The Last Straw
The Last Straw
Paul Gitsham
When Professor Alan Tunbridge is discovered in his office with his throat slashed, the suspects start queuing up. The brilliant but unpleasant microbiologist had a genius for making enemies.For Warren Jones, newly appointed Detective Chief Inspector to the Middlesbury force, a high-profile murder is the ideal opportunity. He’s determined to run a thorough and professional investigation but political pressure to resolve the case quickly and tensions in the office and at home make life anything but easy.Everything seems to point to one vengeful man but the financial potential of the professor’s pioneering research takes the inquiry in an intriguing and, for Jones and his team, dangerous direction.A DCI Warren Jones Novel
A DCI Warren Jones novel – Book 1
When Professor Alan Tunbridge is discovered in his office with his throat slashed, the suspects start queuing up. The brilliant but unpleasant microbiologist had a genius for making enemies.
For Warren Jones, newly appointed Detective Chief Inspector to the Middlesbury force, a high-profile murder is the ideal opportunity. He’s determined to run a thorough and professional investigation but political pressure to resolve the case quickly and tensions in the office and at home make life anything but easy.
Everything seems to point to one vengeful man but the financial potential of the professor’s pioneering research takes the inquiry in an intriguing and, for Jones and his team, dangerous direction.
The Last Straw
A DCI Warren Jones Novel
Paul Gitsham
Copyright (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014
Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2014
Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins.
E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472094698
Version date: 2018-09-20
PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.
Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said “he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve”. Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.* (#ulink_237f1191-7b32-582b-90de-91768fcdb545)
Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. He is currently writing the third novel in the series, whilst looking over the balcony of a Spanish hotel.
Writing. It’s a hard job, but somebody has to do it.
You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com (http://www.paulgitsham.com) or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones (http://www.facebook.com/dcijones) or twitter @dcijoneswriter (http://twitter.com/dcijoneswriter)
* (#ulink_51719d69-4ca5-5034-9dd5-f3ace84f563f)This is a lie — just ask any of the students he has taught.
Acknowledgements (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
They say that writing is a lonely job — but that doesn’t mean you do it on your own. I will be eternally grateful for the many, many friends and colleagues who have read drafts of this book, giving invaluable feedback and encouragement in equal measure. To list all of those who had some hand in shaping the story that you hold in your hand would take up pages and I’d only embarrass myself by leaving somebody out. But keep your eyes peeled, guys, at least a few of the names in this and later books may sound familiar.
Nevertheless there are a few people I absolutely have to mention. First my parents, who are always full of encouragement for everything I do; my father proof-reads all of my novels, saving my blushes and making useful suggestions. My good friend Lawrence, whose mastery of the commenting functions in MS Word and enthusiastic use of the semi-colon is evident throughout the final manuscript. And of course my oldest friend Mark. It’s always helpful for a writer to have a tame English teacher on call who can wield a red-pen…
I must also mention my favourite lawyers Dan and Caroline. Their expert knowledge forced me to rewrite several key sections of the novel, not only ensuring accuracy, but also making those scenes far more dramatic. It goes without saying that any dubious points of law or dodgy renderings of custody procedure are down to me alone.
All writers need encouragement and support and I want to say a big thank you to my creative writing tutor Danielle Jawando and all the members, past and present, who’ve attended her wonderful writing courses, critically feeding back on the writing I have brought to class each week. Similarly I must mention the Hertford Writers’ Circle, whose monthly meetings are always a pleasure and whose encouragement and advice has been invaluable.
And last, but not least, the editorial team and staff at Carina UK and Harlequin, in particular Helen, Lucy and Victoria, for giving me this exciting opportunity.
For Nana. You never got to read it, but I think you’d have enjoyed it.
Disclaimer (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c):
The town of Middlesbury, the University of Middle England, Middlesbury CID and all characters featured in this book are entirely fictional and not intended to represent any real-world individuals or organisations. It is also important to stress that whilst Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Constabularies are real organisations, they are not in any way affiliated to this book and my depiction of them and their officers are entirely imaginary. I have only the deepest respect for what they do.
Contents
Cover (#uffe3bf0a-fd96-5274-8670-b6459fce62dd)
Blurb (#u4d7ac8d5-e266-5e8f-9d27-0c092e1ee116)
Title Page (#u92af7c39-8668-512f-81aa-495896893053)
Copyright
Author Bio (#uc6f4c21a-d522-5e6f-b2e4-f49821f94fb5)
Acknowledgement
Dedication (#u0dd2bb7f-c0cc-55bc-a2df-6a4e97c23eda)
Disclaimer
Prologue
Friday
Chapter One
Saturday
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Monday
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wednesday
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thursday
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Friday
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Epilogue
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
Blood.
Everywhere. Across the walls, over the desk, even splattered on the glowing laptop computer. The human heart is a powerful, muscular pump and a cut artery bleeds out in seconds, spraying red, freshly oxygenated blood across the room like a fire hose.
Tom Spencer removes his gloved hands from the dead man’s throat and rubs them down the front of his lab coat, leaving bloody trails across his chest. Hands shaking, he picks up the blood-covered telephone and presses 9 for an outside line, followed by another three 9s.
“You are through to the emergency services. Which service do you require?”
Spencer’s voice is shaky, his breathing rapid. “Police. There’s been a murder.”
Friday (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
Chapter 1 (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones slid to a halt with a faint squeak of tyres outside the main entrance to the University of Middle England’s Department for Biological Sciences. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since he’d received the call and he doubted he could have done it much faster with blue lights and sirens. He switched off the engine and the sat nav on the dashboard beeped then went silent.
Two weeks into this new posting and the freshly promoted DCI was still reliant on the little device to get him around his new patch: the small Hertfordshire market town of Middlesbury. By driving everywhere with the device in map mode and where possible leaving for appointments early to take the most circuitous route, he was slowly building up a mental map of the local area. Although it was costing him a fortune in petrol — he felt guilty about passing on that cost to the force — it was the best way he knew to learn his way around.
The call could have been better timed, he supposed. He’d just finished pouring a bottle of Chilean red and was in the process of toasting his mother-in-law’s upcoming birthday when his mobile had rung. The temperature in the freshly decorated lounge had dropped precipitously. Bernice had never been impressed that her eldest daughter, Susan, had married a police officer — feeling that she and her monosyllabic, hen-pecked husband, Dennis, had raised their children to aspire to greater things. Private education and all the accoutrements of a wealthy middle-class upbringing in the leafiest part of Warwickshire had led Bernice to expect her daughters to marry well. That being said, she grudgingly acknowledged that Warren was a nice enough man and at least he was a Catholic.
Mumbling his apologies, he’d slipped on a jacket and left the house as quickly as possible.
Now that he was here, the familiar singing in the blood had started, mixed with a tightness in his gut. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, whilst rummaging around for a breath mint. He’d only had a sip of the wine, and had abstained completely at the restaurant so that he could drive, but the last thing he wanted was for somebody to smell alcohol on his breath. Not on his first big case. A murder. This was what he’d joined the force for; even more importantly what he’d trained as a detective for. For the past fortnight, he’d overseen his small team as they dealt with the endless tide of robberies, burglaries and low-level violence that plagued any society — a job that he was proud to do and that he knew was important to the public. But a murder was different. A murder was what got you known. A murder could make your career. It could also ruin your career before it really started...
Clambering out of the car into the hot, breathless, summer night, he scanned the largely deserted car park. Adjacent to the entrance an ambulance was parked up next to two police cars. At the other end of the car park a silver BMW sports car sat alone in the dark The ambulance’s blue lights were off, but the rear doors were open, light spilling out into the night, throwing shadows across the thick black tarmac. The paramedics stood by, chatting and smoking, relaxed, not expecting to have to do anything for a while. According to the call that Warren had received, the victim was beyond their help and they were now little more than a glorified taxi service to the morgue.
The front of the building was mostly glass, with two large, sliding doors leading into a well-lit reception area. As Jones strode briskly towards the building a young, uniformed police constable with a clipboard stepped out of the dark shadows to the side of the entrance.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I can’t let anybody enter the building at the moment.”
Jones reached inside his jacket for his warrant card. “DCI Jones.” Where the hell was his wallet? Bugger! He’d been in such a rush to leave, he’d grabbed the nearest suit jacket to hand. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the one he’d been wearing to the office during the week and so the pockets were empty.
The young constable clearly didn’t recognise either him or his name. Not for the first time, Jones regretted his forgettable surname. The PC flushed a little, clearly realising there was no way out of this awkward impasse without loss of dignity for one or both of the two men.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the day was saved by a booming Essex voice.
“Don’t you recognise the new boss, lad?” Jones suppressed a sigh. Great, his first big case and the DI first on the scene had to be Tony Sutton, the man who many believed should be the one wearing three Bath Stars on the epaulettes of his dress uniform, rather than this outsider, parachuted in from the West Midlands Police to clean up their mess.
Turning, he saw Sutton walking towards them, a barely concealed smirk on his face. Like Jones, he was dressed in a smart suit, although he wasn’t wearing a tie. But there the similarities ended. Where Jones was a slim six feet one inch, Sutton was a short, squat bear of a man, his pugnacious features and crooked nose a reminder of his days on the force’s rugby team. He was six years older than Jones, and most observers had expected him to be promoted when the previous DCI, Gavin Sheehy, retired. Unfortunately, Sheehy hadn’t made it to retirement and although Sutton had been fully cleared of any involvement in Sheehy’s disgrace he was nevertheless seen — rumour had it — to be too close to the shamed detective to be given such an important role. At least not yet. Hence Warren’s sudden and unexpected appointment.
“Sorry, sir.” The young lad was blushing now.
Jones patted him on the shoulder encouragingly. “Never apologise for doing your job, son.”
Son? Bloody hell, when did I get so old that I call twenty-year-old constables ‘son’? thought Warren.
Putting aside his discomfort, Jones walked to join Sutton, who led them through the front doors into the lobby. Inside was a large reception desk with a computer and a bank of telephones, behind a reinforced glass screen, rather like a bank teller. To the right of the desk two large double doors were held open by another uniformed PC. A swipe-card lock flashed red and an angry-sounding electronic alarm buzzed insistently, no doubt triggered by the door being held open so long.
“What have we got, Tony?”
“Nasty one, guv. White middle-aged man, identified as a Professor Alan Tunbridge, throat slit right open and head bashed in, sitting in his office.”
Sutton led Jones up a flight of stairs to the right of the entrance, before proceeding along a wide open corridor deeper into the building.
“Who found the body?”
“A young man named Tom Spencer, apparently one of the late professor’s students. Claims he was working late, came back to the lab and noticed the prof’s office door was open and the lights on. Figured he’d pop his head round and say ‘Hi’. Found him in his chair, blood everywhere. Reckons he took his pulse but couldn’t find anything, then phoned 999 on the office phone.”
“What state is the crime scene in?”
“Untouched, except by Spencer. Two uniforms were first to respond and were let in by campus Security. They took one look and figured there was nothing they could do for him. Paramedics arrived a few minutes later and agreed, pronounced him dead at the scene, probably from loss of blood. Yours truly arrived just after the paramedics. Scenes of Crime are on their way.”
At the end of the corridor, Jones and Sutton turned a corner. “Here it is,” said Sutton somewhat unnecessarily.
The corridor was crowded; two pale-looking uniformed constables were standing guard either side of an open office door. A couple of middle-aged men wearing blue woollen jumpers with ‘Security’ stitched in white writing on the left of the chest leant against the opposite wall, looking decidedly shaken. Standing awkwardly, answering questions to a uniformed sergeant, and looking like the demon barber of Fleet Street, stood a young man in a blood-stained white lab coat. His hands were covered in white latex gloves, also smeared with blood. A surgical face mask, rather like the ones worn by carpenters or DIY enthusiasts, hung on an elastic band around his chin. His shoes were blood spattered and crimson footprints led from the open office door to him.
Slipping his hands into his pockets and moving as close to the door as he could without stepping in any blood, Jones peered into the office and almost wished he hadn’t.
As a detective with many years of experience, Jones was used to the sight of blood, of course. But this broke new ground. It looked as if every last millilitre of the life-giving red liquid had been forcibly ejected from the man’s body. The pasty, greyish-blue tint of the corpse’s skin confirmed the observation. He could see why the responding officers hadn’t felt the need to contaminate the scene by checking his pulse. The Scenes of Crime team would have to check with the paramedics to see if they had touched the body.
The late professor had been a man in his fifties, with a shock of grey, unruly hair. About average height and weight for a man of his age, he was clad in brown corduroy trousers and a white polo shirt. That was about all that Jones could make out amidst the blood. The man was slumped to one side in a comfortable-looking padded leather office chair, pointed halfway towards the office’s only door. The seat was a swivel chair, positioned so that the occupant could easily operate the laptop, answer the phone and reach the various pieces of paper that were piled carelessly on the remaining surface of the desk. A selection of different-coloured ballpoint pens was scattered across the workspace. A clear area to the right of the laptop suggested a space for a mouse.
The professor’s throat had been slit, clearly by something very sharp. Whoever had wielded the blade had done so efficiently. It looked to Jones’ eye as if the blade had managed to sever both carotid arteries. If that was the case, it put a different complexion on the attack. Contrary to Hollywood movies, cutting the throat of a surprised man wasn’t a simple affair. The victim would almost certainly have struggled. Looking closer, Jones could see that, aside from the cut throat, the back of the professor’s head — facing away from the doorway — looked to be a bloody mess. On the floor next to the chair sat what appeared to be a large lump of granite rock on a pedestal, blood and matted hair covering a particularly prominent edge. Jones could just make out the words “Boulder, Colorado” stencilled on the base. A souvenir perhaps? Significant or not?
Jones turned to Sutton.
“First impressions, Inspector?” he asked quietly. Jones was already formulating a theory himself, but he liked to see what others had to say first.
“I reckon he was sitting at the desk, probably working on his laptop by the looks of it. Whoever did it came up behind him and whacked him over the back of the head with that bloody great lump of rock. That probably stunned him enough for his attacker to slit his throat.”
Jones nodded. “The question is, why didn’t he turn around? It looks as though he was facing away from the doorway when he was hit. And then, did his chair turn around after he was hit or whilst his throat was being slit?”
“Well, either the attacker sneaked up on him, or he knew his attacker was around and wasn’t surprised by their approach.”
Jones nodded his agreement.
“And what about the angle of his chair?”
“Too early to speculate.”
“I agree, let’s not second-guess Scenes of Crime.” Jones was pleased with Sutton’s response. He was always a little wary of officers who jumped to conclusions without all of the facts. Good detectives, he felt, tempered their deductive reasoning with caution and were honest enough to admit ignorance, rather than stretching the evidence beyond breaking point.
With nothing else to be gained from the bloody office, Jones turned away from the carnage. He glanced at his watch: eleven p.m.
You were complaining how bored you were, Warren. Well, you know what they say: ‘be careful what you wish for’.
It looked as though Susan and the in-laws would have to finish the wine without him.
Saturday (#ulink_70937f6d-3d67-5d83-aeb6-111a2061417e)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_2ec0165c-648b-5440-8cbe-bca76cfada18)
The alarm clock buzzed angrily. With a groan, Warren swiped the OFF button. Prising an eye open, he saw that it was six-thirty. His head felt mushy and his mouth was dry. It seemed as though he’d barely closed his eyes. That wasn’t a huge exaggeration, given that he’d arrived back home at well past four a.m. Resisting the urge to indulge himself in another ten minutes’ sleep, lest he didn’t awaken again, Warren swung his legs out, planting his feet on the woollen rug that covered the floor by the bed. Behind him, Susan grumbled in her sleep and rolled over.
Ordinarily, when Warren worked night shifts or Susan stayed up late marking, the night owl would take the spare bed in the guest room to avoid waking the sleeping partner. With the in-laws visiting that wasn’t an option this time. It hadn’t mattered though. When Warren had tiptoed into the bedroom, Susan had been flat on her back, her comatose status testimony to the sedative effect of red wine. Indeed, Warren had noticed a second empty bottle on the coffee table in the lounge. He smiled to himself, glad that he wouldn’t be here in a few hours when his slumbering wife awoke. Never a morning person at the best of times, Susan also wasn’t a big drinker and he suspected she would wake up grumpy and feeling a little the worse for wear.
He padded quietly into the bathroom, passing the guest room on his way. Through the closed door he could hear strident snoring. He wouldn’t like to put money on who was the culprit, Bernice or Dennis.
Warren showered quickly and brushed his teeth. The elderly pipes in the house groaned, reminding Warren that he still hadn’t called a plumber, but the rhythmic noise from the guest room didn’t miss a beat. By now, Warren was feeling marginally more human. As he shaved he stared at the familiar face in the mirror. Aside from a little redness around the eyes and a couple of faint dark smudges beneath them, he didn’t look too bad. He still had the good looks that Susan claimed had attracted her years before; a firm jaw and eyes that could switch in an instant between friendly and hard, a trick he’d learnt during his earliest days on the force. His dark brown hair, just this side of black and still neat from his trip to the barber’s prior to starting this job, had yet to sport its first grey hair, although he was under no illusion that it would be long before his new position changed that.
Creeping back into the master bedroom, Warren slipped on the previous night’s suit and tie, remembering this time to retrieve his warrant card from his other jacket. Pausing to look at his slumbering wife, he risked a peck on the lips, tasting the wine on her breath. Still asleep, she nevertheless smiled.
Outside, the sun was already up although it had yet to chase away the night’s chill. Warren had grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl before leaving the house, and now crammed the remains of it into his mouth as he unlocked his car. The birds were singing loudly, but the rest of the street was quiet. Most of Warren and Susan’s neighbours worked regular office hours, so few would be up and about at seven a.m. on a Saturday. Similarly, the roads were quiet and Warren pulled into the small staff car park at the rear of Middlesbury Police Station barely ten minutes later. A few cars dotted the tarmac, most noticeably a brand-new Mercedes. Warren felt his stomach contract: his boss, Detective Superintendent John Grayson, was already in.
Middlesbury Station was something of an anomaly in Hertfordshire. Most of the county’s detectives now worked out of the joint Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Major Crime Unit based in Welwyn Garden City. However, a combination of the distance from Welwyn and the rapid growth of Middlesbury meant that the town’s police station sported several custody cells and despite the budget cutbacks had retained its small but fully operational CID unit. Many of the other towns in the local area had to make do with a reception desk manned nine-to-five with an emergency telephone connected to Welwyn for out-of-hours emergencies.
Swiping his access card and keying in his pin number gave Jones access to the building and he headed directly for the largest of the incident rooms. He had scheduled this morning’s meeting for eight a.m., timing it to catch the day shift as they came on duty. He glanced at his watch: seven-fifteen. Plenty of time to go over his briefing notes and set up the chairs. As he approached the room he spotted that the door to the superintendent’s office was ajar. It would be rude not to pop his head in, he decided, plus it wouldn’t hurt for the boss to notice how early he was in.
He rapped confidently on the door, his knock answered immediately with a curt, “Come in.” Stepping in, Jones stopped in surprise. Sprawled in a large, comfy-looking visitor’s chair, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee, was Detective Inspector Tony Sutton.
“Ah, good morning, Warren. Tony was just filling me in on last night’s discovery.”
So that’s how it is going to be, thought Jones, pushing down a sudden flash of annoyance. His first big case since moving here and already Sutton was trying to muscle in on his territory, ingratiating himself with the boss.
Sutton smirked. “Just the juicy bits, guv. Thought I’d leave the details to you.”
“So kind, Tony,” commented Jones. If the super noticed the tension crackling between the two men, he gave no sign of it.
“This is a big case, Warren. A murder is a nasty business at the best of times, but this one could be especially problematic.” The superintendent leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. “The vice chancellor of the university phoned me at six this morning, ‘to express his concern’ and emphasise the need for a ‘speedy resolution’. If I ever find out which bugger gave him my home phone number, they’ll spend the next twelve months telling primary-school kids not to talk to strangers.
“Either way, we do need to solve this quickly and decisively. A murderer running about the campus could be disastrous for the university’s reputation, especially with next month’s Controversies in Science conference. The guest list for that event looks like a who’s who of shit-stirrers. Richard Dawkins and the President of the British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection are some of the less controversial speakers. If they think we can’t guarantee their safety, the organisers may well cancel the conference or, worse, up sticks to bloody Cambridge.”
Sutton grunted. “Rumour has it, King’s College wanted to host it, but Channel 4, who are footing the bill, reckoned it would seem too elitist. You can bet they’ll be the first in line to offer their facilities again if we lose the conference.”
Jones tried to hide his puzzlement. They seemed to be taking this whole thing rather personally. During his time in the West Midlands, Jones had worked dozens of serious cases linked to the region’s several universities. The reputation of the university in question hadn’t been a huge worry. As far as the police were concerned, a crime was a crime and it would be solved with no more or no less vigour than an offence occurring anywhere else on their patch. Seeing Jones’ lack of comprehension, Grayson leant back in his chair, assuming a professorial air.
“Look around you, Warren. Middlesbury is a small market town, with bugger-all local industry. The decision to turn the technical college into a university forty-odd years ago gave this place a lease of life. It’s the biggest employer in the area and the students bring millions into the local economy. Part of the attraction for students is the location. We’re seen as a safe, quiet place to live and study. We have none of the hustle and bustle of Cambridge or the crime of some of the Essex cities. It’s a huge draw for overseas students, who bring in massive amounts of foreign money — even if some of our more conservatively minded residents aren’t too fond of them.”
Nodding his understanding, Jones tried not to feel patronised by the unnecessary lecture and oblique reference to his status as a newcomer, opting to reply with a simple, “I see.”
“So, DCI Jones, I want you to give this case top priority. I’ll back you completely resource-wise. Pull everyone off what they are doing and get them to focus fully on solving this murder. We have some spare money in the Major Incident Budget, so feel free to offer overtime and buy in all the forensics you need. I’ll sweet-talk Uniform into giving us some bodies for routine stuff. Let’s nail this bastard.”
Jones nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He could see how it was going to be. This case was a big deal and a lot was resting on his shoulders. It was his first case as a DCI and it looked as though it was going to be sink or swim. He had the deeply uncomfortable feeling that the outcome of this case would set the tone for the rest of his time in Middlesbury. Suddenly, the banana he had eaten for breakfast seemed to be weighing heavily in his stomach. His palms felt damp and his collar too tight. As if a major incident such as this weren’t enough for him to deal with, now he had to negotiate local politics as well. For the first time since his move, Warren allowed the ever-present whisper of doubt that lurked in the back of his mind speak louder.
He’d known that becoming the DCI of such a small unit in a semi-rural town would probably be less glamorous and exciting than his previous job with West Midlands Police and that the shameful downfall of DCI Gavin Sheehy had left a lot of collateral damage that he might well have to deal with, but the simple fact was that there were already plenty of DCIs in the WMP and he’d risked getting stuck in a rut as a detective inspector. If he ever wanted to make it as a detective superintendent or even a chief superintendent, he needed the command experience. Consequently, when the vacancy in the Middlesbury CID unit had become available, Jones had been encouraged to apply.
Making his excuses and repressing the treacherous voice at the back of his mind again, Jones left the office and went into the main briefing room. A large conference room, it lacked the sophisticated wall-mounted plasma screens that were being installed as he left the West Midlands. Nevertheless there were several oversized marker boards on wheels and plenty of chairs. As a concession to the twenty-first century, a ceiling-mounted projector allowed video and computer imagery to be displayed on the back wall. Most importantly, a large urn bubbled away on a corner table, next to a wicker basket filled with packets of tea, coffee, sugar and powdered creamer. A stack of cardboard cups served those without a mug. The old coffee tin now doing double duty as an honesty jar was suspiciously empty, and Jones hid a smile. Human nature was human nature, and coppers were all too human. Before doing anything else, Jones made himself a strong black coffee. After a moment of indecision, he emptied three sachets of sugar into the cup. The resulting brew was far sweeter than he liked, but the caffeine and sugar hit would hopefully chase away the remaining cobwebs. As an afterthought he chucked a fifty-pence piece into the honesty jar — lead by example and all that…
It was now five to eight and the CID day-shift were starting to file into the room. After two weeks, Warren could put a name and a rank to most of the faces. Some acknowledged him with a nod, one or two with a cautious, “Good morning, sir.” Warren was again reminded of the veiled scrutiny with which he was being viewed. Suspicion was probably too strong a word, but there was still a certain wariness. He was acutely aware that he was on probation with these people and that he had to prove himself to be up to the job.
By eight, he judged the room to be full, with a couple of dozen detectives of various ranks seated in rows. Grayson and Sutton stood at the back, watching. Calling for quiet, he wished all those assembled a good morning. Taking a deep breath, he launched in.
“As I am sure that most of you have heard, there has been a murder at the university in the Biology building up on Mills Road. At 22:19 hours last night a call was received from a member of the public and approximately ten minutes later two uniform colleagues on patrol confirmed the finding of the body of a middle-aged white male in a first-floor office within the main research wing. Paramedics confirmed that the victim was dead when they arrived. Preliminary identification is that of a Professor Alan Tunbridge, the occupant of the office. The PM will be held later today, but early indications are that the deceased was bludgeoned, possibly with a souvenir granite rock, before having his throat sliced open. Probable cause of death, exsanguination.”
A low murmur rippled around the room. Looking around, Warren was relieved to see that he had everyone’s attention. Or almost everyone — Grayson and Sutton had their heads together, quietly talking. Neither of them glanced his way. Forcing away any thoughts about what they might be discussing, Warren continued.
“The body was found by a Thomas Spencer, one of the professor’s graduate students who happened to be working late that night also. Time of death has been tentatively put at no earlier than about 21:30 hours. Scenes of Crime officers made a preliminary investigation and will resume their work this morning.”
A hand promptly went up: Detective Sergeant Hutchinson.
“Do we know who was in the building at that time and does Spencer have an alibi?”
“Unfortunately, we’re waiting for the head of campus Security to return from up north before we can review the CCTV footage and the building’s swipe-card logs to see who came in and out. The two guards on duty last night were based in the main security building on the other side of the campus and don’t have the know-how or the computer passwords to access that information.”
A few grumbles went around the room and Jones heard at least one muttered utterance about “bloody rent-a-cops”.
Ignoring the dissent, Warren continued.
“The building’s fire-safety log claims that when we arrived there were only two people in the building, although we can’t yet identify them. The system simply counts people in and people out. The two occupants were presumably Spencer and the deceased. None of the building’s fire exits had been opened and all the windows were shut. A search by uniform found no other people in the building. Spencer claims that he was working alone in a small equipment room at the opposite end of the building for about an hour before he discovered the professor’s body. There are no direct eyewitnesses but he says he bumped into two other students on the way over there who were just leaving for the pub. Apparently the room also has a swipe-card entry system to protect the expensive equipment inside. First thing we need to do when the head of Security arrives is check out Spencer’s story.”
A hand rose at the back. “Where is Spencer at the moment?”
“Back home. He’s due to come in for another interview this afternoon. Forensics bagged him and tagged him at the scene last night and he accompanied us here for a full trace-evidence exam and to give a preliminary statement. So far he hasn’t called for a lawyer and is co-operating fully, so we haven’t yet arrested him.” This last point was important. The moment that a suspect was arrested the clock started ticking and the police only had a short time to decide whether to release the suspect — on police bail if appropriate — or charge him and get him before a judge. By delaying arresting Spencer, Jones had successfully pushed back that deadline. However, it was a dangerous game and those questioning him would have to be very careful about making sure that he knew and understood his legal rights, lest they incur the wrath of any future defence counsel and scupper any prosecution before it even got off the ground.
Another hand went up. “What about Tunbridge’s immediate family: wife, partner, kids?”
“Family Liaison broke the news to his wife last night. His kids live away and are on their way home. Early indications are that the wife was having a meal in a busy restaurant with a half-dozen friends at the time of the murder. We’ll check out her alibi later today.”
Looking around the room, Jones saw that nobody else had any questions. They seemed to be happy to let him get on at his own pace. Jones decided to paraphrase what the super had said to him before this meeting, figuring he couldn’t really put a foot wrong if he quoted the boss.
“OK, people. This case is to be treated as our number one priority. I don’t need to remind you that most murders are solved in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours; the clock is already ticking. I will start assigning roles in a moment. Those of you that aren’t given an immediate task should use the time to lock down any outstanding jobs so that we can turn all of our attention over to solving this case.” Around the room there were a few quiet grumbles, no doubt from those worrying about the impact this temporary shutdown might have on their own caseload, but nobody dissented openly. They all knew the score without being told, Warren realised. Yet another example of the local instincts that he would need to develop if he was to succeed in this posting.
Warren consulted his notepad.
“Immediately after this briefing, DI Sutton and I will meet with the lab’s experimental officer, Dr Mark Crawley, and the head of the Biology department, to see what we can find out about the deceased and have a look at what names come up. Head of Security should be on campus in an hour or so. I’ll need somebody to meet him and have a quick look at any CCTV footage and the building’s swipe-card access log.
“The neighbourhood around the building is mostly non-residential. However, there are a few houses up the north end of the road. DS Khan, I’d like you to organise a few bodies to go door knocking.” A quick nod from the small man. “I’d also like you to go and see if the security guards working the warehouses on the opposite side of the road saw or heard anything. Check if any of their cameras point towards the university — it’s a long shot but they may have picked up something.”
He looked around the room, searching the assembled faces.
“DS Richardson, can you liaise with Traffic and see if any of their cameras have spotted anything? Remember, people, the time of death is likely to have been after 21:30 hours and Spencer’s phone call was logged at 22:19 hours. Assuming that there was another person involved, they may have been in the area for several hours before the attack.” A short squat forty-something clutching a bottle of mineral water nodded her agreement.
“DS Kent, I want you to set up an incident desk to collate incoming information. You’ll be the shift co-ordinator — everybody should report their progress to you. Get HOLMES up and running and get Welwyn up to speed in case we need resources.”
Kent nodded once and cracked his knuckles. A grey-haired man, well into his fifties, he was Middlesbury’s resident expert on the Home Office’s national serious crime database, HOLMES2. He had been one of the first people Jones had met after arriving at Middlesbury and his reputation for efficiency had preceded him. Even if he hadn’t been on shift this morning, Jones would probably have telephoned him and offered him double time. For his part, Kent looked excited at the challenge. Middlesbury wasn’t quite the back of beyond as far as policing was concerned; nevertheless a big juicy murder, as this could well turn out to be, was a welcome diversion from the car thefts, drunken assaults and mid-level drug dealing that the station usually dealt with.
“The rest of you, get yourselves ready to move at a moment’s notice. As we identify witnesses I want us to be able to pick them up for questioning before they get a chance to swap stories. Let’s hit the ground running, folks.” He paused, looking for questions. None, just impatient-looking faces, ready to get on with the task.
“Dismissed.”
Immediately the assembled officers jumped to their feet, the experienced Detective Sergeants Khan and Richardson promptly corralling the detective constables into groups to assign them their tasks. Without so much as a glance in his direction, Sutton and Grayson headed out of the double doors in the direction of Grayson’s office. Warren frowned, tempted to go after them, but he had more pressing concerns. Moving swiftly, he intercepted a young DC before she could be snagged by DS Khan.
“Karen Hardwick?” The young woman flushed slightly, no doubt a little taken aback to be identified by name by the new DCI.
“Yes, sir?”
Warren felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor girl. A probationer, she had only just finished her detective training, arriving at the station almost as recently as Jones. He vividly recalled his first few months as a trainee detective constable, desperately scared of screwing up or asking a stupid question in front of the boss. He’d hidden at the back of briefings, hoping to avoid catching the eye of anybody above the rank of sergeant.
“I’ve been reading your personnel file and I see that you were at university before you joined the force?”
Immediately, Warren cursed himself for his clumsy phrasing. It probably sounded to the poor woman that he’d pulled her file up especially, when in actual fact he’d been reading the files of everyone in the unit, trying to get to know his new team.
“Yes, sir. Bath, then Bristol.” Karen looked puzzled. These days graduate recruitment was the norm, not the exception.
“I believe that you did some sort of biological sciences degree?”
“Yes, sir, I did a bachelor’s degree in Biochemistry and then a masters by research in Molecular Biology.”
“So I would assume that your degrees involved spending time in laboratories?”
“Yes, I did a twelve-month work placement in a pharmaceutical company during my first degree, then my master’s degree involved three rotations in different laboratories within the Biology department.” Karen now had an inkling where this might be leading.
“Well, Karen, my gut is telling me that the reasons for this murder might lie in that university department. I may need an interpreter, somebody who is familiar with the system and the language.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, sir.”
“Good. Now let’s go and round up DI Sutton. We’ve got some trees to shake and I get the impression that the DI is good at shaking.”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_1ca87dbf-c0fa-52b2-8a03-1361c4f35114)
Jones, Sutton and DC Karen Hardwick were greeted in the lobby of the Department of Biological Sciences research building by a different young PC from the previous night. After crossing them off his clipboard, he radioed ahead to let the crime scene technicians know that they had arrived. Apparently, Dr Mark Crawley, the laboratory’s experimental officer, was already with them.
Following the same route as the night before — less than ten hours ago, Jones realised wearily — the three police officers headed towards the crime scene. This morning it was necessary to stop a few doors short of the office where the professor’s body had been found, since the whole end of the corridor was now blocked off with blue and white crime scene tape.
