by Paul Gitsham
“We have been unable to find your husband’s diary, Mrs Tunbridge. I wonder if you have seen it? That might give us some clues as to why he was in the university so late at night.”
Tunbridge shook her head; she hadn’t seen the diary at all recently.
“We feel that knowing why the professor was up at the university so late is key to this investigation. We are currently searching his university laptop for any clues. However, I believe that staff at the university are able to log in from home. Did Professor Tunbridge have a computer, Mrs Tunbridge?”
“Yes, he had a laptop in his study. Alan often used to work in the evening.”
“Do you mind if we check it out, Mrs Tunbridge?”
She looked uncertain. “I’m not sure. You don’t need to take it away, do you?”
Warren looked apologetic. “Our forensic team at Welwyn would look at it at their site for analysis. It probably wouldn’t take more than a couple of days to search for anything useful. The procedure is little more than a copying of the hard disk. They might not even have to open the case.”
He could see that she wasn’t convinced.
It was Simon who broke the impasse. “Mum, don’t worry about it. I’ve got my laptop with me. You can use it to keep in contact just as easily as your own.”
Somewhat reluctantly, Tunbridge agreed and, getting up, led the way upstairs. The top floor of the house was as tastefully decorated as the downstairs, Jones noted. The stairs and the landing followed the same colour scheme as the hallway, although with a thick, expensive-feeling carpet instead of polished wood. The house was generous in size and Warren counted six doors. Assuming that one was the master bathroom and another the study, that left at least three bedrooms, four if there was no airing cupboard. The study was the last room at the back of the house and had clearly been Professor Tunbridge’s domain, rather than his wife’s. The tall bookcase was filled with scientific texts and the large wooden desk was piled high with journals and technical documents. A small laser printer sat on top of a half-size filing cabinet. The room boasted a single, director-style chair. Sitting on the desk was a large laptop, its lid open. It was switched off.
Annabel Tunbridge paused at the threshold of the room, clearly reluctant to go into her late husband’s workspace. Simon touched his mother’s arm comfortingly. “It’s OK, Mum. I’ll handle this.”
Looking relieved, she left wordlessly. Warren pulled out a pair of latex gloves and a large, clear, plastic evidence bag with reinforced handles. Seeing Simon’s quizzical stare, he shrugged apologetically. “Forensics are always nagging us about trace evidence. It’s easier just to do what they ask.”
Simon nodded in sympathy. Unplugging the laptop from its power supply, Warren carefully slid it into the plastic bag, following it with the power cable. Sealing it, he noted the time, location and crime reference number on the bag with a permanent marker.
“I’m not sure what you’ll find. Dad wasn’t much of a computer guy. For such an intelligent man, he really was clueless when it came to PCs. He could drive Microsoft Office, through necessity I guess, but beyond that he struggled. Mum’s the computer whizz. She’s put together some amazing websites for local charities. She loves trying out new tricks. Middlesbury Rotary Club probably has the most sophisticated website in the whole organisation.”
“We’re not sure what we’ll turn up. At the moment, our biggest question is why your dad was working late on Friday and how did his attacker know? He might have used an appointments calendar or there might be a clue in his email.”
Simon clearly wasn’t convinced. “I doubt it. Dad was definitely a pen and diary kind of guy. My sister and I bought him and Mum a BlackBerry smartphone each for Christmas, one of those family contracts from Orange. Figured we’d drag them into the twenty-first century. Mum loves it — she uses instant messaging and everything. I think Dad might have sent a text once.” He smiled sadly at the memory, his eyes going misty.
“Christ, I can’t believe what’s happened. You hear about murders in the States all of the time, but you never think it’ll happen to you. Especially here.” He waved his arm in a vague, all-encompassing gesture. “When I was a kid I hated Middlesbury. It’s so boring, nothing ever happens. That’s part of the reason I went to the States, to seek out a bit of excitement. But after a few months watching the local news, you find yourself longing for England and its gun laws...” He trailed off.
Warren cleared his throat slightly. “If, as you say, your father preferred to use pen and paper, he may have written something down. Do you mind if I have a bit of a look around?”
“Sure, be my guest.”
Moving carefully, as much to show respect as to avoid disturbing anything, Warren started leafing through the piles of paper on the desk. Most of it was printouts or photocopies of journal articles. Any writing on the papers was cryptic and technical in nature. Nothing appeared to point towards why Professor Tunbridge would have been in work that night. Simon hovered in the background.
“You know, if he was meeting someone or expecting a phone call at work, he almost certainly would have jotted it down in his organiser. He rarely went anywhere without it. It’s one of the reasons we bought him a BlackBerry smartphone, figured it would save him lugging the damn thing around with him. But when I came home for Easter he had his old organiser sitting here next to his laptop.”
Warren turned in curiosity. “We didn’t find any organiser in his office on Friday night. Would he have left it here?”
Simon shook his head. “I doubt it — he never left it anywhere. Before I leave the house I check I have my keys, my mobile and my wallet in that order. Dad would probably check he had his organiser, then his keys and wallet. Nine times out of ten, he’d probably forget his mobile.”
“Can you describe it to me?”
