The Last Straw (12 page)

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

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.

Clara’s mouth opened in surprise; clearly she hadn’t been expecting the question.

“Wha...? How did you know? Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter who told us. Please, just answer the question.”

Clara slumped back in her chair; for the first time since she’d entered the room the defiant façade cracked slightly.

“He was angry at first. Blamed it on me. Said I should have been more careful.” She snorted. “You’d think that a Biology professor would know that it takes two to tango.” This last sentence was delivered with no trace of mirth. “In the end, he made me get rid of it. Said it was for the best. He gave me some cash and arranged for me to move tutor groups so we wouldn’t see each other again.”

Jones now, in a gentle voice.

“How did that make you feel, Clara?”

She sighed. “Cheap.” She looked at the ceiling and it was as if she’d forgotten where she was.

“The thing is, he was right. I couldn’t have had that baby. Even with the university’s support, I can’t see how I would have looked after it. And Alan made it clear that he wasn’t going to help. Not that I’d want him to Anyway. The worst thing would be going back home. All the fingers pointing, all the whispering: ‘See, I told you so, stuck-up bitch, thinking she’s better than us.’” She looked the two detectives squarely in the eye, one at a time. “You see, I’m not only the first person in my family to go to university, I’m the first on my whole estate. Of all the kids I grew up with, not one of them stayed on to do A levels. Most of them barely finished their GCSEs. I got six A*s. Then I got an A and two Bs at A level.” She laughed harshly. “Shit, with my background when I got to university I ticked so many boxes on the outreach programmes I’m amazed the government didn’t stick me in their election manifesto. It’s just a shame I’m not a black lesbian in a wheelchair, then I’d have completed the fucking set. Anyway, that’s all in the past. I can’t say I’ll mourn the bastard, but I didn’t kill him.”

The statement hung in the air, the look of defiance back on Clara’s face. Despite her protestations, Jones wasn’t convinced. This was one angry young woman and she had a hell of a motive. Nevertheless, it was time to move on. It seemed that everyone who’d ever met the professor could conceivably have a motive. And motive was only part of the equation. Without opportunity, motive meant nothing.

“Now, Clara, we would like to ask you some routine questions about your whereabouts yesterday evening, between the hours of nine p.m. and ten p.m.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Clara gazed into space for a second.

“Boring night in. I watched a DVD then went out to Tesco to get some munchies. Figured whilst I was there that I’d do me shopping as well.”

“Can anyone vouch for you? Flatmates, boyfriend, friends?” Jones continued probing gently.

“No, I was on me own. Me flatmate was away for the weekend and I ain’t seeing anyone at the moment.”

Nodding as if satisfied for the moment, Jones continued conversationally.

“So what time did you go to Tesco?”

“Must have been about half-nine or ten. Cupboards were bare so I did me big shop.”

“Very strange time to walk half a mile to the supermarket, ten p.m. on a Friday. Especially when you have a corner shop just around the corner from you,” Sutton interjected.

“Yeah, well, like I said, I was having a quiet night in and I wanted some snacks. Figured I may as well do me big shop then — it’s quiet that time of the night.”

Nodding as if the explanation was perfectly reasonable, Jones took over.

“I don’t suppose that you have any witnesses? Bump into anyone that knows you? Did you keep the till receipt?”

“I didn’t see nobody I knew, but I think I might have the receipt.”

Bending down, Clara started to root through her handbag. As she did so both officers were treated to a look down her impressive cleavage. A small tattoo of a rose adorned the top of her left breast.

You can take the girl out of Essex…I guess that’s what happens when you aim for fifty per cent of school leavers going to university. Jones felt a sudden flash of shame, both at the eyeful he was getting and his sudden unbidden academic snobbery.

He glanced over at Sutton, who smirked back at him and winked, before restoring his poker face. Clearly no shame being felt there.

Finally, Clara sat up holding a large purse in triumph. Opening it, she removed a till receipt from Tesco — a very, very lengthy till receipt. With a flourish, she passed it over. A cursory glance and Jones felt his hopes fade. According to the time stamp on the receipt, Clara had been at the checkout at pretty much the same time that Tom Spencer was reporting the murder of Tunbridge. If the receipt was to be believed, Clara really had done her ‘big shop’ that night; he was amazed she’d managed to carry it all home. Even on a quiet Friday night, he couldn’t see how she could have travelled to Tesco from the crime scene, filled a trolley this big, then put it through the checkout in those few minutes. He’d get her story verified by somebody as soon as possible. But it looked as though she was in the clear.

With everything concluded, Jones asked a uniform to see her out. Alone in the room with Sutton, he looked at him questioningly.

“Thoughts?”

Sutton was uncharacteristically wary.

“I don’t know, guv. She has one hell of a motive and she was definitely not telling us the whole truth — her dialect wobbled quite a bit, the inner-city Essex came through more strongly towards the end. That might be an indication that she was lying—” he sighed “—but that till receipt looks pretty convincing,”

“I agree. She was definitely holding something back, but we did hit her pretty hard with the questions about her pregnancy. She’s clearly still upset over the incident — that may have been enough to rattle her cage. Nevertheless, unless she had an accomplice, I don’t see how she could have done a shop like that in the time she would have had. I’ll send someone down to Tesco to speak to the manager and see if any of the checkout staff remember her or if she pops up on the CCTV. However, I think we can probably rule out Ms Hemmingway’s direct involvement.”

Chapter 10

By the time they had finished interviewing Hemmingway it was getting on for four p.m. Jones’ stomach was growling, the breakfast banana and single bite of cheese sandwich not nearly enough to placate it. Thirty minutes more, he decided, then they were waking up Severino regardless. If he was to have any chance of making the restaurant for six-thirty, they needed at least a preliminary statement from him within an hour or so.

In the meantime, Jones decided he had to try and get something to eat, or, if that failed, more coffee. Heading back to the canteen, he was dismayed to find that not only were there no more sandwiches, all of the fruit was gone too. To add insult to injury, the vending machine selling crisps and chocolate bars had a large handwritten ‘out of order’ sign sticky-taped across the coin slots. Heading back into the briefing room, he saw that the coffee urn was still plugged in, so he settled for another dark black coffee loaded with sugar. His fifty-pence piece remained alone in the honesty jar.