Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

“I see. Do you have any ideas about how he planned to spend his evening?”

“He hadn’t mentioned anything. I assumed that he would stay in and watch TV, or maybe go and read a book in the garden since the weather has been so lovely.”

“What did you think when you got home that evening to find he wasn’t home?”

The older woman paused, before pulling out a handkerchief tucked up her sleeve. Dabbing at her eyes, she sniffed and apologised. Her son slipped his arm around her shoulder encouragingly.

“I did wonder where he was, but I assumed that he had walked around to the bowls club for a game or a pint. I was just starting to think about phoning him when your officers turned up on the doorstep.”

Waiting a few moments for her to compose herself, Jones opened his notepad.

“Did your husband have many hobbies, Mrs Tunbridge?”

“Not really. He enjoyed reading when he could, and whenever he went somewhere interesting for a conference or a meeting he would try and take some photos. Other than that though he just played bowls at the Middlesbury Sports Centre up the road. However, he always said that he didn’t really have the time to play properly — he was just learning the rules so that he could hit the ground running when he retired.” She tried a weak smile, which Jones returned.

“We have been unable to find your husband’s diary, Mrs Tunbridge. I wonder if you have seen it? That might give us some clues as to why he was in the university so late at night.”

Tunbridge shook her head; she hadn’t seen the diary at all recently.

“We feel that knowing why the professor was up at the university so late is key to this investigation. We are currently searching his university laptop for any clues. However, I believe that staff at the university are able to log in from home. Did Professor Tunbridge have a computer, Mrs Tunbridge?”

“Yes, he had a laptop in his study. Alan often used to work in the evening.”

“Do you mind if we check it out, Mrs Tunbridge?”

She looked uncertain. “I’m not sure. You don’t need to take it away, do you?”

Warren looked apologetic. “Our forensic team at Welwyn would look at it at their site for analysis. It probably wouldn’t take more than a couple of days to search for anything useful. The procedure is little more than a copying of the hard disk. They might not even have to open the case.”

He could see that she wasn’t convinced.

It was Simon who broke the impasse. “Mum, don’t worry about it. I’ve got my laptop with me. You can use it to keep in contact just as easily as your own.”

Somewhat reluctantly, Tunbridge agreed and, getting up, led the way upstairs. The top floor of the house was as tastefully decorated as the downstairs, Jones noted. The stairs and the landing followed the same colour scheme as the hallway, although with a thick, expensive-feeling carpet instead of polished wood. The house was generous in size and Warren counted six doors. Assuming that one was the master bathroom and another the study, that left at least three bedrooms, four if there was no airing cupboard. The study was the last room at the back of the house and had clearly been Professor Tunbridge’s domain, rather than his wife’s. The tall bookcase was filled with scientific texts and the large wooden desk was piled high with journals and technical documents. A small laser printer sat on top of a half-size filing cabinet. The room boasted a single, director-style chair. Sitting on the desk was a large laptop, its lid open. It was switched off.

Annabel Tunbridge paused at the threshold of the room, clearly reluctant to go into her late husband’s workspace. Simon touched his mother’s arm comfortingly. “It’s OK, Mum. I’ll handle this.”

Looking relieved, she left wordlessly. Warren pulled out a pair of latex gloves and a large, clear, plastic evidence bag with reinforced handles. Seeing Simon’s quizzical stare, he shrugged apologetically. “Forensics are always nagging us about trace evidence. It’s easier just to do what they ask.”

Simon nodded in sympathy. Unplugging the laptop from its power supply, Warren carefully slid it into the plastic bag, following it with the power cable. Sealing it, he noted the time, location and crime reference number on the bag with a permanent marker.

“I’m not sure what you’ll find. Dad wasn’t much of a computer guy. For such an intelligent man, he really was clueless when it came to PCs. He could drive Microsoft Office, through necessity I guess, but beyond that he struggled. Mum’s the computer whizz. She’s put together some amazing websites for local charities. She loves trying out new tricks. Middlesbury Rotary Club probably has the most sophisticated website in the whole organisation.”

“We’re not sure what we’ll turn up. At the moment, our biggest question is why your dad was working late on Friday and how did his attacker know? He might have used an appointments calendar or there might be a clue in his email.”

Simon clearly wasn’t convinced. “I doubt it. Dad was definitely a pen and diary kind of guy. My sister and I bought him and Mum a BlackBerry smartphone each for Christmas, one of those family contracts from Orange. Figured we’d drag them into the twenty-first century. Mum loves it — she uses instant messaging and everything. I think Dad might have sent a text once.” He smiled sadly at the memory, his eyes going misty.

“Christ, I can’t believe what’s happened. You hear about murders in the States all of the time, but you never think it’ll happen to you. Especially here.” He waved his arm in a vague, all-encompassing gesture. “When I was a kid I hated Middlesbury. It’s so boring, nothing ever happens. That’s part of the reason I went to the States, to seek out a bit of excitement. But after a few months watching the local news, you find yourself longing for England and its gun laws…” He trailed off.

Warren cleared his throat slightly. “If, as you say, your father preferred to use pen and paper, he may have written something down. Do you mind if I have a bit of a look around?”

“Sure, be my guest.”

Moving carefully, as much to show respect as to avoid disturbing anything, Warren started leafing through the piles of paper on the desk. Most of it was printouts or photocopies of journal articles. Any writing on the papers was cryptic and technical in nature. Nothing appeared to point towards why Professor Tunbridge would have been in work that night. Simon hovered in the background.

“You know, if he was meeting someone or expecting a phone call at work, he almost certainly would have jotted it down in his organiser. He rarely went anywhere without it. It’s one of the reasons we bought him a BlackBerry smartphone, figured it would save him lugging the damn thing around with him. But when I came home for Easter he had his old organiser sitting here next to his laptop.”

Warren turned in curiosity. “We didn’t find any organiser in his office on Friday night. Would he have left it here?”

Simon shook his head. “I doubt it — he never left it anywhere. Before I leave the house I check I have my keys, my mobile and my wallet in that order. Dad would probably check he had his organiser, then his keys and wallet. Nine times out of ten, he’d probably forget his mobile.”

“Can you describe it to me?”

“I can probably do better than that — he doesn’t usually throw away his old ones and he buys the same one each year.” Turning to the desk, he opened the bottom drawer, which Warren had yet to get to. Neatly stacked were a half dozen or so bulging, A5-sized black organisers. He pulled the pile out. All of them were identical in appearance except for the year, embossed on the spine in gold. They were piled in order, the top one being the previous year.