by Paul Gitsham
Hastings nodded understandingly. “Don’t worry, we’re not here about what practice toys you keep in your kit bag. On a different note, I can’t help but notice that this entire conversation has been in the past tense, Mr Gibson. Is Mr Spencer no longer a member of the club?”
Gibson hesitated, looking uncomfortable. “I haven’t seen him for about six months.”
“Why is that?” asked Hastings.
The teacher sighed. “He left after a couple of unpleasant incidents.”
Hastings raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”
Gibson had clearly decided that there was no point holding back any information and leaned back against the trolley of crash mats.
“He was becoming a bit too aggressive. I had to warn him about his control, or rather lack of it, several times and a few students complained that he was going in too hard during sparring sessions. The straw that broke the camel’s back was when he nearly put another black belt in hospital after losing his temper in a routine match.”
Hardwick spoke up. “I’m not sure what you mean by control. Do you mean like his temper?”
“Sort of. I had concerns about his temper, but when I said control I meant pulling his punches. Our style of karate is semi-contact — you aren’t supposed to hurt your opponent. Here, let me show you. Put your hand up.” He took Karen’s hand, placing it vertically so that the fingers pointed upwards, her thumb just in front of her nose. “Don’t move,” he instructed.
Suddenly, with no warning his right foot whipped upwards in a roundhouse kick. His leg moved so fast all that Karen saw was a blur of white cotton. Yet the touch of his foot on the palm of her hand was as soft as a caress. Barely had the echo of his cry reached her ears than his foot was back on the floor, but it wasn’t over yet; his foot snapped out again, this time his hips rotated in the opposite direction and it was the sole of his foot that tapped the back of her hand.
Karen’s breath caught in her throat.
“That’s what we mean by semi-contact and control. Clearly, if I had wanted to I could have hit your hand — or your head — hard enough to do some real damage. But instead I pulled the kick. In semi-contact, a point is awarded for the technique, not the damage you inflict on your opponent.”
“Thank you for the demonstration,” Karen managed. “So you wouldn’t normally hit each other when training?” she asked.
“I’m not saying that we don’t make contact with each other. After a good session, you usually have a few small bruises and tender spots, just like you would after a good aggressive game of football or rugby, but it’s nothing a hot shower wouldn’t normally put right. And of course accidents happen. But Tom was regularly leaving his sparring partners with bruised ribs and even the odd black eye.
“It was starting to piss people off. You see, it’s not just the fact that a punch in the ribs hurts, it’s the lack of respect. Martial arts are about etiquette and respect as much as fighting. It’s why we bow to each other before we start and when we finish. There are strict rules about how to enter a dojo and how to conduct yourself when you are in there.
“I teach kids PE all day and I find it really offensive when they spit on the floor because they’ve seen some dirty Premiership footballer do it. They think it’s normal or even necessary. Yet when I teach karate we’ll exercise for two hours flat out, the sweat will be pouring off us, but no one will ever even think about spitting on the floor. And if they did, I’d make them clean it up with a mop and bucket.”
Hastings nodded in understanding.
“Tell us about the incident with the black belt.”
“The kid he was fighting is a bit of a loud-mouth, to be fair to Tom. Going back to the etiquette thing, we are very polite in karate when we are fighting. In boxing and wrestling, opponents will often goad each other. That is frowned upon in martial arts. Well, anyhow, Hitesh is a bit of a cockney smart-arse, to be honest, and he just doesn’t know when to keep his gob shut. I don’t know exactly what happened, since I was sparring myself at the other end of the room, but Hitesh said something or other and before I knew it Tom was on him.
“Tom was probably the best fighter in the club at the time and he just went for it. Kicks, punches, even elbow strikes and he wasn’t pulling any of them. Quite how Hitesh blocked them all I’ll never know. Anyway, me and three other higher grades dived in and managed to pull Tom off Hitesh, who had gone down on the floor after an elbow to the head. I got a split lip for my trouble and Tina, one of the other black belts, took a really hard punch in the solar plexus.
“I wrestled him out of the dojo and sent him to the changing rooms to cool off, whilst one of the other black belts finished up the lesson. Hitesh was bloody lucky he didn’t end up with a concussion and Tina had a couple of bruises, but that was it. That was the last time I saw him. I emailed him and asked him to come and see me, but he never replied. He’s no longer welcome at this club,” said Gibson, firmly.
“Why do you think he was so aggressive?” asked Karen after a few seconds’ pause.
Gibson sighed and shook his head.
“At first I thought it was just stress. I remember him saying how he was having a hard time with his PhD supervisor. He was working a lot of hours and not getting enough sleep. I encouraged him to do more exercise to help relieve the stress and relax himself, you know, and he did. Starting about eighteen months ago, he decided to go for his second dan black belt and became fixated on the idea of winning the national student championships. He also started hitting the gym a lot more.” Gibson paused as if unsure whether to go on. “I also think he started using steroids.”
“What makes you say that?” asked Hastings.
