Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

“Don’t even go there.”

* * *

The rest of the morning passed smoothly; the whole of CID seemed energised by the rapid apprehension and charging of Severino. Assigning duties was a quick task and by mid-morning Sutton and Jones were ready for the short drive to Stevenage Magistrates Court. A quick phone call to the cells confirmed that Severino was ready to be moved to court and the prisoner transfer vehicle was despatched.

After an uneventful trip to the magistrates court, Jones was glad to see that Severino’s docket had been moved forward to a quarter to twelve. Standing in the dock, Severino simply confirmed his name, date of birth and address. When prompted he pleaded “not guilty”. No application for bail was made and that was it: Severino was led away to the cells to await trial. As he left the courtroom, his head bowed, tears coursed freely down his cheeks. His solicitor whispered urgently in his ear, glancing towards Jones as he did so. Warren couldn’t help but feel that he was the subject of their frantic conversation.

Dismissing the thought, Warren left the courthouse, before turning thoughtfully to Sutton. “I have to tell you, Tony, the more I learn about Tunbridge, the more I see why someone bumped him off. I sincerely hope that when I die, I’ll be mourned a little more than the late professor.”

“You’ll have to start working on your reputation, Boss, make sure we all love you when you go. Of course, I know a good way to start.”

“Oh, how so?”

“You could get the first round in. I think we’ve earned it.”

Sutton and Jones’ trip to the pub was a necessarily brief affair. It was, after all, the middle of a working day and the two men had a lot to do. Besides which they were both on duty and Warren was driving. In deference to the celebratory mood, both men had a half of bitter, before masking the beer with a ploughman’s lunch.

After dropping Sutton back at the station, where he was to co-ordinate the interviewing of the last few members of Tunbridge’s laboratory, Jones headed off to finally see Mrs Tunbridge. Popping a couple more mints into his mouth to hide any residual odour of the beer he’d supped at lunch, he punched the address into the car’s sat nav.

Ten minutes later, Jones was walking up the short driveway to the smart detached house in the upmarket ‘Writers’ Village’ part of town. One of the wealthier Middlesbury suburbs, it gained its nickname from the literary nature of its street names. Centred around the almost obligatory ‘Shakespeare Avenue’, a maze of small cul-de-sacs sported names such as ‘Coleridge Close’, ‘Marlowe Drive’ and ‘Sir Francis Bacon Grove’. The Tunbridges lived on ‘Chaucer Avenue’. A pleasant, leafy street composed primarily of detached houses with generous front gardens, it clearly wasn’t as exclusive as some of the others. For a start, the Tunbridges would have no problem striking up a conversation with their neighbours either side or waving to the occupant of the house opposite, when walking down the drive. A couple of the streets that Warren had passed on his way to Chaucer Avenue had eight-foot-high fences between the houses to protect the occupants’ privacy. A couple even had wrought-iron gates to block off their driveway from the local riff-raff.

In front of the Tunbridges’ house sat a silver BMW roadster, next to it a brand-new Ford Focus. Clearly his and hers. Jones found himself wondering what Mrs Tunbridge would do with the Beamer now. Whatever damage Severino had done to the car’s bonnet had been expertly repaired; no traces of the alleged profanities remained.

Stepping up to the front door, Jones took a deep breath before ringing the bell. He really hated this, dealing with the bereaved. At least he hadn’t had to break the news. He’d done it plenty of times in his career and it never got any easier. Thankfully, it wasn’t a kid, although a murder victim could be just as hard, even if it was one as unsympathetic a character as Tunbridge.

The door finally opened, a young man standing on the threshold. His lip curled in a scowl. “I thought we made it clear, we have nothing to say to the press.”

“My apologies, sir. Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones — I phoned ahead.”

The young man flushed slightly. “I’m sorry. Your visit completely slipped my mind. A couple of local journalists have been sniffing around. When I didn’t see a uniform, I just assumed… Sorry, won’t you come in?”

He stepped to one side, allowing Warren entry. The hallway was surprisingly cool, tastefully decorated, with dark wooden floors and light cream wallpaper. A large, bulging backpack with flight labels sat to one side. Jones remembered that Tunbridge’s son was studying in the US. It looked as though he’d just got back. He confirmed Jones’ deduction with a handshake. “Simon Tunbridge. Excuse my scruffiness — I just flew in an hour ago.” Up close, Jones could see the resemblance to the photographs he had seen of Tunbridge before he died. The same strong jaw and unruly hair, although the younger man’s hair remained a dark black. At the moment, his eyes were bloodshot and puffy; he’d clearly been crying recently. As Jones opened his mouth to express his condolences, the doorway to the kitchen opened and a middle-aged woman dressed in a formless woollen cardigan and black leggings came into view.

This was clearly Mrs Tunbridge, the late professor’s wife. She stepped forward, offering her hand. “Annabel Tunbridge. You must be DCI Jones?”

“Yes, ma’am. First of all, may I express my condolences and apologise for not visiting you sooner?”

Mrs Tunbridge dismissed Jones’ apology with a wave of her hand. “Your job is to catch the person who did this and I would like to thank you on behalf of my family for doing so, so quickly. Hopefully we can put this all behind us.”

Up close, Jones could see that Mrs Tunbridge was a handsome woman with a slender figure. Her eyes, although somewhat puffy, had been expertly made up to conceal her distress. According to the family liaison officer, Mrs Tunbridge was forty-nine years old, somewhat younger than her fifty-five-year-old husband, yet she could pass for someone even more youthful. Knowing that the late professor’s tastes seemed to run to younger women, Jones couldn’t help but wonder if his wife’s youthfulness was down to good luck and genetics or if she had worked to keep herself looking so young.

“Now, I believe you have some questions for me? I thought you had caught someone?” She turned and headed through an open archway into a spacious living room. Taking her gesturing hand as an invitation, Jones sat down on a comfortable leather sofa. Tunbridge and her son sat opposite on the sofa’s twin, a low-slung coffee table between them.

“Yes, Mrs Tunbridge, in fact I’ve just come from court, where he was remanded in custody until his trial. However, to make the case against him secure we need to make certain that we have dotted all of the Is and crossed all of the Ts. I just have a few questions that I need to ask you.” He decided not to mention his suspicion that Severino might not have worked alone.

“Of course, please. Anything to make sure that evil man gets what he deserves.”

“On the night of the attack, your husband was working late in the office. According to the university’s security logs, this was quite unusual. Professor Tunbridge rarely worked past eight p.m. Pretty much everything he needed to do online could be accomplished from home. Do you have any idea why your husband was working so late in his office?”

Tunbridge shook her head. “I was out that night with some girlfriends. Alan didn’t mention anything about going into the university.”