Just past the barrier was a set of wooden double doors, with a large sign proclaiming “Tunbridge Group. Microbial Biology”. Next to it were yellow warning stickers with the universal signs for biohazards and, Jones noticed with a touch of discomfort, radiation. A few metres further along the corridor the door to Tunbridge’s office was open, white-suited technicians hard at work. A uniformed constable stood to attention next to the tape, his hands behind his back. Jones pretended not to see the copy of The Sun inexpertly concealed behind him. He had spent plenty of time as a uniformed officer guarding crime scenes and knew just how desperately dull it could be.
“DCI Jones. I was told that Dr Mark Crawley was up here?”
“He’s in the laboratory, sir, with Crime Scene Manager Harrison, the lead forensics officer. I’ll fetch him.”
The constable stepped under the blue and white tape and slipped through the double doors into the laboratory. A few seconds later the doors opened again and a tall, middle-aged, rangy man stepped out. He was dressed in faded blue jeans with an open-necked checked shirt, a white forensic hairnet and white paper booties over his shoes. His eyes were red-rimmed behind small eye glasses and Jones noticed that he hadn’t shaved. His right shirt pocket was overflowing with pens and pencils of different colours, one of which appeared to have leaked slightly. The left contained a second pair of glasses, with what appeared to be pink lenses. A lanyard with a photographic ID card and a couple of small keys completed the ensemble.
“Good morning, officers, I’m Mark Crawley, the Tunbridge Group’s experimental officer.” He extended a hand awkwardly. His accent retained traces of a Yorkshire upbringing, although many years in the south had clearly influenced his speech.
“I was familiarising your forensic team with the lab before they go searching for evidence. There’s lots of chemicals and delicate equipment in there — we don’t want any accidents.”
“Good morning, Dr Crawley. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones, this is Detective Inspector Tony Sutton and this is Detective Constable Karen Hardwick. First of all, let me extend our condolences on your loss.”
Crawley acknowledged the sympathy with an incline of his head.
“We are here to find out about Professor Tunbridge and try to piece together what happened Friday night. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Of course, follow me. We have a tea and coffee area with seating.”
Shucking the hairnet and booties and depositing them in a labelled bin, he led the three police officers back down the corridor past another two doors and ushered them into a small, crowded room. Jones looked around, quickly assessing the space. Metal bookcases crammed with journals and well-thumbed textbooks lined two of the walls. In the centre, a coffee table was surrounded by five soft chairs that reminded Jones somewhat uncomfortably of a dental surgery. Just like in a waiting room, the table was covered in magazines — or, rather more accurately, journals. A cursory glance at some of the headlines on the journals suggested that he would be unlikely to find any diets or salacious celebrity gossip between their pages. That being said, Jones did spot a copy of Private Eye sitting next to a pile of New Scientist.
On the wall to the left, a cork notice board was covered in paper, mostly to do with upcoming seminars or courses. The wall to the right had a similar notice board to which photographs of what Jones assumed were the rest of the lab, in a variety of staged and candid poses, were pinned haphazardly, some of them tagged with cryptic in-jokes. Jones recognised Tom Spencer and Mark Crawley in a few of them. To Jones’ surprise, the only image that Tunbridge appeared in was a formal-looking group photo. He didn’t seem to feature in any of the Christmas or other party pictures. A handwritten sheet of paper proclaimed itself as the sign-up sheet for a meal out at a local curry house next Friday. A dozen or so names were scrawled in different-coloured pens, some with ‘+1’ next to them. Jones wondered if that would still take place — would the lab come together to raise a glass to the prof’s memory?
A small window overlooked the car park below. Beneath it sat a small fridge, pulling double duty as a counter top. A mug tree jostled for space with four or five different jars of coffee, a jam jar of sugar and a box of PG Tips tea bags. The white plastic surface was ringed with brown stains from spilled drinks. Several dirty teaspoons were propped up in a coffee mug, itself in need of a good clean. Even by the standards of the CID tea room, the place was a health hazard. All three officers politely declined Crawley’s offer of a hot drink.
Motioning them to sit on the over-stuffed dentist’s chairs, Crawley flopped down himself. He looked physically exhausted, yet at the same time filled with nervous energy, Jones decided. Was it the weariness of grief? Worry about his job? Guilt? At this moment, Jones was keeping an open mind.
“First of all, Dr Crawley, could you tell us a little about yourself? I’m a bit mystified by the title ‘Experimental Officer’.”
“Basically, I’m the person in charge of running the lab on a day-to-day basis. The lab manager, if you will, except that I also do my own research. Alan…Professor Tunbridge…does…or rather did a lot of travelling and so I was the person in charge of making sure the lab ran smoothly in his absence. I’ve been with Alan for about twelve years or so, I guess.”
Jones nodded. “What can you tell me about Professor Tunbridge?”
Crawley sighed, took his glasses off and cleaned them, before placing them back again. The three police officers waited.
“Well, it’ll all come out in the end, I suppose… Alan was a brilliant researcher. His work was well respected around the world, hence his constant travelling. He has dozens of high-impact papers in all the best journals and regularly referees the papers of others in the field before their acceptance into journals.”
Jones sensed a “but”.
“But, on a personal level the guy was less than universally loved.”
Jones’ ears pricked up.
“Are you suggesting that the motive for his murder could be personal, rather than professional?”
“Look, all I’m saying is that, frankly, the bloke was a bit of an arsehole. He had a tendency to rub people up the wrong way, often for no good reason. He could really upset people and he just didn’t give a shit, ’scuse my French. He got away with a hell of a lot because of who he was and senior management used to excuse him ‘because he’s a genius and they can be funny sometimes’. Try telling that to a masters student in tears because her dissertation has been sent back with ‘crap — start again’ scrawled across it in red pen.” Crawley was clearly starting to unload years of pent-up frustration and Jones was willing to let him vent. Who knew what might come out…?
“The genius bit is bollocks. I’ve met a number of geniuses over the yearsand they were all nice blokes. Alan hadn’t got his Nobel yet, but he still acted like a wanker. At least three graduate students made complaints against him and two technicians claimed constructive dismissal. But Alan’s Teflon-coated. He usually got away with it.”
Crawley’s voice had started to rise and he broke off, breathing heavily.
“So why did you stay with him so long?” Jones asked.
Crawley sighed, the energy draining again.
“The sad fact is that despite all the nonsense, he was OK with me. I think he realised that he would be lucky to find someone else who’d put up with his behaviour. As for me, I’ve fallen with my bum in the butter. I can pursue my own research and I still get my name added to pretty much every paper that comes out of this lab.
“My problem is, I’m at the top of the research associate pay scale and my next career step is my own research group, but I’ve got a wife and three kids. The oldest will be off to uni next year, the youngest is still at primary school and has just been diagnosed with hyperactivity disorder and the family curse, dyslexia. My wife’s parents will probably have to go into a home in the next twelve months. I don’t have time to set up my own group, but I’m too expensive for anybody else to want me. Alan, for all his faults, was happy to keep on paying me. I guess we needed each other.” He gave a humourless grin. “If we were having this conversation in five years’ time, I’d say ‘cuff me now’, I’ve got every motive. I’d be ready to bump the old sod off and take over the group. But at the moment, it’s the last bloody thing I need.”
Jones nodded, not yet convinced. He moved on to another tack.
“Who else could have a motive for killing Tunbridge?”
“It’d be easier to ask who didn’t. Frankly he pissed off most people that he met. Plenty of collaborators over the years have complained that he was dictatorial and manipulative. He put plenty of noses out of joint by taking advantage of other people’s research, but the simple fact is that there is one rule for us and one rule for people like him. But that was mostly professional jealousy. I can’t see any of these guys killing him over who deserves to be first name on a paper in the Journal of Bacteriology.”
“OK. Leaving aside professional rivalries, what about closer to home?”
“Well, he was a philandering bastard. He shagged at least one of his undergraduate students, not to mention a few colleagues that he used to meet at conferences. For somebody with such an unpleasant streak, he never seemed to have any problems getting laid.”
“Can you give me any names?”
Crawley thought for a moment, his brow creased in concentration.
“I think one of them was called Claire or something. Rumour mill has it that she was one of the students on his Microbial Genetics course and he took a shine to her. There were the usual claims that he gave away good grades in exchange for sexual favours, but that’s bullshit. I know for a fact that undergraduate essays are all marked independently and anonymously from the tutor that sets them to stop that sort of stuff happening. Anyhow, she moved on and we haven’t heard from her since. This was some months ago.”
Jones noted down the details, deciding to pursue the lead nevertheless.
“I guess the people with the biggest grudge against Alan would be his former grad students and postdocs. He treated some of them shockingly. I know, because I usually ended up picking up the pieces.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Well, I suppose Antonio Severino is the first name to spring to mind. He was one of Alan’s postdocs until recently, then things went horribly sour.”
“How? By the way, could you just clear up some terminology for me? What is a ‘postdoc’?”
“Well, a postdoctoral research assistant or associate is a junior researcher at a university. Basically, you do your PhD, to become ‘Doctor’ and then do a couple of research positions of a couple of years apiece in other people’s laboratories to gain experience. In some countries, such as Canada, you are still regarded as little more than a glorified student. Fortunately in the UK it’s now a properly salaried position with all the usual benefits.
“Anyhow, Dr Antonio Severino joined us about two years ago. He’s a smart guy and managed to solve a couple of really difficult problems that we were struggling with. Anyway, Alan being Alan felt a bit threatened by this as he realised that Antonio was inevitably going to share a lot of the limelight when the research was published and so he announced out of the blue that when Antonio’s initial appointment expired in six weeks’ time, he wasn’t going to renew the post. Furthermore, he was going to hold off on the publication of several key papers until he had some more data. This really upset Antonio. You see, not only was he out of a job in six weeks, he is also not going to have any publications to show for the past two years. In this climate he’ll be lucky if he gets a job cleaning glassware. The long and the short of it is that Alan absolutely shafted the poor bastard.”
“How did Dr Severino take this?”
“How do you think? Not to be stereotypical, but Antonio is a full-blooded Italian. They had the mother of all shouting matches in the lab, which spilled out into the corridor. Half the building must have seen and heard it. Anyway, I finally persuaded Antonio to leave and go home for the day, promising I’d talk to Alan about the papers. Antonio did calm down enough to leave the building, but he went straight down to the pub.
“He’s always been a drinker, but that day he excelled himself. According to a couple of Mick Robinson’s group who were having lunch in there he got absolutely wasted. When they arrived he was already really pissed, drinking shots. They knew him and everyone sympathises with you when you’re dissing the boss, so they sat with him for a bit. Eventually they figured he’d had enough and called him a cab.
“Apparently, he did get in the cab, but changed his mind halfway home and got the driver to drop him off outside here. I guess he was going to come back in and have it out with Alan again, but he got distracted by Alan’s rather nice shiny BMW and used his penknife to slash all four tyres and his house keys to scratch some sort of Italian obscenity on the bonnet. Did about three grand worth of damage, I’m told, before one of the security guards stopped him.”
Crawley’s expression hinted that he might not have been entirely disapproving of his co-worker’s actions. “Well, Alan was all up for doing him for criminal damage, but the University Disciplinary Committee decided that it wasn’t going to do anybody’s reputation any good if this got into papers, so as usual I did my best to pour oil on troubled waters.
“In the end, I persuaded the university to let Antonio see out his last six weeks on gardening leave. Alan agreed to let me write him a decent job reference, which he signed and put ‘papers pending’ on the references list on his CV. Antonio consented to pay the excess on Alan’s insurance claim. I tell you guys, some days I feel like the Secretary General of the United Nations in this place.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About four or five weeks ago.”
“And has Dr Severino had any luck in finding another job yet?”
“I had a request to pass on his references a couple of weeks ago to a lab at Leicester Uni. I haven’t heard anything back from Antonio, so I’d guess he’s probably been unsuccessful.”
Jones nodded, taking note. Severino certainly had a big enough motive and if he had just been turned down for a job that could have been a trigger.
“Tell us about Dr Spencer.”
“Tom? Oh, he’s not doctor yet. He’s a final year PhD student.”
Karen Hardwick half raised her hand almost as if she were at school. However, her voice was firm and betrayed none of the nervousness she was feeling at interrupting her superiors.
“What stage was his PhD at? Was he still working or writing up?”
A brief look of discomfort passed across Crawley’s face.
“He was writing up, although he was still doing a few experiments to tidy things up.”
“What stage was his thesis at? Was he still in his third year or was he in his write-up year?”
Jones listened carefully. He had no idea where Karen’s line of questioning was going, but the vibes he was getting off Crawley suggested that he wasn’t thrilled about the direction. That alone made the questions worth asking in Jones’ book.
“He was in his write-up year. He’d submitted some draft chapters to Alan for editing.”
“It’s August now. Assuming he started in September, he must be pretty close to the end of his fourth year. Would that be correct? How was he funded and is it still current?”
“I’m not sure why this is relevant.”
“Please, bear with me, Dr Crawley.” DC Hardwick’s eyes didn’t leave the increasingly uncomfortable-looking scientist.
“Yes, he is within a couple of months or so of the end of his fourth year. He was funded by the Medical Research Council. The funding will have ended by now.”
“How much of his thesis had Professor Tunbridge approved? Is Mr Spencer on course to finish within the four-year deadline?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.” The lie was weak, but Hardwick decided not to pursue it.
Sutton now picked up the gauntlet. “How would you characterise the relationship between Mr Spencer and Professor Tunbridge?”
“Well, Alan was a difficult man, as I think you are realising, and the relationship between students and supervisors is often tense, but I never saw them have a stand-up row like he did with Antonio Severino.”
Jones looked at his colleagues; they seemed to be content for the time being. He looked forward to their thoughts. It was clear that Crawley wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he was unsure how to proceed just yet.
“Well, thank you for your time, Dr Crawley. If you could give one of my colleagues your contact details that would be very helpful. I would also appreciate the names and contact details of other members of the research group. We may call you again in due course with some more questions. In the meantime, I believe that we have an appointment with the head of department, Professor Gordon Tompkinson.”
Jones stood up, signalling the end of the interview. Crawley looked relieved.
“Let me take you to see Professor Tompkinson.”
As they exited the small room Jones spotted the young uniformed constable, standing outside the taped-off entrance to Tunbridge’s office. Beckoning him over, he instructed him to take down the details that he had requested from Crawley when he returned from taking them to see Prof Tompkinson. That should give him something to do besides read the newspaper, Jones thought.
Just then another uniformed constable appeared.
“Sir, the head of Security has just arrived. He is ready to go through the CCTV and the building’s access logs.”
“Thank you, Constable.” Jones turned to Sutton. “Tony, can you go and see what they’ve got? The sooner we can start corroborating some alibis, the better.”
“Will do, guv.” He turned smartly on his heel and strode off after the already departing constable.
* * *
“Dr Crawley, Mr Spencer claims to have been working in something called the ‘PCR room’ when the murder is believed to have taken place.”
“He’ll have meant Molecular Biology Suite One, on the ground floor. Do you want to go there?”
“Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Motioning them to follow, Crawley headed back towards the front of the building. Taking them back down the stairwell that they had used earlier, he then doubled back on himself, so that they were heading back into the building again. To their left were more offices and Crawley motioned to a set of double doors.
“That’s the main admin office where the head of department, Gordon Tompkinson works. I’ll bring you back here after I’ve shown you the PCR room. I saw his car in the car park by the way, so he is in.”
They continued down the corridor past yet more offices on the left. Through an open door Jones caught a quick glimpse of another tea room, this one a little tidier, again overlooking the car park. The rooms on the right appeared to be service rooms rather than laboratories, with signs on their doors such as ‘Sterilisation Unit’, ‘Media Kitchen’ and ‘Central Stores’. All the doors were shut but windows with old-fashioned wire-mesh safety glass afforded glimpses of darkened rooms beyond. The air was humid yet at the same time smelled musty. Jones made a note to ask Karen about it later, again reminded that in this environment he really was a fish out of water. Finally they pulled up outside another set of double doors. Unlike the others in the corridor, there was no glass window to hint at what went on inside. The sign, ‘Molecular Biology Suite One’ meant nothing to Jones. These doors seemed sturdier and to the right of them was another swipe-card reader.
Crawley paused outside and motioned to the reader with the card that he wore on a lanyard around his neck. Jones thought for a moment - would entering the room compromise a crime scene? No, he decided, it was clearly a communal facility and besides which Spencer had been wearing latex gloves and other sterile clothing. It was unlikely that Forensics would get much in the way of useful trace evidence in there.
“Please, go ahead.”
Crawley swiped the card and there was the quiet click of a magnetic lock. A green LED lit up on the card reader. Pushing the door open seemed to require some effort and Jones felt a blast of cold air.
“Positive air pressure,” explained Crawley without being asked. “It helps stop dust and other contaminants getting in and damaging the equipment. There is also air conditioning to keep everything at a constant temperature and humidity. They look after the equipment better than they look after the staff,” he quipped weakly.
Stepping in, Crawley reached and flicked on the lights. Jones and Hardwick followed him in. Jones was immediately glad of his suit jacket. The air temperature was a few degrees too cool for his comfort and a marked contrast to the warm August weather outside.
The room was like something out of a science-fiction movie, he decided. A reasonable size, it was nevertheless crammed with benches full of equipment. The three of them were able to fit into the room side by side, but to accommodate anybody else someone would need to shuffle along one of the other aisles. The doorway in which they stood was the only entrance and there were no windows. Over the rush of the air conditioning, Jones noticed a sound that reminded him of the Scalextric racing car set that he’d had as a child. A sudden, high-pitched whine, followed by silence, then repeated again, as if he were accelerating the tiny cars along the track, stopping them, then starting again.
“Welcome to Molecular Biology Suite One, the jewel in the crown of the Biology department.” Crawley swept his hand, in a wide arc. “There’s the better part of two million quid’s worth of equipment in here, or at least that’s how much we paid for it when it was new. It’s also the most secure room in the building, not including the animal house.” He gestured upwards with a nod of his head, no doubt a reference to the unlabelled fourth floor that didn’t exist on the building’s public plans but which Jones had read up on when familiarising himself with potential terrorist targets.
It was certainly impressive, he decided. Pride of place was a large glass-fronted unit, the size of a commercial chest freezer, with ‘Affymetrix’ emblazoned across it in blue. Jones hadn’t got the faintest idea what the machine did, but it seemed to be filled with stacks of plastic trays. This, he realised, was the source of the noise. He watched fascinated as a robotic arm scooted, whining, across the length of the machine, delicately picked the top tray off a stack, before moving it to a different stack to its right. From above, a second arm appeared, this time bristling with dozens of metal prongs, which it inserted into some of the hundreds of tiny wells that Jones now saw made up the tray. Removing the prongs, the arm moved rapidly, but precisely, to the right, before lowering the prongs slowly onto what appeared to be a frosted-glass microscope slide.
Noticing Jones’ interest, Crawley gestured towards the machine.
“It’s a slide maker for gene expression studies — it’s the reason for the security. It, and the equipment to read the slides, is worth hundreds of thousands. The university’s insurers insisted that we put it behind locked doors in case it gets stolen. There is a growing black market for these things in the Biology departments of developing countries. It’s also incredibly delicate, hence the air conditioning.”
“Is this what Tom Spencer was using Friday night?”
“Oh, no. This is strictly the property of the gene expression laboratory. Tom was probably using the Tetrad PCR machine. It’s not in the same league as the slide maker, but it’d still be worth nicking if you had a buyer for it.”
Crawley led them down a side aisle to a squat black bench-top machine about the size of an old-style desktop computer sitting on its side. The equipment had four hinged lids, all closed, with electric-blue screws on top. A large keypad on the front was flanked by an LCD screen to the left and a stylised DNA molecule as a logo to the right. The machine seemed to be switched off. What appeared to be a booking sheet was covered in scribbled names. ‘Tom Spencer, Friday p.m.’ was scrawled under a column headed ‘Block One’. The other three blocks were empty at that time. Judging by the number of different names listed on the booking sheet, this seemed to be a popular machine. Even if Spencer wasn’t wearing gloves when he used it, Jones doubted that they would find any useful trace evidence.
Motioning back toward the room’s only entrance, Jones asked how to exit the room.
“There’s another swipe card. Security keeps a log of everyone who enters or leaves the room.”
“What if you prop the door open? How do you get out if your swipe card isn’t working?”
“If you prop the door open, after about a minute an alarm sounds. Similarly, if for some reason you manage to swipe yourself in but can’t get out, you can press that green fire-alarm-style button to release the lock. That also triggers an alarm. Either way, Security come running and you get a serious bollocking.”
So it looked as though once you swiped in, you were in there until you swiped out again. With no more questions, Crawley led them back out into the warmth of the corridor. Jones removed his mobile phone from his suit jacket. Sutton answered within two rings.
“Tony, it’s Jones. Have you had any luck with the head of Security yet?”
“Just getting there, guv. We’re looking at the CCTV as we speak.”
“Good. Can you also see if you can obtain a printout for the day’s swipe-card access logs for the building’s main entrance and for Molecular Biology Suite One?”
Jones heard his request being relayed in a muffled voice, followed by a short reply, too indistinct to understand. “Shouldn’t be a problem, guv. I’ll call as soon as we have anything, Sutton out.”
Jones smiled slightly. Using mobile phones instead of radios was still a bit strange to older members of the force and so they had a tendency to resort to radio-speak when using them at work. Jones was no different. Susan had teased him for weeks after he had phoned her from the fish and chip shop one evening and ended the conversation with ‘over’.
That reminded him, he’d better call Susan when he had a few minutes. She was fairly understanding about his work commitments, but insisted that she should at least be given a rough idea of when he would be home. Quite how understanding she would be today was another question. One of the reasons for her parents’ visit was to celebrate Bernice’s birthday. The plan was for Susan and Warren to take Bernice and Dennis into Cambridge for an early dinner, followed by a play at the Corn Exchange. Warren prayed that he didn’t have to skip that, for then he would really be in the doghouse. As understanding as Susan was, an evening of frosty silence from her mother would not leave her in a good mood. Warren just hoped that the previous night’s red wine had been good enough to temper Bernice’s displeasure at his sudden departure.
With at least a couple of his questions answered, Jones suggested Crawley take them down to see the head of department. They were led back down the corridor in a thoughtful silence. Jones stared at the back of Crawley’s head, his mind whirring. He’d started the day with only one potential suspect. Now it would seem that there may be dozens of people with motives. He glanced over at Hardwick. Her brow was furrowed and she was clearly thinking hard. Jones looked forward to her thoughts. One question in particular troubled Jones.
Why was the professor in his office at ten p.m. on a Friday? And how had his killer known?
Chapter 4 (#ulink_2c907b68-d9f8-574a-a99a-56f2732f9e98)
The head of department’s office was on the ground floor, close to the main reception area where the three officers had entered earlier. The entrance to the head’s office was actually inside a larger office complex signed as ‘Department of Biology — Administration’. A long, narrow room, it occupied almost an entire side of the building and was filled with a half-dozen workstations. Each desk had a comfortable-looking office chair, a desktop PC, a telephone and in and out trays, some empty, others stuffed with paper. A bank of cryptically labelled filing cabinets lined the wall underneath a row of windows overlooking the car park. A large photocopier and an industrial-sized paper shredder filled the remaining gaps along the wall. Two laser printers sat on top of the filing cabinets, along with a box of white A4 photocopy paper. The empty room smelt of stale coffee and ozone from the photocopier. The office seemed representative of the building as a whole, decided Jones. Nineteen-sixties architecture, a couple of decades past its prime, struggling to do its job in a world that bore little resemblance to what the planners had envisioned.
The door to Professor Tompkinson’s office was right at the back of the office. An effort had been made to create a sort of waiting area, with a couple of comfy chairs lined up beneath the window. On the opposing side of the room a workstation sat facing the visitors; a name plate on the table read ‘Mrs C Gardner — PA to the HoD’.
Despite the shabbiness of the set-up, it reminded Jones a lot of the chief constable’s office. The logic of the layout there was to keep the boss away from the day-to-day grind, shielding him from unwanted visitors and time-wasters. The HoD’s PA was no doubt the guardian of the appointments calendar and probably a formidable obstacle. Jones himself tended to operate an open-door policy: if the door was open come straight in, no appointment necessary. If the door was closed ask Cathy, the secretary nearest to the office and Jones’ unofficial PA, if it was worth knocking or if it would be better to leave a message. He found himself wondering if Professor Tompkinson was an open-door or closed-door kind of boss.
At the moment, the door was closed. As the two officers waited by the comfy chairs Crawley knocked once and entered the office. A few seconds later he emerged. “Professor Tompkinson is on the phone. He’ll speak to you in a moment. I’d better get back to the lab and give those details to the constable.”
He left quickly.
With the door still closed, Jones turned quietly to his colleague.
“Impressions?”
Karen chewed her lip. She was clearly a little intimidated about being asked her opinion by someone as senior as Jones; nevertheless, she thought the question over carefully.
“Holding something back. He was definitely uncomfortable answering that last lot of questions. I reckon he knows more than he was letting on.”
Jones nodded in concurrence.
“Karen, you asked some interesting questions there — what was on your mind?” He was careful to phrase it as an invitation. Jones valued the instincts of his junior colleagues and encouraged their input more than some. The first DCI he had worked for had routinely told junior officers to remember that they had two ears and one gob, and to use them in that proportion. His aggressive attitude had made young constables nervous about voicing their opinions. Jones was convinced that more than one case could have been closed far faster if the crusty old detective had listened to his colleagues more. Fortunately, he had finally retired six months after Jones had joined CID and his replacement, Bob Windermere, had been the complete opposite. To this day, Jones still regarded him as something of a mentor and regularly sought his advice.
Karen Hardwick took the invitation.
“When I was back in uni, some of my friends were doing PhDs. More than one of them had a supervisor that they argued with. It could get pretty nasty. If this Professor Tunbridge is half as unpleasant and mean as Dr Crawley was saying, he could have given Tom Spencer a pretty good motive for his murder.”
Jones nodded encouragingly. He’d had the same thoughts himself.
“What about the questions on funding you were asking about?”
“Well, typically a student funded by a body like the Medical Research Council is given three years’ worth of funding for their project. That may be awarded directly to the student, but more typically it is part of a larger project grant that their PhD supervisor has successfully applied for. We’ll probably find that Tunbridge’s laboratory had a couple of large project grants running for several years and that his PhD students had studentships funded as part of the grant.”
Jones made a note to follow that up, thankful to the gut instinct that had caused him to choose Karen Hardwick to accompany him and Sutton. Her insider knowledge of the mysterious workings of university departments was proving invaluable.
“Anyhow, full-time students normally have funding for three years and are expected to submit their completed PhD thesis — an eighty-thousand-word dissertation — within four years.”
“What happens if they miss the deadline?” asked Sutton.
“In the worst-case scenario, I suppose they’d fail their degree.”
“You seemed to think it important that Spencer was reaching the end of his four years. Could Tunbridge have been stopping him submitting? Crawley did mention that Tunbridge had been harsh to students in the past over their dissertations.”
Hardwick shrugged. “I don’t know. We should definitely ask though, sir. We should also ask about Tom Spencer’s finances.”
“Oh? Why?”
“If he was towards the end of his four years, he was probably pretty skint. The three-year project funding also extends to the student’s living stipend. Students are usually told to save a bit of money during the three years so they can keep on paying the bills during their write-up period. Sometimes they can get some part-time teaching, but I knew PhD students who had to have bar jobs on top of their research just to make ends meet.”
“Well, that’s certainly a good enough motive,” Jones mused. “If Tunbridge was stopping Spencer from graduating, he could have been in trouble financially. I think we’ve got a few more questions to ask Mr Spencer later.”
Chapter 5 (#ulink_56d52096-993a-54b9-8b6c-939de55bbf35)
At first glance, Professor Tompkinson resembled a retired Geography teacher or librarian, Jones decided. Small and stooped, with generous ears and tiny spectacles perched on the end of his nose secured with a safety cord, he wore a grey woollen sweater, checked shirt and plain red tie. In addition, he was wearing a flat cap, as if he had just come in, although the empty coffee cups next to his phone suggested otherwise. Jones was unable to resist a surreptitious glance at the coat stand in the corner of the office and felt almost let down by the absence of a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.
“Please, do come in. I’m very sorry about you having to wait. The chancellor of the university was on the phone; he’s rather concerned about what happened last night.”
After offering them coffee, which the two officers declined, Tompkinson sat down behind his desk. “First of all, please let me make it absolutely clear that you will have the full co-operation of myself and this department in solving this terrible crime. The vice chancellor and the chancellor have also expressed their willingness to assist in any way.” He paused as if not quite sure how to proceed. “Ah, as you may be aware, Chief Inspector, the university will shortly be hosting a prestigious conference, with a number of high-profile guests.” Warren nodded. “We are a little concerned as to the impact any investigation would have on the smooth running of the conference and the implications such a violent attack may have for the university’s reputation. As such, we would appreciate it if you were able to keep us fully informed of the progress of your investigation.” His piece said, he sat back in his chair.
As he did so Jones noticed that the man’s hands shook slightly. Why? Was he nervous? It seemed unlikely — the professor was clearly a man used to moving in political circles. The presence of a police officer, even one investigating a murder, would be unlikely to unnerve him enough to give him the shakes. Jones made a mental note to check for an alibi. Perhaps he was just wired from too much caffeine.
“Of course, I fully understand, Professor. As soon as we have any information that we are ready to make public I will ensure that the university is informed.”
Tompkinson’s eyes narrowed slightly at Jones’ careful wordplay, but he said nothing, merely nodding acceptance. Jones carefully maintained his poker face, but inside he was satisfied that he had discreetly but firmly laid out the ground rules — the investigation would be run on Jones’ terms and his terms alone.
With the lines drawn and the rules of play established, Jones decided to start off with a little fishing to see what the professor volunteered, before getting down to specifics.
“Tell me, Professor, how well did you know Professor Tunbridge?”
“I suppose I’ve known Alan for about twenty-five years, to a greater or lesser extent. We were postdocs here back in the day, before we went our separate ways for a few years. Eventually, we both found our way back here and set up our own labs. We work in different fields, so we never collaborated. Nevertheless, this isn’t a huge department, so we got to know each other as colleagues. As we became more senior and gained our chairs — professorships — we obviously spent time together on committees.”
Jones nodded. “I see. And how would you say you were on a personal level?”
Tompkinson took his glasses off, and polished them on his tie, frowning. The two officers waited in silence.
Finally, Tompkinson replaced his glasses and let out a weary sigh.
“There’s no point sugar-coating it, I suppose. Alan was a hard man to like. He had an abrasive personality and didn’t suffer fools gladly. He was also arrogant, domineering and bullying, yet strangely petty at the same time. He was a genius, no question. But I can’t really think of anyone that I would describe as a close friend of his.”
Jones repressed a sigh. It seemed that the motives, and thus by extension the suspects, were stacking up.
“Alan and I had a lot of arguments, particularly when I became Head of Department. We butted heads frequently over all manner of policies. Pretty much any decision I made, Alan would question and because he was who he was, often the VC — the vice chancellor — would overrule my decisions and go with Alan’s. Sometimes I wondered who the hell the head of department was, me or him?”
“So do you think Tunbridge was after your job?” Was that a big enough motive, Jones mused, for murder?
Tompinkson let out a bark of laughter.
“Oh, dear God, no, you misunderstand completely. The last thing Alan would want is the hassle that goes with being the head of department, far too much pen-pushing and meetings. No, Alan was a research scientist through and through. He hated any type of ‘admin bollocks’ as he called it.
“No, Alan would far rather be the power behind the throne. He’d let me and others sweat out all of the details in meetings and just swan in at the last minute. The bugger probably only attended one departmental meeting in three and he was only one of a dozen or more faculty members, yet barely a major decision has been made in five years that Alan didn’t have a hand in.”
“Forgive me, Professor, but so far we haven’t heard a good word about Professor Tunbridge. Some of the behaviours that he has been accused of sound suspiciously close to gross misconduct. Violent rows with postdocs, students reporting him for bullying, constructive dismissal claims and an alleged affair with an undergraduate student. Yet it seems that he hasn’t been subject to any disciplinary action at all. Why is that, Professor?”
Tompkinson looked embarrassed. “You’re right, of course, Chief Inspector. Much of what Alan did was unacceptable. Particularly the way he treated that poor undergraduate — getting her pregnant and then making her get rid of the baby left a bad taste in my mouth. You just can’t act like that. But, senior management decided that it would be in everyone’s best interest if we hushed it up. After all, she was a consenting adult. It’s not like any laws were broken.”
Jones blinked; beside him he felt Hardwick stiffen. Tunbridge had got an undergraduate student pregnant? And then had it hushed up? Tompkinson had blithely admitted it, clearly assuming that if they knew about the affair, they must know about the pregnancy. Why hadn’t Crawley mentioned it? If he was to be believed, he was Tunbridge’s trouble shooter, stepping in after his boss to clear up the former’s mess. Surely he had known about it. Was he trying to protect Tunbridge’s memory? Unlikely, given the way he’d trashed the man’s reputation for the past half an hour. What about the young woman’s? Was he trying to protect her dignity? That seemed a little more likely, Jones decided. And what about his discomfort over questions about Tom Spencer’s finances? Was he trying to protect him as well?
“Could you give me the young lady’s name, please? I think we should speak to her.”
Tompkinson looked a bit uncomfortable. “Is that really necessary, DCI Jones She went through rather a lot. We decided that a fresh start was best for her. I’d rather we didn’t open old wounds.”
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I really must insist. Better that you give me the details discreetly, here and now, than I have to conduct enquiries.”
Tompkinson sighed.
