The Last Straw

by Paul Gitsham

  “Who did it? And why?”

  “As to the first, we can only speculate. Tunbridge may have done it himself, or his killer may have done it immediately after killing him — we can’t be sure. If his killer did do it, it was sloppy and silly. There are loads of ways to find a person’s browsing history, especially on a private network like the university. Deleting your Internet history just raises a bright red flag saying, ‘Hi, look at me. I’ve been browsing where I shouldn’t!’”

  Robertson emphasised his point by waving his arms, almost taking Jeremiah’s eye out in the process.

  “As to the why, that’s your call, Chief Inspector, but a look at the sites he’s been visiting might be useful.” Robertson’s grin broadened. Warren could hardly blame him. Let him have his moment of glory, he decided magnanimously; poor bugger probably never gets the recognition he deserves.

  “Here we have a list of all of the sites that Tunbridge visited in the last three months, including the day he died. I’ll email it to you, but here are the highlights.” Robertson called up a lengthy list of website addresses. The site’s specific address was highlighted in blue as a clickable link. Next to it a one-line sentence described the link. “Most of the stuff is crap and fairly innocuous. He generally started his day with a trawl of the BBC News website followed by a browse of some select journal articles — he received a daily email alert to help him do that. Most of the rest of the sites are ones that Jeremiah tells me are fairly run-of-the-mill sites of interest to the biological research community.

  “However, there are two sites that may be of interest to you. First, his university email account wasn’t his only account.”

  “He had a Hotmail account?” guessed Jones.

  Robertson shook his head, smiling. “Better than that. He had his own domain name.” Seeing Warren’s uncomprehending expression, he expanded, “With the aid of a help tutorial from the online version of What PC, a couple of months ago he bought the domain name ‘TridentAntibacterials.com’ on his credit card. Bundled in with that came a couple of gigabytes of web storage and an email client. He could set up as many email addresses ending ‘@TridentAntibacterials.com’ as he wished. He only set up one, ‘CEO@ TridentAntibacterials.com’, but it is active.”

  “Trident was the name that Professor Tompkinson mentioned in connection with Tunbridge’s research,” recalled Jones. “It sounds as if he was setting the groundwork for starting up his own company. Having his own email address sounds a lot more professional than using Hotmail or even his university account. Have you had a look at his emails yet?”

  Robertson nodded. “Bloody easy to get in — would you believe he uses the same password for his university and personal accounts?”

  Warren smiled. “Let me guess — ‘Password’?”

  Robertson frowned, the wind briefly taken out of his sails. “Yes, well, anyway, I’ll leave it to you to decide upon the importance of his correspondence, but almost all of the emails he exchanged were with a single address: ‘JPriest@CaliforniaBioInvest.com’. The last email that he received was at nine p.m. on the day he was killed.”

  Warren felt his face flush with excitement. It could all be a coincidence, he cautioned himself, but nevertheless his gut tightened. “Do we know who this person is?”

  “Here’s where it gets really interesting. I decided to look up this person.” His long fingers moved rapidly across the keyboard and a new browser window opened. Typing rapidly, he entered the email address into the browser’s search bar. Instantly the familiar Google results page appeared, with a single entry ‘California Biotechnology Investment Ltd’. Without being asked, he clicked on the blue link. Immediately, the page turned to the familiar white ‘404 not found’ page.

  “Shit,” swore Warren.

  “That’s what I thought, but then I remembered — in cyberspace nothing is ever really deleted.” Robertson clicked the ‘back’ button on the browser, returning to the search results page. Moving the mouse pointer, he highlighted the results again.

  “It may no longer be active, but it was up long enough for Google to cache it.” Without being asked, he explained, “In order to speed up searches, search engines take a snapshot of webpages that they index. It allows them to extract keywords and whatever other information that they need. Google stores these in a cache and allows users to actually access the snapshot and see what the page looked like at the time that it was indexed. It can be several days out of date, but that doesn’t always matter if the page doesn’t change very often.”

