Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

For the first time since arriving, Warren caught a glimpse of the affection that, contrary to first appearances, still bound the couple together after more than half a century. He wondered if he and Susan would still have that after fifty years… Bickering on the outside but in love more today than the first day they had met.

Warren mentally pinched himself. Where the hell did that come from? he asked himself. Not once in the days since he had asked Susan to marry him had Warren ever thought for one second that they would be anything but deeply in love until ‘Death do us part’. Suppressing the disconcerting line of thinking, he forced himself to focus on the task in hand. Fortunately, it seemed that getting information out of these two would probably not be a great test of his interrogation skills.

“Is that Charlie on the mantelpiece?” Hastings had clearly interpreted Warren’s pause as an invitation for him to step in and was pointing at a picture above the fireplace. It depicted a middle-aged man with his arm around a similarly aged woman, both sporting haircuts and clothing that were fashionable a decade or so ago. In front of them stood two teenagers, a boy and a girl. The backdrop behind them was that of Walt Disney World. The whole group were beaming ear to ear.

“Yes, that’s him with his wife and their children, Maddie and Tim. That’s a few years old now. Tim would probably be about your age now, Constable.” Mrs Turnbull smiled fondly. “You know, Tim complained bitterly before they went that Disney World was just for little kids. Charlie reckons it was the best family holiday they ever had and Tim loved every second from the moment they arrived.”

Hastings chuckled. “I remember thinking that when I went to Disneyland Paris. By the end of the visit, I didn’t want to leave!”

“So you would remember when the Crawleys first moved in next door.” Warren now took over again.

“Yes, now, let’s see…their eldest is going to university next year and Lizzi — that’s Mrs Crawley — got pregnant with him just after they moved in… It was the winter, I think…”

“They moved in just after Christmas 1992,” proclaimed Mr Turnbull. “I remember because she told us she was expecting at that little barbecue we had in the spring to mark my retirement. Do you remember? She was drinking lemonade and I asked her why she wasn’t drinking something stronger, since it wasn’t like she had to drive home. And even if she did, Mark never drinks anyway — she could give him the keys.”

“So would you say you knew the Crawleys well?”

“Fairly well, I suppose. They are a nice enough couple and the kids have never been any real bother. We chat over the fence and usually invite each other over if we are going to have a barbecue, you know, just neighbourly, really. In fact they had us over for a few drinks last summer to thank us for putting up with all the mess and noise from when they had their new kitchen and patio extension built,” started Mr Turnbull.

“I used to talk to Lizzi more years ago,” continued Mrs Turnbull. “She didn’t work for a few years off and on whilst she had the kids and I would chat to her as they played in the garden or she hung out the washing. I even kept an eye on them occasionally if she needed to pop to the corner shop.

“In recent years we’ve spoken a little less. The children are older and don’t tend to play in the garden any more and, with her parents being so ill, she tends to spend a lot of time visiting them.”

“What’s the matter with them?” enquired Warren casually.

“Well, her father’s been ill for a number of years. He had a stroke and he’s very frail, but her mother was fit enough to look after him at home and he’s still sharp mentally. But in the past couple of years, she’s been getting a bit forgetful. They think it might be, you know, Alzheimer’s .” She whispered the last word as if uttering a curse word or profanity, which Warren supposed it could be seen as, especially as you reached old age yourself.

“Anyway, she is probably going to have to go into a home, but they are worried that he doesn’t qualify for funding, so they may not be able to find them something together unless they sell their house. I know that they are very worried about it all.”

“So how would you say the Crawleys were as a couple?”

For the first time there was a pause. Mrs Turnbull shifted uncomfortably. “Well, I’m not one for gossip, you understand.”

Her husband snorted. “Then what’s the use of all the eavesdropping you do?”

His wife shot him a poisonous glare, before continuing as if uninterrupted. “However, I do hear things now and again. And sometimes when I’m out watering the plants in the garden they come outside to talk on the mobile phone, privately, like.”

“Never occurs to her to go back inside and grant them privacy,” interrupted her husband again, earning an even more poisonous scowl. Warren was feeling the urge to shoot him a look as well. Who knew what she was about to tell them?

“Anyhow, it seems as though money is a big worry right now. They took out a second mortgage for the extension, hoping it would add value to the house. They want to move somewhere a bit bigger. Then of course this credit-crunch thing with the banks happened and they found themselves in negative equity or whatever it’s called. They owe more on the house than it’s worth. Then of course this thing with her parents happens and their lad wants to go to university next year, which will cost thousands now the government has raised tuition fees.”

“And don’t forget the little one,” prompted Mr Turnbull, despite himself.

“Oh, yes, their youngest is just about to go to secondary school, but he’s been diagnosed with that ADHD and dyslexia. He always was a little bit naughty and I told him off for climbing over the fence and standing in our flower beds once or twice, but I had no idea he had a condition .”

“Runs in families sometimes, that dyslexia,” interjected Mr Turnbull knowledgeably. “Gets it from his dad, they reckon. I asked him one day, when he was out on the porch reading the newspaper, why his reading glasses were pink. He said apparently the brain deals with colour images differently from black and white and, for some reason, wearing coloured spectacles or using coloured inks and paper can help him read more easily. I didn’t really understand it, to be honest, but he thinks it works. But their little boy has it worse apparently than his dad and they are worried that he won’t get enough help at this new school, so they might have to fund a private tutor.”

Warren bit his lip. Susan had taught plenty of students with special educational needs over the years and, like most teachers, had strong opinions about dyslexia and other learning disorders. However, this was hardly the time or the place for that debate.

Nevertheless, it seemed as though Crawley had been, if anything, downplaying his troubles at home, certainly in terms of finances. In fact, it sounded as if the man was in desperate need of some extra cash or the pay-rise that presumably would accompany his change in status to group leader. But was it a big enough motive to kill Tunbridge?

It looked as though they had got all of the information that the Turnbulls had to offer and Warren started to thank them for their time. As they shook hands with Mr Turnbull his wife looked at Warren indecisively, chewing her lip.

“Is there something else, Mrs Turnbull?”

“Well, I’m not sure if I should say anything really.It’s just a hunch, you know.”

“Well, you never know, Mrs Turnbull. Why don’t you let us be the judge?” Warren tried his most disarming smile.

“I think that Mark Crawley might have been having an affair.”