“The young lady’s name was Clara Hemmingway. She’s a current student, so student services will have all of her details. She was assigned to Alan, along with three other students, after choosing Microbial Genetics as one of her essay preferences. This would have been back in November. It’s a long-standing tradition at the university, designed to bring undergraduate students into contact with the research side of the university. They get a tour of the lab and we even pay for them to go out to lunch with the lab members and encourage them to discuss their lab’s work and findings.
“Sometimes students even manage to get summer jobs or internships with the lab later in their course. To the best of my knowledge, Miss Hemmingway has not had any work experience with the lab, but she certainly made an impression!” His laugh was bitter and his expression suggested that he found the situation far from amusing.
“Thank you, Professor. Now, back to the original question. Why was Professor Tunbridge allowed to behave in the way he did, seemingly with no consequences?”
Tompkinson leant back slightly, before sweeping his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. Again, that nervous tremor.
“Look around you, Officers. This is the University of Middle England, not Oxford or Cambridge.” Seeing their uncomprehending gazes, he leant forward.
“How much do you know about university funding? Are you familiar with the Research Assessment Exercise?”
Seeing their shaking heads, Tompkinson adopted a professorial air — appropriately enough, thought Jones.
“Funding for UK universities comes from many different sources, but broadly it can be categorised in two ways. There is specific funding for a specific project. The university and individuals bid for grants from a wide-range of different funding bodies. Some are governmental, such as the Medical Research Council or the Biotechnology and Biological Sciences Research Council, others might be charitable, such as the Wellcome Trust or Cancer Research UK. These grants may be a few thousand pounds to fund a series of particular experiments; a few hundred thousand pounds to run a research project and employ staff and students or tens of millions to build a new research centre.”
He gestured around the office. “Then there is the more general funding that is used to pay for teaching, maintain our research facilities and run our administrative departments. This comes from central government. You may have heard about the proposed cuts in higher education funding?” Nods all round. “This is the budget that the government is slashing.
“The problem is the way the funding is allocated. Every five years or so, universities undergo a Research Assessment Exercise — an audit if you will. They grade us based upon the quality of our research. The key measure that they use is whether our research is ‘world-leading’. Those departments that are judged to be ‘world-leading’ are rewarded by a bigger bite of the funding cherry than those that aren’t.”
Tompkinson leant forward, taking his glasses off again, his voice becoming heated.
“We produce some bloody good research, damn it. But we are a small university. The RAE is intrinsically biased against smaller institutions like us. Alan Tunbridge was our biggest name. His work is internationally recognised and he is one of the world’s leading authorities on antibiotics. We simply can’t, or rather couldn’t, afford to lose him. Academia is a dog-eat-dog world and top-flight researchers are constantly being poached by other institutions. Oxford, Cambridge, UCL, Manchester, Warwick and Liverpool have all tried to woo him in the past few years that I know of. And that’s just this country. Harvard, Johns Hopkins, The Pasteur Institute…they’ve all had a go as well. Gold-plated salaries, state-of-the-art laboratories, the promise of no teaching…they’ve offered him far more than we ever could. So we couldn’t afford to piss him off in case one day he’d turn around and say, ‘I’ve had enough, I’m off to Oxford.’ So whatever Alan wanted, Alan got. And within reason, we let him get away with bloody murder. Sorry, poor choice of words.”
Tompkinson now leant back, the passion leaving him.
“So why did Tunbridge stay? No offence, but the University of Middle England is hardly a household name. Surely working in Cambridge or Oxford would have been hard to resist. Why would Tunbridge stay here?”
Tompkinson shrugged. “A good question. Why does anybody stay in a place? I have thought about it over the years and I think it was for a number of different reasons.”
He held up his hand, ticking the points off one at a time. Again, Jones noticed the man’s hands shaking. His voice seemed calm and confident, however.
“First of all, the comfort factor. Alan’s been here for years. Despite his travelling, I think he regards this part of the world as home. He and his wife bought a lovely house at exactly the right time, years ago. You’d never get anything close to it at today’s prices in places like Oxford or London.
“Second, the hassle. Moving laboratories is a big deal. Even with professional movers and managers, it’s a logistical nightmare. Even the best-planned laboratory moves can knock you back six months. And what about his staff? How many would go with him? Mark Crawley, his experimental officer, has a wife and kids — would he be likely to up sticks? Even moving to Cambridge might mean an unacceptable commute for some staff.
“Third, he likes being the big fish in the small pond. I’ve already told you about how much influence he has here. You can’t paint the toilets here without Alan’s say-so. No other institute is going to let him have that much power without the responsibility, least of all Oxbridge. And in terms of stature, he might have got a Nobel one day — but in Cambridge he’d be working alongside people who were invited to Sweden when Alan was still doing his university finals.
“Finally, Alan was almost certainly going to go commercial with his work within the next couple of years. You may have seen in the paper that the university just broke ground on a new incubator building. Brand-new state-of-the-art facilities and expertise designed to support new start-up companies. He’d have been first in line for one of those new labs and the university would have been happy to help him commercialise his work. He’d probably have kept his lab over here doing basic research — which would have been good for us in the RAE — whilst all his commercial work would have migrated to the incubator building.”
Jones nodded; on the face of it, Tunbridge’s reasons for staying seemed plausible.
“Forgive me, Professor, but it would seem that a number of people have motives for wishing Tunbridge was dead, not least yourself.” Jones watched Tompkinson very carefully, gauging his reaction to the implied accusation.
Tompkinson smiled, almost in amusement.
“I am well aware that some might see me as having a motive for Alan’s death. And I’m certainly honest enough to admit that my life would have been a lot easier over the past few years without him second-guessing me and breathing down my neck. But believe me, Chief Inspector, if I’d wanted to kill him it would have happened a long time ago. Besides which, it no longer matters. In two months I retire. I’m hanging up my lab coat. Frankly, I was looking forward to a quiet last few weeks wrapping up a few personal projects and making sure that my research group are ready to move on. The last thing I need is this.”
Jones wasn’t convinced.
“I can see your point, Professor. However, sometimes unexpected things happen; arguments flare up, old grudges simmer until they reach boiling point. In fact, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look a little young to be retiring. Did Professor Tunbridge have any influence in that decision?”
Tompkinson laughed, a short bark.
“The man had influence, but he wasn’t God! No, Alan Tunbridge had nothing to do with my retirement. If anything, he’d probably have liked me to stay in the job, since whoever replaces me will probably be less of a pushover. No, it’s probably genetics and bad luck that is forcing me out.”
Noting the police officers’ blank looks, he held out his hands.
“I’m sure that trained observers such as yourself have noticed that my hands shake. I’m afraid that it isn’t nervousness, too much coffee or the after-effects of a good night out. I’ve got Parkinson’s disease.”
He took off his hat, revealing an almost entirely hairless scalp, bisected by an angry-looking red scar.
“I was diagnosed a few years ago. The symptoms were kept in check for a while by drugs, but as I’m sure you know it’s a progressive disease. A year or so ago I had deep-brain stimulation.” He gestured at the scar. “Unfortunately it’s had little effect. Maybe if this had happened a decade or so from now I would have phoned a few old colleagues and seen if I could wangle a place on a clinical trial for stem cell therapy, but it’s a little too early for that yet.”
He sighed regretfully. “Since the beginning of the year it’s been obvious that I am going downhill pretty fast. The shakes are getting worse. I daren’t go near any of my students’ work in case I have an accident and wipe out six months’ research. Most days I slur my speech and nod my head constantly, but I’ve learnt how to regulate my medication, to ‘overdose’ on days that I need to speak more clearly or move more carefully. My GP doesn’t recommend it, of course, since the pills have side effects, but a lot of patients do it. Anyway, I decided a few months ago that enough was enough. The university has been very understanding and I’ve managed to secure a fairly generous pension. My wife and I are going to move to the South of France to be near our daughter and enjoy the grandkids whilst I still can.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. The man’s story would need to be checked out, of course, and nothing he had said would make it impossible for him to be involved in Tunbridge’s death, but Jones mentally moved him to the ‘unlikely’ list.
“I see. Well, leaving aside yourself, it would seem that there are still a fair number of people with a motive for killing Professor Tunbridge. I would like to ask you a bit about some of the members of his laboratory. First, Thomas Spencer.”
“Ah, so those rumours are true. I heard that Mr Spencer had been arrested at the scene. Covered in blood, I heard.” The Professor looked excited. Not an unusual reaction, noted Warren — the popularity of crime drama on TV and in best-selling fiction was a testimony to the fascination of the general public when it came to crime. And, of course, the more lurid and salacious, the better. It would seem that news was spreading fast, probably aided by the security guards present at the scene. The building’s virtual lock-down wouldn’t go unnoticed either, as the various Saturday workers were turned away at the door. Nevertheless it was important to make sure that any information was accurate, particularly when the press turned up. Which would probably be any moment now, Jones realised.
“Mr Spencer found the body and is currently assisting in our enquiries. We would greatly appreciate your help in ensuring that any information that gets passed to the press is accurate and won’t compromise the investigation.”
Looking suitably chastened, the professor nodded.
“Of course. Well, in anticipation of your interest, I took the liberty of pulling Mr Spencer’s file. I had only just started to read it when the chancellor phoned. But, there is a slight problem. If, as you say, Mr Spencer is merely helping with your enquiries I am afraid that, under the Data Protection Act, I cannot let you look at his file without a warrant.”
Shit. Bloody lawyers.
“I fully understand, Professor, and I will have no problem getting a warrant. Indeed I will be getting one issued as a matter of course to assist in our investigation. However, it will take some time for a warrant to be signed. In the meantime, we could well have a killer on the loose.”
The older man licked his lips nervously. Jones could see the conflict in his eyes. It was obvious that the man genuinely wanted to help the police and was almost as frustrated as Jones that bureaucracy was threatening to get in the way. Unfortunately, under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, any information that Jones saw might well be inadmissible in a court of law unless he had that warrant.
Of course there was a compromise and Tompkinson was an intelligent enough man to see it.
“What if I were to allow you to take a peek at the information, informally of course, and then if you found anything of interest you could then read it officially after having shown me the warrant?”
Jones suppressed a smile. He didn’t need to look at Hardwick to know that she too had been hoping for the offer. “Thank you, Professor, that will be most useful.”
The file was rather thick, Jones noticed. As if reading his mind, Tompkinson gestured into the main office.
“You are welcome to photocopy the file once you have the warrant, to read it at your own leisure, but in the meantime what if you tell me what you are looking for?”
“Well, first of all, how well do you know the lad?”
“Not at all well, I’m afraid. In fact although his name rang a bell, I couldn’t recall his appearance. I do recognise him though, now that I have seen his picture in his file. I have probably said a few words to him at the Christmas party or the summer barbecue, but his work is too different from my own and his lab too far away for me to have spoken to him much.”
“Well, why don’t you tell us a bit about his background?”
Slipping his glasses back on, Tompkinson flicked through the pages of the file.
“OK, I have his original application form. Thomas Michael Spencer. Born June twenty-sixth 1985. Parents’ address is given as Stockport, although this file is four years old now and that address may not be current. You would need to speak to Student Services to find out the address he lives at when he studies. He’s listed as unmarried, ethnicity white British, no disabilities, sexual orientation heterosexual.” He looked up, slightly embarrassed. “Equality monitoring. World’s gone bloody mad. Again, you will need to speak to Student Services to check if that’s up to date. For the marital status that is, obviously his ethnicity hasn’t changed or his sexual orientation… actually I suppose that could have changed and he could have had some sort of accident…sorry. Where was I?” He cleared his throat.
“Ah, yes, well, Mr Spencer joined us in October 2007, having got an upper-second-class degree from Sheffield University. He worked, as you know, in Alan Tunbridge’s group and was directly supervised by Mark Crawley.”
Tompkinson leafed through a few more pages.
“OK, so he passed his first year with distinction, with the recommendation that he be allowed to transfer onto the PhD course.” Tompkinson paused and backtracked slightly. “It is common practice for students to be registered for a Master’s in Philosophy initially — an MPhil — and then transfer to a Doctor of Philosophy, PhD, after the production of a satisfactory first-year report, roughly equivalent to a master’s dissertation. It’s a safeguard that allows students who don’t wish to continue their studies to graduate with something.”
“And Spencer was passed with distinction? Who examines the dissertation?”
“The report is marked initially by the student’s supervisor, in this case Tunbridge, and then passed on to two other members of faculty, who will also verbally examine the student to make certain that it is their own work etc. Alan signed off on it and then Professors Abdullah Omara and Jennifer Stokes marked it formally as a distinction.”
“So he was a promising student?”
“It would seem so.” Tompkinson leafed through a few more pages. “Here is his second-year report. This time it’s the result of a verbal meeting between the student and the faculty advisor. Jenny Stokes reported that Spencer was progressing well in his research and was confident that he would be in a position to start writing up within the next twelve months. Alan Tunbridge again signed off on the report, saying that Spencer had made sufficient progress and that with hard work he would be in a position to write up within twelve months. Neither Jenny, Alan or Mr Spencer reported any concerns, either publicly or confidentially.”
Tompkinson carried on reading.
“Oh. This is his mid-third-year report.” He adjusted his glasses again and peered over them, a gesture that Jones was starting to recognise as his ‘teaching pose’.
“Standard full-time PhD courses, such as the one that Spencer was enrolled on, are funded for three years by the funding council, in this case the MRC. The expectation is that students complete their research, write it up and submit at the end of those three years. Either way, they stop being funded and they are no longer paid. In reality, we have found that most students take about three and a half years to finish and write up. The funding councils get very antsy if they don’t submit in four years and can penalise the university. So about halfway through the third year we start progression-to-submission meetings.
“Mr Spencer, at this point, was still working full time on his research, but was confident that he would be completed within the next few months and written up by the beginning of his fourth year. That’s fairly typical. Alan has signed the bottom to say he agrees. No further action required.”
He turned the page.
“Three months from the three-year deadline. Spencer is still working full time. Some experiments have had to be repeated. He will start writing up when they are completed. Signed by Alan.”
Another page.
“Three-year deadline. Spencer is still repeating key experiments. He agrees to submit a first couple of chapters of his thesis to Alan for checking by the end of the month. Both sign the form.”
Another sheet of A4.
“Hmm. This is three months later. Spencer has started another set of experiments. He has submitted his first two chapters, which Alan has signed off as satisfactory. However, he requested a confidential meeting with Jenny Stokes where he expressed concern that Alan was insisting that he complete more research and won’t accept the conclusions of a paper that he has written for the Journal of Bacteriology. Jenny advises him to follow Alan’s advice for the time being.”
Jones sat up a little straighter. “So Spencer and Tunbridge had an argument.”
Tompkinson waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.
“I wouldn’t read too much into that, Inspector. Disagreements between PhD students and their supervisors aren’t uncommon at this stage. In fact there is an old saying that your PhD supervisor is the first person that you have a truly professional argument with. It’s almost a rite of passage. Strange as it may seem, but at this stage Mr Spencer will probably be the world’s leading expert on that one tiny facet of his research. He will have lived and breathed his project for the past three years and so will be very possessive of his work.”
Tompkinson’s eyes misted over and he smiled slightly. “It’s been thirty years but I remember the arguments with my PhD supervisor like they were yesterday. Of course, my prof was right and his decision to force me to delay publication of my first paper was absolutely correct. In the end it was published in a far more prestigious journal than it would have been otherwise. At the time though I thought the old bastard was past it and nearly walked out. I went to his eightieth birthday a couple of years ago and he still teased me about it.”
Jones nodded silently, but filed the information away nevertheless. Crawley had suggested that Tunbridge had a reputation for being possessive about his lab’s research. Could this have been enough to provoke Spencer to kill him? And why hadn’t he mentioned this when they spoke to him earlier?
Tompkinson flipped over another couple of pages.
“Here is his three-and-a-half-year meeting. Spencer is still working in the lab and has not submitted any more chapters. The head of Graduate Studies, Professor Davidson, has put Spencer on his ‘cause for concern list’ and scheduled a meeting with Alan, Jenny and Mr Spencer.”
He turned over the page.
“The outcome of the meeting is that Alan did not feel that Mr Spencer had fully proven his hypothesis and recommended a number of further studies to back up his claims. Spencer has agreed to do the studies and Jenny has agreed to meet regularly with him to ensure that he keeps on track. They also agreed upon a schedule to write up the less contentious parts of Mr Spencer’s thesis.” Tompkinson turned to two pieces of paper stapled to the current page. “Professor Davidson and Professor Stokes have both written private memoranda commenting on the tense atmosphere between Tunbridge and Spencer. Jenny has spoken to Mark Crawley and asked him to keep an eye on the situation.”
“Is that sort of thing normal?”
Tompkinson looked a little embarrassed. “A complete breakdown in the relationship between a student and his supervisor is rare but not unprecedented, and of course Alan had a reputation for being a little…difficult, shall we say? Mark Crawley is Tom Spencer’s immediate line manager and is used to Alan’s ways.”
“I see.”
Tompkinson continued flicking through the folder.
“It seems that Spencer unsuccessfully applied for a hardship grant from the Student Welfare Office. They don’t usually help students who are in their fourth year unless something exceptional has happened. However, they did promise to try and arrange some more teaching and demonstrating hours for him.”
So, pissed off and broke? The motives were certainly stacking up against Spencer. Again, why hadn’t Crawley mentioned this? Jones knew that at times like this a person’s loyalties were torn. Crawley might well have been trying to protect Spencer, not because he felt that Spencer was guilty, but because he felt responsible for the lad and didn’t want to cause him any trouble. On the flipside, he’d shown no such loyalty to the postdoc Severino. Why? Mark Crawley was worth a second visit, Jones decided.
“What is Spencer’s current situation?”
Tompkinson flicked forward to the last page of the folder.
“He’s coming up on four years. He needs to have submitted by October first at the latest. Apparently he submitted several more draft chapters, all of which Tunbridge accepted. However there is still some disagreement over the final results.”
“What happens if he misses the deadline?”
“Well, there are a couple of options.” To emphasise his point, Tompkinson held out a hand, counting off the fingers. “First, he misses the deadline and has to apply to the Board of Graduate Studies for an extension. They have to consider the university’s standing with the funding agencies as well as what is best for Mr Spencer.
“Second, they decide to simply ditch the disputed work and write up what he has completed for submission. That’ll depend on how critical the work is to the thesis.”
Another finger. Warren wondered if it was just his imagination — now that he was looking out for it — or was Tompkinson’s hand trembling more?
“Third, he could well fail the PhD. In which case we would probably submit his earlier work and examine him for an MPhil.”
“How big a blow would that be to him?”
“Catastrophic. The thing with PhDs is you only get a single bite of the cherry. He could very well end up in debt, with a four-year hole in his work history and bugger all to show for it. It would almost certainly hamper his career. He could massage his CV a bit, claim that he went for MPhil then stayed on and did more research, but it probably wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny in a job interview.”
So Spencer certainly had a motive. The question was, was it enough to make him snap? Warren was looking forward more and more to this afternoon’s scheduled interview.
“Moving on, another name that has been mentioned this morning was that of Dr Antonio Severino. What can you tell us about him?”
Tompkinson sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing them for a few moments before replacing them, something that Jones was starting to associate with the professor being forced to answer unpleasant questions.
“Another of Alan’s diplomatic triumphs.” The irony of the statement was clearly masking a genuine irritation and anger at his former colleague.
“Officially, Dr Severino is taking overdue holiday whilst he waits for the renewal or otherwise of his contract.”
“And unofficially?”
“Alan got rid of him. He claims that Severino had completed the project for which he was originally employed and that his services were no longer required.”
“What about the disagreement over the publication of Severino’s findings?”
“Again, officially the papers are ‘in preparation’ with other members of the lab finishing their part of the project. Unofficially, Severino’s contribution to the overall manuscript was so great that Tunbridge would struggle to justify his position as lead author. Alan was pretty tight-lipped about the results from this particular research, but the rumour mill has it that they had solved several significant problems in the field of antibiotic resistance. I suspect that Alan was going to use the interest garnered by the publication of the research to kick-start his search for funding to start his own company, with him as boss. The last thing he’d want is to share the limelight with someone else. Based on gossip in the tea room, Alan was probably going to split Severino’s work into two separate manuscripts and dilute his influence by padding out the papers with other results from the lab. That way he could retain first authorship on both papers. In the meantime, Severino has practically nothing on his CV to account for the past two years of work, making him almost unemployable.”
“Is that ethical?”
“Absolutely not. But try and prove it. Severino did lodge a formal complaint with the university — and was no doubt planning on writing to the editor of whatever journal Alan finally submitted to — but it would have been his word against Alan’s and he wouldn’t have stood much chance.”
“How did Severino take this?” Jones had already heard Crawley’s version of events; he was interested to see if Tompkinson agreed.
“Badly. Apparently they had it out in the corridor and he very nearly got himself escorted off the premises. From what I’ve heard he made a beeline straight for the pub, before returning rather the worse for wear a few hours later and vandalising Alan’s car. Security prevented him from entering the building to find Alan.”
“So what happened then?”
“Alan was livid and wanted him arrested for criminal damage. However a few of his colleagues in the department calmed him down enough to agree not to press charges as it was in nobody’s interest to see it splashed across the newspapers. Mark Crawley brokered a peace deal in the end and I believe that Severino agreed to work out his notice from home and pay for the damage. In return, I think Alan agreed to let Mark write any job references that came his way.” Tompkinson shook his head. “I don’t know how he does it. Mark’s been with the bugger for over ten years. That man deserves a bloody medal.”
So far at least, it seemed that Tompkinson’s story matched Crawley’s, although Jones still wanted to speak to Crawley again about the omissions he had made earlier.
“Do you know of anyone else who may have harboured a grudge against Professor Tunbridge? I hear that other lab members have also left on bad terms. What about other current members of his lab?”
Tompkinson chewed his lip thoughtfully. As he did so his head twitched forward and backward slightly and his hands, which were now resting in front of him, tapped out a rhythmless tune. Time for more medication? Warren wondered. As if noticing Jones’ scrutiny, Tompkinson clasped his hands together tightly, arresting the tremors.
“You’d need to speak to them, I would imagine. Personnel can give you the details of all the current and former members of the lab. As to whether any still bear a grudge, that’s hard to say. He did have two technicians speak to their unions about a constructive dismissal case concerning alleged bullying. However they decided not to pursue the case after finding better-compensated work elsewhere in the department.”
“You bought them off?”
Tompkinson’s shrug was non-committal. “They found a better position and decided it wasn’t worth their time and effort to pursue the case.”
I’ll bet the unions were annoyed about that! thought Jones, but said nothing.
“I believe that he also had run-ins with some of his other graduate students, although nothing serious enough to cross my desk.”
Jones made a quick note to get onto Personnel and Student Services to find out their details. His list of potential suspects and people to interview was growing longer and longer.
Karen Hardwick had remained silent throughout most of the interview, but Jones could see that she had been paying close attention.
“What will happen to Professor Tunbridge’s research group, now that he is gone?”
“A tricky question. This has never really happened before. A few years ago a young Principal Investigator was tragically killed on holiday. However, he only had a single PhD student and a research technician. The student moved into another lab, taking enough of the lab’s funding to complete his project. The research technician was also redeployed and the research group was wound up. It was a bit messy for a few weeks, but it all sorted itself out.
“Alan’s lab is another matter. For a start it’s much larger and it has rather a lot of allocated funding. I suppose there will have to be a meeting of all of those concerned. In the interim at least, the lab will probably continue running under Mark Crawley. The students will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis — some may go and work in different laboratories with like-minded research groups, others may continue to work with Mark. As to the long-term, the funding agencies and the university will have to decide what happens.”
So, it seemed as though Crawley might be the heir apparent to the research group after all. Would he want it, though, or would it be, as he’d claimed, a weight of responsibility he could do without? A point for future consideration, Jones decided.
“Well, thank you for your time, Professor. We may need to ask you a few more questions in the future. In the meantime, could you speak to your Personnel and Student Services department and let them know that we will be asking to see your records?”
“Of course. I suspect I’ll be in here all day if you want to contact me. But I’m surprised that you are leaving so soon.”
Jones blinked in surprise. “I’m not sure I see what you are getting at.”
“Well, it would seem that you have missed the most obvious motive, Chief Inspector.”
“Oh? What might that be, then?”
“Well, money, of course.”
Jones blinked in surprise.
“Money? How would killing Professor Tunbridge make his killer rich? Was Professor Tunbridge particularly wealthy?”
“No, at least not that I know of. However, Alan’s work was potentially very lucrative.”
“So, tell me about Professor Tunbridge’s research and why you think it provides a motive.”
Tompkinson took off his glasses and polished them again, before replacing them and resuming his ‘teacher pose’.
“Where to start? OK, to fully appreciate how big a motive this is, you need to understand some basic science. I’m sure that you’ve heard about the problems with bacteria becoming resistant to antibiotics? So-called ‘hospital superbugs’ such as MRSA, resistant to even the strongest of antibiotics?” Jones and Hardwick both nodded.
“Well, the problem cannot be over-stated. There are strains of Staphylococcus aureus, the bacterium that MRSA stems from, that are resistant to all commonly used antibiotics, even the so-called ‘last resort’ drugs such as vancomycin. Let me be clear, here. If you develop an infection from this strain of bacteria, you will die. And it’s not just hospital superbugs. Extreme Drug-Resistant Tuberculosis, or XDRTB, is now being seen in TB hotspots around the globe. The current vaccination against TB, the BCG, is woefully poor and it’ll be years before the latest version comes online. TB is spread by coughing and sneezing. Regular TB still kills millions of people each year. Without antibiotics to kill off the infection, the death rate will soar. These days, a person with TB can pick it up on one side of the world and cough and sneeze his way across the globe in twenty-four hours, infecting everyone he comes in contact with. Can you imagine what it would be like if the strain that the person was carrying was XDRTB?”
Jones tried to imagine such a scenario and felt a cold chill sweep over him.
“Of course, drug companies are trying to develop new antibiotics as we speak. however the speed at which bacteria can become resistant to these drugs is frightening. Did you know that the first antibiotic, penicillin, was first used to treat patients in the 1940s yet within four years cases of resistant bacteria were reported? By the 1960s it was present in hospitals and by the end of the 1990s almost forty per cent of Staphylococcus bacteria were resistant. Since penicillin’s discovery, dozens of different antibiotics have been discovered — almost all of which are now resisted by bacteria. Some of those antibiotics were rendered all but useless within ten years. Because of that, there is actually less incentive for drugs companies to invest in new antibiotics.”
“Huh? You’ve lost me, Professor. Surely with such a need for new antibiotics, whoever discovers a new one stands to make a fortune!”
Tompkinson smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. It takes up to a billion US dollars and anything up to fifteen years to develop a new drug. The success rate from good idea to pharmacy counter is tiny. The vast majority of potential drugs are eliminated in the early stages of development because they don’t work or have unacceptable side effects. Drug research is an incredible gamble, with the pay-off being massive exclusive sales in the years before the patent expires after which everyone and his uncle can use your research to make your drug at a fraction of the cost and undercut you. Because of that, pharmaceutical firms favour drugs that will recoup that investment. They like to play safe. So what’s the point of spending a billion dollars developing a new antibiotic that ninety per cent of bugs are going to be resistant to before you’ve even made your investment back?”
The question hung in the air.
Scratching his head and trying to keep up, Jones asked the obvious.
“So where is the motive, then? Presumably anyone stealing his idea would still have to spend millions doing the safety trials. I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but I seem to recall from an article in some Sunday supplement that the bulk of the cost of developing a drug lies with the safety testing. Who is going to murder the prof over something that won’t make them any money?”
The professor nodded.
“You are quite right, of course. As regards the bacteria acquiring resistance, rumour has it Professor Tunbridge had solved that particular conundrum.”
“He’s developed a multi-pronged attack to delay the onset of antibiotic resistance, hasn’t he?”
The question was blurted out from DC Hardwick.
Tompkinson nodded enthusiastically as if praising a favourite student.
“Very good. I see that you know something about this, Constable. Did you study at university before joining the police?”
She nodded, confidence buoyed somewhat by the praise.
“Yes, sir. I did a Molecular Biology degree and we learnt a lot about antibiotic resistance. You mentioned that Professor Tunbridge was planning on going commercial with his work — is this what you meant?”
“Yes, ‘Trident Antibacterials’ was the name he was considering. Alan was just starting to put out feelers for potential backers. It was all very hush-hush, of course. I believe that he was in the process of protecting the work with patents before he went public. The word on the grapevine is that he had successfully developed a drug system that attacked three unrelated drug targets simultaneously. The theory is that whilst the odds of one bacterium developing a chance mutation that renders the cell resistant to an antibiotic is fairly good when you consider the trillions of bacterial cells that will be treated over time, the likelihood of all three targets being thwarted simultaneously is infinitesimal. Even if a cell becomes resistant to one or even two of the methods of attack, the remaining drug target will still remain viable.”
“So you are saying that Tunbridge’s murder may have been, for want of a better word, industrial espionage?”
Tompkinson shrugged. “I would say it’s a possibility.”
“Who would benefit from his death, then, and how?”
“I suppose the most obvious candidate would be a rival pharmaceutical company. The idea of a multi-pronged attack isn’t in itself brand new. I’ve no doubt that dozens of laboratories around the world are working on similar approaches. Stopping Tunbridge from launching Trident would buy them time.”
“Murder seems a bit extreme. Why not just buy him out? If the stakes are as high as you say they are, surely somebody could just throw a few million quid his way to sell them his work, or even offer him a job in their company to finish it with them.”
“That may well have happened. However, knowing Alan as I do, working for another company wouldn’t appeal to his ego. For Alan, being the CEO of his own company that produced this miracle cure would be the ultimate goal. He was a huge self-publicist and he’d have relished the idea of a four-page spread in New Scientist or even the front cover of a major news magazine such as Time. In terms of money, if he wanted to sell his work, then he’d make much more if he was able to sell a fully working product. If it is as successful as he wanted it to be — and it is still a big if — he could float Trident on the stock exchange or even license it to the highest bidder. In this case we could be talking hundreds of millions, if not billions.”
“What about the research that he has already published? Surely, the cat’s out of the bag now. Isn’t it just a question of time before somebody else follows his work? What about the other members of his lab? Surely, if they got together they could assemble the pieces and finish the work?”
“Perhaps one day, but you have to realise how controlling Alan was. He still performed some of his own research. That’s rare — most professors of his standing haven’t wielded a pipette in anger for years. I would imagine that the central piece of the jigsaw is all Alan’s own work and he probably hasn’t shared his data with anybody else. I fear that when Alan died, Trident died with him. And with him millions of people who could have been saved from a horrible death.”
Chapter 6 (#ulink_2414c424-5f2f-58ab-8f4b-62274f2b9e2c)
As Jones and Hardwick left Professor Tompkinson’s office they were met by a young PC. “Sir, DI Sutton has found something at the main campus security office he thinks you should see.”
Motioning for the young man to lead on, Jones and Hardwick followed him out of the Biology building into the bright sunlight. “Main campus Security is just along here, sir, a few minutes’ walk.”
The temperature had picked up a little now, but the air was still fresh. In a couple of hours it would be too warm for his suit jacket, Warren judged. Impatient to see what Sutton had discovered, he walked as briskly as possible, arriving at the small building slightly out of breath, his calf muscles aching. His more youthful colleagues, he noticed with mild shame, seemed to have taken the rapid pace completely in their stride, so to speak.
You’re getting old, Warren. Too much time behind a desk, not enough time on the beat, he admonished himself.
The campus security centre was a nondescript building, tucked away next to the library on a busy main road. Seeing them arrive, Sutton opened the door to let them in. In his hand he held a sheaf of printed sheets of A4 paper. He was clearly excited; even his customary smirk was absent. As quickly as was polite he introduced Jones to Terry Raworth, Head of Security. A solidly built man his ram-rod straight bearing and no-nonsense attitude suggesting either ex-police or former military. Noting the tattoos on the backs of his wrists as they shook hands, Jones decided upon ex-military. Tattoos hadn’t been encouraged in the police back when this man would have been serving and it seemed unlikely that a retired copper would suddenly develop an interest in body art.
Raworth led them through the back into the main control room. It was small and cramped, one whole wall given over to banks of black and white TV screens, with digital video recorders blinking below. An ancient desktop computer sat on a rickety desk, its fan wheezing loudly. The air was close, smelling of stale coffee and unwashed bodies. Sitting on an even more rickety-looking plastic chair in front of the monitors was another man, similar in age although without Raworth’s military demeanour.
“What have we got, Inspector?”
“First things, first — it looks as though Spencer is off the hook. The security logs for the PCR room show him swiping in at 21:05 hours. He remained in there until 22:13, six minutes before he reported the murder. Coroner reckons the time of death was about 21:30 to 22:00 at the latest. Furthermore, if he’d done it, he’d have been covered with a lot more blood. I can’t see how he could have killed the professor, changed out of his blood-stained clothes and got rid of them in six minutes.”
“What if he had an accomplice?” Jones was unwilling to dismiss Spencer just yet.
“The logs for the main entrance show that building was completely empty by twenty-past nine that night, except for Spencer and Tunbridge. The last half-dozen to leave included the two graduate students that Spencer claims he spoke to just before he went into the PCR room. We’ll have to review the full CCTV footage to make sure that we didn’t get anybody sneaking in on somebody else’s coat tails earlier in the day, but it seems unlikely.”
“So who the hell killed Tunbridge, then?”
Sutton smiled, clearly enjoying himself.
“Well, guv, I think we might just be able to answer that little question.” With a flourish he motioned towards the bank of video monitors. As if on cue, the video started playing.
“This is the front reception desk in the Biology building. It’s the only entrance to the building and the only security camera inside the building.” The image was black and white but clear, evidently shot from a camera positioned above the swipe-card doors, angled to take in as much of the reception area as possible.