  Sure enough, a light blue link next to the entry read ‘cached’. Warren remembered seeing that link plenty of times in the past as he’d conducted web searches, but couldn’t ever remember clicking it. Robertson did so.

  Immediately the page changed to a photograph of a shiny, metal and glass fronted building. Superimposed over the bottom left of the picture, an ethnically diverse group of lab-coated young people with impressively good teeth — some with clipboards, others holding what appeared to be laboratory equipment — stared earnestly at the camera. Across the top of the page ‘California Biotechnology Investment Ltd’ was emblazoned.

  To the right, the company mission statement proclaimed that CBI Ltd was a privately funded venture capitalist firm specialising in ‘funding today’s ideas to solve tomorrow’s problems’.

  At the bottom of the page a small disclaimer read ‘Enquiries by invitation only’ with a mail icon next to it. Robertson hovered the mouse pointer over it revealing the mysterious contact’s email address.

  “Is that it? I don’t see any other links.”

  “That’s it. Either this is the holding page for a very selective venture capitalist firm — ‘don’t call us, we’ll call you’, or it’s a scam. Either way, it appears to have become unavailable some time during the past seventy-two hours since Google last indexed it.”

  Warren digested the implications for a few moments. It was too much to take in all at once, he decided; he needed time to think. “I think we’re starting to build a picture here, but I’m not sure what of. Pete, can you send me copies of all of the correspondence sent and received from this email account? Further can we try and track down this company and maybe this J Priest?” Robertson nodded. “Oh, and can you keep a monitor on this account, in case we get another email? I think we need to get back to the station and try and piece this together,”

  Robertson agreed but held up a cautionary hand. “Just one more thing I think you might be interested in.”

  “Oh, what might that be?” Warren paused, wondering what was coming next.

  “Jeremiah?” Robertson nodded to the young university staff member to take over.

  “At 21:55 hours on Friday evening, somebody copied all of Professor Tunbridge’s files onto a USB memory stick.”

  Chapter 22

  Back at the station, Warren called for a meeting at five p.m., to pull together the day’s findings. That gave him a half-hour or so to go through the email correspondence between Tunbridge and the mysterious J Priest.

  The ten emails had been archived into a single document, in chronological order, and Warren was able to print them out and read them like a transcript of a conversation.

  The first, sent by Priest to Tunbridge, hinted at the way the two had met.

  Dear Prof Tunbridge,

  Thanks a lot for taking the time out to chat about your work at yesterday’s break-out session. Your work is fascinating and, as I said at the time, is something that CBI Ltd might be interested to know more about.

  Unfortunately, I have to fly back to Los Angeles tonight and so can’t take you up on your offer to tour your laboratory at the moment. Nevertheless, I will be speaking to colleagues about your work. To that end, I wonder if you would be kind enough to send me a copy of the PowerPoint presentation you gave.

  Yours,

  Dr J Priest,

  Senior Investment Scout, California Biotechnology Investment Ltd.

  Tunbridge’s response had been q
uick and to the point.

  Dear Dr Priest,

  Thank you for your continuing interest in my research. I enjoyed our chat at the conference and would be delighted to send you a copy of my talk.

  Yours,

  Prof Alan Tunbridge

  CEO Trident Antibacterials.

  Leafing through the emails, Warren watched the relationship unfolding. Priest, whoever he was — he now signed his emails John — was smooth and subtly flattering. Within a couple of emails, he had Tunbridge sending additional data and was promising to present Tunbridge’s work to the board of investors. With the benefit of twenty-twenty hindsight, it was obvious that Tunbridge was being played perfectly. The question was, who would know Tunbridge well enough to hoodwink him so thoroughly?

  The correspondence continued over the course of several weeks, becoming increasingly technical in nature and difficult to follow. Warren was contemplating the need for another cup of coffee, when suddenly he sat bolt upright.

