The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

  Warren wasn’t convinced and he could tell that Harrison wasn’t entirely satisfied with his answer either. This case, decided Warren, had just got a lot more interesting.

  Monday

  Chapter 19

  After a brief respite late Sunday evening, it was time to start the week with the goal of securing Severino’s prosecution and determining if anybody else had been involved in the murder.

  By ten p.m. Warren had been unable to put off work any longer and with apologies all around, had retired to the kitchen table to plan out his to-do list and get ready for Monday morning.

  First and foremost Warren had circled the phrase ‘Why?’.

  Why was Tunbridge in work so late? Was this normal behaviour for him? Second, was Severino working alone? If so, how did he know that Tunbridge was in the building and alone? To answer both of those questions, Warren had felt that he needed access to Tunbridge’s diaries and personal correspondence — phone calls, emails, texts. A close look at his phone bills — private, work and mobile — might shed some clues, whilst his email accounts, work and personal, could be extremely useful. His appointments diary might also prove useful. Did he use a paper diary or something electronic? They already had Tunbridge’s mobile phone — a BlackBerry smartphone found in his trousers pocket — and a meeting was scheduled with the university IT support team to look at Professor Tunbridge’s work laptop. It had just had its screen cleaned of Tunbridge’s blood but nobody had yet accessed the machine’s hard drive or his university filespace. Warren had made a note to seize his personal laptop as well if he owned one.

  The evening had ended on a sour note, after a whispered argument with Susan about Bernice and Dennis’ decision to stay for another week. Warren had completely misjudged the situation, assuming that Susan would be as dismayed at the prospect of her overbearing parents staying for another week as he was. On the contrary, Susan welcomed their decision, since she was feeling overwhelmed with single-handedly organising the new house, whilst trying to prepare for a new job at a new school in less than a month.

  Whilst he was sitting at his desk early on Monday morning, memories of the argument rang in Warren’s ears and his gut twisted with guilt. Susan was absolutely right, of course, and he had been very selfish over the past few months. In all the turmoil of his promotion and now this murder case, he had forgotten completely about Susan.

  Confirmation of his promotion had come through towards the end of May, meaning that Susan had been forced to hand in her resignation at her current school immediately to meet the period of notice required for her to start a new job in September.

  Her resignation, from a school she loved, had come out of the blue and her head teacher had been very unhappy at the need to find an experienced science teacher to replace her at such short notice.

  Although Warren would be getting a generous pay-rise on his promotion and the couple had always been sensible with money, Susan had nevertheless found it very stressful knowing that she would be unemployed from September. Eventually, she had found herself a new position at a local comprehensive school on the outskirts of Middlesbury. In retrospect it would probably be a good career move — she was now Head of Biology, wearing a second hat as the person in charge of boosting the school’s less than stellar GCSE science pass-rate — but the preparation required was massive. With the need to tie up all the loose ends at her old job, then the stress of moving house, before preparing herself for her new role, she had been working flat out since May, Warren realised, with barely a weekend off. A proper holiday was out of the question unfortunately — a small unit like Middlesbury had to operate a strict policy regarding booking time off, especially for senior officers, and almost every week over the summer holidays had already been booked by staff with school-age children or spouses who worked in schools. Next year, Warren would join that group of staff and be given first refusal of those choice dates, but this year it was too late.

  Nevertheless, Warren felt he had to try something and so he scrolled through the online holiday booking sheet. He had at least managed to snag the October half-term week, but Susan really needed to get away sooner, just to unwind. Suddenly he spotted it — the last weekend of the school holidays was available. Warren did some quick mental calculations. If he started work early on the Friday, he could probably leave a little after lunch, then perhaps arrange to start work later on the Monday, giving them perhaps three nights away. The timing couldn’t be better: a couple of days away before school started — the calm before the storm, so to speak. Feeling pleased with himself, he booked them off immediately, deciding that he and Susan could spend a pleasant evening deciding where to go.