Raworth took over the commentary, pointed a stubby finger at the screen. “During the day, whoever is manning the reception desk can control the cameras, panning around or zooming in and out if they want to. The rest of the time it can be controlled from here. At that time of the night it is left in standby mode, covering as much of the lobby as possible with a wide-angled lens, recording only when it detects movement. A rolling buffer means that the system also saves fifteen seconds either side of the trigger, to ensure that nothing is missed.”
He pointed at the time stamp at the bottom of the screen. 21:35h. As he did so a figure emerged from the right of the screen, outside the building, the automatic glass doors opening to admit it. The person — it looked like a man to Jones — walked beneath the camera. The footage was slightly jerky, but from what Jones could see the man appeared to be of average height, wearing a dark-coloured hoodie. Underneath the hoodie was a baseball cap, completely obscuring the mystery person’s features. A crude, but effective, disguise. Both the hoodie and the baseball cap had what appeared to be small logos. Warren felt his heart skip a beat. He was certain that image analysis could identify them. Clearly visible in the mystery man’s hand was a credit-card-sized white plastic rectangle. Without hesitation, or so much as a glance up towards the camera, he swiped the card through the machine and entered the building proper. A few more seconds elapsed before the footage stopped.
The time stamp at the bottom of the screen jumped forward to 22:10h. The mysterious form re-emerged from the bottom of the screen, coming through the door. This time he was clutching what appeared to be a bin bag in his left hand. Clearly in a rush, he half ran across the lobby and out of the front doors, heading right again towards where he had emerged thirty-five minutes earlier.
“That’s the only person entering or leaving the building after 21:00 hours that night.”
Jones turned to Raworth. “Can we follow him before or after he left the building?”
“I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. He heads along the side of the building next to the car park. Unfortunately there’s a blind spot all along that wall a couple of metres wide. As long as he kept close to the wall, there’s no way we could spot him.” He shrugged apologetically. “Budget cuts, I’m afraid. We had a spate of vandalism a few months ago in the car park. We didn’t have the money for new cameras, so we repositioned the ones we already had to cover the car park rather than the side of the building.” He shrugged again. “Not my idea, I must say, but as the old saying goes, ‘who am I to question why…?’.”
“It doesn’t matter though, guv. We know who he is.” Sutton held up the sheets of paper triumphantly. “The building’s swipe-card log. And guess who swiped in at 21:35 and swiped back out again at 22:10?” He pointed to two highlighted entries on the list.
Dr Antonio Severino.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_43dc00bf-c200-5064-a2fd-fcad1dfb6f13)
Sutton and Jones walked up the front path of the small suburban house, barely a fifteen-minute walk from the Biology building. After reviewing the video footage, it hadn’t taken long for them to find the address of Severino or to arrange an arrest warrant and a search warrant for his home. The house was a well-maintained two-up, two-down semi in a quiet cul-de-sac. Apparently, Severino had rented the house with his fiancée for the past two years. As Sutton and Jones approached the front of the house two more officers approached the rear, ready to stop any escape attempt via that route. Parked a discreet distance away, two police cars and a police van plus a half-dozen uniformed officers were waiting ready to assist. All of the officers wore stab vests — they’d seen what Severino was capable of and they had no desire to end up the same way as the late professor.
Jones paused at the door before pressing the doorbell. He heard its echoing ring in the hallway, muffled by the front door. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch from the drawn curtains. He paused a few more seconds, before ringing the bell again, this time holding it down for a couple of seconds. Still nothing. Jones contemplated shouting, “Police, open up!” through the letterbox, but he was reluctant to give up the advantage of surprise so soon. He decided to ring one last time, before radioing back to the forced-entry team on standby to bring over their solid-steel two-man battering ram, guaranteed to open pretty much any door.
Holding the bell push down for a full fifteen seconds, Jones was finally rewarded by sounds of movement behind the door and muttered cursing. The door opened and a wave of whiskey and stale cannabis fumes assaulted his nostrils. Standing in scruffy, striped boxer shorts and a stained grey T-shirt was a twenty-something man of average height. His skin had the slight olive cast to it common amongst those from Mediterranean countries, his unruly hair raven black. He blinked at Jones, clearly struggling to wake up fully.
“Dr Antonio Severino?”
The man nodded, puzzled. Jones held up his warrant card.
“You are under arrest for the…”
That was as far as Jones got. Severino’s face promptly lost all of its colour, turning in an instant to a pasty white. Without a word, he turned on his heel and bolted back into the house.
“Shit! Don’t let him get away!” yelled Sutton, somewhat unnecessarily since the two officers at the rear of the house were waiting by the back door with open arms. Much to Jones’ surprise, however, rather than heading through the kitchen and towards the back door, Severino dived up the stairs.
Jones took off after him, Sutton a pace behind. Thundering up the stairs, the two officers struggled to catch up with the fleet-footed Italian. Where the hell was he going? To destroy evidence? Was there somebody else in the house? Maybe he was going to kill himself, throwing himself out of the bedroom window. Christ, it would really screw things up if he topped himself, Warren thought fearfully.
Reaching the top of the stairs, the fugitive carried on running, crashing into what was clearly the bathroom. Barely a second behind, Jones followed, expecting to see the man rummaging through the medicine cabinet for a weapon or a means to kill himself. Instead, he saw the man on all fours leaning over the toilet bowl being violently sick. The sour stench of whiskey and bile filled the room.
Catching his breath and trying to ignore the smell, Jones tried again. “Antonio Severino, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Professor Alan Tunbridge.”
Severino finished vomiting and turned around, opening his mouth as if to speak. He seemed to be having trouble focusing. After a pause of a few seconds, his eyes rolled back into his head and before Jones could catch him he fainted clean away, his head hitting the porcelain of the toilet bowl with a solid smack.
“Reckon you’ll probably have to read him his rights again, guv,” Sutton noted from the open doorway.
* * *
A cursory inspection by a paramedic pronounced Severino to be dead drunk but otherwise fit and so the semi-comatose Italian was loaded into the back of the waiting police van. Back at the station, he was roused enough to be read his rights before being stripped and put into a paper suit, his own clothes bagged and sent off to Forensics. Severino was clearly in no state to be interviewed and his lawyer would doubtless try and get anything he said declared inadmissible as evidence. Therefore, Jones decided to play it by the book. Dumping him in the drunk tank to sleep it off, he asked the desk sergeant to organise a solicitor and, as an afterthought, an Italian translator for when he awoke in a few hours. The last thing they wanted was any language problems slowing down the interview process.
In the meantime, Jones and the rest of his team finally had time to eat and an opportunity to compare notes. Unfortunately, the station’s small canteen was closed for hot meals at the weekend, so the team had to make do with the rather sorry-looking sandwiches left over in the self-service fridge from the previous day. As a result they decided not to linger over lunch. All of them were keen to get on with their work, but Jones insisted that they take a short break.
Despite the rapid early progress of the investigation, Jones knew from experience that a murder investigation was a marathon not a sprint and he wanted his team to remain fresh. Furthermore, Jones firmly believed that a few minutes’ break would allow each officer’s subconscious to process what they had learnt so far, supplying new insights and new questions. Besides, Severino wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while and Spencer wasn’t due to return for further questioning for some time.
Whilst the others tucked into the stale sandwiches, Jones snagged Sergeant Kent and asked him to collate the latest reports from his incident desk. Glancing at his watch, Jones then decided he had time to ring Susan and headed into the corridor for some privacy. The phone connected on the third ring. “Hi, sweetheart, it’s me.”
“It’s Bernice. Susan’s busy preparing a salad for the picnic. And of course it’s you — it says so on the screen.”
Jones stifled a groan. He had hoped to have a private chat with Susan, explaining what was going on. But that clearly wouldn’t be possible. Mustering all of his tact and injecting a false note of positivity into his voice, he addressed his mother-in-law.
“Hello, Bernice, Happy birthday.”
A sniff at the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly last night. Unfortunately I got an emergency call.”
“I see. And that kept you out all night? I suppose you are calling now to say that you won’t be coming to Cambridge for the picnic today?”
Bloody woman, she wasn’t making it any easier for him. Susan must be a bit annoyed as well, he decided. Normally she tried to wrestle the phone from her mother; today she was letting him stew as Bernice grilled him. Changing tactics, he decided to appeal to her baser instincts. Bernice loved to gossip and the idea that she had got the inside scoop on such a big story before any of her friends would appeal directly to her self-importance. Besides which, the press had already started sniffing around. It wasn’t as if he was telling her any information that wouldn’t be in the public domain within a couple of hours.
“I’m afraid so, Bernice. It’s all a bit hush-hush, you understand, but last night a famous scientist was found murdered at the university.” Warren could almost hear Bernice’s interest pique. It wasn’t exactly a lie, after all; in terms of celebrity, Tunbridge was famous in the field of antibiotic research, wasn’t he?
“Really? Which college? It wasn’t that lovely Professor Hawkings, was it? He was on television last week and I said to Dennis, ‘It’s such a shame, such a wonderful mind trapped inside that poor broken body.’ Who could murder that lovely man when he’s so helpless? I tell you, Warren, there are some truly wicked people out there! Why have they brought you in? Isn’t Cambridge a bit out of your jurisdiction?”
Jones blinked as he tried to process the torrent of misunderstanding flooding down the phone. It was no wonder Dennis never said anything in public.
“Er, no, it wasn’t Stephen Hawking, Bernice, it was a Biology professor and it was at our local university, the University of Middle England.”
“Oh.” A pause. “I didn’t realise that Middlesbury had a university.”
“Oh, yes, it’s quite a good one.” Warren suddenly felt an irrational need to defend the institution against the withering disdain of his mother-in-law.
“Anyway, the body was discovered late last night. We had to secure the crime scene and then this morning we started our enquiries.”
“So will you be coming to the picnic?”
“No, I’m sorry, we have too much going on at the moment. But I promise that I’ll make it tonight.”
Bugger! Why did I just promise that? What if I can’t make it?
Slightly mollified, Bernice offered to pass the phone over to Susan, who pointedly walked out into the garden so she could talk in private. Even so, she kept her voice low and Warren could imagine Bernice staring through the French windows, trying her best to lip-read Susan’s half of the conversation.
“I’m sorry, darling, there was a murder up at the uni last night and I’m lead investigator.”
“I thought Stephen Hawking worked at Cambridge University? Why are you investigating his death?”
Warren stifled a curse. “No, it’s not Stephen Hawking. It’s a local Biology professor at UME. Your mum just got the wrong end of the stick.”
“So are you coming tonight?”
“I should be, yes. I’ll ring you a bit later and we can decide where to meet. I’ll probably come straight to the restaurant.”
“Well, don’t forget the table’s booked for six-thirty and the show starts at eight. And I suggest that you bring some sort of peace offering.” Whether it was for Susan or her mother wasn’t clear. Warren decided he would play it safe and get something for both of them.
Hanging up, he turned to see Sutton grinning, clearly having heard at least part of the call.
“Mother-in-law’s birthday,” Jones offered weakly by way of an explanation.
Remarkably, Sutton’s expression changed to one of sympathy.
Given the strained relationship between them, Jones decided to take advantage of this slight wind change and attempt to build some common ground.
“Do you have the pleasure of a mother-in-law, Tony?” It was a weak opener, nevertheless Sutton seemed willing to run with it.
“I have two.”
“Two? How the hell does that work?” Jones grimaced. Maybe he should cut the man some slack, he thought — it must be a tough life with two of them.
Sutton let out a bark of laughter. “Badly!”
Jones said nothing, simply smiling in sympathy. Sutton accepted the implied invitation. “My current wife has a mother who is very much alive and kicking…mostly kicking. She’s never really liked me and isn’t very good at hiding it. Sometimes I think she watched a little too much Les Dawson and decided that’s what mother-in-laws were supposed to be like.”
Jones chuckled. “Now, take my mother-in-law. No, please, take my mother-in-law,” he intoned in a fair interpretation of the comic’s rich, northern baritone. Sutton smiled in acknowledgement of Jones’ attempt at levity.
“Mother-in-law number one, Betty, is also still on the scene. She doesn’t like me very much either.”
Jones raised an eyebrow in surprise at the intricacies of Sutton’s personal life.
Sutton shrugged. “Long story, short — Angela and I got married far too young. Everybody said it wouldn’t work, but we were young, stubborn and in love.” He smiled wistfully. “Anyway we did our best for five, six years but it was hard work. I was a young copper on a constable’s pay; Angela worked shifts at the local hospital. We rarely saw each other and when we did, we never had any money to enjoy ourselves. So we did what hundreds of foolish young couples have done before us and decided to have a baby to bring us together.”
“And did it?”
Sutton snorted. “What do you think? At first it was great. Angela had a pretty good pregnancy and we were both thrilled when Josh was born. The excitement lasted a year or so, until Angela went back to work. Then it was as if the clock had turned back twelve months. We both still worked shifts, so we still hardly saw each other and when we did we could never have any time alone because Josh was there.
“Fortunately, Betty and her husband Doug lived nearby and loved Josh to bits, so they would babysit whilst we went out.” Sutton’s expression turned thoughtful. “You know, in many ways, although she didn’t like me very much, I really think Betty wanted me and Angela to succeed. The problem was, we were both feeling hemmed in. Angela wanted to go back to college to study for her nursing degree. I wanted to go to night classes and do a degree before studying for my sergeant’s exam, but that was no longer possible. So we carried on as we were for another year or two, before I fucked up. Big time.”
“What happened?” Warren asked cautiously. Sutton’s candour was unexpected and he didn’t want to kill the moment.
“It was such a bloody cliché. I got absolutely hammered at the nick’s Christmas party and woke up the next morning in bed with one of the civilian office workers. Needless to say, when I finally slunk home, Angela was furious. I didn’t try to deny it. There was no point — it was bleeding obvious what had happened. I packed my bags, left the house and kipped on a mate’s floor.
“That could have been the end of it. Angela kicked me out, fair play, and I’m sure Betty and Doug were happy to tell her ‘I told you so’, but there was still the issue of Josh. Angela never wanted to see me again, unsurprisingly, but amazingly Betty stood up for me. By now Angela was back with her parents and Betty basically said, ‘My house, my rules. Josh needs his dad and I’m not letting him get off scot-free.’ I think at first she was worried that I’d just piss off and leave them.
“As it happened, I was terrified that it would all have to go to court and I’d end up taking Josh to McDonald’s once a month if I was lucky. Anyway, she turned up at the bedsit I was renting and said in no uncertain terms that I was a shit husband but a good father and that a boy needs his dad. So that was that.” He shook his head slightly, as if he still couldn’t quite believe his own memory.
“Josh stayed with his mum and Betty and Doug helped her look after him whilst she went back to college. I started night school and with a little help from my own mum and dad managed to afford the rent on a two-bedroom flat so Josh could stay over. I saw him most weekends, and when he got a bit older and started going to school, Betty used to insist that Angela and I co-ordinate our shifts so that when Angela was on nights he could stay with me and I’d take him to school.
“Anyway, he’s seventeen now, starting to think about university. He’s always got on well with my second wife, Marie, and he probably spends as much time at mine as his mum’s. He has his own room in our house and he’s only a ten-minute walk from Angela’s so he often turns up in the evening to watch the footie with me on Sky. Angela and I still aren’t the closest of friends, but we both go to parents’ evening and any reports from school are sent around to me as well.”
Sutton shook his head again, as if in wonderment or disbelief. “It’s amazing. Betty still doesn’t like me very much, yet without her I’d be like half the fathers in this nick, barely seeing their kids and constantly going to court over broken access orders.”
Jones was at a loss for words. Sutton had just shared a clearly intimate part of his life with him. Maybe the two of them could work together.
“You make me feel guilty for all the wicked thoughts I’ve been having about my own mother-in-law, Tony. I’ll make sure I get an extra big bunch of flowers when I see her tonight.”
Sutton grinned, then turned sober. “Well, sir, may I suggest that we crack on, then? Sooner we’re done, sooner you can find a garage with a cut-price deal on daffodils.”
Chapter 8 (#ulink_474adb9c-b378-5586-a1d0-af4dfe90e315)
As Sutton headed back to the canteen to round up the rest of the team Warren unwrapped the cling film from his cheese and tomato sandwich. He carefully peeled back the top slice of bread and plucked the sorry-looking slices of tomato from on top of the micron-thin layer of Cheddar resting on a much thicker layer of margarine. The tomato’s juice had soaked the top layer of bread, making it soggy. Carefully wrapping the tomato in the cling film, he deposited it in a nearby waste basket. Why couldn’t a man just get a plain cheese sandwich? Biting into the sandwich, he grimaced. Where it wasn’t soaked with tomato juice, the starchy white bread was dry, verging on stale, and the cheese was indistinguishable in flavour from the margarine. One bite was enough, he decided, and the remains joined the tomato and cling film in the bin.
Rejoining Hardwick and Sutton in the briefing room, he saw that a number of other detectives had also returned to the station. There was a low buzz of conversation. Kent, he saw, had started making use of the whiteboards, summarising the information flowing in from the investigators. Doing his best to ignore the faint, tantalising smell of somebody’s microwaved ready meal — clearly somebody better prepared than he to work on a Saturday — Jones called the meeting to order.
By agreement, it was decided to leave Spencer and Severino until last, to see if anything else came out of the mix before they narrowed the investigation prematurely. Starting with DS Kent, he asked the man to fill everybody in on what information had been acquired so far.
First of all, the house-to-house inquiries at the few residential properties nearby had resulted in no leads; no strange noises or suspicious strangers hanging around during the time of the murder or in the hours preceding it. Similarly, as expected, none of the local businesses had CCTV that overlooked the university building. The traffic cameras along the roads adjacent to the department were also useless, focused as they were on the roads and a nearby junction rather than the building itself. It looked as though between the university’s CCTV blind spots and the patchy traffic camera coverage in the area, it would be quite possible to approach the building and enter it on foot undetected.
Turning to the call-centre logs that night, no reports had surfaced as yet of any crimes taking place within a mile or so of the Biology building. Overall it had been a fairly quiet Friday night with no more than the usual amount of closing-time fisticuffs, drunken vandalism and domestic violence.
Dr Crawley and the university’s Personnel and Student Services departments had been helpful in supplying the names and details of the laboratory’s various workers and students, including the undergraduate student, Clara Hemmingway, that Tunbridge had his alleged affair with. A list had been drawn up on one of the whiteboards, headed ‘Potential Suspects’ with additional columns such as ‘Motive?’ and ‘Alibi?’. Jones had a feeling that before the day was out, a second board might be needed.
On a different whiteboard, a second list had been drawn up headed ‘Witnesses’. The two students that Tom Spencer claimed to have spoken to immediately before locking himself in the PCR room were named. Officers were on their way to interview them to check that they corroborated his story. A third whiteboard was simply labelled ‘Forensics’. This was blank at the moment.
Now it was Jones’ turn. Quickly, he summarised the interviews with Crawley and Tompkinson, adding a few more names to the suspects board. With that done, he moved on to Spencer. With the swipe-card logs from the PCR room and main-building entrance and assuming that the two students corroborated his story, Sutton proposed that they interview him one last time then eliminate him.
Jones shook his head. “Let’s not be too hasty. We don’t know that Severino didn’t have an accomplice and he was the only other person in the building at the time. Something doesn’t feel right about him.”
Sutton grunted non-committally. Ignoring him, Jones pressed on. “Spencer aside, number one suspect at the moment is Dr Antonio Severino, an Italian postdoctoral researcher in Tunbridge’s group. It seems that Tunbridge shafted him big time a few weeks ago and by all accounts he left in a furious if not murderous mood. We’re doing background checks on him now. CCTV has an unidentified male entering then exiting the building within the timeframe consistent with the murder. The building’s swipe-card logs suggest that the suspect used Severino’s access card. We arrested him an hour ago at his house. Unfortunately he seemed to have been having a one-man party last night and is busy sleeping it off in the drunk tank. We’ve a brief and a translator standing by for when he rejoins the land of the coherent. In the meantime, Forensics are searching his house and looking for trace evidence.”
Jones looked around the room. “Anything else to add? Any more questions?”
“Have we confirmed the wife’s alibi yet?”
Kent answered this. “We’ve tracked down a couple of her dinner companions and the duty manager from the restaurant last night claims to have remembered the party. Till receipts match her credit card number. We’re waiting on CCTV from the restaurant, but it looks as if she’s cast iron at the moment.”
Another hand. “Have we got any more forensics yet? What about the post-mortem?”
“Full results from the PM are promised by tomorrow evening. Preliminary forensics are consistent with what we had this morning. We can expect a full report from the unit at Welwyn tomorrow. No word as yet from Severino’s place. A computer forensics team from Welwyn will be looking at Tunbridge’s laptop, to see if there are any clues there, particularly as to why he was working alone on a Friday night.”
No more hands were raised, so Jones decided to assign roles to those present and close the meeting.
Calling Sutton over, he outlined his plans. Severino wouldn’t be fit for interview for a few more hours, so they had time to re-interview Spencer, who had just arrived at Reception. Jones was also keen to speak to the late professor’s one-time mistress, Clara Hemmingway. A couple of uniforms were dispatched to her student flat to bring her in for questioning.
* * *
Making their way down to the station’s number one interview room, Jones arranged for the desk sergeant to fetch Spencer. Moments later, the young man shuffled in. Dressed in a clean T-shirt and neatly pressed chinos, he was a far cry from the paper-suited, blood-stained mess from the night before. Escorting him was a middle-aged black woman in a smart, pinstriped suit carrying a briefcase. She introduced herself as Denise Jawando, his solicitor. Although he wasn’t under arrest, Spencer’s parents had insisted on her presence as a precaution. Jones noted that her handshake was perfunctory, her expression unsmiling.
As soon as all were seated, the recorders running and the appropriate introductions made for the tape, Jawando launched in.
“May I remind you, Chief Inspector, that my client is here voluntarily as the witness to a crime in which he played no part and that he is not under arrest?”
Smiling tightly, Jones kept an even tone. “Thank you for your assistance. Mr Spencer, for the record, could you tell us again what happened last night?”
All eyes turned towards the young researcher. Fresh clothes notwithstanding, he looked dreadful; it had been barely twelve hours since he had found the body, yet he looked as if in that time he had lost a week’s worth of sleep. He was of average height and build, his hair a dirty blond, its length midway between scruffy and fashionably long. A few days’ stubble darkened his jowls.
“I was working late, trying to finish off some PCR reactions before going home. I went down to the PCR room on the ground floor about nine.” The student had a broad Manchester accent, although his diction was precise and absent the urban drawl possessed by many native Mancunians.
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“Like I said last night, I said ‘Hi’ to a couple of Stanley Westlake’s lab who work near there, Chloe and Steven. They were going to the Hogshead for a pint. I said I’d try to join them in an hour or so, but not to wait for me in case I was late.
“I was in the PCR room for an hour or so — you can check that, because it has a swipe-card lock — before going back up to the lab.”
“What were you wearing?” interrupted Sutton.
“What you found me in: jeans, T-shirt and a lab coat, with latex gloves.”
“When did you leave the PCR room?”
“About quarter-past ten, I guess.”
“Did anyone see you then?”
“No, I don’t think anyone was left in the building by that time, but again the swipe machine should confirm my exit.”
“Where did you go next?”
“Nowhere, I went straight back to the lab. I put the completed PCR reactions in the freezer. I’d seen Alan’s office light was on when I came back up, so I decided to pop my head around and say ‘Goodnight’. That’s when I saw the body.”
“You were still wearing latex gloves, a lab coat and a face mask when we arrived. Seems a little strange that you didn’t take these off if you were going to say ‘Hi’ to the boss.”
Spencer shrugged vaguely. “I dress like that all day, every day. I probably just forgot.”
“Tell me what happened then, Tom.”
Spencer’s eyes became downcast. “The moment I came in, I saw the blood. He was spun in his chair staring towards the doorway. I could see from the state of his throat that he had to be dead, but I checked for a pulse anyway. Then I dialled 999.”
Jones nodded in understanding. “May I ask why you didn’t use your mobile phone to call us? You young people seem to have them turned on constantly these days. I wouldn’t have thought many people your age could use a landline.” Despite his almost light-hearted tone, the question was a serious one. For Spencer’s generation, the mobile phone was like an extension of their body. Office phones and other semi-obsolete equipment were almost invisible to them. Spencer had an expensive smartphone in his pocket when he was arrested, indicating that he wasn’t a total Luddite.
“I saw a picture of one on the Internet and used Wikipedia to tell me how to use it,” responded Spencer with an almost straight face. Warren smiled briefly in response, before becoming sober once more.
“Tell me, Tom, how much did you hate Professor Tunbridge for stopping you passing your PhD?”
The question was deliberately brutal and out of the blue; Jones wanted to see what Spencer’s response would be. He blinked a few times, as if trying to understand the question. “Alan and I had our differences, sure, but I’d never dream of killing him.”
Jones and Sutton said nothing, waiting. The silence stretched uncomfortably. Eventually, Spencer broke it, as they knew he would. “Anyway, I have done pretty much everything I need. I’d be mad to kill Alan — I needed him to sign off on everything.” Jones and Sutton said nothing, apparently ignoring the contradiction with everything that they’d found out that morning.
“I was just doing a few more experiments, before I wrote up the final conclusion.”
Now it was Jawando who broke the silence. “I think we’ve heard enough, gentlemen. My client has a provable alibi. He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.” At that moment, there came a knock at the door.
Sutton answered it, stepping into the corridor. After a few moments he returned and whispered into Jones’ ear, who nodded, then addressed Spencer.
“We’ve just got confirmation from the two graduate students that you saw on your way to the PCR room. Along with the security logs showing swipe-card usage, it seems that your alibi stands up. I think that’s enough for today. We may need to contact you again in the future, however, to answer further questions.”
Spencer slumped back into his chair in obvious relief. Jones arranged to have his statement typed up and signed, before seeing him to the front door.
When Spencer was finally gone, Jones called into the custody suite to check on Severino. The Italian was snoring loudly on the small bed. A half-filled bucket next to him and the stains down the front of his paper suit justified the police surgeon’s recommendation that they wait another hour or two before attempting to interview him.
In the meantime, Jones decided to see what the professor’s former lover had to say for herself. Whilst they waited for Hemmingway to arrive, Jones polled Sutton for his thoughts. “Well, I think we can rule out Spencer and I reckon this Severino character is good for it. We need to tie up a few loose ends, but it looks pretty open and shut to me. The super will be pleased — twenty-four hours to solve a murder investigation is pretty good.”
“Well, let’s not count our chickens before they’ve hatched. I think there is still a lot more to this than meets the eye.”
“In what way?”
“Well, first of all, even if Severino did do it, was he working alone?”
“We’ll have to see what he says, I suppose, but, even if there are others involved, the evidence so far suggests that he committed the murder alone.”
“But what evidence? That CCTV image is pretty non-conclusive and anyone could have swiped his access card through that lock. Furthermore, how did he know that Tunbridge would be working late that night? Was that usual for him? If not, who tipped Severino off? And what about Spencer? Something’s not right there.”
“Well, it looks like it’s as his brief said — wrong place, wrong time.”
“Possibly, but something smells strange about this set-up. It’s too bloody convenient. He just happens to be in the PCR room when it all goes down and then he stumbles across the body. He checks the pulse of a blatantly dead man, conveniently covering himself in the victim’s blood to wreck any forensics. Why did he check the carotids? Don’t most people check the wrist for a pulse? And his demeanour wasn’t right. He’s just found a freshly murdered co-worker, whilst on his own in a large, deserted building late at night. Chances are the killer is still in the building somewhere, yet he calmly makes a phone call and waits at the murder-scene for us to arrive. I don’t know about you Tony, but I’ve seen enough slasher movies in my time to know that you don’t hang around and call the police from the victim’s phone, you run like hell and find somewhere to hide before using your mobile.”
Sutton shrugged, clearly not convinced.
“I think you’re over-complicating things, guv. Shock makes people do strange things.”
Seeing that he was unlikely to budge his colleague based on what they had so far, Jones decided to give up. In the meantime, the desk sergeant was signalling that Clara Hemmingway had arrived. Motioning to Sutton, they headed for Interview Room Two to avoid contaminating Hemmingway with any trace evidence from Spencer’s interview in Interview One. More than one case had been scuppered because the police had transported two different suspects in the same car or interviewed them in the same room and found it impossible afterwards to disentangle their separate DNA profiles.
Gathering his thoughts, Warren prepared for his next interview of the day.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_17a1f59e-0fcd-57e1-8632-3cf793e70604)
A uniformed constable led Hemmingway into the interview room. She was a youngish-looking twenty-year-old in jeans and a crop top with a slim figure, generous cleavage and carefully styled short blonde hair; it was easy to see why a middle-aged university professor might have been tempted. Taking a seat opposite the two detectives, she placed her large black handbag on the floor next to her. Jones introduced himself and Sutton for the benefit of the recording, before explaining that she was not under arrest, nor had she been charged with any crime. She nodded, looking curious but not overly nervous. Jones glanced at the slim file in front of him. Two police cautions in her early teens for shoplifting and a suspended sentence, aged seventeen, for her part in a drunken brawl in Colchester town centre on a Saturday night. Miss Hemmingway had certainly been through this process before, he noted.
Nevertheless, she’d clearly cleaned up her act sufficiently to pass her A levels and convince the admissions tutor that she was worthy of a place at university. The University of Middle England might not be Oxford or Cambridge, but with the current demand for places they could afford to pick and choose who they offered those places to. He’d have to remember that. This young lady was clearly a little more intelligent than the stereotypes might suggest.
Watching her carefully, Jones started, “Now, the reason we have asked you down here is to help us with our enquiries regarding the murder of Professor Alan Tunbridge last night. How well did you know the professor?”
Hemmingway’s eyes widened slightly. “Murdered? Why? Where?”
“He was found in his office last night. He’d been stabbed.” Jones decided not to give out too much information at this stage. “Again, how well did you know the deceased?”
Hemingway paused for a couple of seconds. “Well enough, I suppose. I did a bacterial genetics module with him last year.”
The answer was terse, short and cautious. Jones and Hemmingway locked eyes. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that the only logical reason that she was here was because the police were aware of at least some of her past history with the murder victim. Nevertheless the wariness forged by years of playing so close to the thin blue line had conditioned her not to give away anything more than absolutely necessary.
Jones spoke softly. “Come on, Clara. We all know it was a bit more than that. You and the professor were extremely close.”
Clara stared at him defiantly. “So what? We fooled around a bit. He was rich and successful and not all that bad-looking. All those professors are the same. They just want a little bit of fresher pussy.” She paused as if to gauge the reaction to her profanity. Seeing nothing, she pressed on. “You know what the older students call the first week of uni? ‘Fuck a Fresher Week’. Of course the profs can’t get in on any of that — Freshers’ week is just for students. But when classes start and you start having tutorials — well, it doesn’t take much. A little extra help on an essay or perhaps an extension…well, it’s easy to come to an arrangement. And for randy old bastards like Tunbridge, who blatantly hate teaching, it’s probably the only thing that makes tutoring undergrads worthwhile.” Jones noticed that as she became more animated her Essex accent became harsher, betraying her council-estate upbringing.
“Was that all it was, Clara? Just a bit of fun? Maybe it was more than that — he had a wife. Rumour has it you weren’t the only one. How did that make you feel?” Now it was Sutton, his brusque manner a contrast to Jones’ more measured tones.
“Yeah, that’s all it was, just a shag. Earned me an extra week to write an essay I was having trouble with — didn’t affect the grade though. He didn’t mark it. I got that A fair and square.” This last bit was delivered with conviction, the flashing in her steely blue eyes daring anyone to contradict her.
“And before you ask, no, I wasn’t jealous of his frigid wife or any other slappers he slept with and, no, I didn’t kill him.” If she spotted the irony, she didn’t show it.
“OK, Clara, I can accept that. Tell me, what was his reaction when you found out that you were pregnant?” The question was brutal, deliberately out of the blue, designed to push her onto the back foot.
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Paul Gitsham
When Professor Alan Tunbridge is discovered in his office with his throat slashed, the suspects start queuing up. The brilliant but unpleasant microbiologist had a genius for making enemies.For Warren Jones, newly appointed Detective Chief Inspector to the Middlesbury force, a high-profile murder is the ideal opportunity. He’s determined to run a thorough and professional investigation but political pressure to resolve the case quickly and tensions in the office and at home make life anything but easy.Everything seems to point to one vengeful man but the financial potential of the professor’s pioneering research takes the inquiry in an intriguing and, for Jones and his team, dangerous direction.A DCI Warren Jones Novel
A DCI Warren Jones novel – Book 1
When Professor Alan Tunbridge is discovered in his office with his throat slashed, the suspects start queuing up. The brilliant but unpleasant microbiologist had a genius for making enemies.
For Warren Jones, newly appointed Detective Chief Inspector to the Middlesbury force, a high-profile murder is the ideal opportunity. He’s determined to run a thorough and professional investigation but political pressure to resolve the case quickly and tensions in the office and at home make life anything but easy.
Everything seems to point to one vengeful man but the financial potential of the professor’s pioneering research takes the inquiry in an intriguing and, for Jones and his team, dangerous direction.
The Last Straw
A DCI Warren Jones Novel
Paul Gitsham
Copyright (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
HQ
An imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers Ltd.
1 London Bridge Street
London SE1 9GF
First published in Great Britain by HQ in 2014
Copyright © Paul Gitsham 2014
Paul Gitsham asserts the moral right to be identified as the author of this work.
A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.
