Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

“We’ve plenty of time, Mr Stock,” answered Warren pleasantly. “Now, Dr Severino, we can easily clear all of this up. Where were you on Friday night?”

Severino was slumped in his chair. He looked exhausted. Friday night’s excesses, followed by almost twenty-four hours in a police cell, had clearly taken their toll.

“I was at home, watching TV.”

“I see, and can anyone confirm that, Dr Severino? Was anyone with you at the time?”

He shook his head. “No, I was alone.”

Warren nodded in satisfaction.

Good, no alibi.

“So, you have no alibi and the building’s entry log registered your swipe card being used around the time of the murder. Tell me how that could happen if that isn’t you on the CCTV?”

“No. There must be some mistake. I have not been into the university for at least a month. I don’t even know where my swipe card is.”

At a silent signal from Jones, Sutton took over. “Ah, yes, tell us about that. Why haven’t you been to work for a month?”

Severino looked discomfited. “I have been working from home, finishing up before my contract runs out and I start a new job.”

“Really? Where is that new job? I heard that the University of Leicester had turned you down.” It was a calculated risk, since Jones had only Crawley’s impression to go on. Severino swallowed hard. “I have applied for a few different posts,” he tried weakly.

Jones glanced again at Sutton, who took the cue and leant forward slightly. “Look, we know that’s you on the footage — why did you decide to go into the university? Did you want to speak to Tunbridge? See if you could get your old job back? Or a better reference maybe? As I said before, we all know what a bastard Tunbridge was and we know how he held your career in his hands. I imagine you wanted to try and reason with him in private when you knew that nobody is listening.”

Severino shook his head vigorously. “I did not go into university Friday night. I stayed at home, watched some TV, had a drink, a bit of puff then fell asleep. Next thing I remember, the doorbell is ringing and you are standing at my door.”

The lawyer spoke up. “My client is innocent. The evidence that you have shown is circumstantial. Your case seems to rest on nothing more than an inability to provide an alibi; a motive that from what I hear is shared by half the university to a greater or lesser degree; and some poor quality CCTV images that show nothing of any value at all. As for the swipe-card evidence, my client has not been into the university for over a month. Who knows what has happened to his swipe card?

“By my watch, you have less than two hours to charge or release my client.”

Warren shook his head, reaching inside his jacket pocket. “Not quite. Detective Superintendent Grayson has agreed to my request for a further twelve hours’ detention. Don’t go anywhere, Mr Stock — this isn’t over yet.”

Leaving Severino to stew a bit, Jones jogged up to Grayson’s office to discuss the upcoming press conference. As he’d predicted, Grayson had taken the opportunity to dig out his dress uniform. To be fair to the man, a small police unit such as Middlesbury didn’t get to make these sorts of announcements very often, so Warren couldn’t really blame him for milking his fifteen minutes of fame — fifteen seconds by the time it was edited.

Grayson had two different sheets of paper on his desk. He gestured at them. “Which one do I use, Warren? The one that describes how we have just charged Professor Tunbridge’s murderer; or the one where I feed the gentlemen of the press the exact same thing we gave them yesterday evening?”

It was a loaded question and an unfair one. Grayson had insisted on scheduling a press conference before he knew if they were ready to charge or not; frankly Warren had no sympathy for him. Nevertheless, Warren’s desire for self-preservation kicked in and he bit his tongue. “Short and sweet, guv, I’m afraid. Maybe we’ll have something later for tomorrow’s papers.”

Grayson’s grunt spoke volumes.

* * *

The press conference was held at Hertfordshire’s headquarters in Welwyn Garden City, a forty-minute drive normally. Of course, one of the advantages of being a detective superintendent was access to the pool of police drivers and their high-speed cars. Sergeant Kearns was only too pleased to take a break from stopping speeding motorists and do a little speeding of his own down the A1. Consequently, the journey took little more than twenty-five minutes. This was clearly something that Grayson was accustomed to. Warren was somewhat less sanguine about the drive and he hoped the marks where his fingernails had dug into his palms wouldn’t be too obvious.

The room was set up by the book, with a table at the front covered in blue drop cloths. Behind the table tall poster boards featured the force’s insignia, plus an array of telephone numbers and web addresses. Superintendent Grayson sat centre, flanked by Jones on his right and the force’s press liaison officer on his left.

In front of the three officers a bank of bright lights had been set up for the TV cameras. Grayson was wearing make-up, Jones noticed with a jolt, before wondering if he should be also. Memories of a recent TV documentary showing Richard Nixon sweating heavily, with five-o’clock-shadow, opposite a seemingly cool and collected John F. Kennedy came to mind. Warren pushed away the uncomfortable comparison and looked out. Behind the lights sat several rows of chairs, about half occupied by reporters. Most were busy tapping away on their mobile phones, looking bored.

Eventually, the clock ticked around to eleven and Grayson started the conference. After thanking all those present for attending, he extended the force’s condolences to the family and loved ones of Professor Tunbridge. It had been decided that an appearance by the grieving widow wasn’t really necessary, since they had a suspect and plenty of leads.

He briefly introduced Warren, before outlining the facts of the case and that a twenty-eight-year-old man was helping them with their enquiries. In response to a question from a local journalist, Grayson confirmed that they had applied for an extension to interview him longer. Warren had to admire the man’s panache; by giving Severino’s age and confirming that he had had his detention extended, Grayson had implied, without saying as much, that they had a suspect and were probably going to charge him.

The press asked a few more questions, most of which were politely rebuffed, given that it was an ongoing investigation. Warren had attended many of these press conferences but this was the first time he had ever been involved in one as a participant — albeit a rather inactive one. He was struck as always by how much of the whole exercise was a well-rehearsed game. The police knew precisely what they were prepared to give out and the press, courtesy of the briefing sheet distributed to everyone in the room, knew exactly what the police wanted them to know. The questions from the floor, with the hastily scribbling journalists, were nothing more than a show for the cameras. The public expected their press to ask certain questions and so they obliged. Everyone was happy.

By twenty-past eleven, everything was over. After another high-speed race up the motorway, Jones was deposited back at Middlesbury station and left to get on with his work for the day. Grayson, for his part, jumped straight into his own car, still wearing his dress uniform, and left in a cloud of dust, instructing Warren through the Mercedes’ open window to keep him posted on any breakthroughs, adding, “Have a good weekend,” as an afterthought.

And you too, Boss, Warren added silently in his head, before trudging back into the station to continue his working day. The security door had barely swung closed behind him, when DS Kent appeared, slightly out of breath.