Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

Watching the footage was just a question of accessing the digital video files held on the club’s computer system. They kept footage for the previous month, before archiving it. As Baker pointed out, the cost of storing digital imagery was so low these days, they might as well. You never knew when it might be useful.

The club had a number of different cameras, including wide-angled cameras above both bars and the beer garden, the front door and the staff-only areas. The footage Warren was most interested in was that from the camera mounted over the main door.

Severino had been vague as to what time he and the mysterious young woman arrived at the club, but Warren doubted it could have been earlier than about ten p.m. The digital video footage was surprisingly easy to manipulate and, after a few moments of tutorial, Baker left Warren to get on with watching the video. He soon got into the rhythm of fast-forwarding the video at eight-times normal speed, then hitting the slow button as customers came through the door to get a good look at them. After a few false starts, Warren finally got what he was looking for. According to the time stamp on the bottom of the screen, Severino appeared, mystery woman in tow, at eleven fifty-two p.m. The camera showed a clear black and white image of Severino’s darkly handsome features. Even on the slowed-down video feed it was clear that Severino was very drunk; it took him a couple of attempts to get his wallet out of his pocket and he swayed as he did so.

Unfortunately, the young woman was hanging off his arm, her face half turned towards him as he fumbled in his pocket for the entrance money. Warren slowed the video down again and replayed it, hissing in frustration. At no point did the young woman look at the camera directly. The best that Warren could make out was that she was of average size, wearing a light, probably pink top. Her hair was cut to a medium length and appeared blonde on the black and white image.

Seeing that Warren had hit a brick wall, Baker returned to his side.

“You are welcome to look at the footage from the other cameras and see if she looks towards the camera. If she got served, we probably have a good shot, but it was a busy night and you could spend a lot of time finding the image.”

Warren nodded his agreement. It was frustrating, however; he was now convinced at least that Severino had met some mysterious woman in a bar. But it still left many unanswered questions: did this woman go back to Severino’s and take his swipe card and clothes? And if that was the case, who was she?

After taking a copy of the footage that Baker had given him from the nightclub’s video feeds, Warren headed back to the station. He popped the USB memory stick containing the video footage into a Jiffy bag, addressed it to the Image Analysis department and slipped it into the internal mail. Then, to ensure that it didn’t go missing, he logged the request into the computer system and emailed the department to be on the lookout for its arrival.

Warren spent the remainder of the afternoon shuffling paper, before deciding that, in view of the hours he’d already put in over the weekend, leaving work at a decent-ish hour wouldn’t be unreasonable. It would certainly stand him in good-stead with Susan and the in-laws. Nevertheless, before going home, Warren decided to try his luck with some more of Tunbridge’s acquaintances.

Using the directions given by Annabel Tunbridge, Jones pulled into the car park at the Middlesbury Sports Centre. Getting out of the car, he locked up and looked around. Straight ahead of him was a wide-open cricket pitch. A half-dozen teenage boys dressed in shorts and T-shirts were playing catch with a cricket ball under the watchful eye of a middle-aged man. Two more sat on the ground tying on pads. The fresh scent of newly mown grass hung in the still air. To the right, a small pavilion with a canvas awning was home to a dozen or so folded plastic chairs and a handful of circular metal tables. Behind, a long, flat-roofed single-storey brick building bore the signs ‘Changing Rooms’ and ‘Clubhouse’. A large pair of padlocked double doors was flanked by a handful of metal beer barrels, presumably empty, awaiting pickup by the brewery.

To the left of the cricket pitch another clubhouse, this one wooden and in need of a lick of paint, sat looking over a large square of tightly mown grass. On the grass seven or eight older men were playing bowls. The green was slightly sunken, surrounded by a gravel ditch with lane markers planted in it. Making his way across the car park to the bowls club, Warren stepped onto the concrete verge surrounding the grass. To his right a robust man, anywhere between the ages of fifty-five and seventy-five, was watching a pair of bowlers intently.

“Excuse me, sir, I’m looking for the club captain.”

Tearing his eyes away from the game, the man gave him a quick once-over.

“You’re speaking to him. Graham Weatherby. I take it you’re here about Alan Tunbridge.” It was a statement, not a question.

Jones raised an eyebrow quizzically.

“You’re hardly dressed to play a game and after thirty years on the force, I’d recognise CID a mile off. We’ve all heard about Alan, of course. Terrible business.”

Jones found the man’s upfront manner refreshing, “DCI Warren Jones. I wondered if I might have a word, sir.”

“Of course, although I’m not sure about a detective chief inspector calling a lowly sergeant like me ‘sir’”. The man gave a grin and stuck out a dry, weathered paw for Jones to shake. He motioned towards a park bench next to the clubhouse.

“You’ll be after background, I suppose. Tying up those annoying loose ends after that remarkably quick arrest?”

“Pretty much,” admitted Jones. “We’re still dotting the Is and crossing the Ts on the prosecution case. The suspect in custody isn’t admitting anything, so we’re doing all the legwork.”

The former policeman snorted. “I’ve been there, lad. What would you like to know?”

“Well, first of all, how well did you know Professor Tunbridge? What sort of a man was he?”

Weatherby thought for a moment. “Alan started playing here six, seven years ago. Not a bad player. He’d join us for a roll-up most Tuesday nights and played a few matches for us on a Saturday.”

Jones raised an eyebrow in surprise and Weatherby chuckled. “Bowling slang, a roll-up’s what we call a practice session. He had the makings of a good player, although he was a busy man and couldn’t really commit to all the fixtures. We try to get younger players in, but there’s no getting round the fact that most of us are retired and can play pretty much whenever we’re needed.” As if to emphasise his point he gestured at the players, all of whom were free early on a weekday evening. “To be honest, we’re more of a social club than anything. All the decent players go off to join the Avenue. We just enjoy ourselves.”

“I see. How well did you know him?”

“Not as well as I know some of the blokes. He didn’t come to many away fixtures, so we didn’t spend a lot of time chatting on the bus. All I really knew was that he was some sort of scientist at the university. Had no idea he was a professor until I saw the paper yesterday. He was polite enough most of the time, followed the etiquette, like, and bought his opponent a drink, but as soon as he’d finished it he’d usually disappear off. Most of the lads here are working class, builders, brickies, a couple of ex-coppers. We didn’t really have that much in common.”

“Would you say he was well liked?”

Weatherby sighed, clearly unwilling to speak ill of the dead. “To be honest, not really. He didn’t have much of a sense of humour and could be a bit rude on the green. I had to have words with him last season about his attitude. He didn’t suffer fools gladly and was rather arrogant.” He nodded in the direction of a stooped, elderly man with a walking stick talking to another player. “That’s Ernie over there. The old boy’s eighty-seven years old and, to be honest, his best days are well behind him. He’s as deaf as a post and half blind. He struggles to get it up some evenings — that’s more bowls terminology, before you ask, means he can’t always get the bowl far enough up the rink — but he’s been a member of this club for forty years. Until he had his hips done he mowed the lawn twice a week and was always first in line to do any repairs to the clubhouse. Ever since his old lady passed away a couple of years ago, we’ve made sure we look after him. Drag him out of an evening to stop him getting lonely, that sort of thing.