This novel is entirely a work of fiction. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are the work of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or localities is entirely coincidental.
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E-book Edition © June 2014 ISBN: 9781472094698
Version date: 2018-09-20
PAUL GITSHAM started his career as a biologist, working in such exotic locales as Manchester and Toronto. After stints as the world’s most over-qualified receptionist and a spell making sure that international terrorists and other ne’er do wells hadn’t opened a Junior Savings Account at a major UK bank (a job even less exciting than being a receptionist) he retrained as a science teacher. He now spends his time passing on his bad habits and sloppy lab-skills to the next generation of enquiring minds.
Paul has always wanted to be a writer and his final report on leaving primary school predicted he’d be the next Roald Dahl! For the sake of balance it should be pointed out that it also said “he’ll never get anywhere in life if his handwriting doesn’t improve”. Twenty-five years later and his handwriting is worse than ever but millions of children around the world love him.* (#ulink_237f1191-7b32-582b-90de-91768fcdb545)
Paul writes the DCI Warren Jones series of novels. He is currently writing the third novel in the series, whilst looking over the balcony of a Spanish hotel.
Writing. It’s a hard job, but somebody has to do it.
You can find out more about Paul at his website, www.paulgitsham.com (http://www.paulgitsham.com) or follow him on Facebook at www.facebook.com/dcijones (http://www.facebook.com/dcijones) or twitter @dcijoneswriter (http://twitter.com/dcijoneswriter)
* (#ulink_51719d69-4ca5-5034-9dd5-f3ace84f563f)This is a lie — just ask any of the students he has taught.
Acknowledgements (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
They say that writing is a lonely job — but that doesn’t mean you do it on your own. I will be eternally grateful for the many, many friends and colleagues who have read drafts of this book, giving invaluable feedback and encouragement in equal measure. To list all of those who had some hand in shaping the story that you hold in your hand would take up pages and I’d only embarrass myself by leaving somebody out. But keep your eyes peeled, guys, at least a few of the names in this and later books may sound familiar.
Nevertheless there are a few people I absolutely have to mention. First my parents, who are always full of encouragement for everything I do; my father proof-reads all of my novels, saving my blushes and making useful suggestions. My good friend Lawrence, whose mastery of the commenting functions in MS Word and enthusiastic use of the semi-colon is evident throughout the final manuscript. And of course my oldest friend Mark. It’s always helpful for a writer to have a tame English teacher on call who can wield a red-pen…
I must also mention my favourite lawyers Dan and Caroline. Their expert knowledge forced me to rewrite several key sections of the novel, not only ensuring accuracy, but also making those scenes far more dramatic. It goes without saying that any dubious points of law or dodgy renderings of custody procedure are down to me alone.
All writers need encouragement and support and I want to say a big thank you to my creative writing tutor Danielle Jawando and all the members, past and present, who’ve attended her wonderful writing courses, critically feeding back on the writing I have brought to class each week. Similarly I must mention the Hertford Writers’ Circle, whose monthly meetings are always a pleasure and whose encouragement and advice has been invaluable.
And last, but not least, the editorial team and staff at Carina UK and Harlequin, in particular Helen, Lucy and Victoria, for giving me this exciting opportunity.
For Nana. You never got to read it, but I think you’d have enjoyed it.
Disclaimer (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c):
The town of Middlesbury, the University of Middle England, Middlesbury CID and all characters featured in this book are entirely fictional and not intended to represent any real-world individuals or organisations. It is also important to stress that whilst Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Constabularies are real organisations, they are not in any way affiliated to this book and my depiction of them and their officers are entirely imaginary. I have only the deepest respect for what they do.
Contents
Cover (#uffe3bf0a-fd96-5274-8670-b6459fce62dd)
Blurb (#u4d7ac8d5-e266-5e8f-9d27-0c092e1ee116)
Title Page (#u92af7c39-8668-512f-81aa-495896893053)
Copyright
Author Bio (#uc6f4c21a-d522-5e6f-b2e4-f49821f94fb5)
Acknowledgement
Dedication (#u0dd2bb7f-c0cc-55bc-a2df-6a4e97c23eda)
Disclaimer
Prologue
Friday
Chapter One
Saturday
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Sunday
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Monday
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Tuesday
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Wednesday
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-One
Chapter Thirty-Two
Chapter Thirty-Three
Chapter Thirty-Four
Chapter Thirty-Five
Chapter Thirty-Six
Chapter Thirty-Seven
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Thursday
Chapter Thirty-Nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-One
Chapter Forty-Two
Chapter Forty-Three
Chapter Forty-Four
Chapter Forty-Five
Chapter Forty-Six
Chapter Forty-Seven
Friday
Chapter Forty-Eight
Chapter Forty-Nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-One
Chapter Fifty-Two
Chapter Fifty-Three
Chapter Fifty-Four
Chapter Fifty-Five
Chapter Fifty-Six
Epilogue
Endpages (#litres_trial_promo)
About the Publisher (#litres_trial_promo)
Prologue (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
Blood.
Everywhere. Across the walls, over the desk, even splattered on the glowing laptop computer. The human heart is a powerful, muscular pump and a cut artery bleeds out in seconds, spraying red, freshly oxygenated blood across the room like a fire hose.
Tom Spencer removes his gloved hands from the dead man’s throat and rubs them down the front of his lab coat, leaving bloody trails across his chest. Hands shaking, he picks up the blood-covered telephone and presses 9 for an outside line, followed by another three 9s.
“You are through to the emergency services. Which service do you require?”
Spencer’s voice is shaky, his breathing rapid. “Police. There’s been a murder.”
Friday (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
Chapter 1 (#uc66ebdb0-6805-5bd3-8845-66944453639c)
Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones slid to a halt with a faint squeak of tyres outside the main entrance to the University of Middle England’s Department for Biological Sciences. Fifteen minutes had elapsed since he’d received the call and he doubted he could have done it much faster with blue lights and sirens. He switched off the engine and the sat nav on the dashboard beeped then went silent.
Two weeks into this new posting and the freshly promoted DCI was still reliant on the little device to get him around his new patch: the small Hertfordshire market town of Middlesbury. By driving everywhere with the device in map mode and where possible leaving for appointments early to take the most circuitous route, he was slowly building up a mental map of the local area. Although it was costing him a fortune in petrol — he felt guilty about passing on that cost to the force — it was the best way he knew to learn his way around.
The call could have been better timed, he supposed. He’d just finished pouring a bottle of Chilean red and was in the process of toasting his mother-in-law’s upcoming birthday when his mobile had rung. The temperature in the freshly decorated lounge had dropped precipitously. Bernice had never been impressed that her eldest daughter, Susan, had married a police officer — feeling that she and her monosyllabic, hen-pecked husband, Dennis, had raised their children to aspire to greater things. Private education and all the accoutrements of a wealthy middle-class upbringing in the leafiest part of Warwickshire had led Bernice to expect her daughters to marry well. That being said, she grudgingly acknowledged that Warren was a nice enough man and at least he was a Catholic.
Mumbling his apologies, he’d slipped on a jacket and left the house as quickly as possible.
Now that he was here, the familiar singing in the blood had started, mixed with a tightness in his gut. He took a few deep breaths to steady himself, whilst rummaging around for a breath mint. He’d only had a sip of the wine, and had abstained completely at the restaurant so that he could drive, but the last thing he wanted was for somebody to smell alcohol on his breath. Not on his first big case. A murder. This was what he’d joined the force for; even more importantly what he’d trained as a detective for. For the past fortnight, he’d overseen his small team as they dealt with the endless tide of robberies, burglaries and low-level violence that plagued any society — a job that he was proud to do and that he knew was important to the public. But a murder was different. A murder was what got you known. A murder could make your career. It could also ruin your career before it really started...
Clambering out of the car into the hot, breathless, summer night, he scanned the largely deserted car park. Adjacent to the entrance an ambulance was parked up next to two police cars. At the other end of the car park a silver BMW sports car sat alone in the dark The ambulance’s blue lights were off, but the rear doors were open, light spilling out into the night, throwing shadows across the thick black tarmac. The paramedics stood by, chatting and smoking, relaxed, not expecting to have to do anything for a while. According to the call that Warren had received, the victim was beyond their help and they were now little more than a glorified taxi service to the morgue.
The front of the building was mostly glass, with two large, sliding doors leading into a well-lit reception area. As Jones strode briskly towards the building a young, uniformed police constable with a clipboard stepped out of the dark shadows to the side of the entrance.
“I’m sorry, sir, I’m afraid I can’t let anybody enter the building at the moment.”
Jones reached inside his jacket for his warrant card. “DCI Jones.” Where the hell was his wallet? Bugger! He’d been in such a rush to leave, he’d grabbed the nearest suit jacket to hand. Unfortunately, it wasn’t the one he’d been wearing to the office during the week and so the pockets were empty.
The young constable clearly didn’t recognise either him or his name. Not for the first time, Jones regretted his forgettable surname. The PC flushed a little, clearly realising there was no way out of this awkward impasse without loss of dignity for one or both of the two men.
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the day was saved by a booming Essex voice.
“Don’t you recognise the new boss, lad?” Jones suppressed a sigh. Great, his first big case and the DI first on the scene had to be Tony Sutton, the man who many believed should be the one wearing three Bath Stars on the epaulettes of his dress uniform, rather than this outsider, parachuted in from the West Midlands Police to clean up their mess.
Turning, he saw Sutton walking towards them, a barely concealed smirk on his face. Like Jones, he was dressed in a smart suit, although he wasn’t wearing a tie. But there the similarities ended. Where Jones was a slim six feet one inch, Sutton was a short, squat bear of a man, his pugnacious features and crooked nose a reminder of his days on the force’s rugby team. He was six years older than Jones, and most observers had expected him to be promoted when the previous DCI, Gavin Sheehy, retired. Unfortunately, Sheehy hadn’t made it to retirement and although Sutton had been fully cleared of any involvement in Sheehy’s disgrace he was nevertheless seen — rumour had it — to be too close to the shamed detective to be given such an important role. At least not yet. Hence Warren’s sudden and unexpected appointment.
“Sorry, sir.” The young lad was blushing now.
Jones patted him on the shoulder encouragingly. “Never apologise for doing your job, son.”
Son? Bloody hell, when did I get so old that I call twenty-year-old constables ‘son’? thought Warren.
Putting aside his discomfort, Jones walked to join Sutton, who led them through the front doors into the lobby. Inside was a large reception desk with a computer and a bank of telephones, behind a reinforced glass screen, rather like a bank teller. To the right of the desk two large double doors were held open by another uniformed PC. A swipe-card lock flashed red and an angry-sounding electronic alarm buzzed insistently, no doubt triggered by the door being held open so long.
“What have we got, Tony?”
“Nasty one, guv. White middle-aged man, identified as a Professor Alan Tunbridge, throat slit right open and head bashed in, sitting in his office.”
Sutton led Jones up a flight of stairs to the right of the entrance, before proceeding along a wide open corridor deeper into the building.
“Who found the body?”
“A young man named Tom Spencer, apparently one of the late professor’s students. Claims he was working late, came back to the lab and noticed the prof’s office door was open and the lights on. Figured he’d pop his head round and say ‘Hi’. Found him in his chair, blood everywhere. Reckons he took his pulse but couldn’t find anything, then phoned 999 on the office phone.”
“What state is the crime scene in?”
“Untouched, except by Spencer. Two uniforms were first to respond and were let in by campus Security. They took one look and figured there was nothing they could do for him. Paramedics arrived a few minutes later and agreed, pronounced him dead at the scene, probably from loss of blood. Yours truly arrived just after the paramedics. Scenes of Crime are on their way.”
At the end of the corridor, Jones and Sutton turned a corner. “Here it is,” said Sutton somewhat unnecessarily.
The corridor was crowded; two pale-looking uniformed constables were standing guard either side of an open office door. A couple of middle-aged men wearing blue woollen jumpers with ‘Security’ stitched in white writing on the left of the chest leant against the opposite wall, looking decidedly shaken. Standing awkwardly, answering questions to a uniformed sergeant, and looking like the demon barber of Fleet Street, stood a young man in a blood-stained white lab coat. His hands were covered in white latex gloves, also smeared with blood. A surgical face mask, rather like the ones worn by carpenters or DIY enthusiasts, hung on an elastic band around his chin. His shoes were blood spattered and crimson footprints led from the open office door to him.
Slipping his hands into his pockets and moving as close to the door as he could without stepping in any blood, Jones peered into the office and almost wished he hadn’t.
As a detective with many years of experience, Jones was used to the sight of blood, of course. But this broke new ground. It looked as if every last millilitre of the life-giving red liquid had been forcibly ejected from the man’s body. The pasty, greyish-blue tint of the corpse’s skin confirmed the observation. He could see why the responding officers hadn’t felt the need to contaminate the scene by checking his pulse. The Scenes of Crime team would have to check with the paramedics to see if they had touched the body.
The late professor had been a man in his fifties, with a shock of grey, unruly hair. About average height and weight for a man of his age, he was clad in brown corduroy trousers and a white polo shirt. That was about all that Jones could make out amidst the blood. The man was slumped to one side in a comfortable-looking padded leather office chair, pointed halfway towards the office’s only door. The seat was a swivel chair, positioned so that the occupant could easily operate the laptop, answer the phone and reach the various pieces of paper that were piled carelessly on the remaining surface of the desk. A selection of different-coloured ballpoint pens was scattered across the workspace. A clear area to the right of the laptop suggested a space for a mouse.
The professor’s throat had been slit, clearly by something very sharp. Whoever had wielded the blade had done so efficiently. It looked to Jones’ eye as if the blade had managed to sever both carotid arteries. If that was the case, it put a different complexion on the attack. Contrary to Hollywood movies, cutting the throat of a surprised man wasn’t a simple affair. The victim would almost certainly have struggled. Looking closer, Jones could see that, aside from the cut throat, the back of the professor’s head — facing away from the doorway — looked to be a bloody mess. On the floor next to the chair sat what appeared to be a large lump of granite rock on a pedestal, blood and matted hair covering a particularly prominent edge. Jones could just make out the words “Boulder, Colorado” stencilled on the base. A souvenir perhaps? Significant or not?
Jones turned to Sutton.
“First impressions, Inspector?” he asked quietly. Jones was already formulating a theory himself, but he liked to see what others had to say first.
“I reckon he was sitting at the desk, probably working on his laptop by the looks of it. Whoever did it came up behind him and whacked him over the back of the head with that bloody great lump of rock. That probably stunned him enough for his attacker to slit his throat.”
Jones nodded. “The question is, why didn’t he turn around? It looks as though he was facing away from the doorway when he was hit. And then, did his chair turn around after he was hit or whilst his throat was being slit?”
“Well, either the attacker sneaked up on him, or he knew his attacker was around and wasn’t surprised by their approach.”
Jones nodded his agreement.
“And what about the angle of his chair?”
“Too early to speculate.”
“I agree, let’s not second-guess Scenes of Crime.” Jones was pleased with Sutton’s response. He was always a little wary of officers who jumped to conclusions without all of the facts. Good detectives, he felt, tempered their deductive reasoning with caution and were honest enough to admit ignorance, rather than stretching the evidence beyond breaking point.
With nothing else to be gained from the bloody office, Jones turned away from the carnage. He glanced at his watch: eleven p.m.
You were complaining how bored you were, Warren. Well, you know what they say: ‘be careful what you wish for’.
It looked as though Susan and the in-laws would have to finish the wine without him.
Saturday (#ulink_70937f6d-3d67-5d83-aeb6-111a2061417e)
Chapter 2 (#ulink_2ec0165c-648b-5440-8cbe-bca76cfada18)
The alarm clock buzzed angrily. With a groan, Warren swiped the OFF button. Prising an eye open, he saw that it was six-thirty. His head felt mushy and his mouth was dry. It seemed as though he’d barely closed his eyes. That wasn’t a huge exaggeration, given that he’d arrived back home at well past four a.m. Resisting the urge to indulge himself in another ten minutes’ sleep, lest he didn’t awaken again, Warren swung his legs out, planting his feet on the woollen rug that covered the floor by the bed. Behind him, Susan grumbled in her sleep and rolled over.
Ordinarily, when Warren worked night shifts or Susan stayed up late marking, the night owl would take the spare bed in the guest room to avoid waking the sleeping partner. With the in-laws visiting that wasn’t an option this time. It hadn’t mattered though. When Warren had tiptoed into the bedroom, Susan had been flat on her back, her comatose status testimony to the sedative effect of red wine. Indeed, Warren had noticed a second empty bottle on the coffee table in the lounge. He smiled to himself, glad that he wouldn’t be here in a few hours when his slumbering wife awoke. Never a morning person at the best of times, Susan also wasn’t a big drinker and he suspected she would wake up grumpy and feeling a little the worse for wear.
He padded quietly into the bathroom, passing the guest room on his way. Through the closed door he could hear strident snoring. He wouldn’t like to put money on who was the culprit, Bernice or Dennis.
Warren showered quickly and brushed his teeth. The elderly pipes in the house groaned, reminding Warren that he still hadn’t called a plumber, but the rhythmic noise from the guest room didn’t miss a beat. By now, Warren was feeling marginally more human. As he shaved he stared at the familiar face in the mirror. Aside from a little redness around the eyes and a couple of faint dark smudges beneath them, he didn’t look too bad. He still had the good looks that Susan claimed had attracted her years before; a firm jaw and eyes that could switch in an instant between friendly and hard, a trick he’d learnt during his earliest days on the force. His dark brown hair, just this side of black and still neat from his trip to the barber’s prior to starting this job, had yet to sport its first grey hair, although he was under no illusion that it would be long before his new position changed that.
Creeping back into the master bedroom, Warren slipped on the previous night’s suit and tie, remembering this time to retrieve his warrant card from his other jacket. Pausing to look at his slumbering wife, he risked a peck on the lips, tasting the wine on her breath. Still asleep, she nevertheless smiled.
Outside, the sun was already up although it had yet to chase away the night’s chill. Warren had grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl before leaving the house, and now crammed the remains of it into his mouth as he unlocked his car. The birds were singing loudly, but the rest of the street was quiet. Most of Warren and Susan’s neighbours worked regular office hours, so few would be up and about at seven a.m. on a Saturday. Similarly, the roads were quiet and Warren pulled into the small staff car park at the rear of Middlesbury Police Station barely ten minutes later. A few cars dotted the tarmac, most noticeably a brand-new Mercedes. Warren felt his stomach contract: his boss, Detective Superintendent John Grayson, was already in.
Middlesbury Station was something of an anomaly in Hertfordshire. Most of the county’s detectives now worked out of the joint Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Major Crime Unit based in Welwyn Garden City. However, a combination of the distance from Welwyn and the rapid growth of Middlesbury meant that the town’s police station sported several custody cells and despite the budget cutbacks had retained its small but fully operational CID unit. Many of the other towns in the local area had to make do with a reception desk manned nine-to-five with an emergency telephone connected to Welwyn for out-of-hours emergencies.
Swiping his access card and keying in his pin number gave Jones access to the building and he headed directly for the largest of the incident rooms. He had scheduled this morning’s meeting for eight a.m., timing it to catch the day shift as they came on duty. He glanced at his watch: seven-fifteen. Plenty of time to go over his briefing notes and set up the chairs. As he approached the room he spotted that the door to the superintendent’s office was ajar. It would be rude not to pop his head in, he decided, plus it wouldn’t hurt for the boss to notice how early he was in.
He rapped confidently on the door, his knock answered immediately with a curt, “Come in.” Stepping in, Jones stopped in surprise. Sprawled in a large, comfy-looking visitor’s chair, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee, was Detective Inspector Tony Sutton.
“Ah, good morning, Warren. Tony was just filling me in on last night’s discovery.”
So that’s how it is going to be, thought Jones, pushing down a sudden flash of annoyance. His first big case since moving here and already Sutton was trying to muscle in on his territory, ingratiating himself with the boss.
Sutton smirked. “Just the juicy bits, guv. Thought I’d leave the details to you.”
“So kind, Tony,” commented Jones. If the super noticed the tension crackling between the two men, he gave no sign of it.
“This is a big case, Warren. A murder is a nasty business at the best of times, but this one could be especially problematic.” The superintendent leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. “The vice chancellor of the university phoned me at six this morning, ‘to express his concern’ and emphasise the need for a ‘speedy resolution’. If I ever find out which bugger gave him my home phone number, they’ll spend the next twelve months telling primary-school kids not to talk to strangers.
“Either way, we do need to solve this quickly and decisively. A murderer running about the campus could be disastrous for the university’s reputation, especially with next month’s Controversies in Science conference. The guest list for that event looks like a who’s who of shit-stirrers. Richard Dawkins and the President of the British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection are some of the less controversial speakers. If they think we can’t guarantee their safety, the organisers may well cancel the conference or, worse, up sticks to bloody Cambridge.”
Sutton grunted. “Rumour has it, King’s College wanted to host it, but Channel 4, who are footing the bill, reckoned it would seem too elitist. You can bet they’ll be the first in line to offer their facilities again if we lose the conference.”
Jones tried to hide his puzzlement. They seemed to be taking this whole thing rather personally. During his time in the West Midlands, Jones had worked dozens of serious cases linked to the region’s several universities. The reputation of the university in question hadn’t been a huge worry. As far as the police were concerned, a crime was a crime and it would be solved with no more or no less vigour than an offence occurring anywhere else on their patch. Seeing Jones’ lack of comprehension, Grayson leant back in his chair, assuming a professorial air.
“Look around you, Warren. Middlesbury is a small market town, with bugger-all local industry. The decision to turn the technical college into a university forty-odd years ago gave this place a lease of life. It’s the biggest employer in the area and the students bring millions into the local economy. Part of the attraction for students is the location. We’re seen as a safe, quiet place to live and study. We have none of the hustle and bustle of Cambridge or the crime of some of the Essex cities. It’s a huge draw for overseas students, who bring in massive amounts of foreign money — even if some of our more conservatively minded residents aren’t too fond of them.”
Nodding his understanding, Jones tried not to feel patronised by the unnecessary lecture and oblique reference to his status as a newcomer, opting to reply with a simple, “I see.”
“So, DCI Jones, I want you to give this case top priority. I’ll back you completely resource-wise. Pull everyone off what they are doing and get them to focus fully on solving this murder. We have some spare money in the Major Incident Budget, so feel free to offer overtime and buy in all the forensics you need. I’ll sweet-talk Uniform into giving us some bodies for routine stuff. Let’s nail this bastard.”
Jones nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He could see how it was going to be. This case was a big deal and a lot was resting on his shoulders. It was his first case as a DCI and it looked as though it was going to be sink or swim. He had the deeply uncomfortable feeling that the outcome of this case would set the tone for the rest of his time in Middlesbury. Suddenly, the banana he had eaten for breakfast seemed to be weighing heavily in his stomach. His palms felt damp and his collar too tight. As if a major incident such as this weren’t enough for him to deal with, now he had to negotiate local politics as well. For the first time since his move, Warren allowed the ever-present whisper of doubt that lurked in the back of his mind speak louder.
He’d known that becoming the DCI of such a small unit in a semi-rural town would probably be less glamorous and exciting than his previous job with West Midlands Police and that the shameful downfall of DCI Gavin Sheehy had left a lot of collateral damage that he might well have to deal with, but the simple fact was that there were already plenty of DCIs in the WMP and he’d risked getting stuck in a rut as a detective inspector. If he ever wanted to make it as a detective superintendent or even a chief superintendent, he needed the command experience. Consequently, when the vacancy in the Middlesbury CID unit had become available, Jones had been encouraged to apply.
Making his excuses and repressing the treacherous voice at the back of his mind again, Jones left the office and went into the main briefing room. A large conference room, it lacked the sophisticated wall-mounted plasma screens that were being installed as he left the West Midlands. Nevertheless there were several oversized marker boards on wheels and plenty of chairs. As a concession to the twenty-first century, a ceiling-mounted projector allowed video and computer imagery to be displayed on the back wall. Most importantly, a large urn bubbled away on a corner table, next to a wicker basket filled with packets of tea, coffee, sugar and powdered creamer. A stack of cardboard cups served those without a mug. The old coffee tin now doing double duty as an honesty jar was suspiciously empty, and Jones hid a smile. Human nature was human nature, and coppers were all too human. Before doing anything else, Jones made himself a strong black coffee. After a moment of indecision, he emptied three sachets of sugar into the cup. The resulting brew was far sweeter than he liked, but the caffeine and sugar hit would hopefully chase away the remaining cobwebs. As an afterthought he chucked a fifty-pence piece into the honesty jar — lead by example and all that…
It was now five to eight and the CID day-shift were starting to file into the room. After two weeks, Warren could put a name and a rank to most of the faces. Some acknowledged him with a nod, one or two with a cautious, “Good morning, sir.” Warren was again reminded of the veiled scrutiny with which he was being viewed. Suspicion was probably too strong a word, but there was still a certain wariness. He was acutely aware that he was on probation with these people and that he had to prove himself to be up to the job.
By eight, he judged the room to be full, with a couple of dozen detectives of various ranks seated in rows. Grayson and Sutton stood at the back, watching. Calling for quiet, he wished all those assembled a good morning. Taking a deep breath, he launched in.
“As I am sure that most of you have heard, there has been a murder at the university in the Biology building up on Mills Road. At 22:19 hours last night a call was received from a member of the public and approximately ten minutes later two uniform colleagues on patrol confirmed the finding of the body of a middle-aged white male in a first-floor office within the main research wing. Paramedics confirmed that the victim was dead when they arrived. Preliminary identification is that of a Professor Alan Tunbridge, the occupant of the office. The PM will be held later today, but early indications are that the deceased was bludgeoned, possibly with a souvenir granite rock, before having his throat sliced open. Probable cause of death, exsanguination.”
A low murmur rippled around the room. Looking around, Warren was relieved to see that he had everyone’s attention. Or almost everyone — Grayson and Sutton had their heads together, quietly talking. Neither of them glanced his way. Forcing away any thoughts about what they might be discussing, Warren continued.
“The body was found by a Thomas Spencer, one of the professor’s graduate students who happened to be working late that night also. Time of death has been tentatively put at no earlier than about 21:30 hours. Scenes of Crime officers made a preliminary investigation and will resume their work this morning.”
A hand promptly went up: Detective Sergeant Hutchinson.
“Do we know who was in the building at that time and does Spencer have an alibi?”
“Unfortunately, we’re waiting for the head of campus Security to return from up north before we can review the CCTV footage and the building’s swipe-card logs to see who came in and out. The two guards on duty last night were based in the main security building on the other side of the campus and don’t have the know-how or the computer passwords to access that information.”
A few grumbles went around the room and Jones heard at least one muttered utterance about “bloody rent-a-cops”.
Ignoring the dissent, Warren continued.
“The building’s fire-safety log claims that when we arrived there were only two people in the building, although we can’t yet identify them. The system simply counts people in and people out. The two occupants were presumably Spencer and the deceased. None of the building’s fire exits had been opened and all the windows were shut. A search by uniform found no other people in the building. Spencer claims that he was working alone in a small equipment room at the opposite end of the building for about an hour before he discovered the professor’s body. There are no direct eyewitnesses but he says he bumped into two other students on the way over there who were just leaving for the pub. Apparently the room also has a swipe-card entry system to protect the expensive equipment inside. First thing we need to do when the head of Security arrives is check out Spencer’s story.”
A hand rose at the back. “Where is Spencer at the moment?”
“Back home. He’s due to come in for another interview this afternoon. Forensics bagged him and tagged him at the scene last night and he accompanied us here for a full trace-evidence exam and to give a preliminary statement. So far he hasn’t called for a lawyer and is co-operating fully, so we haven’t yet arrested him.” This last point was important. The moment that a suspect was arrested the clock started ticking and the police only had a short time to decide whether to release the suspect — on police bail if appropriate — or charge him and get him before a judge. By delaying arresting Spencer, Jones had successfully pushed back that deadline. However, it was a dangerous game and those questioning him would have to be very careful about making sure that he knew and understood his legal rights, lest they incur the wrath of any future defence counsel and scupper any prosecution before it even got off the ground.
Another hand went up. “What about Tunbridge’s immediate family: wife, partner, kids?”
“Family Liaison broke the news to his wife last night. His kids live away and are on their way home. Early indications are that the wife was having a meal in a busy restaurant with a half-dozen friends at the time of the murder. We’ll check out her alibi later today.”
Looking around the room, Jones saw that nobody else had any questions. They seemed to be happy to let him get on at his own pace. Jones decided to paraphrase what the super had said to him before this meeting, figuring he couldn’t really put a foot wrong if he quoted the boss.
“OK, people. This case is to be treated as our number one priority. I don’t need to remind you that most murders are solved in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours; the clock is already ticking. I will start assigning roles in a moment. Those of you that aren’t given an immediate task should use the time to lock down any outstanding jobs so that we can turn all of our attention over to solving this case.” Around the room there were a few quiet grumbles, no doubt from those worrying about the impact this temporary shutdown might have on their own caseload, but nobody dissented openly. They all knew the score without being told, Warren realised. Yet another example of the local instincts that he would need to develop if he was to succeed in this posting.
Warren consulted his notepad.
“Immediately after this briefing, DI Sutton and I will meet with the lab’s experimental officer, Dr Mark Crawley, and the head of the Biology department, to see what we can find out about the deceased and have a look at what names come up. Head of Security should be on campus in an hour or so. I’ll need somebody to meet him and have a quick look at any CCTV footage and the building’s swipe-card access log.
“The neighbourhood around the building is mostly non-residential. However, there are a few houses up the north end of the road. DS Khan, I’d like you to organise a few bodies to go door knocking.” A quick nod from the small man. “I’d also like you to go and see if the security guards working the warehouses on the opposite side of the road saw or heard anything. Check if any of their cameras point towards the university — it’s a long shot but they may have picked up something.”
He looked around the room, searching the assembled faces.
“DS Richardson, can you liaise with Traffic and see if any of their cameras have spotted anything? Remember, people, the time of death is likely to have been after 21:30 hours and Spencer’s phone call was logged at 22:19 hours. Assuming that there was another person involved, they may have been in the area for several hours before the attack.” A short squat forty-something clutching a bottle of mineral water nodded her agreement.
“DS Kent, I want you to set up an incident desk to collate incoming information. You’ll be the shift co-ordinator — everybody should report their progress to you. Get HOLMES up and running and get Welwyn up to speed in case we need resources.”
Kent nodded once and cracked his knuckles. A grey-haired man, well into his fifties, he was Middlesbury’s resident expert on the Home Office’s national serious crime database, HOLMES2. He had been one of the first people Jones had met after arriving at Middlesbury and his reputation for efficiency had preceded him. Even if he hadn’t been on shift this morning, Jones would probably have telephoned him and offered him double time. For his part, Kent looked excited at the challenge. Middlesbury wasn’t quite the back of beyond as far as policing was concerned; nevertheless a big juicy murder, as this could well turn out to be, was a welcome diversion from the car thefts, drunken assaults and mid-level drug dealing that the station usually dealt with.
“The rest of you, get yourselves ready to move at a moment’s notice. As we identify witnesses I want us to be able to pick them up for questioning before they get a chance to swap stories. Let’s hit the ground running, folks.” He paused, looking for questions. None, just impatient-looking faces, ready to get on with the task.
“Dismissed.”
Immediately the assembled officers jumped to their feet, the experienced Detective Sergeants Khan and Richardson promptly corralling the detective constables into groups to assign them their tasks. Without so much as a glance in his direction, Sutton and Grayson headed out of the double doors in the direction of Grayson’s office. Warren frowned, tempted to go after them, but he had more pressing concerns. Moving swiftly, he intercepted a young DC before she could be snagged by DS Khan.
“Karen Hardwick?” The young woman flushed slightly, no doubt a little taken aback to be identified by name by the new DCI.
“Yes, sir?”
Warren felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor girl. A probationer, she had only just finished her detective training, arriving at the station almost as recently as Jones. He vividly recalled his first few months as a trainee detective constable, desperately scared of screwing up or asking a stupid question in front of the boss. He’d hidden at the back of briefings, hoping to avoid catching the eye of anybody above the rank of sergeant.
“I’ve been reading your personnel file and I see that you were at university before you joined the force?”
Immediately, Warren cursed himself for his clumsy phrasing. It probably sounded to the poor woman that he’d pulled her file up especially, when in actual fact he’d been reading the files of everyone in the unit, trying to get to know his new team.
“Yes, sir. Bath, then Bristol.” Karen looked puzzled. These days graduate recruitment was the norm, not the exception.
“I believe that you did some sort of biological sciences degree?”
“Yes, sir, I did a bachelor’s degree in Biochemistry and then a masters by research in Molecular Biology.”
“So I would assume that your degrees involved spending time in laboratories?”
“Yes, I did a twelve-month work placement in a pharmaceutical company during my first degree, then my master’s degree involved three rotations in different laboratories within the Biology department.” Karen now had an inkling where this might be leading.
“Well, Karen, my gut is telling me that the reasons for this murder might lie in that university department. I may need an interpreter, somebody who is familiar with the system and the language.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, sir.”
“Good. Now let’s go and round up DI Sutton. We’ve got some trees to shake and I get the impression that the DI is good at shaking.”
Chapter 3 (#ulink_1ca87dbf-c0fa-52b2-8a03-1361c4f35114)
Jones, Sutton and DC Karen Hardwick were greeted in the lobby of the Department of Biological Sciences research building by a different young PC from the previous night. After crossing them off his clipboard, he radioed ahead to let the crime scene technicians know that they had arrived. Apparently, Dr Mark Crawley, the laboratory’s experimental officer, was already with them.