“It’s a number of things, really. First he started to put on a lot of muscle-mass. We all shower together after training and, like I said, I did my degree in sport science. I had a fair idea how much training he was doing and I know that with the number of hours he was putting in, it would take more than a few protein shakes to bulk up like that. I noticed that he also seemed to be having a few problems with acne across his shoulders and back.” Gibson blushed slightly. “Sorry, that sounds a bit dodgy. But we trained together three or four times a week for three years. The guy was in his twenties and had a clear complexion when I first met him. It’s a bit unusual to develop acne at that age, unless there is a skin or hormonal problem.”
Karen nodded her understanding.
“Then there were the mood changes and the aggressiveness, the change in personality. Like I said, I didn’t know the guy that well, but we’d sometimes go for a quick pint after training and I sat next to him at the club’s Christmas meal a few years ago. He was a fairly pleasant bloke to be around, you know. A good sense of humour and pretty laid-back.”
Gibson looked down at his feet. “I was contemplating saying something to him. I guess I should have done.” He looked up again. “I’ve no idea why you’re interested in him, but I’m not a fool. You aren’t here because he’s run up too many library fines. Has he done something really bad?”
“I’m sorry, Mr Gibson, all I can tell you is that we are involved in an ongoing enquiry and we are looking into the backgrounds of a number of individuals.”
Gibson nodded, looking morose.
With no more questions to ask, the two officers walked back to the car, leaving Gibson to lock up the school hall.
“You seemed to know a bit about martial arts before we went in. Have you done any karate?” asked Karen.
“Not karate, no.” Gary shook his head. “But I have a black-belt in jiu-jitsu and I try to train a couple of times a week.”
Karen looked at him with renewed interest. “Really? The other martial art that Spencer does? You don’t look the type.”
Gary tried to keep the hurt out of his voice. “Well, we don’t all look like PE teachers.”
Karen smiled. “Sorry, I guess not. Mr Miyagi and Jackie Chan don’t look much like Mr Gibson either.”
Gary smiled, despite himself
. “Have you ever done any martial arts?”
Karen shook her head. “No, not really. I did a few women’s self-defence courses at uni and of course I did the basic training when I joined the force, but nothing else.”
“You should give it a try some time. Why don’t you come along to my club some time and have a go? It’s a great way to keep fit and a lot of fun.”
Karen put the car into gear. “Yeah, maybe I will. I’m getting bored of aerobics down the leisure centre.”
Gary smiled to himself. Brilliant. Perhaps he could get her to go for a drink after training.
“Besides which,” she continued, sounding excited, “it’s all women at aerobics. Maybe I could meet an unmarried Mr Gibson lookalike.”
Chapter 43
Warren arrived home at a decent hour for the first time all week. As a peace offering, he’d stopped off at the local Chinese restaurant and bought Susan’s favourite dish. He’d also picked up some flowers.
In an act of sensitivity that Warren wouldn’t normally associate with Bernice, his mother-in-law had dragged Dennis out of the house for a meal and a film at the local cinema. The movie wasn’t scheduled to finish until about eleven p.m. That gave Warren about five hours to apologise for his behaviour that week. He hoped it was long enough.
The reception was decidedly frosty when Susan opened the door. She took the flowers, giving them a perfunctory sniff before taking the Chinese food off his hands. “I would have thought you’d had enough takeaway this week,” was her only comment.
Warren smiled weakly. “To be honest, more of last night’s kebab ended up on the pavement and down my shirt than in my stomach.”
Her frosty glare reminded Warren who her mother was.
The two of them sat down at the dining-room table as Warren spread out the foil containers. Susan had already fetched plates and cutlery from the kitchen and proceeded to spoon out the rice as if she were trying to kill it. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them.
“Susan, I am so sorry about last night. In fact, I am sorry about the last week.”
“Do you have a good explanation why I sat up waiting for you until midnight, before finally going to bed, then being woken up by you at half-past one, stinking of beer and bloody donner kebab? And then, to add insult to injury, I come downstairs in my nightdress at seven this morning to find a total bloody stranger snoring on the couch?” Susan’s voice was cold and calm. That, he knew from experience, was when she was at her most dangerous.
Warren knew that the only acceptable course of action in this situation was to tell the truth and take it on the chin like a man.
“Yesterday afternoon, Tony Sutton and I had a huge row over my decision to reopen the Tunbridge murder case. Immediately afterwards he went in to see Superintendent Grayson in the hope that he would cut me off at the knees and stop me revisiting the case.”
“Let me see if I understand this,” interrupted Susan incredulously. “One of your subordinates openly argues with you, then goes behind your back to try and get you into trouble and your response is to get pissed with him and bring him back here to sleep on the couch?”
Warren winced. “When you put it that way…”
“And what if my mother had been the one to find him? Can you imagine the scene?”
Warren could imagine the scene and for the briefest of moments found himself torn between maintaining a suitably chastened expression and bursting out laughing at the image. He maintained his expression. It was the correct decision.
“And just one more thing — what do you mean, ‘reopen the Tunbridge case’? You’ve arrested and charged someone, haven’t you?”
Warren sighed. “Let me explain from the beginning.”
