Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

“Anyway, unless it’s an important match we select our teams by lottery and Alan was drawn with Ernie, Fred and Ronnie in the fours. They drew straws and Ernie ended up as Skip, which means he was always the last on the team to play each end. Anyhow, Alan was third to play and placed a lovely shot right on the jack. Unfortunately, Ernie came in a bit heavy and knocked Alan into the gutter and gifted three shots to their opponents. Well, the language he used just wasn’t on. I was a copper for thirty years and I can swear with the best of them, but he shocked me. Poor old Ernie might not have heard all of it, but he got the bloody gist. Fred and Ronnie nearly threw in the towel, they were so disgusted. God only knows what our guests thought. I’m just glad that none of the ladies were in earshot.”

So it seemed that Tunbridge was as belligerent in his private life as he was in his professional life, mused Warren.

“Based on what you know about Professor Tunbridge, could he have upset anyone enough to have made them want to kill him?”

Weatherby snorted. “Well, nobody here takes things that seriously — a handshake and a pint will usually smooth over most disagreements. But I’ll tell you one thing — that man had a nasty streak to him. I can see him upsetting someone enough for them to have a pop at him. And he was a randy old bugger, made a right nuisance of himself in the clubhouse with the barmaids. Landlord had to have words with him. Makes you wonder if there are any jealous husbands out there.”

He looked Jones up and down shrewdly.

“Of course, you already have your man in custody. Not having second thoughts, are you? Between you and me, I’ve seen a few convictions over the years that I’ve had my doubts about. None of them have ever succeeded on appeal and, on balance, I reckon we got the right man, but take a little bit of advice from someone who’s been there. Follow your gut. If it’s telling you something ain’t quite right, it’s probably worth checking. Don’t take someone else’s word for it — make certain in your own mind. It’s you who has to sleep at night.”

Jones nodded thoughtfully. The old copper spoke a lot of sense. In the meantime, he decided that there was nothing else to be gained by staying here any longer. Standing up, he stuck his hand out again.

“Good to speak to you, Sergeant.”

“And you too, Detective Chief Inspector. Any time you fancy a roll-up, we’re always on the lookout for young blood and I’d love to hear the full story when it’s all wrapped up.”

Warren smiled. He had to confess to being just a little tempted. The gentle clack of the bowls against each other seemed light years away from the pressures of work. And since moving to Middlesbury, he and Susan had yet to make many friends outside work. Who said he had to retire first?

Saying goodbye, he headed off towards his car.

“Oh, DCI Jones, just a quick question.” It was Weatherby again. “I was wondering, do you think it would be appropriate for us to send flowers to Mrs Tunbridge, or do you think we’d be better off sending them to his kids?”

Jones blinked in surprise. “I don’t see why not. Why wouldn’t Mrs Tunbridge want them? It would be a very thoughtful gesture.”

“Well, what with all the trouble they’ve been having, I didn’t want to upset anybody.”

Jones’ mouth ran dry. “What trouble would that be?”

“Oh, I assumed you’d know — he was quite open about it. He’d just left her.”

* * *

Arriving home that night, Warren found a somewhat warmer atmosphere than he had been greeted with the previous evening. Instead of reheated leftovers, he found that the others had waited for him to return and they all sat down to a pleasant meal of risotto, washed down by a couple of glasses of a light white wine.

This time, Susan had been to the hardware store during the day but had insisted on returning with nothing more than a dozen sampler paint tins. Whilst Bernice and Dennis sat in the living room, Warren and Susan daubed the different-coloured paints on the kitchen walls, before both deciding on a pale cream scheme that would contrast nicely with the darker wooden kitchen units due to be delivered later in the week.

This time, the young couple had retired to bed early and Susan, always the first to fall asleep, had nodded off with a happy smile on her face. Warren for his part lay awake for a few minutes, enjoying the sound of his wife’s relaxed, peaceful breathing.

Soon, however, his thoughts turned to the day’s events. It had been a long busy day, with lots of twists and turns. Deep within his gut, Warren felt the doubts rolling around, almost like a stomach ache. The wise words of the retired detective sergeant that he’d met at Tunbridge’s bowls club echoed in his mind: “ Follow your gut. If it’s telling you something ain’t quite right, it’s probably worth checking. Don’t take someone else’s word for it — make certain in your own mind. It’s you who has to sleep at night .”

His gut certainly was telling him something. What was the significance of the mystery woman who had seduced Severino the week before the murder? Who was the mysterious John Priest? And was Severino working alone or was he just one member of a conspiracy? These questions churned around in Warren’s head, keeping his exhausted mind from closing down. Finally, some time after the digital display on the alarm clock changed to three a.m, he finally started that slow, delicious descent towards darkness.

As the world finally slipped away, though, the last conscious image that flitted through his mind was that of the desperate Antonio Severino, tears coursing down his cheeks as the prison guards restrained him.

Wednesday morning arrived all too soon, the alarm clock pulling Warren from a fitful sleep far too early. A muffled curse from Susan’s direction reminded him that if it weren’t for the presence of the in-laws he would probably have been banished to the spare room long ago. After all, it was the school holidays and no way was Susan getting up at the same time as she would during term-time.

Barely an hour later, Jones sat in his office planning his itinerary for the morning briefing, a steaming cup of coffee by his elbow. A sudden knock on the door startled him from his reverie. Sutton stood outside, his face red with excitement. “Sorry, guv, but we’ve just had a call from The Mount. Severino’s tried to kill himself.”

* * *

It took the better part of an hour for Warren to finally speak to The Mount’s governor, who was clearly in damage-limitation mode and reluctant to give out any details that might get into the media and prejudice the inquiry now under way. Eventually, after Warren promised to keep everything off the record and away from the press, the harried official relented, and furnished Jones with the details that he had available.

After Jones’ visit the previous day, Severino had been returned to his cell. He’d been looked over by the prison doctor and moved to the suicide wing as a precaution until he calmed down. After a restless night, he’d finally settled down and was believed to be asleep until early morning when the prisoner in the adjacent cell had alerted the guards to strange noises coming from his neighbour.

Guards had entered to find Severino unconscious, with a makeshift noose around his neck. After promptly administering CPR, they had transferred him by emergency ambulance to the nearby A and E, by which time he had regained consciousness. He was expected to remain overnight for observation, but should make a full recovery. The governor sounded relieved at that fact, but Warren could tell he was still worried — and understandably so. Prisoners should not be able to attempt suicide in a well-run prison, least of all prisoners on suicide watch. Reading between the lines, Warren surmised that if the prisoner next door hadn’t raised the alarm Severino might well have succeeded in killing himself before the guards did their next check.