Following the same route as the night before — less than ten hours ago, Jones realised wearily — the three police officers headed towards the crime scene. This morning it was necessary to stop a few doors short of the office where the professor’s body had been found, since the whole end of the corridor was now blocked off with blue and white crime scene tape.
Just past the barrier was a set of wooden double doors, with a large sign proclaiming “Tunbridge Group. Microbial Biology”. Next to it were yellow warning stickers with the universal signs for biohazards and, Jones noticed with a touch of discomfort, radiation. A few metres further along the corridor the door to Tunbridge’s office was open, white-suited technicians hard at work. A uniformed constable stood to attention next to the tape, his hands behind his back. Jones pretended not to see the copy of The Sun inexpertly concealed behind him. He had spent plenty of time as a uniformed officer guarding crime scenes and knew just how desperately dull it could be.
“DCI Jones. I was told that Dr Mark Crawley was up here?”
“He’s in the laboratory, sir, with Crime Scene Manager Harrison, the lead forensics officer. I’ll fetch him.”
The constable stepped under the blue and white tape and slipped through the double doors into the laboratory. A few seconds later the doors opened again and a tall, middle-aged, rangy man stepped out. He was dressed in faded blue jeans with an open-necked checked shirt, a white forensic hairnet and white paper booties over his shoes. His eyes were red-rimmed behind small eye glasses and Jones noticed that he hadn’t shaved. His right shirt pocket was overflowing with pens and pencils of different colours, one of which appeared to have leaked slightly. The left contained a second pair of glasses, with what appeared to be pink lenses. A lanyard with a photographic ID card and a couple of small keys completed the ensemble.
“Good morning, officers, I’m Mark Crawley, the Tunbridge Group’s experimental officer.” He extended a hand awkwardly. His accent retained traces of a Yorkshire upbringing, although many years in the south had clearly influenced his speech.
“I was familiarising your forensic team with the lab before they go searching for evidence. There’s lots of chemicals and delicate equipment in there — we don’t want any accidents.”
“Good morning, Dr Crawley. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones, this is Detective Inspector Tony Sutton and this is Detective Constable Karen Hardwick. First of all, let me extend our condolences on your loss.”
Crawley acknowledged the sympathy with an incline of his head.
“We are here to find out about Professor Tunbridge and try to piece together what happened Friday night. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Of course, follow me. We have a tea and coffee area with seating.”
Shucking the hairnet and booties and depositing them in a labelled bin, he led the three police officers back down the corridor past another two doors and ushered them into a small, crowded room. Jones looked around, quickly assessing the space. Metal bookcases crammed with journals and well-thumbed textbooks lined two of the walls. In the centre, a coffee table was surrounded by five soft chairs that reminded Jones somewhat uncomfortably of a dental surgery. Just like in a waiting room, the table was covered in magazines — or, rather more accurately, journals. A cursory glance at some of the headlines on the journals suggested that he would be unlikely to find any diets or salacious celebrity gossip between their pages. That being said, Jones did spot a copy of Private Eye sitting next to a pile of New Scientist.
On the wall to the left, a cork notice board was covered in paper, mostly to do with upcoming seminars or courses. The wall to the right had a similar notice board to which photographs of what Jones assumed were the rest of the lab, in a variety of staged and candid poses, were pinned haphazardly, some of them tagged with cryptic in-jokes. Jones recognised Tom Spencer and Mark Crawley in a few of them. To Jones’ surprise, the only image that Tunbridge appeared in was a formal-looking group photo. He didn’t seem to feature in any of the Christmas or other party pictures. A handwritten sheet of paper proclaimed itself as the sign-up sheet for a meal out at a local curry house next Friday. A dozen or so names were scrawled in different-coloured pens, some with ‘+1’ next to them. Jones wondered if that would still take place — would the lab come together to raise a glass to the prof’s memory?
A small window overlooked the car park below. Beneath it sat a small fridge, pulling double duty as a counter top. A mug tree jostled for space with four or five different jars of coffee, a jam jar of sugar and a box of PG Tips tea bags. The white plastic surface was ringed with brown stains from spilled drinks. Several dirty teaspoons were propped up in a coffee mug, itself in need of a good clean. Even by the standards of the CID tea room, the place was a health hazard. All three officers politely declined Crawley’s offer of a hot drink.
Motioning them to sit on the over-stuffed dentist’s chairs, Crawley flopped down himself. He looked physically exhausted, yet at the same time filled with nervous energy, Jones decided. Was it the weariness of grief? Worry about his job? Guilt? At this moment, Jones was keeping an open mind.
“First of all, Dr Crawley, could you tell us a little about yourself? I’m a bit mystified by the title ‘Experimental Officer’.”
“Basically, I’m the person in charge of running the lab on a day-to-day basis. The lab manager, if you will, except that I also do my own research. Alan…Professor Tunbridge…does…or rather did a lot of travelling and so I was the person in charge of making sure the lab ran smoothly in his absence. I’ve been with Alan for about twelve years or so, I guess.”
Jones nodded. “What can you tell me about Professor Tunbridge?”
Crawley sighed, took his glasses off and cleaned them, before placing them back again. The three police officers waited.
“Well, it’ll all come out in the end, I suppose… Alan was a brilliant researcher. His work was well respected around the world, hence his constant travelling. He has dozens of high-impact papers in all the best journals and regularly referees the papers of others in the field before their acceptance into journals.”
Jones sensed a “but”.
“But, on a personal level the guy was less than universally loved.”
Jones’ ears pricked up.
“Are you suggesting that the motive for his murder could be personal, rather than professional?”
“Look, all I’m saying is that, frankly, the bloke was a bit of an arsehole. He had a tendency to rub people up the wrong way, often for no good reason. He could really upset people and he just didn’t give a shit, ’scuse my French. He got away with a hell of a lot because of who he was and senior management used to excuse him ‘because he’s a genius and they can be funny sometimes’. Try telling that to a masters student in tears because her dissertation has been sent back with ‘crap — start again’ scrawled across it in red pen.” Crawley was clearly starting to unload years of pent-up frustration and Jones was willing to let him vent. Who knew what might come out…?
“The genius bit is bollocks. I’ve met a number of geniuses over the yearsand they were all nice blokes. Alan hadn’t got his Nobel yet, but he still acted like a wanker. At least three graduate students made complaints against him and two technicians claimed constructive dismissal. But Alan’s Teflon-coated. He usually got away with it.”
Crawley’s voice had started to rise and he broke off, breathing heavily.
“So why did you stay with him so long?” Jones asked.
Crawley sighed, the energy draining again.
“The sad fact is that despite all the nonsense, he was OK with me. I think he realised that he would be lucky to find someone else who’d put up with his behaviour. As for me, I’ve fallen with my bum in the butter. I can pursue my own research and I still get my name added to pretty much every paper that comes out of this lab.
“My problem is, I’m at the top of the research associate pay scale and my next career step is my own research group, but I’ve got a wife and three kids. The oldest will be off to uni next year, the youngest is still at primary school and has just been diagnosed with hyperactivity disorder and the family curse, dyslexia. My wife’s parents will probably have to go into a home in the next twelve months. I don’t have time to set up my own group, but I’m too expensive for anybody else to want me. Alan, for all his faults, was happy to keep on paying me. I guess we needed each other.” He gave a humourless grin. “If we were having this conversation in five years’ time, I’d say ‘cuff me now’, I’ve got every motive. I’d be ready to bump the old sod off and take over the group. But at the moment, it’s the last bloody thing I need.”
Jones nodded, not yet convinced. He moved on to another tack.
“Who else could have a motive for killing Tunbridge?”
“It’d be easier to ask who didn’t. Frankly he pissed off most people that he met. Plenty of collaborators over the years have complained that he was dictatorial and manipulative. He put plenty of noses out of joint by taking advantage of other people’s research, but the simple fact is that there is one rule for us and one rule for people like him. But that was mostly professional jealousy. I can’t see any of these guys killing him over who deserves to be first name on a paper in the Journal of Bacteriology.”
“OK. Leaving aside professional rivalries, what about closer to home?”
“Well, he was a philandering bastard. He shagged at least one of his undergraduate students, not to mention a few colleagues that he used to meet at conferences. For somebody with such an unpleasant streak, he never seemed to have any problems getting laid.”
“Can you give me any names?”
Crawley thought for a moment, his brow creased in concentration.
“I think one of them was called Claire or something. Rumour mill has it that she was one of the students on his Microbial Genetics course and he took a shine to her. There were the usual claims that he gave away good grades in exchange for sexual favours, but that’s bullshit. I know for a fact that undergraduate essays are all marked independently and anonymously from the tutor that sets them to stop that sort of stuff happening. Anyhow, she moved on and we haven’t heard from her since. This was some months ago.”
Jones noted down the details, deciding to pursue the lead nevertheless.
“I guess the people with the biggest grudge against Alan would be his former grad students and postdocs. He treated some of them shockingly. I know, because I usually ended up picking up the pieces.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Well, I suppose Antonio Severino is the first name to spring to mind. He was one of Alan’s postdocs until recently, then things went horribly sour.”
“How? By the way, could you just clear up some terminology for me? What is a ‘postdoc’?”
“Well, a postdoctoral research assistant or associate is a junior researcher at a university. Basically, you do your PhD, to become ‘Doctor’ and then do a couple of research positions of a couple of years apiece in other people’s laboratories to gain experience. In some countries, such as Canada, you are still regarded as little more than a glorified student. Fortunately in the UK it’s now a properly salaried position with all the usual benefits.
“Anyhow, Dr Antonio Severino joined us about two years ago. He’s a smart guy and managed to solve a couple of really difficult problems that we were struggling with. Anyway, Alan being Alan felt a bit threatened by this as he realised that Antonio was inevitably going to share a lot of the limelight when the research was published and so he announced out of the blue that when Antonio’s initial appointment expired in six weeks’ time, he wasn’t going to renew the post. Furthermore, he was going to hold off on the publication of several key papers until he had some more data. This really upset Antonio. You see, not only was he out of a job in six weeks, he is also not going to have any publications to show for the past two years. In this climate he’ll be lucky if he gets a job cleaning glassware. The long and the short of it is that Alan absolutely shafted the poor bastard.”
“How did Dr Severino take this?”
“How do you think? Not to be stereotypical, but Antonio is a full-blooded Italian. They had the mother of all shouting matches in the lab, which spilled out into the corridor. Half the building must have seen and heard it. Anyway, I finally persuaded Antonio to leave and go home for the day, promising I’d talk to Alan about the papers. Antonio did calm down enough to leave the building, but he went straight down to the pub.
“He’s always been a drinker, but that day he excelled himself. According to a couple of Mick Robinson’s group who were having lunch in there he got absolutely wasted. When they arrived he was already really pissed, drinking shots. They knew him and everyone sympathises with you when you’re dissing the boss, so they sat with him for a bit. Eventually they figured he’d had enough and called him a cab.
“Apparently, he did get in the cab, but changed his mind halfway home and got the driver to drop him off outside here. I guess he was going to come back in and have it out with Alan again, but he got distracted by Alan’s rather nice shiny BMW and used his penknife to slash all four tyres and his house keys to scratch some sort of Italian obscenity on the bonnet. Did about three grand worth of damage, I’m told, before one of the security guards stopped him.”
Crawley’s expression hinted that he might not have been entirely disapproving of his co-worker’s actions. “Well, Alan was all up for doing him for criminal damage, but the University Disciplinary Committee decided that it wasn’t going to do anybody’s reputation any good if this got into papers, so as usual I did my best to pour oil on troubled waters.
“In the end, I persuaded the university to let Antonio see out his last six weeks on gardening leave. Alan agreed to let me write him a decent job reference, which he signed and put ‘papers pending’ on the references list on his CV. Antonio consented to pay the excess on Alan’s insurance claim. I tell you guys, some days I feel like the Secretary General of the United Nations in this place.”
“How long ago was this?”
“About four or five weeks ago.”
“And has Dr Severino had any luck in finding another job yet?”
“I had a request to pass on his references a couple of weeks ago to a lab at Leicester Uni. I haven’t heard anything back from Antonio, so I’d guess he’s probably been unsuccessful.”
Jones nodded, taking note. Severino certainly had a big enough motive and if he had just been turned down for a job that could have been a trigger.
“Tell us about Dr Spencer.”
“Tom? Oh, he’s not doctor yet. He’s a final year PhD student.”
Karen Hardwick half raised her hand almost as if she were at school. However, her voice was firm and betrayed none of the nervousness she was feeling at interrupting her superiors.
“What stage was his PhD at? Was he still working or writing up?”
A brief look of discomfort passed across Crawley’s face.
“He was writing up, although he was still doing a few experiments to tidy things up.”
“What stage was his thesis at? Was he still in his third year or was he in his write-up year?”
Jones listened carefully. He had no idea where Karen’s line of questioning was going, but the vibes he was getting off Crawley suggested that he wasn’t thrilled about the direction. That alone made the questions worth asking in Jones’ book.
“He was in his write-up year. He’d submitted some draft chapters to Alan for editing.”
“It’s August now. Assuming he started in September, he must be pretty close to the end of his fourth year. Would that be correct? How was he funded and is it still current?”
“I’m not sure why this is relevant.”
“Please, bear with me, Dr Crawley.” DC Hardwick’s eyes didn’t leave the increasingly uncomfortable-looking scientist.
“Yes, he is within a couple of months or so of the end of his fourth year. He was funded by the Medical Research Council. The funding will have ended by now.”
“How much of his thesis had Professor Tunbridge approved? Is Mr Spencer on course to finish within the four-year deadline?”
“I wouldn’t know about that.” The lie was weak, but Hardwick decided not to pursue it.
Sutton now picked up the gauntlet. “How would you characterise the relationship between Mr Spencer and Professor Tunbridge?”
“Well, Alan was a difficult man, as I think you are realising, and the relationship between students and supervisors is often tense, but I never saw them have a stand-up row like he did with Antonio Severino.”
Jones looked at his colleagues; they seemed to be content for the time being. He looked forward to their thoughts. It was clear that Crawley wasn’t telling the whole truth, but he was unsure how to proceed just yet.
“Well, thank you for your time, Dr Crawley. If you could give one of my colleagues your contact details that would be very helpful. I would also appreciate the names and contact details of other members of the research group. We may call you again in due course with some more questions. In the meantime, I believe that we have an appointment with the head of department, Professor Gordon Tompkinson.”
Jones stood up, signalling the end of the interview. Crawley looked relieved.
“Let me take you to see Professor Tompkinson.”
As they exited the small room Jones spotted the young uniformed constable, standing outside the taped-off entrance to Tunbridge’s office. Beckoning him over, he instructed him to take down the details that he had requested from Crawley when he returned from taking them to see Prof Tompkinson. That should give him something to do besides read the newspaper, Jones thought.
Just then another uniformed constable appeared.
“Sir, the head of Security has just arrived. He is ready to go through the CCTV and the building’s access logs.”
“Thank you, Constable.” Jones turned to Sutton. “Tony, can you go and see what they’ve got? The sooner we can start corroborating some alibis, the better.”
“Will do, guv.” He turned smartly on his heel and strode off after the already departing constable.
* * *
“Dr Crawley, Mr Spencer claims to have been working in something called the ‘PCR room’ when the murder is believed to have taken place.”
“He’ll have meant Molecular Biology Suite One, on the ground floor. Do you want to go there?”
“Yes, please, if you wouldn’t mind.”
Motioning them to follow, Crawley headed back towards the front of the building. Taking them back down the stairwell that they had used earlier, he then doubled back on himself, so that they were heading back into the building again. To their left were more offices and Crawley motioned to a set of double doors.
“That’s the main admin office where the head of department, Gordon Tompkinson works. I’ll bring you back here after I’ve shown you the PCR room. I saw his car in the car park by the way, so he is in.”
They continued down the corridor past yet more offices on the left. Through an open door Jones caught a quick glimpse of another tea room, this one a little tidier, again overlooking the car park. The rooms on the right appeared to be service rooms rather than laboratories, with signs on their doors such as ‘Sterilisation Unit’, ‘Media Kitchen’ and ‘Central Stores’. All the doors were shut but windows with old-fashioned wire-mesh safety glass afforded glimpses of darkened rooms beyond. The air was humid yet at the same time smelled musty. Jones made a note to ask Karen about it later, again reminded that in this environment he really was a fish out of water. Finally they pulled up outside another set of double doors. Unlike the others in the corridor, there was no glass window to hint at what went on inside. The sign, ‘Molecular Biology Suite One’ meant nothing to Jones. These doors seemed sturdier and to the right of them was another swipe-card reader.
Crawley paused outside and motioned to the reader with the card that he wore on a lanyard around his neck. Jones thought for a moment - would entering the room compromise a crime scene? No, he decided, it was clearly a communal facility and besides which Spencer had been wearing latex gloves and other sterile clothing. It was unlikely that Forensics would get much in the way of useful trace evidence in there.
“Please, go ahead.”
Crawley swiped the card and there was the quiet click of a magnetic lock. A green LED lit up on the card reader. Pushing the door open seemed to require some effort and Jones felt a blast of cold air.
“Positive air pressure,” explained Crawley without being asked. “It helps stop dust and other contaminants getting in and damaging the equipment. There is also air conditioning to keep everything at a constant temperature and humidity. They look after the equipment better than they look after the staff,” he quipped weakly.
Stepping in, Crawley reached and flicked on the lights. Jones and Hardwick followed him in. Jones was immediately glad of his suit jacket. The air temperature was a few degrees too cool for his comfort and a marked contrast to the warm August weather outside.
The room was like something out of a science-fiction movie, he decided. A reasonable size, it was nevertheless crammed with benches full of equipment. The three of them were able to fit into the room side by side, but to accommodate anybody else someone would need to shuffle along one of the other aisles. The doorway in which they stood was the only entrance and there were no windows. Over the rush of the air conditioning, Jones noticed a sound that reminded him of the Scalextric racing car set that he’d had as a child. A sudden, high-pitched whine, followed by silence, then repeated again, as if he were accelerating the tiny cars along the track, stopping them, then starting again.
“Welcome to Molecular Biology Suite One, the jewel in the crown of the Biology department.” Crawley swept his hand, in a wide arc. “There’s the better part of two million quid’s worth of equipment in here, or at least that’s how much we paid for it when it was new. It’s also the most secure room in the building, not including the animal house.” He gestured upwards with a nod of his head, no doubt a reference to the unlabelled fourth floor that didn’t exist on the building’s public plans but which Jones had read up on when familiarising himself with potential terrorist targets.
It was certainly impressive, he decided. Pride of place was a large glass-fronted unit, the size of a commercial chest freezer, with ‘Affymetrix’ emblazoned across it in blue. Jones hadn’t got the faintest idea what the machine did, but it seemed to be filled with stacks of plastic trays. This, he realised, was the source of the noise. He watched fascinated as a robotic arm scooted, whining, across the length of the machine, delicately picked the top tray off a stack, before moving it to a different stack to its right. From above, a second arm appeared, this time bristling with dozens of metal prongs, which it inserted into some of the hundreds of tiny wells that Jones now saw made up the tray. Removing the prongs, the arm moved rapidly, but precisely, to the right, before lowering the prongs slowly onto what appeared to be a frosted-glass microscope slide.
Noticing Jones’ interest, Crawley gestured towards the machine.
“It’s a slide maker for gene expression studies — it’s the reason for the security. It, and the equipment to read the slides, is worth hundreds of thousands. The university’s insurers insisted that we put it behind locked doors in case it gets stolen. There is a growing black market for these things in the Biology departments of developing countries. It’s also incredibly delicate, hence the air conditioning.”
“Is this what Tom Spencer was using Friday night?”
“Oh, no. This is strictly the property of the gene expression laboratory. Tom was probably using the Tetrad PCR machine. It’s not in the same league as the slide maker, but it’d still be worth nicking if you had a buyer for it.”
Crawley led them down a side aisle to a squat black bench-top machine about the size of an old-style desktop computer sitting on its side. The equipment had four hinged lids, all closed, with electric-blue screws on top. A large keypad on the front was flanked by an LCD screen to the left and a stylised DNA molecule as a logo to the right. The machine seemed to be switched off. What appeared to be a booking sheet was covered in scribbled names. ‘Tom Spencer, Friday p.m.’ was scrawled under a column headed ‘Block One’. The other three blocks were empty at that time. Judging by the number of different names listed on the booking sheet, this seemed to be a popular machine. Even if Spencer wasn’t wearing gloves when he used it, Jones doubted that they would find any useful trace evidence.
Motioning back toward the room’s only entrance, Jones asked how to exit the room.
“There’s another swipe card. Security keeps a log of everyone who enters or leaves the room.”
“What if you prop the door open? How do you get out if your swipe card isn’t working?”
“If you prop the door open, after about a minute an alarm sounds. Similarly, if for some reason you manage to swipe yourself in but can’t get out, you can press that green fire-alarm-style button to release the lock. That also triggers an alarm. Either way, Security come running and you get a serious bollocking.”
So it looked as though once you swiped in, you were in there until you swiped out again. With no more questions, Crawley led them back out into the warmth of the corridor. Jones removed his mobile phone from his suit jacket. Sutton answered within two rings.
“Tony, it’s Jones. Have you had any luck with the head of Security yet?”
“Just getting there, guv. We’re looking at the CCTV as we speak.”
“Good. Can you also see if you can obtain a printout for the day’s swipe-card access logs for the building’s main entrance and for Molecular Biology Suite One?”
Jones heard his request being relayed in a muffled voice, followed by a short reply, too indistinct to understand. “Shouldn’t be a problem, guv. I’ll call as soon as we have anything, Sutton out.”
Jones smiled slightly. Using mobile phones instead of radios was still a bit strange to older members of the force and so they had a tendency to resort to radio-speak when using them at work. Jones was no different. Susan had teased him for weeks after he had phoned her from the fish and chip shop one evening and ended the conversation with ‘over’.
That reminded him, he’d better call Susan when he had a few minutes. She was fairly understanding about his work commitments, but insisted that she should at least be given a rough idea of when he would be home. Quite how understanding she would be today was another question. One of the reasons for her parents’ visit was to celebrate Bernice’s birthday. The plan was for Susan and Warren to take Bernice and Dennis into Cambridge for an early dinner, followed by a play at the Corn Exchange. Warren prayed that he didn’t have to skip that, for then he would really be in the doghouse. As understanding as Susan was, an evening of frosty silence from her mother would not leave her in a good mood. Warren just hoped that the previous night’s red wine had been good enough to temper Bernice’s displeasure at his sudden departure.
With at least a couple of his questions answered, Jones suggested Crawley take them down to see the head of department. They were led back down the corridor in a thoughtful silence. Jones stared at the back of Crawley’s head, his mind whirring. He’d started the day with only one potential suspect. Now it would seem that there may be dozens of people with motives. He glanced over at Hardwick. Her brow was furrowed and she was clearly thinking hard. Jones looked forward to her thoughts. One question in particular troubled Jones.
Why was the professor in his office at ten p.m. on a Friday? And how had his killer known?
Chapter 4 (#ulink_2c907b68-d9f8-574a-a99a-56f2732f9e98)
The head of department’s office was on the ground floor, close to the main reception area where the three officers had entered earlier. The entrance to the head’s office was actually inside a larger office complex signed as ‘Department of Biology — Administration’. A long, narrow room, it occupied almost an entire side of the building and was filled with a half-dozen workstations. Each desk had a comfortable-looking office chair, a desktop PC, a telephone and in and out trays, some empty, others stuffed with paper. A bank of cryptically labelled filing cabinets lined the wall underneath a row of windows overlooking the car park. A large photocopier and an industrial-sized paper shredder filled the remaining gaps along the wall. Two laser printers sat on top of the filing cabinets, along with a box of white A4 photocopy paper. The empty room smelt of stale coffee and ozone from the photocopier. The office seemed representative of the building as a whole, decided Jones. Nineteen-sixties architecture, a couple of decades past its prime, struggling to do its job in a world that bore little resemblance to what the planners had envisioned.
The door to Professor Tompkinson’s office was right at the back of the office. An effort had been made to create a sort of waiting area, with a couple of comfy chairs lined up beneath the window. On the opposing side of the room a workstation sat facing the visitors; a name plate on the table read ‘Mrs C Gardner — PA to the HoD’.
Despite the shabbiness of the set-up, it reminded Jones a lot of the chief constable’s office. The logic of the layout there was to keep the boss away from the day-to-day grind, shielding him from unwanted visitors and time-wasters. The HoD’s PA was no doubt the guardian of the appointments calendar and probably a formidable obstacle. Jones himself tended to operate an open-door policy: if the door was open come straight in, no appointment necessary. If the door was closed ask Cathy, the secretary nearest to the office and Jones’ unofficial PA, if it was worth knocking or if it would be better to leave a message. He found himself wondering if Professor Tompkinson was an open-door or closed-door kind of boss.
At the moment, the door was closed. As the two officers waited by the comfy chairs Crawley knocked once and entered the office. A few seconds later he emerged. “Professor Tompkinson is on the phone. He’ll speak to you in a moment. I’d better get back to the lab and give those details to the constable.”
He left quickly.
With the door still closed, Jones turned quietly to his colleague.
“Impressions?”
Karen chewed her lip. She was clearly a little intimidated about being asked her opinion by someone as senior as Jones; nevertheless, she thought the question over carefully.
“Holding something back. He was definitely uncomfortable answering that last lot of questions. I reckon he knows more than he was letting on.”
Jones nodded in concurrence.
“Karen, you asked some interesting questions there — what was on your mind?” He was careful to phrase it as an invitation. Jones valued the instincts of his junior colleagues and encouraged their input more than some. The first DCI he had worked for had routinely told junior officers to remember that they had two ears and one gob, and to use them in that proportion. His aggressive attitude had made young constables nervous about voicing their opinions. Jones was convinced that more than one case could have been closed far faster if the crusty old detective had listened to his colleagues more. Fortunately, he had finally retired six months after Jones had joined CID and his replacement, Bob Windermere, had been the complete opposite. To this day, Jones still regarded him as something of a mentor and regularly sought his advice.
Karen Hardwick took the invitation.
“When I was back in uni, some of my friends were doing PhDs. More than one of them had a supervisor that they argued with. It could get pretty nasty. If this Professor Tunbridge is half as unpleasant and mean as Dr Crawley was saying, he could have given Tom Spencer a pretty good motive for his murder.”
Jones nodded encouragingly. He’d had the same thoughts himself.
“What about the questions on funding you were asking about?”
“Well, typically a student funded by a body like the Medical Research Council is given three years’ worth of funding for their project. That may be awarded directly to the student, but more typically it is part of a larger project grant that their PhD supervisor has successfully applied for. We’ll probably find that Tunbridge’s laboratory had a couple of large project grants running for several years and that his PhD students had studentships funded as part of the grant.”
Jones made a note to follow that up, thankful to the gut instinct that had caused him to choose Karen Hardwick to accompany him and Sutton. Her insider knowledge of the mysterious workings of university departments was proving invaluable.
“Anyhow, full-time students normally have funding for three years and are expected to submit their completed PhD thesis — an eighty-thousand-word dissertation — within four years.”
“What happens if they miss the deadline?” asked Sutton.
“In the worst-case scenario, I suppose they’d fail their degree.”
“You seemed to think it important that Spencer was reaching the end of his four years. Could Tunbridge have been stopping him submitting? Crawley did mention that Tunbridge had been harsh to students in the past over their dissertations.”
Hardwick shrugged. “I don’t know. We should definitely ask though, sir. We should also ask about Tom Spencer’s finances.”
“Oh? Why?”
“If he was towards the end of his four years, he was probably pretty skint. The three-year project funding also extends to the student’s living stipend. Students are usually told to save a bit of money during the three years so they can keep on paying the bills during their write-up period. Sometimes they can get some part-time teaching, but I knew PhD students who had to have bar jobs on top of their research just to make ends meet.”
“Well, that’s certainly a good enough motive,” Jones mused. “If Tunbridge was stopping Spencer from graduating, he could have been in trouble financially. I think we’ve got a few more questions to ask Mr Spencer later.”
Chapter 5 (#ulink_56d52096-993a-54b9-8b6c-939de55bbf35)
At first glance, Professor Tompkinson resembled a retired Geography teacher or librarian, Jones decided. Small and stooped, with generous ears and tiny spectacles perched on the end of his nose secured with a safety cord, he wore a grey woollen sweater, checked shirt and plain red tie. In addition, he was wearing a flat cap, as if he had just come in, although the empty coffee cups next to his phone suggested otherwise. Jones was unable to resist a surreptitious glance at the coat stand in the corner of the office and felt almost let down by the absence of a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.
“Please, do come in. I’m very sorry about you having to wait. The chancellor of the university was on the phone; he’s rather concerned about what happened last night.”
After offering them coffee, which the two officers declined, Tompkinson sat down behind his desk. “First of all, please let me make it absolutely clear that you will have the full co-operation of myself and this department in solving this terrible crime. The vice chancellor and the chancellor have also expressed their willingness to assist in any way.” He paused as if not quite sure how to proceed. “Ah, as you may be aware, Chief Inspector, the university will shortly be hosting a prestigious conference, with a number of high-profile guests.” Warren nodded. “We are a little concerned as to the impact any investigation would have on the smooth running of the conference and the implications such a violent attack may have for the university’s reputation. As such, we would appreciate it if you were able to keep us fully informed of the progress of your investigation.” His piece said, he sat back in his chair.
As he did so Jones noticed that the man’s hands shook slightly. Why? Was he nervous? It seemed unlikely — the professor was clearly a man used to moving in political circles. The presence of a police officer, even one investigating a murder, would be unlikely to unnerve him enough to give him the shakes. Jones made a mental note to check for an alibi. Perhaps he was just wired from too much caffeine.
“Of course, I fully understand, Professor. As soon as we have any information that we are ready to make public I will ensure that the university is informed.”
Tompkinson’s eyes narrowed slightly at Jones’ careful wordplay, but he said nothing, merely nodding acceptance. Jones carefully maintained his poker face, but inside he was satisfied that he had discreetly but firmly laid out the ground rules — the investigation would be run on Jones’ terms and his terms alone.
With the lines drawn and the rules of play established, Jones decided to start off with a little fishing to see what the professor volunteered, before getting down to specifics.
“Tell me, Professor, how well did you know Professor Tunbridge?”
“I suppose I’ve known Alan for about twenty-five years, to a greater or lesser extent. We were postdocs here back in the day, before we went our separate ways for a few years. Eventually, we both found our way back here and set up our own labs. We work in different fields, so we never collaborated. Nevertheless, this isn’t a huge department, so we got to know each other as colleagues. As we became more senior and gained our chairs — professorships — we obviously spent time together on committees.”
Jones nodded. “I see. And how would you say you were on a personal level?”
Tompkinson took his glasses off, and polished them on his tie, frowning. The two officers waited in silence.
Finally, Tompkinson replaced his glasses and let out a weary sigh.
“There’s no point sugar-coating it, I suppose. Alan was a hard man to like. He had an abrasive personality and didn’t suffer fools gladly. He was also arrogant, domineering and bullying, yet strangely petty at the same time. He was a genius, no question. But I can’t really think of anyone that I would describe as a close friend of his.”
Jones repressed a sigh. It seemed that the motives, and thus by extension the suspects, were stacking up.
“Alan and I had a lot of arguments, particularly when I became Head of Department. We butted heads frequently over all manner of policies. Pretty much any decision I made, Alan would question and because he was who he was, often the VC — the vice chancellor — would overrule my decisions and go with Alan’s. Sometimes I wondered who the hell the head of department was, me or him?”
“So do you think Tunbridge was after your job?” Was that a big enough motive, Jones mused, for murder?
Tompinkson let out a bark of laughter.
“Oh, dear God, no, you misunderstand completely. The last thing Alan would want is the hassle that goes with being the head of department, far too much pen-pushing and meetings. No, Alan was a research scientist through and through. He hated any type of ‘admin bollocks’ as he called it.
“No, Alan would far rather be the power behind the throne. He’d let me and others sweat out all of the details in meetings and just swan in at the last minute. The bugger probably only attended one departmental meeting in three and he was only one of a dozen or more faculty members, yet barely a major decision has been made in five years that Alan didn’t have a hand in.”
“Forgive me, Professor, but so far we haven’t heard a good word about Professor Tunbridge. Some of the behaviours that he has been accused of sound suspiciously close to gross misconduct. Violent rows with postdocs, students reporting him for bullying, constructive dismissal claims and an alleged affair with an undergraduate student. Yet it seems that he hasn’t been subject to any disciplinary action at all. Why is that, Professor?”
Tompkinson looked embarrassed. “You’re right, of course, Chief Inspector. Much of what Alan did was unacceptable. Particularly the way he treated that poor undergraduate — getting her pregnant and then making her get rid of the baby left a bad taste in my mouth. You just can’t act like that. But, senior management decided that it would be in everyone’s best interest if we hushed it up. After all, she was a consenting adult. It’s not like any laws were broken.”
Jones blinked; beside him he felt Hardwick stiffen. Tunbridge had got an undergraduate student pregnant? And then had it hushed up? Tompkinson had blithely admitted it, clearly assuming that if they knew about the affair, they must know about the pregnancy. Why hadn’t Crawley mentioned it? If he was to be believed, he was Tunbridge’s trouble shooter, stepping in after his boss to clear up the former’s mess. Surely he had known about it. Was he trying to protect Tunbridge’s memory? Unlikely, given the way he’d trashed the man’s reputation for the past half an hour. What about the young woman’s? Was he trying to protect her dignity? That seemed a little more likely, Jones decided. And what about his discomfort over questions about Tom Spencer’s finances? Was he trying to protect him as well?
