The Last Straw (2 page)
Authors: Paul Gitsham
Fortunately, or unfortunately, the day was saved by a booming Essex voice.
“Don’t you recognise the new boss, lad?” Jones suppressed a sigh. Great, his first big case and the DI first on the scene had to be Tony Sutton, the man who many believed should be the one wearing three Bath Stars on the epaulettes of his dress uniform, rather than this outsider, parachuted in from the West Midlands Police to clean up their mess.
Turning, he saw Sutton walking towards them, a barely concealed smirk on his face. Like Jones, he was dressed in a smart suit, although he wasn’t wearing a tie. But there the similarities ended. Where Jones was a slim six feet one inch, Sutton was a short, squat bear of a man, his pugnacious features and crooked nose a reminder of his days on the force’s rugby team. He was six years older than Jones, and most observers had expected him to be promoted when the previous DCI, Gavin Sheehy, retired. Unfortunately, Sheehy hadn’t made it to retirement and although Sutton had been fully cleared of any involvement in Sheehy’s disgrace he was nevertheless seen — rumour had it — to be too close to the shamed detective to be given such an important role. At least not yet. Hence Warren’s sudden and unexpected appointment.
“Sorry, sir.” The young lad was blushing now.
Jones patted him on the shoulder encouragingly. “Never apologise for doing your job, son.”
Son? Bloody hell, when did I get so old that I call twenty-year-old constables ‘son’? thought Warren.
Putting aside his discomfort, Jones walked to join Sutton, who led them through the front doors into the lobby. Inside was a large reception desk with a computer and a bank of telephones, behind a reinforced glass screen, rather like a bank teller. To the right of the desk two large double doors were held open by another uniformed PC. A swipe-card lock flashed red and an angry-sounding electronic alarm buzzed insistently, no doubt triggered by the door being held open so long.
“What have we got, Tony?”
“Nasty one, guv. White middle-aged man, identified as a Professor Alan Tunbridge, throat slit right open and head bashed in, sitting in his office.”
Sutton led Jones up a flight of stairs to the right of the entrance, before proceeding along a wide open corridor deeper into the building.
“Who found the body?”
“A young man named Tom Spencer, apparently one of the late professor’s students. Claims he was working late, came back to the lab and noticed the prof’s office door was open and the lights on. Figured he’d pop his head round and say ‘Hi’. Found him in his chair, blood everywhere. Reckons he took his pulse but couldn’t find anything, then phoned 999 on the office phone.”
“What state is the crime scene in?”
“Untouched, except by Spencer. Two uniforms were first to respond and were let in by campus Security. They took one look and figured there was nothing they could do for him. Paramedics arrived a few minutes later and agreed, pronounced him dead at the scene, probably from loss of blood. Yours truly arrived just after the paramedics. Scenes of Crime are on their way.”
At the end of the corridor, Jones and Sutton turned a corner. “Here it is,” said Sutton somewhat unnecessarily.
The corridor was crowded; two pale-looking uniformed constables were standing guard either side of an open office door. A couple of middle-aged men wearing blue woollen jumpers with ‘Security’ stitched in white writing on the left of the chest leant against the opposite wall, looking decidedly shaken. Standing awkwardly, answering questions to a uniformed sergeant, and looking like the demon barber of Fleet Street, stood a young man in a blood-stained white lab coat. His hands were covered in white latex gloves, also smeared with blood. A surgical face mask, rather like the ones worn by carpenters or DIY enthusiasts, hung on an elastic band around his chin. His shoes were blood spattered and crimson footprints led from the open office door to him.
Slipping his hands into his pockets and moving as close to the door as he could without stepping in any blood, Jones peered into the office and almost wished he hadn’t.
As a detective with many years of experience, Jones was used to the sight of blood, of course. But this broke new ground. It looked as if every last millilitre of the life-giving red liquid had been forcibly ejected from the man’s body. The pasty, greyish-blue tint of the corpse’s skin confirmed the observation. He could see why the responding officers hadn’t felt the need to contaminate the scene by checking his pulse. The Scenes of Crime team would have to check with the paramedics to see if they had touched the body.
