Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

The procedures at The Mount were largely the same as at any other category C prison that Warren had visited. His warrant card cut little ice here and he underwent much the same process as any other visitor. In deference to his position, Warren was spared an intimate body search, but he nevertheless had to empty his pockets, surrendering his wallet, keys and mobile phone. Stock fared little better, although his legally protected status as Severino’s lawyer meant that he was allowed to keep his briefcase and a small Dictaphone.

After the preliminaries were concluded, both men were led to a private interview room where Severino was seated, alone at a metal table. Because, in the jargon of the Home Office, he was a non-convicted prisoner, Severino wore his own clothes, albeit without any laces or a belt, lest he killed himself or someone else.

Severino looked even worse, if that was possible, than the last time Warren had seen him — in the dock as he was remanded in custody. His face was gaunt, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken. The thick stubble on his chin and jowls now covered the whole of his lower face. He slumped forward as if even his spine had been confiscated, staring at the table top listlessly. When Warren and Stock entered, though, he sat up straighter, making eye contact with both men.

He half rose as if to shake hands, before remembering where he was and instead remained in an awkward half-pose, gesturing to the two other chairs as if he were inviting dinner companions to make themselves comfortable.

“Thank you for coming, DCI Jones.”

Warren said nothing, merely nodding his greeting. Stock placed the Dictaphone on the table between the three men, quietly checking the levels. Warren and Severino eyed each other warily. Severino had asked Jones to visit him, a move which at first glance seemed to award Severino a degree of control over him when one considered the rules of this primal setting. However the prisoner’s precarious position instead meant the invitation was in fact Warren’s to turn down. Overall, Warren figured he had the upper hand. Ultimately, he had something that Severino had to respect — the power to decide if he would listen to his story, take it seriously and perhaps set the wheels in motion for his release. Warren was a long way from being convinced so far.

Daniel Stock cleared his throat, causing the two men to break eye contact finally.

“This is Daniel Stock representing Dr Antonio Severino. We have requested an interview with DCI Warren Jones at The Mount Prison, as we believe that Dr Severino may have new information pertinent to the current investigation, which we hope may lead to the release of Dr Severino on bail and ultimately, the dropping of charges.”

Warren maintained his poker face, hiding his true feelings. In his experience, few of these visiting-hour meetings had ever yielded useful information. When a suspect had been remanded in custody, especially for a crime as serious as murder, his world came crashing down. All but the most hardened criminals would start wracking their brains for a means to clear their name, whether by truth or lies. Warren knew that the odds were good that this meeting would be no different.

“Why don’t you explain to DCI Jones what you told me yesterday?” invited Stock.

Severino leant forward, licking his lips nervously. Nevertheless, his voice was clear and strong and Warren got the impression that he had been planning what he wanted to say carefully. That in itself was not an indicator of guilt, Warren reminded himself. Severino might speak impeccable English, but it was still his second language. Furthermore, he had spent much of the past twenty-four hours waiting for this meeting. It was inevitable that he’d rehearse what he wanted to say.

“I may be able to explain where the blood-stained clothes that you found stuffed down my drain have come from-”

At this point his lawyer leant forward, interrupting. “It should be noted that it has not yet been determined that the clothes belonged to my client and he has not admitted to owning them or seeing them before.”

Warren resisted the urge to roll his eyes; even Severino didn’t seem impressed by the interruption. If the clothes weren’t Severino’s then who the hell else in Middlesbury was wandering around wearing jeans from the Italian equivalent of Marks … Spencer and a hooded top from the University of Trieste with the name ‘Antonio’ stitched on the left of its chest? Regardless, a positive ID would come back pretty soon from Forensics, Warren was certain.

“A few days ago, the Friday before Professor Tunbridge was murdered, I met a girl in a bar.” The Italian looked uncomfortable.

“Go on.”

“I had been drinking a lot and I was pretty drunk. Anyway, we got on very well and she came back to my house.”

“Where was your fiancée at this time, Dr Severino?”

He looked guilty and ashamed.

“She is visiting her parents in Germany. Things have not been so good between us since I lose my job. She wanted to take a break. To ‘clear her head’ as you say.” Warren made a note to get this checked out, as much to check on the safety of his fiancée as anything else. The man had after all been charged with murder. Severino couldn’t remember her parents’ address off the top of his head, but pointed Warren to the address book on his mobile phone, which the police had confiscated when he was arrested.

“So what happened next, Dr Severino?”

“We had some more to drink. A lot more-” he looked embarrassed “-and we went to bed. I woke up the next morning feeling sick, and she was gone. She could have stolen my clothes and my swipe card then.”

“I see. Were they missing?”

Severino paused, then sighed, clearly not wanting to be caught out in a lie. “I don’t know. I never notice. I tend to wear whatever is on top of the pile of clothes at the bottom of the wardrobe. I haven’t seen my swipe card for long time. I assume it hanging on the back of the door with my coat, but it could have been gone for ages and I wouldn’t have noticed.”

“So, what was her name? Had you met her before?”

A slightly embarrassed shrug. “I’d never met her before that night, I’m pretty sure of that. Her name was Joanna, I think. She said to call her Jo.”

“Can you describe her at all? Her appearance? How she sounded? Did she have an accent?”

Severino shook his head slowly. “I was so drunk. She was blonde and pretty — I remember that from the bar. I don’t remember her being very tall or fat. She was…average, maybe in her twenties.”

“How did she sound? Was she British or foreign?”

“I am not so good with accents, you know. But I think she was English. Normal like they have around here, not weird like Georgies or Broomies I think you call them.”

Warren ignored the slight. A Coventry native, to the uneducated he sometimes sounded like his Brummie cousins twenty miles down the road in Birmingham.

“Are there any witnesses who can back up your story? Where did you go?”

“No, I am sorry. I was on my own until this girl came over. I was in a small pub in town, the White Bear I think it was called. It was quiet. After a few more drinks we went to a club, Mr G’s in town, then we walked back to my house. I had wine and some weed.”

Warren sighed. “You haven’t given us a lot to go on, Dr Severino. You go out to a bar, get drunk and stoned then claim a mystery woman seduces you and steals your clothes whilst you sleep. You can’t describe her, there are no witnesses and you don’t have any evidence. Is that about right?” He was starting to get annoyed. Yet another bloody time-waster.

“I am sorry.” Severino looked crestfallen and Warren almost felt sorry for the young man. Almost, but not quite.