“Could you give me the young lady’s name, please? I think we should speak to her.”
Tompkinson looked a bit uncomfortable. “Is that really necessary, DCI Jones She went through rather a lot. We decided that a fresh start was best for her. I’d rather we didn’t open old wounds.”
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I really must insist. Better that you give me the details discreetly, here and now, than I have to conduct enquiries.”
Tompkinson sighed.
“The young lady’s name was Clara Hemmingway. She’s a current student, so student services will have all of her details. She was assigned to Alan, along with three other students, after choosing Microbial Genetics as one of her essay preferences. This would have been back in November. It’s a long-standing tradition at the university, designed to bring undergraduate students into contact with the research side of the university. They get a tour of the lab and we even pay for them to go out to lunch with the lab members and encourage them to discuss their lab’s work and findings.
“Sometimes students even manage to get summer jobs or internships with the lab later in their course. To the best of my knowledge, Miss Hemmingway has not had any work experience with the lab, but she certainly made an impression!” His laugh was bitter and his expression suggested that he found the situation far from amusing.
“Thank you, Professor. Now, back to the original question. Why was Professor Tunbridge allowed to behave in the way he did, seemingly with no consequences?”
Tompkinson leant back slightly, before sweeping his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. Again, that nervous tremor.
“Look around you, Officers. This is the University of Middle England, not Oxford or Cambridge.” Seeing their uncomprehending gazes, he leant forward.
“How much do you know about university funding? Are you familiar with the Research Assessment Exercise?”
Seeing their shaking heads, Tompkinson adopted a professorial air — appropriately enough, thought Jones.
“Funding for UK universities comes from many different sources, but broadly it can be categorised in two ways. There is specific funding for a specific project. The university and individuals bid for grants from a wide-range of different funding bodies. Some are governmental, such as the Medical Research Council or the Biotechnology and Biological Sciences Research Council, others might be charitable, such as the Wellcome Trust or Cancer Research UK. These grants may be a few thousand pounds to fund a series of particular experiments; a few hundred thousand pounds to run a research project and employ staff and students or tens of millions to build a new research centre.”
He gestured around the office. “Then there is the more general funding that is used to pay for teaching, maintain our research facilities and run our administrative departments. This comes from central government. You may have heard about the proposed cuts in higher education funding?” Nods all round. “This is the budget that the government is slashing.
“The problem is the way the funding is allocated. Every five years or so, universities undergo a Research Assessment Exercise — an audit if you will. They grade us based upon the quality of our research. The key measure that they use is whether our research is ‘world-leading’. Those departments that are judged to be ‘world-leading’ are rewarded by a bigger bite of the funding cherry than those that aren’t.”
Tompkinson leant forward, taking his glasses off again, his voice becoming heated.
“We produce some bloody good research, damn it. But we are a small university. The RAE is intrinsically biased against smaller institutions like us. Alan Tunbridge was our biggest name. His work is internationally recognised and he is one of the world’s leading authorities on antibiotics. We simply can’t, or rather couldn’t, afford to lose him. Academia is a dog-eat-dog world and top-flight researchers are constantly being poached by other institutions. Oxford, Cambridge, UCL, Manchester, Warwick and Liverpool have all tried to woo him in the past few years that I know of. And that’s just this country. Harvard, Johns Hopkins, The Pasteur Institute…they’ve all had a go as well. Gold-plated salaries, state-of-the-art laboratories, the promise of no teaching…they’ve offered him far more than we ever could. So we couldn’t afford to piss him off in case one day he’d turn around and say, ‘I’ve had enough, I’m off to Oxford.’ So whatever Alan wanted, Alan got. And within reason, we let him get away with bloody murder. Sorry, poor choice of words.”
Tompkinson now leant back, the passion leaving him.
“So why did Tunbridge stay? No offence, but the University of Middle England is hardly a household name. Surely working in Cambridge or Oxford would have been hard to resist. Why would Tunbridge stay here?”
Tompkinson shrugged. “A good question. Why does anybody stay in a place? I have thought about it over the years and I think it was for a number of different reasons.”
He held up his hand, ticking the points off one at a time. Again, Jones noticed the man’s hands shaking. His voice seemed calm and confident, however.
“First of all, the comfort factor. Alan’s been here for years. Despite his travelling, I think he regards this part of the world as home. He and his wife bought a lovely house at exactly the right time, years ago. You’d never get anything close to it at today’s prices in places like Oxford or London.
“Second, the hassle. Moving laboratories is a big deal. Even with professional movers and managers, it’s a logistical nightmare. Even the best-planned laboratory moves can knock you back six months. And what about his staff? How many would go with him? Mark Crawley, his experimental officer, has a wife and kids — would he be likely to up sticks? Even moving to Cambridge might mean an unacceptable commute for some staff.
“Third, he likes being the big fish in the small pond. I’ve already told you about how much influence he has here. You can’t paint the toilets here without Alan’s say-so. No other institute is going to let him have that much power without the responsibility, least of all Oxbridge. And in terms of stature, he might have got a Nobel one day — but in Cambridge he’d be working alongside people who were invited to Sweden when Alan was still doing his university finals.
“Finally, Alan was almost certainly going to go commercial with his work within the next couple of years. You may have seen in the paper that the university just broke ground on a new incubator building. Brand-new state-of-the-art facilities and expertise designed to support new start-up companies. He’d have been first in line for one of those new labs and the university would have been happy to help him commercialise his work. He’d probably have kept his lab over here doing basic research — which would have been good for us in the RAE — whilst all his commercial work would have migrated to the incubator building.”
Jones nodded; on the face of it, Tunbridge’s reasons for staying seemed plausible.
“Forgive me, Professor, but it would seem that a number of people have motives for wishing Tunbridge was dead, not least yourself.” Jones watched Tompkinson very carefully, gauging his reaction to the implied accusation.
Tompkinson smiled, almost in amusement.
“I am well aware that some might see me as having a motive for Alan’s death. And I’m certainly honest enough to admit that my life would have been a lot easier over the past few years without him second-guessing me and breathing down my neck. But believe me, Chief Inspector, if I’d wanted to kill him it would have happened a long time ago. Besides which, it no longer matters. In two months I retire. I’m hanging up my lab coat. Frankly, I was looking forward to a quiet last few weeks wrapping up a few personal projects and making sure that my research group are ready to move on. The last thing I need is this.”
Jones wasn’t convinced.
“I can see your point, Professor. However, sometimes unexpected things happen; arguments flare up, old grudges simmer until they reach boiling point. In fact, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look a little young to be retiring. Did Professor Tunbridge have any influence in that decision?”
Tompkinson laughed, a short bark.
“The man had influence, but he wasn’t God! No, Alan Tunbridge had nothing to do with my retirement. If anything, he’d probably have liked me to stay in the job, since whoever replaces me will probably be less of a pushover. No, it’s probably genetics and bad luck that is forcing me out.”
Noting the police officers’ blank looks, he held out his hands.
“I’m sure that trained observers such as yourself have noticed that my hands shake. I’m afraid that it isn’t nervousness, too much coffee or the after-effects of a good night out. I’ve got Parkinson’s disease.”
He took off his hat, revealing an almost entirely hairless scalp, bisected by an angry-looking red scar.
“I was diagnosed a few years ago. The symptoms were kept in check for a while by drugs, but as I’m sure you know it’s a progressive disease. A year or so ago I had deep-brain stimulation.” He gestured at the scar. “Unfortunately it’s had little effect. Maybe if this had happened a decade or so from now I would have phoned a few old colleagues and seen if I could wangle a place on a clinical trial for stem cell therapy, but it’s a little too early for that yet.”
He sighed regretfully. “Since the beginning of the year it’s been obvious that I am going downhill pretty fast. The shakes are getting worse. I daren’t go near any of my students’ work in case I have an accident and wipe out six months’ research. Most days I slur my speech and nod my head constantly, but I’ve learnt how to regulate my medication, to ‘overdose’ on days that I need to speak more clearly or move more carefully. My GP doesn’t recommend it, of course, since the pills have side effects, but a lot of patients do it. Anyway, I decided a few months ago that enough was enough. The university has been very understanding and I’ve managed to secure a fairly generous pension. My wife and I are going to move to the South of France to be near our daughter and enjoy the grandkids whilst I still can.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. The man’s story would need to be checked out, of course, and nothing he had said would make it impossible for him to be involved in Tunbridge’s death, but Jones mentally moved him to the ‘unlikely’ list.
“I see. Well, leaving aside yourself, it would seem that there are still a fair number of people with a motive for killing Professor Tunbridge. I would like to ask you a bit about some of the members of his laboratory. First, Thomas Spencer.”
“Ah, so those rumours are true. I heard that Mr Spencer had been arrested at the scene. Covered in blood, I heard.” The Professor looked excited. Not an unusual reaction, noted Warren — the popularity of crime drama on TV and in best-selling fiction was a testimony to the fascination of the general public when it came to crime. And, of course, the more lurid and salacious, the better. It would seem that news was spreading fast, probably aided by the security guards present at the scene. The building’s virtual lock-down wouldn’t go unnoticed either, as the various Saturday workers were turned away at the door. Nevertheless it was important to make sure that any information was accurate, particularly when the press turned up. Which would probably be any moment now, Jones realised.
“Mr Spencer found the body and is currently assisting in our enquiries. We would greatly appreciate your help in ensuring that any information that gets passed to the press is accurate and won’t compromise the investigation.”
Looking suitably chastened, the professor nodded.
“Of course. Well, in anticipation of your interest, I took the liberty of pulling Mr Spencer’s file. I had only just started to read it when the chancellor phoned. But, there is a slight problem. If, as you say, Mr Spencer is merely helping with your enquiries I am afraid that, under the Data Protection Act, I cannot let you look at his file without a warrant.”
Shit. Bloody lawyers.
“I fully understand, Professor, and I will have no problem getting a warrant. Indeed I will be getting one issued as a matter of course to assist in our investigation. However, it will take some time for a warrant to be signed. In the meantime, we could well have a killer on the loose.”
The older man licked his lips nervously. Jones could see the conflict in his eyes. It was obvious that the man genuinely wanted to help the police and was almost as frustrated as Jones that bureaucracy was threatening to get in the way. Unfortunately, under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, any information that Jones saw might well be inadmissible in a court of law unless he had that warrant.
Of course there was a compromise and Tompkinson was an intelligent enough man to see it.
“What if I were to allow you to take a peek at the information, informally of course, and then if you found anything of interest you could then read it officially after having shown me the warrant?”
Jones suppressed a smile. He didn’t need to look at Hardwick to know that she too had been hoping for the offer. “Thank you, Professor, that will be most useful.”
The file was rather thick, Jones noticed. As if reading his mind, Tompkinson gestured into the main office.
“You are welcome to photocopy the file once you have the warrant, to read it at your own leisure, but in the meantime what if you tell me what you are looking for?”
“Well, first of all, how well do you know the lad?”
“Not at all well, I’m afraid. In fact although his name rang a bell, I couldn’t recall his appearance. I do recognise him though, now that I have seen his picture in his file. I have probably said a few words to him at the Christmas party or the summer barbecue, but his work is too different from my own and his lab too far away for me to have spoken to him much.”
“Well, why don’t you tell us a bit about his background?”
Slipping his glasses back on, Tompkinson flicked through the pages of the file.
“OK, I have his original application form. Thomas Michael Spencer. Born June twenty-sixth 1985. Parents’ address is given as Stockport, although this file is four years old now and that address may not be current. You would need to speak to Student Services to find out the address he lives at when he studies. He’s listed as unmarried, ethnicity white British, no disabilities, sexual orientation heterosexual.” He looked up, slightly embarrassed. “Equality monitoring. World’s gone bloody mad. Again, you will need to speak to Student Services to check if that’s up to date. For the marital status that is, obviously his ethnicity hasn’t changed or his sexual orientation… actually I suppose that could have changed and he could have had some sort of accident…sorry. Where was I?” He cleared his throat.
“Ah, yes, well, Mr Spencer joined us in October 2007, having got an upper-second-class degree from Sheffield University. He worked, as you know, in Alan Tunbridge’s group and was directly supervised by Mark Crawley.”
Tompkinson leafed through a few more pages.
“OK, so he passed his first year with distinction, with the recommendation that he be allowed to transfer onto the PhD course.” Tompkinson paused and backtracked slightly. “It is common practice for students to be registered for a Master’s in Philosophy initially — an MPhil — and then transfer to a Doctor of Philosophy, PhD, after the production of a satisfactory first-year report, roughly equivalent to a master’s dissertation. It’s a safeguard that allows students who don’t wish to continue their studies to graduate with something.”
“And Spencer was passed with distinction? Who examines the dissertation?”
“The report is marked initially by the student’s supervisor, in this case Tunbridge, and then passed on to two other members of faculty, who will also verbally examine the student to make certain that it is their own work etc. Alan signed off on it and then Professors Abdullah Omara and Jennifer Stokes marked it formally as a distinction.”
“So he was a promising student?”
“It would seem so.” Tompkinson leafed through a few more pages. “Here is his second-year report. This time it’s the result of a verbal meeting between the student and the faculty advisor. Jenny Stokes reported that Spencer was progressing well in his research and was confident that he would be in a position to start writing up within the next twelve months. Alan Tunbridge again signed off on the report, saying that Spencer had made sufficient progress and that with hard work he would be in a position to write up within twelve months. Neither Jenny, Alan or Mr Spencer reported any concerns, either publicly or confidentially.”
Tompkinson carried on reading.
“Oh. This is his mid-third-year report.” He adjusted his glasses again and peered over them, a gesture that Jones was starting to recognise as his ‘teaching pose’.
“Standard full-time PhD courses, such as the one that Spencer was enrolled on, are funded for three years by the funding council, in this case the MRC. The expectation is that students complete their research, write it up and submit at the end of those three years. Either way, they stop being funded and they are no longer paid. In reality, we have found that most students take about three and a half years to finish and write up. The funding councils get very antsy if they don’t submit in four years and can penalise the university. So about halfway through the third year we start progression-to-submission meetings.
“Mr Spencer, at this point, was still working full time on his research, but was confident that he would be completed within the next few months and written up by the beginning of his fourth year. That’s fairly typical. Alan has signed the bottom to say he agrees. No further action required.”
He turned the page.
“Three months from the three-year deadline. Spencer is still working full time. Some experiments have had to be repeated. He will start writing up when they are completed. Signed by Alan.”
Another page.
“Three-year deadline. Spencer is still repeating key experiments. He agrees to submit a first couple of chapters of his thesis to Alan for checking by the end of the month. Both sign the form.”
Another sheet of A4.
“Hmm. This is three months later. Spencer has started another set of experiments. He has submitted his first two chapters, which Alan has signed off as satisfactory. However, he requested a confidential meeting with Jenny Stokes where he expressed concern that Alan was insisting that he complete more research and won’t accept the conclusions of a paper that he has written for the Journal of Bacteriology. Jenny advises him to follow Alan’s advice for the time being.”
Jones sat up a little straighter. “So Spencer and Tunbridge had an argument.”
Tompkinson waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.
“I wouldn’t read too much into that, Inspector. Disagreements between PhD students and their supervisors aren’t uncommon at this stage. In fact there is an old saying that your PhD supervisor is the first person that you have a truly professional argument with. It’s almost a rite of passage. Strange as it may seem, but at this stage Mr Spencer will probably be the world’s leading expert on that one tiny facet of his research. He will have lived and breathed his project for the past three years and so will be very possessive of his work.”
Tompkinson’s eyes misted over and he smiled slightly. “It’s been thirty years but I remember the arguments with my PhD supervisor like they were yesterday. Of course, my prof was right and his decision to force me to delay publication of my first paper was absolutely correct. In the end it was published in a far more prestigious journal than it would have been otherwise. At the time though I thought the old bastard was past it and nearly walked out. I went to his eightieth birthday a couple of years ago and he still teased me about it.”
Jones nodded silently, but filed the information away nevertheless. Crawley had suggested that Tunbridge had a reputation for being possessive about his lab’s research. Could this have been enough to provoke Spencer to kill him? And why hadn’t he mentioned this when they spoke to him earlier?
Tompkinson flipped over another couple of pages.
“Here is his three-and-a-half-year meeting. Spencer is still working in the lab and has not submitted any more chapters. The head of Graduate Studies, Professor Davidson, has put Spencer on his ‘cause for concern list’ and scheduled a meeting with Alan, Jenny and Mr Spencer.”
He turned over the page.
“The outcome of the meeting is that Alan did not feel that Mr Spencer had fully proven his hypothesis and recommended a number of further studies to back up his claims. Spencer has agreed to do the studies and Jenny has agreed to meet regularly with him to ensure that he keeps on track. They also agreed upon a schedule to write up the less contentious parts of Mr Spencer’s thesis.” Tompkinson turned to two pieces of paper stapled to the current page. “Professor Davidson and Professor Stokes have both written private memoranda commenting on the tense atmosphere between Tunbridge and Spencer. Jenny has spoken to Mark Crawley and asked him to keep an eye on the situation.”
“Is that sort of thing normal?”
Tompkinson looked a little embarrassed. “A complete breakdown in the relationship between a student and his supervisor is rare but not unprecedented, and of course Alan had a reputation for being a little…difficult, shall we say? Mark Crawley is Tom Spencer’s immediate line manager and is used to Alan’s ways.”
“I see.”
Tompkinson continued flicking through the folder.
“It seems that Spencer unsuccessfully applied for a hardship grant from the Student Welfare Office. They don’t usually help students who are in their fourth year unless something exceptional has happened. However, they did promise to try and arrange some more teaching and demonstrating hours for him.”
So, pissed off and broke? The motives were certainly stacking up against Spencer. Again, why hadn’t Crawley mentioned this? Jones knew that at times like this a person’s loyalties were torn. Crawley might well have been trying to protect Spencer, not because he felt that Spencer was guilty, but because he felt responsible for the lad and didn’t want to cause him any trouble. On the flipside, he’d shown no such loyalty to the postdoc Severino. Why? Mark Crawley was worth a second visit, Jones decided.
“What is Spencer’s current situation?”
Tompkinson flicked forward to the last page of the folder.
“He’s coming up on four years. He needs to have submitted by October first at the latest. Apparently he submitted several more draft chapters, all of which Tunbridge accepted. However there is still some disagreement over the final results.”
“What happens if he misses the deadline?”
“Well, there are a couple of options.” To emphasise his point, Tompkinson held out a hand, counting off the fingers. “First, he misses the deadline and has to apply to the Board of Graduate Studies for an extension. They have to consider the university’s standing with the funding agencies as well as what is best for Mr Spencer.
“Second, they decide to simply ditch the disputed work and write up what he has completed for submission. That’ll depend on how critical the work is to the thesis.”
Another finger. Warren wondered if it was just his imagination — now that he was looking out for it — or was Tompkinson’s hand trembling more?
“Third, he could well fail the PhD. In which case we would probably submit his earlier work and examine him for an MPhil.”
“How big a blow would that be to him?”
“Catastrophic. The thing with PhDs is you only get a single bite of the cherry. He could very well end up in debt, with a four-year hole in his work history and bugger all to show for it. It would almost certainly hamper his career. He could massage his CV a bit, claim that he went for MPhil then stayed on and did more research, but it probably wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny in a job interview.”
So Spencer certainly had a motive. The question was, was it enough to make him snap? Warren was looking forward more and more to this afternoon’s scheduled interview.
“Moving on, another name that has been mentioned this morning was that of Dr Antonio Severino. What can you tell us about him?”
Tompkinson sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing them for a few moments before replacing them, something that Jones was starting to associate with the professor being forced to answer unpleasant questions.
“Another of Alan’s diplomatic triumphs.” The irony of the statement was clearly masking a genuine irritation and anger at his former colleague.
“Officially, Dr Severino is taking overdue holiday whilst he waits for the renewal or otherwise of his contract.”
“And unofficially?”
“Alan got rid of him. He claims that Severino had completed the project for which he was originally employed and that his services were no longer required.”
“What about the disagreement over the publication of Severino’s findings?”
“Again, officially the papers are ‘in preparation’ with other members of the lab finishing their part of the project. Unofficially, Severino’s contribution to the overall manuscript was so great that Tunbridge would struggle to justify his position as lead author. Alan was pretty tight-lipped about the results from this particular research, but the rumour mill has it that they had solved several significant problems in the field of antibiotic resistance. I suspect that Alan was going to use the interest garnered by the publication of the research to kick-start his search for funding to start his own company, with him as boss. The last thing he’d want is to share the limelight with someone else. Based on gossip in the tea room, Alan was probably going to split Severino’s work into two separate manuscripts and dilute his influence by padding out the papers with other results from the lab. That way he could retain first authorship on both papers. In the meantime, Severino has practically nothing on his CV to account for the past two years of work, making him almost unemployable.”
“Is that ethical?”
“Absolutely not. But try and prove it. Severino did lodge a formal complaint with the university — and was no doubt planning on writing to the editor of whatever journal Alan finally submitted to — but it would have been his word against Alan’s and he wouldn’t have stood much chance.”
“How did Severino take this?” Jones had already heard Crawley’s version of events; he was interested to see if Tompkinson agreed.
“Badly. Apparently they had it out in the corridor and he very nearly got himself escorted off the premises. From what I’ve heard he made a beeline straight for the pub, before returning rather the worse for wear a few hours later and vandalising Alan’s car. Security prevented him from entering the building to find Alan.”
“So what happened then?”
“Alan was livid and wanted him arrested for criminal damage. However a few of his colleagues in the department calmed him down enough to agree not to press charges as it was in nobody’s interest to see it splashed across the newspapers. Mark Crawley brokered a peace deal in the end and I believe that Severino agreed to work out his notice from home and pay for the damage. In return, I think Alan agreed to let Mark write any job references that came his way.” Tompkinson shook his head. “I don’t know how he does it. Mark’s been with the bugger for over ten years. That man deserves a bloody medal.”
So far at least, it seemed that Tompkinson’s story matched Crawley’s, although Jones still wanted to speak to Crawley again about the omissions he had made earlier.
“Do you know of anyone else who may have harboured a grudge against Professor Tunbridge? I hear that other lab members have also left on bad terms. What about other current members of his lab?”
Tompkinson chewed his lip thoughtfully. As he did so his head twitched forward and backward slightly and his hands, which were now resting in front of him, tapped out a rhythmless tune. Time for more medication? Warren wondered. As if noticing Jones’ scrutiny, Tompkinson clasped his hands together tightly, arresting the tremors.
“You’d need to speak to them, I would imagine. Personnel can give you the details of all the current and former members of the lab. As to whether any still bear a grudge, that’s hard to say. He did have two technicians speak to their unions about a constructive dismissal case concerning alleged bullying. However they decided not to pursue the case after finding better-compensated work elsewhere in the department.”
“You bought them off?”
Tompkinson’s shrug was non-committal. “They found a better position and decided it wasn’t worth their time and effort to pursue the case.”
I’ll bet the unions were annoyed about that! thought Jones, but said nothing.
“I believe that he also had run-ins with some of his other graduate students, although nothing serious enough to cross my desk.”
Jones made a quick note to get onto Personnel and Student Services to find out their details. His list of potential suspects and people to interview was growing longer and longer.
Karen Hardwick had remained silent throughout most of the interview, but Jones could see that she had been paying close attention.
“What will happen to Professor Tunbridge’s research group, now that he is gone?”
“A tricky question. This has never really happened before. A few years ago a young Principal Investigator was tragically killed on holiday. However, he only had a single PhD student and a research technician. The student moved into another lab, taking enough of the lab’s funding to complete his project. The research technician was also redeployed and the research group was wound up. It was a bit messy for a few weeks, but it all sorted itself out.
“Alan’s lab is another matter. For a start it’s much larger and it has rather a lot of allocated funding. I suppose there will have to be a meeting of all of those concerned. In the interim at least, the lab will probably continue running under Mark Crawley. The students will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis — some may go and work in different laboratories with like-minded research groups, others may continue to work with Mark. As to the long-term, the funding agencies and the university will have to decide what happens.”
So, it seemed as though Crawley might be the heir apparent to the research group after all. Would he want it, though, or would it be, as he’d claimed, a weight of responsibility he could do without? A point for future consideration, Jones decided.
“Well, thank you for your time, Professor. We may need to ask you a few more questions in the future. In the meantime, could you speak to your Personnel and Student Services department and let them know that we will be asking to see your records?”
“Of course. I suspect I’ll be in here all day if you want to contact me. But I’m surprised that you are leaving so soon.”
Jones blinked in surprise. “I’m not sure I see what you are getting at.”
“Well, it would seem that you have missed the most obvious motive, Chief Inspector.”
“Oh? What might that be, then?”
“Well, money, of course.”
Jones blinked in surprise.
“Money? How would killing Professor Tunbridge make his killer rich? Was Professor Tunbridge particularly wealthy?”
“No, at least not that I know of. However, Alan’s work was potentially very lucrative.”
“So, tell me about Professor Tunbridge’s research and why you think it provides a motive.”
Tompkinson took off his glasses and polished them again, before replacing them and resuming his ‘teacher pose’.
“Where to start? OK, to fully appreciate how big a motive this is, you need to understand some basic science. I’m sure that you’ve heard about the problems with bacteria becoming resistant to antibiotics? So-called ‘hospital superbugs’ such as MRSA, resistant to even the strongest of antibiotics?” Jones and Hardwick both nodded.
“Well, the problem cannot be over-stated. There are strains of Staphylococcus aureus, the bacterium that MRSA stems from, that are resistant to all commonly used antibiotics, even the so-called ‘last resort’ drugs such as vancomycin. Let me be clear, here. If you develop an infection from this strain of bacteria, you will die. And it’s not just hospital superbugs. Extreme Drug-Resistant Tuberculosis, or XDRTB, is now being seen in TB hotspots around the globe. The current vaccination against TB, the BCG, is woefully poor and it’ll be years before the latest version comes online. TB is spread by coughing and sneezing. Regular TB still kills millions of people each year. Without antibiotics to kill off the infection, the death rate will soar. These days, a person with TB can pick it up on one side of the world and cough and sneeze his way across the globe in twenty-four hours, infecting everyone he comes in contact with. Can you imagine what it would be like if the strain that the person was carrying was XDRTB?”
Jones tried to imagine such a scenario and felt a cold chill sweep over him.
“Of course, drug companies are trying to develop new antibiotics as we speak. however the speed at which bacteria can become resistant to these drugs is frightening. Did you know that the first antibiotic, penicillin, was first used to treat patients in the 1940s yet within four years cases of resistant bacteria were reported? By the 1960s it was present in hospitals and by the end of the 1990s almost forty per cent of Staphylococcus bacteria were resistant. Since penicillin’s discovery, dozens of different antibiotics have been discovered — almost all of which are now resisted by bacteria. Some of those antibiotics were rendered all but useless within ten years. Because of that, there is actually less incentive for drugs companies to invest in new antibiotics.”
“Huh? You’ve lost me, Professor. Surely with such a need for new antibiotics, whoever discovers a new one stands to make a fortune!”
Tompkinson smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. It takes up to a billion US dollars and anything up to fifteen years to develop a new drug. The success rate from good idea to pharmacy counter is tiny. The vast majority of potential drugs are eliminated in the early stages of development because they don’t work or have unacceptable side effects. Drug research is an incredible gamble, with the pay-off being massive exclusive sales in the years before the patent expires after which everyone and his uncle can use your research to make your drug at a fraction of the cost and undercut you. Because of that, pharmaceutical firms favour drugs that will recoup that investment. They like to play safe. So what’s the point of spending a billion dollars developing a new antibiotic that ninety per cent of bugs are going to be resistant to before you’ve even made your investment back?”
The question hung in the air.
Scratching his head and trying to keep up, Jones asked the obvious.
“So where is the motive, then? Presumably anyone stealing his idea would still have to spend millions doing the safety trials. I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but I seem to recall from an article in some Sunday supplement that the bulk of the cost of developing a drug lies with the safety testing. Who is going to murder the prof over something that won’t make them any money?”
The professor nodded.
“You are quite right, of course. As regards the bacteria acquiring resistance, rumour has it Professor Tunbridge had solved that particular conundrum.”
“He’s developed a multi-pronged attack to delay the onset of antibiotic resistance, hasn’t he?”
The question was blurted out from DC Hardwick.
Tompkinson nodded enthusiastically as if praising a favourite student.
“Very good. I see that you know something about this, Constable. Did you study at university before joining the police?”
She nodded, confidence buoyed somewhat by the praise.
“Yes, sir. I did a Molecular Biology degree and we learnt a lot about antibiotic resistance. You mentioned that Professor Tunbridge was planning on going commercial with his work — is this what you meant?”
“Yes, ‘Trident Antibacterials’ was the name he was considering. Alan was just starting to put out feelers for potential backers. It was all very hush-hush, of course. I believe that he was in the process of protecting the work with patents before he went public. The word on the grapevine is that he had successfully developed a drug system that attacked three unrelated drug targets simultaneously. The theory is that whilst the odds of one bacterium developing a chance mutation that renders the cell resistant to an antibiotic is fairly good when you consider the trillions of bacterial cells that will be treated over time, the likelihood of all three targets being thwarted simultaneously is infinitesimal. Even if a cell becomes resistant to one or even two of the methods of attack, the remaining drug target will still remain viable.”
“So you are saying that Tunbridge’s murder may have been, for want of a better word, industrial espionage?”
Tompkinson shrugged. “I would say it’s a possibility.”
“Who would benefit from his death, then, and how?”
“I suppose the most obvious candidate would be a rival pharmaceutical company. The idea of a multi-pronged attack isn’t in itself brand new. I’ve no doubt that dozens of laboratories around the world are working on similar approaches. Stopping Tunbridge from launching Trident would buy them time.”
“Murder seems a bit extreme. Why not just buy him out? If the stakes are as high as you say they are, surely somebody could just throw a few million quid his way to sell them his work, or even offer him a job in their company to finish it with them.”
“That may well have happened. However, knowing Alan as I do, working for another company wouldn’t appeal to his ego. For Alan, being the CEO of his own company that produced this miracle cure would be the ultimate goal. He was a huge self-publicist and he’d have relished the idea of a four-page spread in New Scientist or even the front cover of a major news magazine such as Time. In terms of money, if he wanted to sell his work, then he’d make much more if he was able to sell a fully working product. If it is as successful as he wanted it to be — and it is still a big if — he could float Trident on the stock exchange or even license it to the highest bidder. In this case we could be talking hundreds of millions, if not billions.”
“What about the research that he has already published? Surely, the cat’s out of the bag now. Isn’t it just a question of time before somebody else follows his work? What about the other members of his lab? Surely, if they got together they could assemble the pieces and finish the work?”
“Perhaps one day, but you have to realise how controlling Alan was. He still performed some of his own research. That’s rare — most professors of his standing haven’t wielded a pipette in anger for years. I would imagine that the central piece of the jigsaw is all Alan’s own work and he probably hasn’t shared his data with anybody else. I fear that when Alan died, Trident died with him. And with him millions of people who could have been saved from a horrible death.”
Chapter 6 (#ulink_2414c424-5f2f-58ab-8f4b-62274f2b9e2c)
As Jones and Hardwick left Professor Tompkinson’s office they were met by a young PC. “Sir, DI Sutton has found something at the main campus security office he thinks you should see.”
Motioning for the young man to lead on, Jones and Hardwick followed him out of the Biology building into the bright sunlight. “Main campus Security is just along here, sir, a few minutes’ walk.”
The temperature had picked up a little now, but the air was still fresh. In a couple of hours it would be too warm for his suit jacket, Warren judged. Impatient to see what Sutton had discovered, he walked as briskly as possible, arriving at the small building slightly out of breath, his calf muscles aching. His more youthful colleagues, he noticed with mild shame, seemed to have taken the rapid pace completely in their stride, so to speak.
You’re getting old, Warren. Too much time behind a desk, not enough time on the beat, he admonished himself.
The campus security centre was a nondescript building, tucked away next to the library on a busy main road. Seeing them arrive, Sutton opened the door to let them in. In his hand he held a sheaf of printed sheets of A4 paper. He was clearly excited; even his customary smirk was absent. As quickly as was polite he introduced Jones to Terry Raworth, Head of Security. A solidly built man his ram-rod straight bearing and no-nonsense attitude suggesting either ex-police or former military. Noting the tattoos on the backs of his wrists as they shook hands, Jones decided upon ex-military. Tattoos hadn’t been encouraged in the police back when this man would have been serving and it seemed unlikely that a retired copper would suddenly develop an interest in body art.
Raworth led them through the back into the main control room. It was small and cramped, one whole wall given over to banks of black and white TV screens, with digital video recorders blinking below. An ancient desktop computer sat on a rickety desk, its fan wheezing loudly. The air was close, smelling of stale coffee and unwashed bodies. Sitting on an even more rickety-looking plastic chair in front of the monitors was another man, similar in age although without Raworth’s military demeanour.
“What have we got, Inspector?”
“First things, first — it looks as though Spencer is off the hook. The security logs for the PCR room show him swiping in at 21:05 hours. He remained in there until 22:13, six minutes before he reported the murder. Coroner reckons the time of death was about 21:30 to 22:00 at the latest. Furthermore, if he’d done it, he’d have been covered with a lot more blood. I can’t see how he could have killed the professor, changed out of his blood-stained clothes and got rid of them in six minutes.”
“What if he had an accomplice?” Jones was unwilling to dismiss Spencer just yet.