The late professor had been a man in his fifties, with a shock of grey, unruly hair. About average height and weight for a man of his age, he was clad in brown corduroy trousers and a white polo shirt. That was about all that Jones could make out amidst the blood. The man was slumped to one side in a comfortable-looking padded leather office chair, pointed halfway towards the office’s only door. The seat was a swivel chair, positioned so that the occupant could easily operate the laptop, answer the phone and reach the various pieces of paper that were piled carelessly on the remaining surface of the desk. A selection of different-coloured ballpoint pens was scattered across the workspace. A clear area to the right of the laptop suggested a space for a mouse.
The professor’s throat had been slit, clearly by something very sharp. Whoever had wielded the blade had done so efficiently. It looked to Jones’ eye as if the blade had managed to sever both carotid arteries. If that was the case, it put a different complexion on the attack. Contrary to Hollywood movies, cutting the throat of a surprised man wasn’t a simple affair. The victim would almost certainly have struggled. Looking closer, Jones could see that, aside from the cut throat, the back of the professor’s head — facing away from the doorway — looked to be a bloody mess. On the floor next to the chair sat what appeared to be a large lump of granite rock on a pedestal, blood and matted hair covering a particularly prominent edge. Jones could just make out the words “Boulder, Colorado” stencilled on the base. A souvenir perhaps? Significant or not?
Jones turned to Sutton.
“First impressions, Inspector?” he asked quietly. Jones was already formulating a theory himself, but he liked to see what others had to say first.
“I reckon he was sitting at the desk, probably working on his laptop by the looks of it. Whoever did it came up behind him and whacked him over the back of the head with that bloody great lump of rock. That probably stunned him enough for his attacker to slit his throat.”
Jones nodded. “The question is, why didn’t he turn around? It looks as though he was facing away from the doorway when he was hit. And then, did his chair turn around after he was hit or whilst his throat was being slit?”
“Well, either the attacker sneaked up on him, or he knew his attacker was around and wasn’t surprised by their approach.”
Jones nodded his agreement.
“And what about the angle of his chair?”
“Too early to speculate.”
“I agree, let’s not second-guess Scenes of Crime.” Jones was pleased with Sutton’s response. He was always a little wary of officers who jumped to conclusions without all of the facts. Good detectives, he felt, tempered their deductive reasoning with caution and were honest enough to admit ignorance, rather than stretching the evidence beyond breaking point.
With nothing else to be gained from the bloody office, Jones turned away from the carnage. He glanced at his watch: eleven p.m.
You were complaining how bored you were, Warren. Well, you know what they say: ‘be careful what you wish for’.
It looked as though Susan and the in-laws would have to finish the wine without him.
The alarm clock buzzed angrily. With a groan, Warren swiped the OFF button. Prising an eye open, he saw that it was six-thirty. His head felt mushy and his mouth was dry. It seemed as though he’d barely closed his eyes. That wasn’t a huge exaggeration, given that he’d arrived back home at well past four a.m. Resisting the urge to indulge himself in another ten minutes’ sleep, lest he didn’t awaken again, Warren swung his legs out, planting his feet on the woollen rug that covered the floor by the bed. Behind him, Susan grumbled in her sleep and rolled over.
Ordinarily, when Warren worked night shifts or Susan stayed up late marking, the night owl would take the spare bed in the guest room to avoid waking the sleeping partner. With the in-laws visiting that wasn’t an option this time. It hadn’t mattered though. When Warren had tiptoed into the bedroom, Susan had been flat on her back, her comatose status testimony to the sedative effect of red wine. Indeed, Warren had noticed a second empty bottle on the coffee table in the lounge. He smiled to himself, glad that he wouldn’t be here in a few hours when his slumbering wife awoke. Never a morning person at the best of times, Susan also wasn’t a big drinker and he suspected she would wake up grumpy and feeling a little the worse for wear.
He padded quietly into the bathroom, passing the guest room on his way. Through the closed door he could hear strident snoring. He wouldn’t like to put money on who was the culprit, Bernice or Dennis.