  With that done, Warren turned to his to-do list. He had scheduled a briefing for eight-thirty again and was deciding who to assign to which duty. There were a lot of loose ends to this case and the sooner they got them tied up, the better. He and Sutton would also take a trip to Stevenage Magistrates court for Severino’s hearing. By ten-past eight, he had done as much preparation as he needed and he was struggling to concentrate.

  Early in their relationship, Susan and Warren had vowed never to let arguments simmer for long periods of time. Warren had planned to announce the holiday booking that evening as a nice surprise, but memories of the previous night’s argument still weighed heavily on his mind.

  He glanced at the clock again. Eight-fifteen. When he’d left the house that morning, Susan had been awake and reading a book. She’d offered up her cheek for a perfunctory kiss, but had clearly still been brooding.

  Sod it! Warren decided. A quick phone call would no doubt cheer her up and perhaps she’d be in a good mood when he arrived home. He keyed the speed dial on his mobile, ringing the house landline. It rang so long that Warren almost hung up. Finally it was picked up, the voice on the end heavy with sleep.

  “Jones house.”

  Bloody hell, Bernice again! Warren suppressed a groan.

  “Hi, Bernice, it’s Warren. I hope I didn’t wake you up. Is Susan about?”

  Bernice ignored the first part of the question, but her tone of voice betrayed the answer. “I think Susan is in the bathroom. The shower stopped a moment ago. Can you not call back?”

  Warren thought for a moment. Susan was already out of the shower and Bernice was now awake. The briefing started in less than fifteen minutes after which he wouldn’t have time to make a personal phone call. The damage was already done; he’d be better off trying to fix it now rather than letting Susan simmer — no doubt with the aid of Bernice — for the next few hours.

  Bernice gave a world-weary sigh, before calling up the stairs to Susan. A few seconds later, Susan picked up the bedroom extension. Warren waited for Bernice to replace the downstairs receiver before starting. First of all he apologised for the previous night’s argument; Susan sounded marginally less annoyed and grudgingly apologised for being over-sensitive. Glancing at the clock, Warren saw the time was eight-twenty. Outside his office door, he could hear the chatter of officers passing by on the way to the briefing room. Cutting to the chase, Warren announced proudly that he’d managed to secure a weekend away before term started again and Susan should choose wherever she wanted, cost be damned.

  The reaction was not exactly what he was hoping for.

  “Are you bloody mad? The weekend before school starts? I’m going to be working flat out! The school is reopening that weekend after the summer building work. It’s the first chance I have to get into my new classroom. And on Tuesday’s staff training day I’m supposed to be delivering a short address on how we are going to improve our GCSE pass-rates. I haven’t even started planning that yet. And don’t get me started on the A level Biology schemes of work — there aren’t any. It’s no wonder that some teachers have a hundred per cent A to C and others, teaching the same sort of kids, have barely fifty per cent — every teacher is doing it differently. I need to sit down and work out a common teaching strategy, especially since it’s rumoured that OFSTED will be in this te
rm.”

  She paused for breath, but Warren was too stunned to do any more than mumble, “Sorry, I didn’t realise.”

  “Don’t you listen to anything I have to say? I can’t believe you sometimes. That’s the worst possible weekend to be away.”

  Warren sighed; the clock ticked over to eight twenty-five.

  “I’m sorry, sweetheart. I didn’t think. Look, I’ve got to go. My meeting starts in a moment. I’ll phone you after lunch and we can see if there are any other weekends that we can do.”

  Silence, followed by the phone being hung up.

  “Just like her bloody mother,” Warren groaned quietly, letting his head thump lightly on the desk.

  “Problems, guv?” Sutton leant against the doorway, barely covering a smile. Saturday’s brief bonding session over the woes of mothers-in-law appeared an age ago and Warren didn’t feel in the mood for small talk.

  “Nothing a few months’ holiday wouldn’t solve.”

  “Thought your missus was a teacher. Isn’t six weeks enough?”

  “Don’t even go there.”

