge in that night.”

  Jones frowned, unconvinced. “I’m not sure about the timing on that. Did Severino lose his job before or after Tunbridge met this J Priest? And besides, those emails implied that they had met — which surely rules out Severino?”

  Sutton thought hard before shrugging. “I can’t remember how the dates match up — we’ll need to look it up. Stick him on the list to re-interview. He’s not going anywhere.”

  Another thought occurred to Warren. “On top of that, how did he know that Tunbridge would be alone? Or that Spencer would be the only other person in the building but conveniently in that little room?”

  Sutton frowned. “Well, I would imagine that he could be fairly sure that the building would be empty at ten on a Friday night, especially on a nice summer evening when everyone who isn’t away is sitting in a beer garden somewhere. Maybe he just took a gamble? That would fit with the amateurish nature of the murder.”

  Jones leant back, drumming his fingers on the table top as he thought this through. “That’s something else that bothers me. Assuming the two things are connected, setting up that website took serious premeditation and organisation, whereas the way Tunbridge was killed and Severino was tracked down so quickly implies something amateur and spur of the moment. Damn it, we really need to know who set that website up, so we can either pursue them or rule them out.”

  The two men sat in silence, staring at their now empty pints.

  “Something else also bothers me,” started Warren again after several long moments. “Spencer being locked in that little room. It’s just too bloody convenient. We are taking his alibi at face value. I’m going back to have another look tomorrow, I think.”

  “While you’re at it, see if there is any other way in and out of that building. We’ll look like right bloody chumps if it turns out that the killer walked through a fire door with a dodgy lock.”

  Warren nodded. “Well, all this is well and good, but our glasses are empty and by my reckoning it’s your bloody round.”

  Sutton grinned, before looking around at the rest of the bar, which was now starting to fill up with office workers. The barman scowled when he made eye contact. “Well, I reckon we’ve burnt our bridges here. If I’m buying, then let’s go somewhere a bit quieter that serves a decent pint.”

  Chapter 37

  Stifling a yawn, Karen Hardwick let herself into the tiny bedsit she was trying her best to call home. It had been four months since Owen had finished their three-year relationship and two months since she had finally found a place cheap enough for her to rent on her own. The apartment was still only just affordable and in Middlesbury, as in most places within one hundred miles of London, to say that you got what you paid for would be an exaggeration. It comprised three rooms, including a bedroom-cum-sitting-room, a tiny bathroom and an even smaller kitchen, and Karen figured her days of hosting lavish dinner parties were on hold for the foreseeable future. The most people that she’d ever had in her sitting room at any one time was three — when her parents had stopped for a tea break whilst helping her move in.

  After she had split up with Owen her mother had wanted her to come back home and live with them again. It was a kind offer and in fact, unlike many of her friends, Karen had never had a problem living with her parents, having spent various stints off and on between university courses and jobs staying in her old bedroom. But those days were gone now and, besides, her parents lived well north of Cambridge, making the daily commute impractical. Moving police forces was not an option, she had told her parents emphatically. She was just starting to find her feet and equally importantly she had just been accepted onto the detectives’ course.

  Nevertheless, she thought, as she hung up her coat in what the letting agency
laughingly called the ‘hallway’, a bit of company in the evening would be nice. Not a boyfriend — not yet; the relationship with Owen was definitely over, but her heart still missed him — but a bit of companionship. Perhaps she should have gone for a shared apartment with a flatmate? No, she decided, she’d had her share of flatmates at university. A mixed bunch to say the least: two of them she remained in close contact with, a third she had deliberately rejected all ‘friend requests’ on Facebook from — in the same way that she had rejected all of his ‘more than friends requests’ when they shared a flat together.

  Opening her tiny fridge, she remembered that she still had some leftover pasta sauce from the night before. Sniffing it reflexively — another habit she’d acquired in her university days, when the age and or provenance of anything in the communal fridge couldn’t always be guaranteed — she placed it into the microwave. She still had half a packet of fresh tortellini and so she filled the kettle. As she waited for the water to boil her mind wandered back to the case. Unlike DI Sutton and some others, she felt that DCI Jones might be right to be sceptical about the guilt of Severino. At the very least, she felt that something wasn’t quite right about the whole thing. Nevertheless, she had no intention of raising her head above the parapet just yet. She’d been in the office that afternoon when Jones had stormed in and hauled Tony Sutton out. Rumour had it that Sutton had gone behind Jones’ back to Superintendent Grayson to try and get Jones to leave the Severino charges alone. Karen wasn’t entirely sure why Sutton was so set against probing any deeper into the case, but she was the new kid and had no intention of taking sides and offending anybody this early in her career.

  The kettle started dancing around and belching steam. Its automatic cut-off was a bit dodgy and so Karen flicked it off at the mains and poured the water into a small saucepan. Turning the electric hob on, she brought the water back to the boil, before pouring in the pasta and dripping what she estimated to be a teaspoon of olive oil over the top. At the same time, she started the microwave off. She could also use the timer on the microwave to time the pasta. “Jamie Oliver, eat your heart out,” she said out loud.