  Alan,

  Great news!

  I spoke to the board and they were extremely interested. Our CEO has a long-standing interest in the field of anti-microbial compounds and has actually requested a telephone conference with you. You’ll forgive me for the cloak and dagger approach, but all of our investors are very private individuals with significant business interests and influence worldwide. For them to express an interest in a technology, regardless of the depth of that interest, can result in changes in stock prices and ill-informed speculation. As responsible investors, we would try to avoid that. For that reason, we would prefer not to reveal the identity of any of our members, until we can speak directly. We would also ask that you refrain from mentioning this upcoming meeting.

  He can give you an hour at 2pm on Friday 12th August, California Time. I apologise that the time difference would make that 10 p.m., UK time, unfortunately that is the only space in his diary.

  In addition to the CEO, some of our scientific and legal team will be part of the call. We would therefore ask that you are prepared to answer any scientific or legal questions that arise and are able to send or receive any electronic files necessary.

  Obviously we would be happy to sign any necessary confidentiality agreements. Please feel free to send them to this email address.

  I look forward to doing business,

  John.

  Bravo! thought Warren, for a moment his admiration for the skilful manipulation making him forget the ultimate outcome of this exchange. Tunbridge’s reply, agreeing to the conference call, had ultimately sealed his fate. A final email on that fateful Friday merely confirmed that he was precisely where his killer wanted him, at the right time and with all of his data gathered in one place.

  The question therefore remained: who was John Priest and what was his relationship with Antonio Severino?

  Chapter 23

  After gulping down the remains of his coffee, Warren called everyone into the briefing room. He started by filling the team in on Severino’s early morning court appearance, congratulating the team on their success, before reminding them that they still had to chase up any loose ends.

  Next he filled them in on his visit to Mrs Tunbridge, underlining the need to find Tunbridge’s diary. His revelation that Tunbridge had been apparently conversing online with a fake venture capital firm created a buzz of excitement. Sutton was the most vocal, voicing the opinion that Severino would know exactly which buttons to press to get Tunbridge to believe him.

  “Mark my words, this John Priest is nothing more than a figment of Antonio Severino’s imagination. And furthermore, if we look hard enough we’ll find that missing diary and a memory stick full of data and covered in Severino’s prints.”

  Murmurs of agreement had rippled around the table.

  “What have we got from the other members of the Tunbridge lab?” asked Jones.

  “Not much in the way of other suspects, I’d say,” said Sutton, who’d reviewed the interview transcripts taken by the rest of the CID team. “The only other two current members of the laboratory have alibis. A first-year PhD student by the name of Juan Morales has been visiting his parents in Spain for the past week. The local plods have kindly visited him directly to check him out. The laboratory’s technician, Patrick Burnell, has been up in Leeds visiting his sick father in hospital since Wednesday. Apparently the old man is on his last legs and Burnell has been practically sleeping at the hospital, in full view of nursing staff and other visitors. In terms of opportunity, I can’t see how he could have made the journey.”

  “What about former members of the lab? Tunbridge had a reputation for poor treatment of lots of staff and colleagues, not just Spencer and Severino.”

  Sutton shuffled his notes. “In terms of motive, there are three former staff that had a good reason, although it would seem as though they have moved on. Another PhD student that started at the same time as Tom Spencer, Refah Patel, had a miserable first year with Tunbridge. She was diagnosed with depression at the end of that year, with Tunbridge’s behaviour a major contributing factor. However, unlike Spencer, she has a second supervisor, Professor Crawshaw, and in her second year was able to switch the focus of her research to effectively become Crawshaw’s student and now works almost full-time in that lab. She only needs to meet the Tunbridge Group occasionally. That seems to have suited Tunbridge fine. He’s always regarded graduate students as a pain in terms of administration.