“The logs for the main entrance show that building was completely empty by twenty-past nine that night, except for Spencer and Tunbridge. The last half-dozen to leave included the two graduate students that Spencer claims he spoke to just before he went into the PCR room. We’ll have to review the full CCTV footage to make sure that we didn’t get anybody sneaking in on somebody else’s coat tails earlier in the day, but it seems unlikely.”
“So who the hell killed Tunbridge, then?”
Sutton smiled, clearly enjoying himself.
“Well, guv, I think we might just be able to answer that little question.” With a flourish he motioned towards the bank of video monitors. As if on cue, the video started playing.
“This is the front reception desk in the Biology building. It’s the only entrance to the building and the only security camera inside the building.” The image was black and white but clear, evidently shot from a camera positioned above the swipe-card doors, angled to take in as much of the reception area as possible.
Raworth took over the commentary, pointed a stubby finger at the screen. “During the day, whoever is manning the reception desk can control the cameras, panning around or zooming in and out if they want to. The rest of the time it can be controlled from here. At that time of the night it is left in standby mode, covering as much of the lobby as possible with a wide-angled lens, recording only when it detects movement. A rolling buffer means that the system also saves fifteen seconds either side of the trigger, to ensure that nothing is missed.”
He pointed at the time stamp at the bottom of the screen. 21:35h. As he did so a figure emerged from the right of the screen, outside the building, the automatic glass doors opening to admit it. The person — it looked like a man to Jones — walked beneath the camera. The footage was slightly jerky, but from what Jones could see the man appeared to be of average height, wearing a dark-coloured hoodie. Underneath the hoodie was a baseball cap, completely obscuring the mystery person’s features. A crude, but effective, disguise. Both the hoodie and the baseball cap had what appeared to be small logos. Warren felt his heart skip a beat. He was certain that image analysis could identify them. Clearly visible in the mystery man’s hand was a credit-card-sized white plastic rectangle. Without hesitation, or so much as a glance up towards the camera, he swiped the card through the machine and entered the building proper. A few more seconds elapsed before the footage stopped.
The time stamp at the bottom of the screen jumped forward to 22:10h. The mysterious form re-emerged from the bottom of the screen, coming through the door. This time he was clutching what appeared to be a bin bag in his left hand. Clearly in a rush, he half ran across the lobby and out of the front doors, heading right again towards where he had emerged thirty-five minutes earlier.
“That’s the only person entering or leaving the building after 21:00 hours that night.”
Jones turned to Raworth. “Can we follow him before or after he left the building?”
“I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. He heads along the side of the building next to the car park. Unfortunately there’s a blind spot all along that wall a couple of metres wide. As long as he kept close to the wall, there’s no way we could spot him.” He shrugged apologetically. “Budget cuts, I’m afraid. We had a spate of vandalism a few months ago in the car park. We didn’t have the money for new cameras, so we repositioned the ones we already had to cover the car park rather than the side of the building.” He shrugged again. “Not my idea, I must say, but as the old saying goes, ‘who am I to question why…?’.”
“It doesn’t matter though, guv. We know who he is.” Sutton held up the sheets of paper triumphantly. “The building’s swipe-card log. And guess who swiped in at 21:35 and swiped back out again at 22:10?” He pointed to two highlighted entries on the list.
Dr Antonio Severino.
Chapter 7 (#ulink_43dc00bf-c200-5064-a2fd-fcad1dfb6f13)
Sutton and Jones walked up the front path of the small suburban house, barely a fifteen-minute walk from the Biology building. After reviewing the video footage, it hadn’t taken long for them to find the address of Severino or to arrange an arrest warrant and a search warrant for his home. The house was a well-maintained two-up, two-down semi in a quiet cul-de-sac. Apparently, Severino had rented the house with his fiancée for the past two years. As Sutton and Jones approached the front of the house two more officers approached the rear, ready to stop any escape attempt via that route. Parked a discreet distance away, two police cars and a police van plus a half-dozen uniformed officers were waiting ready to assist. All of the officers wore stab vests — they’d seen what Severino was capable of and they had no desire to end up the same way as the late professor.
Jones paused at the door before pressing the doorbell. He heard its echoing ring in the hallway, muffled by the front door. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch from the drawn curtains. He paused a few more seconds, before ringing the bell again, this time holding it down for a couple of seconds. Still nothing. Jones contemplated shouting, “Police, open up!” through the letterbox, but he was reluctant to give up the advantage of surprise so soon. He decided to ring one last time, before radioing back to the forced-entry team on standby to bring over their solid-steel two-man battering ram, guaranteed to open pretty much any door.
Holding the bell push down for a full fifteen seconds, Jones was finally rewarded by sounds of movement behind the door and muttered cursing. The door opened and a wave of whiskey and stale cannabis fumes assaulted his nostrils. Standing in scruffy, striped boxer shorts and a stained grey T-shirt was a twenty-something man of average height. His skin had the slight olive cast to it common amongst those from Mediterranean countries, his unruly hair raven black. He blinked at Jones, clearly struggling to wake up fully.
“Dr Antonio Severino?”
The man nodded, puzzled. Jones held up his warrant card.
“You are under arrest for the…”
That was as far as Jones got. Severino’s face promptly lost all of its colour, turning in an instant to a pasty white. Without a word, he turned on his heel and bolted back into the house.
“Shit! Don’t let him get away!” yelled Sutton, somewhat unnecessarily since the two officers at the rear of the house were waiting by the back door with open arms. Much to Jones’ surprise, however, rather than heading through the kitchen and towards the back door, Severino dived up the stairs.
Jones took off after him, Sutton a pace behind. Thundering up the stairs, the two officers struggled to catch up with the fleet-footed Italian. Where the hell was he going? To destroy evidence? Was there somebody else in the house? Maybe he was going to kill himself, throwing himself out of the bedroom window. Christ, it would really screw things up if he topped himself, Warren thought fearfully.
Reaching the top of the stairs, the fugitive carried on running, crashing into what was clearly the bathroom. Barely a second behind, Jones followed, expecting to see the man rummaging through the medicine cabinet for a weapon or a means to kill himself. Instead, he saw the man on all fours leaning over the toilet bowl being violently sick. The sour stench of whiskey and bile filled the room.
Catching his breath and trying to ignore the smell, Jones tried again. “Antonio Severino, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Professor Alan Tunbridge.”
Severino finished vomiting and turned around, opening his mouth as if to speak. He seemed to be having trouble focusing. After a pause of a few seconds, his eyes rolled back into his head and before Jones could catch him he fainted clean away, his head hitting the porcelain of the toilet bowl with a solid smack.
“Reckon you’ll probably have to read him his rights again, guv,” Sutton noted from the open doorway.
* * *
A cursory inspection by a paramedic pronounced Severino to be dead drunk but otherwise fit and so the semi-comatose Italian was loaded into the back of the waiting police van. Back at the station, he was roused enough to be read his rights before being stripped and put into a paper suit, his own clothes bagged and sent off to Forensics. Severino was clearly in no state to be interviewed and his lawyer would doubtless try and get anything he said declared inadmissible as evidence. Therefore, Jones decided to play it by the book. Dumping him in the drunk tank to sleep it off, he asked the desk sergeant to organise a solicitor and, as an afterthought, an Italian translator for when he awoke in a few hours. The last thing they wanted was any language problems slowing down the interview process.
In the meantime, Jones and the rest of his team finally had time to eat and an opportunity to compare notes. Unfortunately, the station’s small canteen was closed for hot meals at the weekend, so the team had to make do with the rather sorry-looking sandwiches left over in the self-service fridge from the previous day. As a result they decided not to linger over lunch. All of them were keen to get on with their work, but Jones insisted that they take a short break.
Despite the rapid early progress of the investigation, Jones knew from experience that a murder investigation was a marathon not a sprint and he wanted his team to remain fresh. Furthermore, Jones firmly believed that a few minutes’ break would allow each officer’s subconscious to process what they had learnt so far, supplying new insights and new questions. Besides, Severino wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while and Spencer wasn’t due to return for further questioning for some time.
Whilst the others tucked into the stale sandwiches, Jones snagged Sergeant Kent and asked him to collate the latest reports from his incident desk. Glancing at his watch, Jones then decided he had time to ring Susan and headed into the corridor for some privacy. The phone connected on the third ring. “Hi, sweetheart, it’s me.”
“It’s Bernice. Susan’s busy preparing a salad for the picnic. And of course it’s you — it says so on the screen.”
Jones stifled a groan. He had hoped to have a private chat with Susan, explaining what was going on. But that clearly wouldn’t be possible. Mustering all of his tact and injecting a false note of positivity into his voice, he addressed his mother-in-law.
“Hello, Bernice, Happy birthday.”
A sniff at the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly last night. Unfortunately I got an emergency call.”
“I see. And that kept you out all night? I suppose you are calling now to say that you won’t be coming to Cambridge for the picnic today?”
Bloody woman, she wasn’t making it any easier for him. Susan must be a bit annoyed as well, he decided. Normally she tried to wrestle the phone from her mother; today she was letting him stew as Bernice grilled him. Changing tactics, he decided to appeal to her baser instincts. Bernice loved to gossip and the idea that she had got the inside scoop on such a big story before any of her friends would appeal directly to her self-importance. Besides which, the press had already started sniffing around. It wasn’t as if he was telling her any information that wouldn’t be in the public domain within a couple of hours.
“I’m afraid so, Bernice. It’s all a bit hush-hush, you understand, but last night a famous scientist was found murdered at the university.” Warren could almost hear Bernice’s interest pique. It wasn’t exactly a lie, after all; in terms of celebrity, Tunbridge was famous in the field of antibiotic research, wasn’t he?
“Really? Which college? It wasn’t that lovely Professor Hawkings, was it? He was on television last week and I said to Dennis, ‘It’s such a shame, such a wonderful mind trapped inside that poor broken body.’ Who could murder that lovely man when he’s so helpless? I tell you, Warren, there are some truly wicked people out there! Why have they brought you in? Isn’t Cambridge a bit out of your jurisdiction?”
Jones blinked as he tried to process the torrent of misunderstanding flooding down the phone. It was no wonder Dennis never said anything in public.
“Er, no, it wasn’t Stephen Hawking, Bernice, it was a Biology professor and it was at our local university, the University of Middle England.”
“Oh.” A pause. “I didn’t realise that Middlesbury had a university.”
“Oh, yes, it’s quite a good one.” Warren suddenly felt an irrational need to defend the institution against the withering disdain of his mother-in-law.
“Anyway, the body was discovered late last night. We had to secure the crime scene and then this morning we started our enquiries.”
“So will you be coming to the picnic?”
“No, I’m sorry, we have too much going on at the moment. But I promise that I’ll make it tonight.”
Bugger! Why did I just promise that? What if I can’t make it?
Slightly mollified, Bernice offered to pass the phone over to Susan, who pointedly walked out into the garden so she could talk in private. Even so, she kept her voice low and Warren could imagine Bernice staring through the French windows, trying her best to lip-read Susan’s half of the conversation.
“I’m sorry, darling, there was a murder up at the uni last night and I’m lead investigator.”
“I thought Stephen Hawking worked at Cambridge University? Why are you investigating his death?”
Warren stifled a curse. “No, it’s not Stephen Hawking. It’s a local Biology professor at UME. Your mum just got the wrong end of the stick.”
“So are you coming tonight?”
“I should be, yes. I’ll ring you a bit later and we can decide where to meet. I’ll probably come straight to the restaurant.”
“Well, don’t forget the table’s booked for six-thirty and the show starts at eight. And I suggest that you bring some sort of peace offering.” Whether it was for Susan or her mother wasn’t clear. Warren decided he would play it safe and get something for both of them.
Hanging up, he turned to see Sutton grinning, clearly having heard at least part of the call.
“Mother-in-law’s birthday,” Jones offered weakly by way of an explanation.
Remarkably, Sutton’s expression changed to one of sympathy.
Given the strained relationship between them, Jones decided to take advantage of this slight wind change and attempt to build some common ground.
“Do you have the pleasure of a mother-in-law, Tony?” It was a weak opener, nevertheless Sutton seemed willing to run with it.
“I have two.”
“Two? How the hell does that work?” Jones grimaced. Maybe he should cut the man some slack, he thought — it must be a tough life with two of them.
Sutton let out a bark of laughter. “Badly!”
Jones said nothing, simply smiling in sympathy. Sutton accepted the implied invitation. “My current wife has a mother who is very much alive and kicking…mostly kicking. She’s never really liked me and isn’t very good at hiding it. Sometimes I think she watched a little too much Les Dawson and decided that’s what mother-in-laws were supposed to be like.”
Jones chuckled. “Now, take my mother-in-law. No, please, take my mother-in-law,” he intoned in a fair interpretation of the comic’s rich, northern baritone. Sutton smiled in acknowledgement of Jones’ attempt at levity.
“Mother-in-law number one, Betty, is also still on the scene. She doesn’t like me very much either.”
Jones raised an eyebrow in surprise at the intricacies of Sutton’s personal life.
Sutton shrugged. “Long story, short — Angela and I got married far too young. Everybody said it wouldn’t work, but we were young, stubborn and in love.” He smiled wistfully. “Anyway we did our best for five, six years but it was hard work. I was a young copper on a constable’s pay; Angela worked shifts at the local hospital. We rarely saw each other and when we did, we never had any money to enjoy ourselves. So we did what hundreds of foolish young couples have done before us and decided to have a baby to bring us together.”
“And did it?”
Sutton snorted. “What do you think? At first it was great. Angela had a pretty good pregnancy and we were both thrilled when Josh was born. The excitement lasted a year or so, until Angela went back to work. Then it was as if the clock had turned back twelve months. We both still worked shifts, so we still hardly saw each other and when we did we could never have any time alone because Josh was there.
“Fortunately, Betty and her husband Doug lived nearby and loved Josh to bits, so they would babysit whilst we went out.” Sutton’s expression turned thoughtful. “You know, in many ways, although she didn’t like me very much, I really think Betty wanted me and Angela to succeed. The problem was, we were both feeling hemmed in. Angela wanted to go back to college to study for her nursing degree. I wanted to go to night classes and do a degree before studying for my sergeant’s exam, but that was no longer possible. So we carried on as we were for another year or two, before I fucked up. Big time.”
“What happened?” Warren asked cautiously. Sutton’s candour was unexpected and he didn’t want to kill the moment.
“It was such a bloody cliché. I got absolutely hammered at the nick’s Christmas party and woke up the next morning in bed with one of the civilian office workers. Needless to say, when I finally slunk home, Angela was furious. I didn’t try to deny it. There was no point — it was bleeding obvious what had happened. I packed my bags, left the house and kipped on a mate’s floor.
“That could have been the end of it. Angela kicked me out, fair play, and I’m sure Betty and Doug were happy to tell her ‘I told you so’, but there was still the issue of Josh. Angela never wanted to see me again, unsurprisingly, but amazingly Betty stood up for me. By now Angela was back with her parents and Betty basically said, ‘My house, my rules. Josh needs his dad and I’m not letting him get off scot-free.’ I think at first she was worried that I’d just piss off and leave them.
“As it happened, I was terrified that it would all have to go to court and I’d end up taking Josh to McDonald’s once a month if I was lucky. Anyway, she turned up at the bedsit I was renting and said in no uncertain terms that I was a shit husband but a good father and that a boy needs his dad. So that was that.” He shook his head slightly, as if he still couldn’t quite believe his own memory.
“Josh stayed with his mum and Betty and Doug helped her look after him whilst she went back to college. I started night school and with a little help from my own mum and dad managed to afford the rent on a two-bedroom flat so Josh could stay over. I saw him most weekends, and when he got a bit older and started going to school, Betty used to insist that Angela and I co-ordinate our shifts so that when Angela was on nights he could stay with me and I’d take him to school.
“Anyway, he’s seventeen now, starting to think about university. He’s always got on well with my second wife, Marie, and he probably spends as much time at mine as his mum’s. He has his own room in our house and he’s only a ten-minute walk from Angela’s so he often turns up in the evening to watch the footie with me on Sky. Angela and I still aren’t the closest of friends, but we both go to parents’ evening and any reports from school are sent around to me as well.”
Sutton shook his head again, as if in wonderment or disbelief. “It’s amazing. Betty still doesn’t like me very much, yet without her I’d be like half the fathers in this nick, barely seeing their kids and constantly going to court over broken access orders.”
Jones was at a loss for words. Sutton had just shared a clearly intimate part of his life with him. Maybe the two of them could work together.
“You make me feel guilty for all the wicked thoughts I’ve been having about my own mother-in-law, Tony. I’ll make sure I get an extra big bunch of flowers when I see her tonight.”
Sutton grinned, then turned sober. “Well, sir, may I suggest that we crack on, then? Sooner we’re done, sooner you can find a garage with a cut-price deal on daffodils.”
Chapter 8 (#ulink_474adb9c-b378-5586-a1d0-af4dfe90e315)
As Sutton headed back to the canteen to round up the rest of the team Warren unwrapped the cling film from his cheese and tomato sandwich. He carefully peeled back the top slice of bread and plucked the sorry-looking slices of tomato from on top of the micron-thin layer of Cheddar resting on a much thicker layer of margarine. The tomato’s juice had soaked the top layer of bread, making it soggy. Carefully wrapping the tomato in the cling film, he deposited it in a nearby waste basket. Why couldn’t a man just get a plain cheese sandwich? Biting into the sandwich, he grimaced. Where it wasn’t soaked with tomato juice, the starchy white bread was dry, verging on stale, and the cheese was indistinguishable in flavour from the margarine. One bite was enough, he decided, and the remains joined the tomato and cling film in the bin.
Rejoining Hardwick and Sutton in the briefing room, he saw that a number of other detectives had also returned to the station. There was a low buzz of conversation. Kent, he saw, had started making use of the whiteboards, summarising the information flowing in from the investigators. Doing his best to ignore the faint, tantalising smell of somebody’s microwaved ready meal — clearly somebody better prepared than he to work on a Saturday — Jones called the meeting to order.
By agreement, it was decided to leave Spencer and Severino until last, to see if anything else came out of the mix before they narrowed the investigation prematurely. Starting with DS Kent, he asked the man to fill everybody in on what information had been acquired so far.
First of all, the house-to-house inquiries at the few residential properties nearby had resulted in no leads; no strange noises or suspicious strangers hanging around during the time of the murder or in the hours preceding it. Similarly, as expected, none of the local businesses had CCTV that overlooked the university building. The traffic cameras along the roads adjacent to the department were also useless, focused as they were on the roads and a nearby junction rather than the building itself. It looked as though between the university’s CCTV blind spots and the patchy traffic camera coverage in the area, it would be quite possible to approach the building and enter it on foot undetected.
Turning to the call-centre logs that night, no reports had surfaced as yet of any crimes taking place within a mile or so of the Biology building. Overall it had been a fairly quiet Friday night with no more than the usual amount of closing-time fisticuffs, drunken vandalism and domestic violence.
Dr Crawley and the university’s Personnel and Student Services departments had been helpful in supplying the names and details of the laboratory’s various workers and students, including the undergraduate student, Clara Hemmingway, that Tunbridge had his alleged affair with. A list had been drawn up on one of the whiteboards, headed ‘Potential Suspects’ with additional columns such as ‘Motive?’ and ‘Alibi?’. Jones had a feeling that before the day was out, a second board might be needed.
On a different whiteboard, a second list had been drawn up headed ‘Witnesses’. The two students that Tom Spencer claimed to have spoken to immediately before locking himself in the PCR room were named. Officers were on their way to interview them to check that they corroborated his story. A third whiteboard was simply labelled ‘Forensics’. This was blank at the moment.
Now it was Jones’ turn. Quickly, he summarised the interviews with Crawley and Tompkinson, adding a few more names to the suspects board. With that done, he moved on to Spencer. With the swipe-card logs from the PCR room and main-building entrance and assuming that the two students corroborated his story, Sutton proposed that they interview him one last time then eliminate him.
Jones shook his head. “Let’s not be too hasty. We don’t know that Severino didn’t have an accomplice and he was the only other person in the building at the time. Something doesn’t feel right about him.”
Sutton grunted non-committally. Ignoring him, Jones pressed on. “Spencer aside, number one suspect at the moment is Dr Antonio Severino, an Italian postdoctoral researcher in Tunbridge’s group. It seems that Tunbridge shafted him big time a few weeks ago and by all accounts he left in a furious if not murderous mood. We’re doing background checks on him now. CCTV has an unidentified male entering then exiting the building within the timeframe consistent with the murder. The building’s swipe-card logs suggest that the suspect used Severino’s access card. We arrested him an hour ago at his house. Unfortunately he seemed to have been having a one-man party last night and is busy sleeping it off in the drunk tank. We’ve a brief and a translator standing by for when he rejoins the land of the coherent. In the meantime, Forensics are searching his house and looking for trace evidence.”
Jones looked around the room. “Anything else to add? Any more questions?”
“Have we confirmed the wife’s alibi yet?”
Kent answered this. “We’ve tracked down a couple of her dinner companions and the duty manager from the restaurant last night claims to have remembered the party. Till receipts match her credit card number. We’re waiting on CCTV from the restaurant, but it looks as if she’s cast iron at the moment.”
Another hand. “Have we got any more forensics yet? What about the post-mortem?”
“Full results from the PM are promised by tomorrow evening. Preliminary forensics are consistent with what we had this morning. We can expect a full report from the unit at Welwyn tomorrow. No word as yet from Severino’s place. A computer forensics team from Welwyn will be looking at Tunbridge’s laptop, to see if there are any clues there, particularly as to why he was working alone on a Friday night.”
No more hands were raised, so Jones decided to assign roles to those present and close the meeting.
Calling Sutton over, he outlined his plans. Severino wouldn’t be fit for interview for a few more hours, so they had time to re-interview Spencer, who had just arrived at Reception. Jones was also keen to speak to the late professor’s one-time mistress, Clara Hemmingway. A couple of uniforms were dispatched to her student flat to bring her in for questioning.
* * *
Making their way down to the station’s number one interview room, Jones arranged for the desk sergeant to fetch Spencer. Moments later, the young man shuffled in. Dressed in a clean T-shirt and neatly pressed chinos, he was a far cry from the paper-suited, blood-stained mess from the night before. Escorting him was a middle-aged black woman in a smart, pinstriped suit carrying a briefcase. She introduced herself as Denise Jawando, his solicitor. Although he wasn’t under arrest, Spencer’s parents had insisted on her presence as a precaution. Jones noted that her handshake was perfunctory, her expression unsmiling.
As soon as all were seated, the recorders running and the appropriate introductions made for the tape, Jawando launched in.
“May I remind you, Chief Inspector, that my client is here voluntarily as the witness to a crime in which he played no part and that he is not under arrest?”
Smiling tightly, Jones kept an even tone. “Thank you for your assistance. Mr Spencer, for the record, could you tell us again what happened last night?”
All eyes turned towards the young researcher. Fresh clothes notwithstanding, he looked dreadful; it had been barely twelve hours since he had found the body, yet he looked as if in that time he had lost a week’s worth of sleep. He was of average height and build, his hair a dirty blond, its length midway between scruffy and fashionably long. A few days’ stubble darkened his jowls.
“I was working late, trying to finish off some PCR reactions before going home. I went down to the PCR room on the ground floor about nine.” The student had a broad Manchester accent, although his diction was precise and absent the urban drawl possessed by many native Mancunians.
“Can anyone confirm that?”
“Like I said last night, I said ‘Hi’ to a couple of Stanley Westlake’s lab who work near there, Chloe and Steven. They were going to the Hogshead for a pint. I said I’d try to join them in an hour or so, but not to wait for me in case I was late.
“I was in the PCR room for an hour or so — you can check that, because it has a swipe-card lock — before going back up to the lab.”
“What were you wearing?” interrupted Sutton.
“What you found me in: jeans, T-shirt and a lab coat, with latex gloves.”
“When did you leave the PCR room?”
“About quarter-past ten, I guess.”
“Did anyone see you then?”
“No, I don’t think anyone was left in the building by that time, but again the swipe machine should confirm my exit.”
“Where did you go next?”
“Nowhere, I went straight back to the lab. I put the completed PCR reactions in the freezer. I’d seen Alan’s office light was on when I came back up, so I decided to pop my head around and say ‘Goodnight’. That’s when I saw the body.”
“You were still wearing latex gloves, a lab coat and a face mask when we arrived. Seems a little strange that you didn’t take these off if you were going to say ‘Hi’ to the boss.”
Spencer shrugged vaguely. “I dress like that all day, every day. I probably just forgot.”
“Tell me what happened then, Tom.”
Spencer’s eyes became downcast. “The moment I came in, I saw the blood. He was spun in his chair staring towards the doorway. I could see from the state of his throat that he had to be dead, but I checked for a pulse anyway. Then I dialled 999.”
Jones nodded in understanding. “May I ask why you didn’t use your mobile phone to call us? You young people seem to have them turned on constantly these days. I wouldn’t have thought many people your age could use a landline.” Despite his almost light-hearted tone, the question was a serious one. For Spencer’s generation, the mobile phone was like an extension of their body. Office phones and other semi-obsolete equipment were almost invisible to them. Spencer had an expensive smartphone in his pocket when he was arrested, indicating that he wasn’t a total Luddite.
“I saw a picture of one on the Internet and used Wikipedia to tell me how to use it,” responded Spencer with an almost straight face. Warren smiled briefly in response, before becoming sober once more.
“Tell me, Tom, how much did you hate Professor Tunbridge for stopping you passing your PhD?”
The question was deliberately brutal and out of the blue; Jones wanted to see what Spencer’s response would be. He blinked a few times, as if trying to understand the question. “Alan and I had our differences, sure, but I’d never dream of killing him.”
Jones and Sutton said nothing, waiting. The silence stretched uncomfortably. Eventually, Spencer broke it, as they knew he would. “Anyway, I have done pretty much everything I need. I’d be mad to kill Alan — I needed him to sign off on everything.” Jones and Sutton said nothing, apparently ignoring the contradiction with everything that they’d found out that morning.
“I was just doing a few more experiments, before I wrote up the final conclusion.”
Now it was Jawando who broke the silence. “I think we’ve heard enough, gentlemen. My client has a provable alibi. He was merely in the wrong place at the wrong time.” At that moment, there came a knock at the door.
Sutton answered it, stepping into the corridor. After a few moments he returned and whispered into Jones’ ear, who nodded, then addressed Spencer.
“We’ve just got confirmation from the two graduate students that you saw on your way to the PCR room. Along with the security logs showing swipe-card usage, it seems that your alibi stands up. I think that’s enough for today. We may need to contact you again in the future, however, to answer further questions.”
Spencer slumped back into his chair in obvious relief. Jones arranged to have his statement typed up and signed, before seeing him to the front door.
When Spencer was finally gone, Jones called into the custody suite to check on Severino. The Italian was snoring loudly on the small bed. A half-filled bucket next to him and the stains down the front of his paper suit justified the police surgeon’s recommendation that they wait another hour or two before attempting to interview him.
In the meantime, Jones decided to see what the professor’s former lover had to say for herself. Whilst they waited for Hemmingway to arrive, Jones polled Sutton for his thoughts. “Well, I think we can rule out Spencer and I reckon this Severino character is good for it. We need to tie up a few loose ends, but it looks pretty open and shut to me. The super will be pleased — twenty-four hours to solve a murder investigation is pretty good.”
“Well, let’s not count our chickens before they’ve hatched. I think there is still a lot more to this than meets the eye.”
“In what way?”
“Well, first of all, even if Severino did do it, was he working alone?”
“We’ll have to see what he says, I suppose, but, even if there are others involved, the evidence so far suggests that he committed the murder alone.”
“But what evidence? That CCTV image is pretty non-conclusive and anyone could have swiped his access card through that lock. Furthermore, how did he know that Tunbridge would be working late that night? Was that usual for him? If not, who tipped Severino off? And what about Spencer? Something’s not right there.”
“Well, it looks like it’s as his brief said — wrong place, wrong time.”
“Possibly, but something smells strange about this set-up. It’s too bloody convenient. He just happens to be in the PCR room when it all goes down and then he stumbles across the body. He checks the pulse of a blatantly dead man, conveniently covering himself in the victim’s blood to wreck any forensics. Why did he check the carotids? Don’t most people check the wrist for a pulse? And his demeanour wasn’t right. He’s just found a freshly murdered co-worker, whilst on his own in a large, deserted building late at night. Chances are the killer is still in the building somewhere, yet he calmly makes a phone call and waits at the murder-scene for us to arrive. I don’t know about you Tony, but I’ve seen enough slasher movies in my time to know that you don’t hang around and call the police from the victim’s phone, you run like hell and find somewhere to hide before using your mobile.”
Sutton shrugged, clearly not convinced.
“I think you’re over-complicating things, guv. Shock makes people do strange things.”
Seeing that he was unlikely to budge his colleague based on what they had so far, Jones decided to give up. In the meantime, the desk sergeant was signalling that Clara Hemmingway had arrived. Motioning to Sutton, they headed for Interview Room Two to avoid contaminating Hemmingway with any trace evidence from Spencer’s interview in Interview One. More than one case had been scuppered because the police had transported two different suspects in the same car or interviewed them in the same room and found it impossible afterwards to disentangle their separate DNA profiles.
Gathering his thoughts, Warren prepared for his next interview of the day.
Chapter 9 (#ulink_17a1f59e-0fcd-57e1-8632-3cf793e70604)
A uniformed constable led Hemmingway into the interview room. She was a youngish-looking twenty-year-old in jeans and a crop top with a slim figure, generous cleavage and carefully styled short blonde hair; it was easy to see why a middle-aged university professor might have been tempted. Taking a seat opposite the two detectives, she placed her large black handbag on the floor next to her. Jones introduced himself and Sutton for the benefit of the recording, before explaining that she was not under arrest, nor had she been charged with any crime. She nodded, looking curious but not overly nervous. Jones glanced at the slim file in front of him. Two police cautions in her early teens for shoplifting and a suspended sentence, aged seventeen, for her part in a drunken brawl in Colchester town centre on a Saturday night. Miss Hemmingway had certainly been through this process before, he noted.
Nevertheless, she’d clearly cleaned up her act sufficiently to pass her A levels and convince the admissions tutor that she was worthy of a place at university. The University of Middle England might not be Oxford or Cambridge, but with the current demand for places they could afford to pick and choose who they offered those places to. He’d have to remember that. This young lady was clearly a little more intelligent than the stereotypes might suggest.
Watching her carefully, Jones started, “Now, the reason we have asked you down here is to help us with our enquiries regarding the murder of Professor Alan Tunbridge last night. How well did you know the professor?”
Hemmingway’s eyes widened slightly. “Murdered? Why? Where?”
“He was found in his office last night. He’d been stabbed.” Jones decided not to give out too much information at this stage. “Again, how well did you know the deceased?”
Hemingway paused for a couple of seconds. “Well enough, I suppose. I did a bacterial genetics module with him last year.”
The answer was terse, short and cautious. Jones and Hemmingway locked eyes. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that the only logical reason that she was here was because the police were aware of at least some of her past history with the murder victim. Nevertheless the wariness forged by years of playing so close to the thin blue line had conditioned her not to give away anything more than absolutely necessary.
Jones spoke softly. “Come on, Clara. We all know it was a bit more than that. You and the professor were extremely close.”
Clara stared at him defiantly. “So what? We fooled around a bit. He was rich and successful and not all that bad-looking. All those professors are the same. They just want a little bit of fresher pussy.” She paused as if to gauge the reaction to her profanity. Seeing nothing, she pressed on. “You know what the older students call the first week of uni? ‘Fuck a Fresher Week’. Of course the profs can’t get in on any of that — Freshers’ week is just for students. But when classes start and you start having tutorials — well, it doesn’t take much. A little extra help on an essay or perhaps an extension…well, it’s easy to come to an arrangement. And for randy old bastards like Tunbridge, who blatantly hate teaching, it’s probably the only thing that makes tutoring undergrads worthwhile.” Jones noticed that as she became more animated her Essex accent became harsher, betraying her council-estate upbringing.
“Was that all it was, Clara? Just a bit of fun? Maybe it was more than that — he had a wife. Rumour has it you weren’t the only one. How did that make you feel?” Now it was Sutton, his brusque manner a contrast to Jones’ more measured tones.
“Yeah, that’s all it was, just a shag. Earned me an extra week to write an essay I was having trouble with — didn’t affect the grade though. He didn’t mark it. I got that A fair and square.” This last bit was delivered with conviction, the flashing in her steely blue eyes daring anyone to contradict her.
“And before you ask, no, I wasn’t jealous of his frigid wife or any other slappers he slept with and, no, I didn’t kill him.” If she spotted the irony, she didn’t show it.
“OK, Clara, I can accept that. Tell me, what was his reaction when you found out that you were pregnant?” The question was brutal, deliberately out of the blue, designed to push her onto the back foot.
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Paul Gitsham
Тип: электронная книга
Жанр: Современная зарубежная литература
Язык: на английском языке
Издательство: HarperCollins
Дата публикации: 17.04.2024
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О книге: When Professor Alan Tunbridge is discovered in his office with his throat slashed, the suspects start queuing up. The brilliant but unpleasant microbiologist had a genius for making enemies.For Warren Jones, newly appointed Detective Chief Inspector to the Middlesbury force, a high-profile murder is the ideal opportunity. He’s determined to run a thorough and professional investigation but political pressure to resolve the case quickly and tensions in the office and at home make life anything but easy.Everything seems to point to one vengeful man but the financial potential of the professor’s pioneering research takes the inquiry in an intriguing and, for Jones and his team, dangerous direction.A DCI Warren Jones Novel