Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

He thought back over the last hour, before casting his mind back even further. That Sutton had been less than enthused at his arrival at Middlesbury was no great secret, but so what? This was his first real command experience. Had he misinterpreted the signs? Should he have dealt with Sutton sooner? Did his habit of letting colleagues debate with him translate into a lack of respect?

He was reminded of the battles Susan had fought with some of her classes when she first became a teacher. Like most teachers she had learnt the hard way that it was better to start the term too hard and then relax, than try to do it the other way around. He smiled humourlessly; maybe he should make Tony Sutton write lines in his lunch hour: ‘I shall not question the boss in front of junior officers’.

The smile slipped. Just what was he going to do with Sutton? The fact was that he had to work with the man. Middlesbury CID was too small for him to simply kick him off the case and replace him with another detective inspector or detective sergeant. And what signal did it send out to those watching, both above and below him in the chain of command? It suggested that he couldn’t deal with junior officers effectively. What should be a punishment for Sutton’s insubordination would rebound on Warren as an indictment of his management skills.

Sighing, Warren rubbed his eyes and straightened his tie, before walking out of the briefing room and into the main office. The room was buzzing quietly. The clicking of keys on keyboards, the murmur of voices on telephones and the quiet mutter of conversations mingled together in a familiar noise. Yet where the noise was normally comforting, today it felt strained. Walking steadily to his own office, Warren felt as if every pair of eyes in the room was surreptitiously watching him. Judging him. Was it just his imagination? He glanced over at Hastings and Hardwick, who studiously avoided his glance. Sutton was nowhere to be seen. Probably cooling off outside, Warren hoped. Closing the door behind him, he slumped into his chair, all of the energy drained from him.

He closed his eyes briefly, marshalling the strength necessary to follow his own order and start over again. The phone rang. Caller ID showed it to be an internal call. Warren groaned; ignoring it wasn’t an option.

“DCI Jones, my office, now.”

Superintendent Grayson. Perfect.

Warren had known that he would need to convince his superior officer of the need to reopen the case, but he had hoped for a few minutes’ respite after his bruising encounter with Sutton. It soon became apparent that Sutton had needed no such pause. It transpired that he had walked straight out of the meeting with Jones and into Grayson’s office. Warren felt a flash of anger with the realisation that when he’d thought Sutton was outside cooling his heels, he was in actual fact in Grayson’s office bad-mouthing his DCI.

Grayson still wore his suit jacket, clearly having been button-holed by Sutton the moment he’d returned from his various meetings with the forces’s lawyers and press liaison officers. He sat back in his chair, his face a mask. His voice was cold and detached, probably not a good sign, thought Warren.

“Warren, a couple of hours ago, we had a discussion in which I underlined the need for this investigation to be completed in a timely fashion and for us to make sure that we made our case against Severino water-tight.

“I now find out, without any warning, that you have decided to reopen the investigation, essentially starting again from scratch. What next, Warren? Would you like us to release Antonio Severino, drop all charges and issue a public apology as well?” The sarcasm had a dangerous undercurrent that matched the glint in his eye. A small, compact man with greying hair, the superintendent nevertheless seemed to fill the office. Warren felt his temperature rise. He was stepping into politics now, he realised, an arena in which he had never felt entirely at home.

“I think that new evidence suggests that Severino may not be our man, or at the very least was not working alone,” Warren suggested, his voice firm and confident, belying his discomfort.

“Well, let’s see what we have on Severino. CCTV images, logs from the university swipe-card system, a bag containing his clothes covered in Tunbridge’s blood, plus latex gloves, plastic overshoes and the murder weapon, also covered in his blood, stuffed down his drain. On top of that he has a huge motive, no alibi and it would seem previous charges, if not convictions, demonstrating a violent personality and an apparent belief that his family will come swooping in to clean up his mess. What the hell else do you need — a confession signed in blood?” Grayson’s voice dripped with sarcasm and Warren could see that he thought that Warren was wasting his time. His use of the last phrase convinced Warren beyond a doubt that Sutton had been in here poisoning the superintendent against him.

Warren took a deep breath; he would deal with Sutton later. For the time being, he had to deal with Grayson. With as much patience as he could muster, he repeated everything that the team had just discussed, deconstructing the evidence against Severino point by-point. By the time he had finished, Grayson’s expression had changed from sceptical to thoughtful.

The silence grew as the superintendent contemplated what Warren had told him.

“I’m still not convinced that Severino is innocent, but you are right that there is more to this case than meets the eye. The official line of this department is that Antonio Severino killed Professor Alan Tunbridge as revenge for his poor treatment. We are now simply tying up loose ends. You can have a small team to do just that: a senior officer and a couple of detective constables to do the legwork.

“Either this case is closed by Monday morning or you are standing in front of me justifying how you’ve fucked up and explaining why this town’s university’s reputation as a safe place to live and work is suddenly in the shitter. Do I make myself clear?”

Warren fought back a half-dozen comments. He couldn’t believe the superintendent was turning this whole thing around and laying it on him. Nevertheless, he had a job to do. Not trusting himself to say any more, he merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Turning, he headed for the door, before Grayson stopped him. “Oh, one more thing, Warren. This team of yours, make sure it includes DI Sutton. I don’t approve of my officers going behind each other’s backs. Nor do I expect to see them engaged in a pissing contest in front of junior officers. Sort it out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Jones stalked into the squad room, heading directly for Sutton’s desk. Enough was enough, he’d decided. He’d let it linger long enough and if he and Sutton were going to work effectively as a team the air needed clearing. A few detectives glanced up at Jones’ purposeful stride, then, seeing the look on the boss’ face, quickly averted their gaze.

Sutton was on the phone, listening intently. As he looked up his expression turned briefly to one of guilt and apprehension, before his poker face slid back into place. Clearing his throat, he cut off his caller with a mumbled apology and a promise to call them back. Turning his chair, he looked expectantly at Jones.

“Get your coat, Tony, we’re going for a pint.” Without waiting for a reply, Jones turned on his heel and walked straight back out of the room. Looking neither left nor right, he was nevertheless aware of the covert stares from the working detectives. Behind him, he heard Sutton scrabbling for his jacket and grabbing his keys. Not in the mood to share the lift with him, Warren jogged quickly down the stairs to the main reception. Half a turn behind him, he could hear Sutton struggling to catch up.