“I can probably do better than that — he doesn’t usually throw away his old ones and he buys the same one each year.” Turning to the desk, he opened the bottom drawer, which Warren had yet to get to. Neatly stacked were a half dozen or so bulging, A5-sized black organisers. He pulled the pile out. All of them were identical in appearance except for the year, embossed on the spine in gold. They were piled in order, the top one being the previous year.
Opening one at random, Warren saw that it was a multi-purpose diary. The front page had the usual personal information, filled in by what he was beginning to recognise as the professor’s neat script. After that, a few pages of information such as mini calendars and random trivia including international telephone dialling codes and time zones were followed by a standard day-to-a-page work diary. The final few dozen pages were given over to contact numbers and addresses. Leafing randomly through the pages, Warren saw that the days were mostly filled with to-do lists and appointments, some personal such as “Dentist 10 a.m.”, most work-related. A few pages had scribbled technical notes and cryptic reminders.
As he looked at them he was reminded of the scene that had greeted him Friday night. The laptop, screen glowing, splattered with blood. The curiously clean space next to the computer…
“Simon, I don’t suppose you know if your dad used an external mouse on his laptop do you?”
Simon shrugged. “Not that I saw at home. Although Dad wasn’t much of a computer expert, he was competent enough at operating one. I think he just used the built-in trackpad. Of course, he may have used one at work, but I don’t see why.”
So, it was unlikely to be a space for a mouse-mat, then. Had Tunbridge’s organiser been next to the computer? Had his attacker taken it? And if so, what was in it that was so valuable?
“Do you mind if I take these diaries, just in case?”
Another shrug. “Help yourself, Chief Inspector.” A sudden thought occurred to him. “If you are going to check his emails, you’ll probably save yourself a lot of time if I give you his password.”
Warren could barely conceal his surprise. Simon smiled, slightly embarrassed. “It’s no big secret. I told you
, Dad was a complete novice with computers. He used the same password for everything. Not only that, he was the world’s slowest typist. Two-finger typing would have been an improvement. It’s a good job they employed typists back when Dad did his PhD otherwise he’d still be writing his thesis now.”
Warren dug out his notepad and pen. “If you can give me his password that would be really helpful.”
“Well, you won’t need that, I shouldn’t think. His password was just that.”
“Just that? One word or two words?”
“No, you don’t understand. It was just that — ‘password’. If the computer demanded something more robust he just put the first letter as a capital and a number at the end. Like I said, Dad wasn’t very good with computers.”
Warren shook his head, not trusting himself to speak.
Chapter 21
After leaving the Tunbridge’s house, Jones went straight to his appointment at the university’s IT department. Unlike the ageing Biology department, the building was brand-new, twenty-first-century chic, all glass and chrome and air conditioning. Truth be told, Warren rather liked this type of design, although he was careful not to voice that opinion too loudly around some of Susan’s more aesthetically minded friends. Warren regarded himself as a pragmatic man. On the one hand, he appreciated the great beauty inherent in Britain’s old buildings. He even had a rotating computer background showcasing photographs of some of the most stunning architecture across the British Isles. On the other hand, when it came to places to live and work, give him everything that the modern age had to offer. Why waste good money on an antique, hand-carved solid oak desk — like the one that Susan’s sister had just bought — when less than one hundred pounds could buy you a robust, self-assembly unit from IKEA with twice as many drawers, an easily accessible cupboard to hide the printer in and cable tidies? Not only that, Warren could slurp coffee to his heart’s content and not worry about the cost of French-polishing. After a journey home full of robust debate after admiring Felicity’s new desk, Warren and Susan had agreed to disagree.
Like many organisations, UME hid its IT support departments in the basement, away from prying eyes. This, Warren learned from the interactive display that dominated the building’s lobby, was as much to do with cost efficiency as keeping the geeks out of sight. The rows and rows of file-servers and processors that kept the university’s IT infrastructure ticking over generated phenomenal amounts of heat. In order to avoid spending even more money on expensive air conditioning to keep everything cool, the building funnelled the heat up through the centre of the building. In winter it was enough to reduce the building’s heating bill by half. In the summer, the unwanted hot air was used to generate electricity.
The display was on its third rotation before the receptionist finally announced that the university technician that had been working with the specialists from Welwyn’s Forensic Computer Unit had been tracked down.
“Sorry, I was out on an urgent call on the other side of campus,” he apologised as he shook Warren’s hand. The crumbs in the young man’s goatee beard suggested otherwise, but Warren let the white lie slide. Following the young man down the corridor, Warren mentally compared the young computer expert against his personal database of stereotypes and prejudices. Very young for such a senior role — check; somewhat socially awkward — check; badly dressed — a matter of opinion, Warren decided. He wasn’t wearing a suit and tie, but his shirt was sober and ironed and he wore pressed trousers and leather shoes. Poor personal hygiene — crumbs aside, all Warren could smell was soap and a faint whiff of spicy cologne. All in all another prejudice debunked, Warren decided.