It took the best part of fifteen minutes to explain the events that had led up to him changing his mind. Despite herself, Susan soon became caught up in the case and was particularly impressed by Karen Hardwick’s inspiration about the inconsistencies in Spencer’s alibi.
“I can see why you have your doubts and, from what you’ve found out today, it sounds as though you were right. But I still don’t understand why Tony Sutton was so against you reopening the case. And even more, why you went out on the piss with him last night and he ended up sleeping in our living room.”
Warren recounted what Sutton had told him the night before. By the time he had finished, the two of them had cleared their plates and Susan was shaking her head in disbelief.
“When we moved down here, I worried that you would be bored in such a small unit after working for so long in the WMP. But it seems as if there’s more going on inside the police station than outside.”
Warren nodded his agreement. “Yeah, well, give me murderers and rapists any day, but please spare me the political bullshit.”
Susan reached across the table and took his hand; it was the most affectionate gesture the two of them had shared all week, he realised.
“Sweetheart, when you went for the promotion, we knew that you would have to become more political. It comes with the territory.”
Warren nodded, morosely.
“But the most important thing is that you must talk to me. Let me know what is going on at work. I had no idea that things had got so bad between you and Tony Sutton.”
Warren squeezed her hand tightly and nodded. “You’re right. No more secrets. And the same goes for you — I keep on forgetting that this is a big change for you as well.”
Susan nodded in return, before standing up. Stepping around the table, she settled herself down on Warren’s lap, her arms around his neck, kissing him on the forehead.
“What time is that film due to end?” asked Warren.
“About eleven, I think,” she murmured into his ear.
“Then that gives us until about ten to eleven before we have to worry about tidying up the dishes before your mum and dad get home.”
Susan’s giggles were music to Warren’s ears. When had they last shared a joke? Grabbing her hand, he raced for the stairs, Susan laughing all the way. Suddenly it was as if the years had melted away. It didn’t matter that it was their own house and they were a married couple; it was like their first Christmas together. Warren had stayed over at Bernice and Dennis’ with Susan. They had only been dating a few months and Bernice had prepared the guest room for Warren. The two young lovers were far too embarrassed to admit that they had been sleeping together for a while by that point and so had endured three frustrating nights and days before, finally, Bernice and Dennis had gone out for an afternoon stroll in the crisp December air.
As they hurried into the bedroom, it was as if they had been transported back in time to that magical afternoon. Tearing at each other as if starved, they had been like wild animals at a feast; desperate to fulfil their hunger, yet not daring to let their guard down in case predators attacked. The sound of a car door that day had almost sent Warren flying off the bed in panic, before he realised that it was the next-door neighbours.
Susan leant back on the bed as Warren stood and removed his shoes. As he took his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt, his gaze swept across his wife.
Susan had spent the day decorating the kitchen; her hair was tousled, with flecks of white emulsion. Her T-shirt was an old, baggy affair that she reserved for messy work. Her tracksuit bottoms were similarly shapeless, having been washed on too hot a cycle too many times. She wore no make-up and her fingernails were chipped and covered in paint. She was the most beautiful person in the world.
Warren finally finished undressing and joined Susan on the bed. Her kiss was tender, a tenderness he tried to match with his hands as he gently caressed her body, rediscovering her curves, the soft places that distinguished men from women. It had been too long, Warren decided, vowing there and then never to allow something as trivial as work to come between them. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to Susan’s tender embrace.
The loud ringing of Warren’s mobile phone shattered the mood as effectively as a football shattered
a greenhouse window. The two of them stopped and lay there, completely still, holding their breath, as if by doing so the phone would magically stop ringing.
It didn’t.
Warren thought about leaving it. “Answer it, it could be important,” whispered Susan, the disappointment in her voice plain.
Giving in to the inevitable, Warren clambered off the bed, fumbling in his trouser pocket as the phone continued to trill. He glanced at the screen. Tony Sutton. With a sigh, he pressed the connect-call button.
“Sorry, guv, hope I didn’t disturb anything. I wouldn’t have rung, but it’s urgent.”
Warren mustered a smile. “Not at all, Tony, it’s nothing that can’t wait.” He looked over at Susan apologetically. “At least tell me you’ve rung with some good news.”
Sutton’s voice was leaden. “It’s not good news for Mark Crawley. He’s topped himself.”
Chapter 44
Warren and Sutton both pulled up outside Crawley’s house at the same time. The number of vehicles in the road meant that Warren ended up parking several doors down the street, in almost the same spot he’d parked with Gary Hastings. Sutton squeaked to a halt just behind him.
Two police patrol cars and a police van with Scenes of Crime Unit stencilled on the side were parked either side of the Crawleys’ drive. For the second time in a week, Warren noted an ambulance, lights and engine off with its back doors open, waiting for a passenger that wouldn’t need all of the hustle and bustle of an emergency transfer to the local hospital. Warren wondered idly if it was the same crew that had picked up Tunbridge the previous Friday.
Across the street a few of the neighbours had gathered in a huddle. A couple of uniformed police constables had their notebooks out and were questioning the local residents. Warren and Sutton flashed their warrant cards and introduced themselves to the constable logging arrivals and departures.