  * * *

  The rest of the morning passed smoothly; the whole of CID seemed energised by the rapid apprehension and charging of Severino. Assigning duties was a quick task and by mid-morning Sutton and Jones were ready for the short drive to Stevenage Magistrates Court. A quick phone call to the cells confirmed that Severino was ready to be moved to court and the prisoner transfer vehicle was despatched.

  After an uneventful trip to the magistrates court, Jones was glad to see that Severino’s docket had been moved forward to a quarter to twelve. Standing in the dock, Severino simply confirmed his name, date of birth and address. When prompted he pleaded “not guilty”. No application for bail was made and that was it: Severino was led away to the cells to await trial. As he left the courtroom, his head bowed, tears coursed freely down his cheeks. His solicitor whispered urgently in his ear, glancing towards Jones as he did so. Warren couldn’t help but feel that he was the subject of their frantic conversation.

  Dismissing the thought, Warren left the courthouse, before turning thoughtfully to Sutton. “I have to tell you, Tony, the more I learn about Tunbridge, the more I see why someone bumped him off. I sincerely hope that when I die, I’ll be mourned a little more than the late professor.”

  “You’ll have to start working on your reputation, Boss, make sure we all love you when you go. Of course, I know a good way to start.”

  “Oh, how so?”

  “You could get the first round in. I think we’ve earned it.”

  Chapter 20

  Sutton and Jones’ trip to the pub was a necessarily brief affair. It was, after all, the middle of a working day and the two men had a lot to do. Besides which they were both on duty and Warren was driving. In deference to the celebratory mood, both men had a half of bitter, before masking the beer with a ploughman’s lunch.

  After dropping Sutton back at the station, where he was to co-ordinate the interviewing of the last few members of Tunbridge’s laboratory, Jones headed off to finally see Mrs Tunbridge. Popping a couple more mints into his mouth to hide any residual odour of the beer he’d supped at lunch, he punched the address into the car’s sat nav.

  Ten minutes later, Jones was walking up the short driveway to the smart detached house in the upmarket ‘Writers’ Village’ part of town. One of the wealthier Middlesbury suburbs, it gained its nickname from the literary nature of its street names. Centred around the almost obligatory ‘Shakespeare Avenue’, a maze of small cul-de-sacs sported names such as ‘Coleridge Close’, ‘Marlowe Drive’ and ‘Sir Francis Bacon Grove’. The Tunbridges lived on ‘Chaucer Avenue’. A pleasant, leafy street composed primarily of detached houses with generous front gardens, it clearly wasn’t as exclusive as some of the others. For a start, the Tunbridges would have no problem striking up a conversation with their neighbours either side or waving to the occupant of the house opposite, when walking down the drive. A couple of the streets that Warren had passed on his way to Chaucer Avenue had eight-foot-high fences between the houses to protect the occupants’ privacy. A couple even had wrought-iron gates to block off their driveway from the local riff-raff.

  In front of the Tunbridges’ house sat a silver BMW roadster, next to it a brand-new Ford Focus. Clearly his and hers. Jones found himself wondering what Mrs Tunbridge would do with the Beamer now. Whatever damage Severino had done to the car’s bonnet had been expertly repaired; no traces of the alleged profanities remained.

  Stepping up to the front door, Jones took a deep breath before ringing the bell. He really hated this, dealing with the bereaved. At least he hadn’t had to break the news. He’d done it plenty of times in his career and it never got any easier. Thankfully, it wasn’t a kid, although a murder victim could be just as hard, even if it was one as unsympathetic a character as Tunbridge.

  The door finally opened, a young man standing on the threshold. His lip curled in a scowl. “I thought we made it clear, we have nothing to say to the press.”

  “My apologies, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones — I phoned ahead.”

  The young man flushed slightly. “I’m sorry. Your visit completely slipped my mind. A couple of local journalists have been sniffing around. When I didn’t see a uniform, I just assumed… Sorry, won’t you come in?”