  “Moving to Crawshaw’s lab was the ‘best thing that ever happened to me’ to quote Patel directly. Probably due in no small part to her meeting her current fiancé there. She has basically finished her thesis and is awaiting her viva — an oral exam on her work — before graduating. She’s already got a job lined up.”

  “Sounds unlikely, I agree. What about an alibi?”

  “She was out with her fiancé that night having a meal. We’re sending someone out to check that as we speak. It’s also worth noting that she’s roughly four feet ten inches tall and weighs about as much as a packet of chocolate HobNobs, which if the forensics are to be believed pretty much rules her out.”

  A few titters ran around the table and Warren couldn’t help smile himself at Sutton’s colourful choice of words. With Severino charged and awaiting trial in near record time, the team had every right to be in a good mood, Warren thought. However, they still had a duty to present a water-tight case to the Crown Prosecution Service and so he continued the meeting.

  “Who else have we got?”

  “Two former technicians who brought a constructive dismissal case against Tunbridge. Again, they certainly had a motive at the time — about two and a half years ago — but they both claim to be very happy in their current positions. Alibi-wise, one was stuck with her husband and kids on the M6 travelling north for a family wedding, the other is a single parent and spent Friday in front of the TV with the kids upstairs in bed. We’re checking her out at the moment.”

  “What was the constructive dismissal over?”

  “Unreasonable working demands apparently. Both women had young families and worked a job share. Tunbridge decided upon a new set of experiments that the lab was going to perform that required the technician working that day to be in the lab by eight a.m. or earlier. Something to do with the need to make up essential chemicals fresh that morning, rather than making them up the previous evening and leaving them overnight as is usual practice. Not only was this in violation of their contracted working hours, he would also give them very little notice that he was planning on running the experiments. It wreaked havoc with their childcare plans. When they finally said enough was enough and refused to set up the experiments without reasonable notice, he humiliated them in the weekly departmental meeting by blaming them for a lack of progress on the project.”

  “Nice guy,” muttered Hastings quietly. A few heads nodded in agreement.

  “Anyway, they took advice from their union rep and resigned, threatening constructive dismissal. The university finally stepped in and
moved them from Tunbridge’s lab into another research group and gave them a regrading to boot. Apparently they are both very happy in their jobs and claim to be doing well.”

  Warren nodded. “They all sound unlikely suspects. Let’s just dot all the Is and cross all the Ts and move on.”

  At that moment, the door to the conference room opened, and one of the administrative assistants poked her head around the door.

  “Sorry to interrupt, but there is a phone call for DCI Jones. It sounds urgent.” Excusing himself, Warren headed back to his office. Picking up the call, he was surprised to hear the youthful voice of Antonio Severino’s lawyer.

  “What can I do for you, Mr Stock?”

  “My client would like to have a talk with you.”

  “Really. Decided to confess, has he? He should save that for the trial, change his plea.”

  Severino’s lawyer sounded frustrated. “Hardly. Antonio was in extreme shock when he was interviewed, not to mention severely hung-over and not thinking straight. Now that he’s had time to calm down, he has some information that you might find useful.”

  Warren fought down a sigh. “Let me guess, he has vital information that he will only share with me and so I am expected to race down to The Mount Prison on his say-so to find out this incredible information he has locked up in his mind.”

  “Actually, quite the opposite. He’s told me about it in great detail and I think it’s extremely interesting information that you will find useful. Let me be candid, Chief Inspector. I’m doing this on legal aid, I’m underpaid and overworked. I assure you that if he was yanking your chain, I wouldn’t be wasting your time or mine. I really think it is worth a trip down here to hear for yourself what he has to say.”

  Warren thought for a few moments. The solicitor’s call had certainly got him intrigued. In his experience, despite their obviously different goals and divergent views on the merits of a particular case, most defence solicitors were actually hard-working, decent enough folk. The majority of them also acted as fairly effective bullshit filters, although they were ultimately bound to follow their clients’ wishes.