Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

“Strike him off, then.” Sutton reached for the pen but Warren shook his head. “So far we only have his word for it that he wouldn’t want to run the lab, but we know that he is financially under pressure. And if Tunbridge’s research has been stolen, there can’t be many who would be in a better position to exploit it.”

“It would be a bit suspicious, though, don’t you think? Tunbridge is murdered and two years later his former experimental officer is making millions out of his research.”

Warren shrugged. “I don’t know. I have no idea if that would be suspicious or not. Tompkinson implied that it was a hot topic of research — surely that means that there must be others capable of one day catching up? In that case, it might not be a surprise at all if he’s the one to do so. Leave him on the maybe list and make a note to do some more digging around his private life. I’ll have a word with Tompkinson about what will happen to Tunbridge’s research group and research, now he’s gone.”

“Speaking of Tompkinson…”

Warren shook his head. “I don’t see it. He has some motive, I grant you, but if what he says is true he isn’t in any state to benefit from Tunbridge’s death. We need to confirm everything he says about his health and double-check his alibi, but it’s a hell of a stretch.

“Next up, Hemmingway.”

“Now, of all of the suspects so far, I could see her being one. She’s a hard-nosed bitch, mark my words.”

Warren blinked in surprise. “I didn’t have her down as particularly likely.”

Sutton leant forward, his former reluctance apparently gone now as he became involved in the intellectual challenge.

“Well, think about it. She has a hell of a motive — Tunbridge was an absolute bastard to her. Trust me, people have killed for less.”

“Maybe so, but she didn’t kill him. She has a strong alibi for the night in question, so she could only have been an accessory. In which case we’re back to who else benefits? And how likely is it that she and Severino decided to team up and get revenge on the man that ruined their lives? I can see them both being happy that he’s gone, but I can’t see any prior link. Did they really get to know each other so well during her handful of visits to the lab to discuss her essay that they would later get together to kill him? And I can’t see any possible financial motive.”

Sutton looked thoughtful. “Well, if Severino is to be believed, a young woman who could certainly match Hemmingway’s description set him up by stealing his swipe card and some of his clothes.”

Warren shook his head in frustration. “But that wouldn’t make any sense. Surely Severino wouldn’t have brought up Hemmingway if they were in partnership — or if he was confessing and seeking to spread the blame, he would have named her outright. However, if he is telling the truth and this mysterious blonde woman did seduce him in the bar, then wouldn’t he have recognised her? They had sex. This isn’t Hollywood — she can’t have disguised herself that effectively.”

Sutton looked dissatisfied, clearly unwilling to dismiss her entirely. “We should probe a bit more. Something smells about that girl and I ain’t talking about her cheap perfume.”

Warren shrugged. “Fine, keep her on the further investigation list. We should at least put her photo around, see if anybody recognises her and have her back in for a follow-up interview.

“Now we get into the realms of the unknown. Who is this mysterious John Priest that has been contacting Tunbridge and why did his website disappear so suddenly?”

“That’s a weird one, I grant you. And it could explain how the killer knew that Tunbridge would be in his office that night. The question again is, who did the killing?”

“IT support are trying to track down the owner of the website and who this person is. It would help if we had access to Tunbridge’s diary. I bet he’s recorded details of any conversations that he’s had with this person. And who downloaded his data the night he was killed? Presumably that was his killer — why? I guess they intend to use it, but how?”

“You know, it does add a whole different complexion to this case,” Sutton suggested thoughtfully. “Severino could have been a hired gun. He could have been employed by some commercial rival to bump off Tunbridge and steal his data.”

“If that was the case, it was pretty bloody amateurish. Surely, the last thing they’d want is for him to be caught so easily — there’s no guarantee he won’t talk and lead us right back to them.”

“True.”

The two men lapsed into thoughtful silence.

“Of course, this all assumes that Severino did the killing and was he alone?”

Sutton sighed. “Look, guv, realistically who else could it have been? Severino was present — who else could he have met up with? Spencer was locked in that little room and the only other person in the building was Tunbridge. The only thing that makes sense is that Severino comes in, does Tunbridge, then legs it before Spencer returns.”

“But how did he time it so well? How did he know that Tunbridge would be in his office so late at night?”

“Well, the obvious answer is that Severino is this John Priest and he lured Tunbridge in that night.”

Jones frowned, unconvinced. “I’m not sure about the timing on that. Did Severino lose his job before or after Tunbridge met this J Priest? And besides, those emails implied that they had met — which surely rules out Severino?”

Sutton thought hard before shrugging. “I can’t remember how the dates match up — we’ll need to look it up. Stick him on the list to re-interview. He’s not going anywhere.”

Another thought occurred to Warren. “On top of that, how did he know that Tunbridge would be alone? Or that Spencer would be the only other person in the building but conveniently in that little room?”

Sutton frowned. “Well, I would imagine that he could be fairly sure that the building would be empty at ten on a Friday night, especially on a nice summer evening when everyone who isn’t away is sitting in a beer garden somewhere. Maybe he just took a gamble? That would fit with the amateurish nature of the murder.”

Jones leant back, drumming his fingers on the table top as he thought this through. “That’s something else that bothers me. Assuming the two things are connected, setting up that website took serious premeditation and organisation, whereas the way Tunbridge was killed and Severino was tracked down so quickly implies something amateur and spur of the moment. Damn it, we really need to know who set that website up, so we can either pursue them or rule them out.”

The two men sat in silence, staring at their now empty pints.

“Something else also bothers me,” started Warren again after several long moments. “Spencer being locked in that little room. It’s just too bloody convenient. We are taking his alibi at face value. I’m going back to have another look tomorrow, I think.”

“While you’re at it, see if there is any other way in and out of that building. We’ll look like right bloody chumps if it turns out that the killer walked through a fire door with a dodgy lock.”

Warren nodded. “Well, all this is well and good, but our glasses are empty and by my reckoning it’s your bloody round.”

Sutton grinned, before looking around at the rest of the bar, which was now starting to fill up with office workers. The barman scowled when he made eye contact. “Well, I reckon we’ve burnt our bridges here. If I’m buying, then let’s go somewhere a bit quieter that serves a decent pint.”

Stifling a yawn, Karen Hardwick let herself into the tiny bedsit she was trying her best to call home. It had been four months since Owen had finished their three-year relationship and two months since she had finally found a place cheap enough for her to rent on her own. The apartment was still only just affordable and in Middlesbury, as in most places within one hundred miles of London, to say that you got what you paid for would be an exaggeration. It comprised three rooms, including a bedroom-cum-sitting-room, a tiny bathroom and an even smaller kitchen, and Karen figured her days of hosting lavish dinner parties were on hold for the foreseeable future. The most people that she’d ever had in her sitting room at any one time was three — when her parents had stopped for a tea break whilst helping her move in.