  He stepped to one side, allowing Warren entry. The hallway was surprisingly cool, tastefully decorated, with dark wooden floors and light cream wallpaper. A large, bulging backpack with flight labels sat to one side. Jones remembered that Tunbridge’s son was studying in the US. It looked as though he’d just got back. He confirmed Jones’ deduction with a handshake. “Simon Tunbridge. Excuse my scruffiness — I just flew in an hour ago.” Up close, Jones could see the resemblance to the photographs he had seen of Tunbridge before he died. The same strong jaw and unruly hair, although the younger man’s hair remained a dark black. At the moment, his eyes were bloodshot and puffy; he’d clearly been crying recently. As Jones opened his mouth to express his condolences, the doorway to the kitchen opened and a middle-aged woman dressed in a formless woollen cardigan and black leggings came into view.

  This was clearly Mrs Tunbridge, the late professor’s wife. She stepped forward, offering her hand. “Annabel Tunbridge. You must be DCI Jones?”

  “Yes, ma’am. First of all, may I express my condolences and apologise for not visiting you sooner?”

  Mrs Tunbridge dismissed Jones’ apology with a wave of her hand. “Your job is to catch the person who did this and I would like to thank you on behalf of my family for doing so, so quickly. Hopefully we can put this all behind us.”

  Up close, Jones could see that Mrs Tunbridge was a handsome woman with a slender figure. Her eyes, although somewhat puffy, had been expertly made up to conceal her distress. According to the family liaison officer, Mrs Tunbridge was forty-nine years old, somewhat younger than her fifty-five-year-old husband, yet she could pass for someone even more youthful. Knowing that the late professor’s tastes seemed to run to younger women, Jones couldn’t help but wonder if his wife’s youthfulness was down to good luck and genetics or if she had worked to keep herself looking so young.

  “Now, I believe you have some questions for me? I thought you had caught someone?” She turned and headed through an open archway into a spacious living room. Taking her gesturing hand as an invitation, Jones sat down on a comfortable leather sofa. Tunbridge and her son sat opposite on the sofa’s twin, a low-slung coffee table between them.

  “Yes, Mrs Tunbridge, in fact I’ve just come from court, where he was remanded in custody until his trial. However, to make the case against him secure we need to make certain that we have dotted all of the Is and crossed all of the Ts. I just have a few questions that I need to ask you.” He decided not to mention his suspicion that Severino might not have worked alone.

  “Of course, please. Anything to make sure that evil man gets what he deserves.”

  “On
the night of the attack, your husband was working late in the office. According to the university’s security logs, this was quite unusual. Professor Tunbridge rarely worked past eight p.m. Pretty much everything he needed to do online could be accomplished from home. Do you have any idea why your husband was working so late in his office?”

  Tunbridge shook her head. “I was out that night with some girlfriends. Alan didn’t mention anything about going into the university.”

  “I see. Do you have any ideas about how he planned to spend his evening?”

  “He hadn’t mentioned anything. I assumed that he would stay in and watch TV, or maybe go and read a book in the garden since the weather has been so lovely.”

  “What did you think when you got home that evening to find he wasn’t home?”

  The older woman paused, before pulling out a handkerchief tucked up her sleeve. Dabbing at her eyes, she sniffed and apologised. Her son slipped his arm around her shoulder encouragingly.

  “I did wonder where he was, but I assumed that he had walked around to the bowls club for a game or a pint. I was just starting to think about phoning him when your officers turned up on the doorstep.”

  Waiting a few moments for her to compose herself, Jones opened his notepad.

  “Did your husband have many hobbies, Mrs Tunbridge?”

  “Not really. He enjoyed reading when he could, and whenever he went somewhere interesting for a conference or a meeting he would try and take some photos. Other than that though he just played bowls at the Middlesbury Sports Centre up the road. However, he always said that he didn’t really have the time to play properly — he was just learning the rules so that he could hit the ground running when he retired.” She tried a weak smile, which Jones returned.