After walking a lengthy distance along softly carpeted corridors past numerous offices, they eventually stopped at yet another unremarkable office door. Without knocking, his guide, Jeremiah walked straight in. For the first time since entering the building Warren finally felt his expectations were being met. The atmosphere in the room was a mixture of stale coffee, warm electronics and even warmer bodies. The room was clearly some sort of repair room. Vertical racks of plastic boxes on runners stretched to the ceiling, full of equipment or components. Each container had a sticky label, some of which made sense to Warren, others could have been written in Sanskrit for all they meant to him.
In the centre of the room was a large workspace, and on it sat Tunbridge’s laptop. It was recognisable as Tunbridge’s because, despite being cleaned after its physical forensic examination, dark, bloody stains still marred the plastic body of the machine. The physical state of the machine was irrelevant, Warren saw, as the hard drive had been removed from the laptop and attached instead to another laptop, this one with the familiar Herts and Beds Major Crime Unit logo on its lid. Network and power cables snaked their way to wall-mounted sockets.
Hunched in front of the laptop was the tallest person Warren had ever seen. As he looked at the man Warren decided that if he were ever asked to describe this individual in one word, that word would have to be ‘long’. From his impossibly lengthy legs, somehow folded under the desk, to his spindly fingers and oval face, it was as if the man had been stretched vertically.
Without standing up — he had no need to: his arms could easily reach Warren standing near the door — the man put out a huge hand. “Pete Robertson, Forensic IT,” he announced, in a surprisingly high-pitched voice. Warren returned the courtesy, marvelling at how his hand was swallowed up by the giant sitting in front of him. Robertson was a civilian worker, Warren noted from his badge. That wasn’t unusual — most of the force’s computer specialists were recruited from outside the police. Nevertheless, Warren found himself wondering if the police still had height limits for new recruits. He strongly suspected that Robertson would not have been within those limits.
“What have you found then, Pete?”
“A couple of things, some of which I think you probably already know, others which I imagine will be a surprise.” Robertson turned to face Warren, who had perched himself on the end of the table.
“First, Professor Tunbridge probably wasn’t the most confident of computer users. It seems that he learnt exactly what he needed to complete a particular task. He could run basic Office programs fairly competently — you don’t have much choice these days — and he used email and web browsers, but, with the exception of a couple of surprising skills, which he had clearly taken the trouble to work out, he was a generally unimaginative user.”
Jeremiah their guide, nodded his agreement. Not for the first time, Warren felt a touch of paranoia when sitting in the presence of IT specialists. He regarded himself as a fairly practised computer user; nevertheless he always imagined that the moment he left IT Support and the door closed behind him, all of the technicians fell about laughing at his incompetence.
Pushing the thoughts to one side, Warren gestured for them to continue. Jeremiah took up the story. “Professor Tunbridge used the university’s standard email client, Microsoft Outlook, on his work laptop, but hadn’t gone to the trouble of configuring his smartphone or his home laptop to pick up his email as well. If he wanted to check his email in the evening from home, he’d log into our remote client, then access it as if he was on campus. Bit of a faff if you ask me. Instructions and help are available for any staff or students who want to pick up their email without having to log on, but he never used them, it seems.”
Warren raised a hand. “Back up a second. You mentioned remote access. Does this mean that he could get access to his computer files and email from home?”
Jeremiah nodded. “Of course. We have full remote access to our systems from home via a thin client server system. Staff and students simply follow a link on our website, download a piece of client software and then it’s as if they are sitting at their desk in their office, or a public access terminal in the library.”
That was an interesting wrinkle, thought Warren. If Tunbridge could work from home just as easily as he could from campus, then why was he sitting in his office at te
n p.m. on a Friday, when he could have been enjoying the comforts of his own living room? And had his killer had anything to do with that decision?
Jeremiah continued, “Going back to Tunbridge’s usage of computers, a lot of our staff use electronic calendars. Everyone has smartphones these days and so they can use an electronic calendar, rather than a traditional paper diary. We even run a server application to let users share appointments and documents more easily. According to our records, Tunbridge has never even logged on to the system.” He glanced at Robertson, who took over.
“When he was found, a smartphone was in his pocket. A look at its contents showed that, despite owning it over six months, he had only ever used it to make and receive calls and send the odd text message. He’d never even used the calendar function, let alone synchronised it with his work account. The only photo in the gallery is a blurry self-portrait, taken at arm’s length on Christmas Day. If I had to guess, he came across the camera function when he was playing with his new toy and never used it again.”
Warren felt slightly deflated. So it seemed that Tunbridge’s laptop was unlikely to help shed a light on why he was working so late on a Friday night, nor was it likely to help explain how or why his killer targeted him that night. He said as much.
“Don’t be so sure, DCI Jones.” Robertson’s grin was slightly disturbing, given his distorted features. He turned back to the laptop. “The interesting stuff is what’s in his Internet browsing history — or, rather, not, in his case. His entire history was deleted some time in the twenty-four hours preceding his death.”
Warren shot forward off his perch. “Say that again?”
“His entire Internet browsing history was deleted some time in the preceding twenty-four hours before he was found. Actually, twenty-two hours if we’re being pedantic, as the whole history was there when his computer’s profile was backed up automatically at midnight, the previous day.”