Warren showered quickly and brushed his teeth. The elderly pipes in the house groaned, reminding Warren that he still hadn’t called a plumber, but the rhythmic noise from the guest room didn’t miss a beat. By now, Warren was feeling marginally more human. As he shaved he stared at the familiar face in the mirror. Aside from a little redness around the eyes and a couple of faint dark smudges beneath them, he didn’t look too bad. He still had the good looks that Susan claimed had attracted her years before; a firm jaw and eyes that could switch in an instant between friendly and hard, a trick he’d learnt during his earliest days on the force. His dark brown hair, just this side of black and still neat from his trip to the barber’s prior to starting this job, had yet to sport its first grey hair, although he was under no illusion that it would be long before his new position changed that.
Creeping back into the master bedroom, Warren slipped on the previous night’s suit and tie, remembering this time to retrieve his warrant card from his other jacket. Pausing to look at his slumbering wife, he risked a peck on the lips, tasting the wine on her breath. Still asleep, she nevertheless smiled.
Outside, the sun was already up although it had yet to chase away the night’s chill. Warren had grabbed a banana from the fruit bowl before leaving the house, and now crammed the remains of it into his mouth as he unlocked his car. The birds were singing loudly, but the rest of the street was quiet. Most of Warren and Susan’s neighbours worked regular office hours, so few would be up and about at seven a.m. on a Saturday. Similarly, the roads were quiet and Warren pulled into the small staff car park at the rear of Middlesbury Police Station barely ten minutes later. A few cars dotted the tarmac, most noticeably a brand-new Mercedes. Warren felt his stomach contract: his boss, Detective Superintendent John Grayson, was already in.
Middlesbury Station was something of an anomaly in Hertfordshire. Most of the county’s detectives now worked out of the joint Hertfordshire and Bedfordshire Major Crime Unit based in Welwyn Garden City. However, a combination of the distance from Welwyn and the rapid growth of Middlesbury meant that the town’s police station sported several custody cells and despite the budget cutbacks had retained its small but fully operational CID unit. Many of the other towns in the local area had to make do with a reception desk manned nine-to-five with an emergency telephone connected to Welwyn for out-of-hours emergencies.
Swiping his access card and keying in his pin number gave Jones access to the building and he headed directly for the largest of the incident rooms. He had scheduled this morning’s meeting for eight a.m., timing it to catch the day shift as they came on duty. He glanced at his watch: seven-fifteen. Plenty of time to go over his briefing notes and set up the chairs. As he approached the room he spotted that the door to the superintendent’s office was ajar. It would be rude not to pop his head in, he decided, plus it wouldn’t hurt for the boss to notice how early he was in.
He rapped confidently on the door, his knock answered immediately with a curt, “Come in.” Stepping in, Jones stopped in surprise. Sprawled in a large, comfy-looking visitor’s chair, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee, was Detective Inspector Tony Sutton.
“Ah, good morning, Warren. Tony was just filling me in on last night’s discovery.”
So that’s how it is going to be, thought Jones, pushing down a sudden flash of annoyance. His first big case since moving here and already Sutton was trying to muscle in on his territory, ingratiating himself with the boss.
Sutton smirked. “Just the juicy bits, guv. Thought I’d leave the details to you.”
“So kind, Tony,” commented Jones. If the super noticed the tension crackling between the two men, he gave no sign of it.
“This is a big case, Warren. A murder is a nasty business at the best of times, but this one could be especially problematic.” The superintendent leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. “The vice chancellor of the university phoned me at six this morning, ‘to express his concern’ and emphasise the need for a ‘speedy resolution’. If I ever find out which bugger gave him my home phone number, they’ll spend the next twelve months telling primary-school kids not to talk to strangers.
“Either way, we do need to solve this quickly and decisively. A murderer running about the campus could be disastrous for the university’s reputation, especially with next month’s Controversies in Science conference. The guest list for that event looks like a who’s who of shit-stirrers. Richard Dawkins and the President of the British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection are some of the less controversial speakers. If they think we can’t guarantee their safety, the organisers may well cancel the conference or, worse, up sticks to bloody Cambridge.”
Sutton grunted. “Rumour has it, King’s College wanted to host it, but Channel 4, who are footing the bill, reckoned it would seem too elitist. You can bet they’ll be the first in line to offer their facilities again if we lose the conference.”
