Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

“Tom was probably the best fighter in the club at the time and he just went for it. Kicks, punches, even elbow strikes and he wasn’t pulling any of them. Quite how Hitesh blocked them all I’ll never know. Anyway, me and three other higher grades dived in and managed to pull Tom off Hitesh, who had gone down on the floor after an elbow to the head. I got a split lip for my trouble and Tina, one of the other black belts, took a really hard punch in the solar plexus.

“I wrestled him out of the dojo and sent him to the changing rooms to cool off, whilst one of the other black belts finished up the lesson. Hitesh was bloody lucky he didn’t end up with a concussion and Tina had a couple of bruises, but that was it. That was the last time I saw him. I emailed him and asked him to come and see me, but he never replied. He’s no longer welcome at this club,” said Gibson, firmly.

“Why do you think he was so aggressive?” asked Karen after a few seconds’ pause.

Gibson sighed and shook his head.

“At first I thought it was just stress. I remember him saying how he was having a hard time with his PhD supervisor. He was working a lot of hours and not getting enough sleep. I encouraged him to do more exercise to help relieve the stress and relax himself, you know, and he did. Starting about eighteen months ago, he decided to go for his second dan black belt and became fixated on the idea of winning the national student championships. He also started hitting the gym a lot more.” Gibson paused as if unsure whether to go on. “I also think he started using steroids.”

“What makes you say that?” asked Hastings.

“It’s a number of things, really. First he started to put on a lot of muscle-mass. We all shower together after training and, like I said, I did my degree in sport science. I had a fair idea how much training he was doing and I know that with the number of hours he was putting in, it would take more than a few protein shakes to bulk up like that. I noticed that he also seemed to be having a few problems with acne across his shoulders and back.” Gibson blushed slightly. “Sorry, that sounds a bit dodgy. But we trained together three or four times a week for three years. The guy was in his twenties and had a clear complexion when I first met him. It’s a bit unusual to develop acne at that age, unless there is a skin or hormonal problem.”

Karen nodded her understanding.

“Then there were the mood changes and the aggressiveness, the change in personality. Like I said, I didn’t know the guy that well, but we’d sometimes go for a quick pint after training and I sat next to him at the club’s Christmas meal a few years ago. He was a fairly pleasant bloke to be around, you know. A good sense of humour and pretty laid-back.”

Gibson looked down at his feet. “I was contemplating saying something to him. I guess I should have done.” He looked up again. “I’ve no idea why you’re interested in him, but I’m not a fool. You aren’t here because he’s run up too many library fines. Has he done something really bad?”

“I’m sorry, Mr Gibson, all I can tell you is that we are involved in an ongoing enquiry and we are looking into the backgrounds of a number of individuals.”

Gibson nodded, looking morose.

With no more questions to ask, the two officers walked back to the car, leaving Gibson to lock up the school hall.

“You seemed to know a bit about martial arts before we went in. Have you done any karate?” asked Karen.

“Not karate, no.” Gary shook his head. “But I have a black-belt in jiu-jitsu and I try to train a couple of times a week.”

Karen looked at him with renewed interest. “Really? The other martial art that Spencer does? You don’t look the type.”

Gary tried to keep the hurt out of his voice. “Well, we don’t all look like PE teachers.”

Karen smiled. “Sorry, I guess not. Mr Miyagi and Jackie Chan don’t look much like Mr Gibson either.”

Gary smiled, despite himself. “Have you ever done any martial arts?”

Karen shook her head. “No, not really. I did a few women’s self-defence courses at uni and of course I did the basic training when I joined the force, but nothing else.”

“You should give it a try some time. Why don’t you come along to my club some time and have a go? It’s a great way to keep fit and a lot of fun.”

Karen put the car into gear. “Yeah, maybe I will. I’m getting bored of aerobics down the leisure centre.”

Gary smiled to himself. Brilliant. Perhaps he could get her to go for a drink after training.

“Besides which,” she continued, sounding excited, “it’s all women at aerobics. Maybe I could meet an unmarried Mr Gibson lookalike.”

Warren arrived home at a decent hour for the first time all week. As a peace offering, he’d stopped off at the local Chinese restaurant and bought Susan’s favourite dish. He’d also picked up some flowers.

In an act of sensitivity that Warren wouldn’t normally associate with Bernice, his mother-in-law had dragged Dennis out of the house for a meal and a film at the local cinema. The movie wasn’t scheduled to finish until about eleven p.m. That gave Warren about five hours to apologise for his behaviour that week. He hoped it was long enough.

The reception was decidedly frosty when Susan opened the door. She took the flowers, giving them a perfunctory sniff before taking the Chinese food off his hands. “I would have thought you’d had enough takeaway this week,” was her only comment.

Warren smiled weakly. “To be honest, more of last night’s kebab ended up on the pavement and down my shirt than in my stomach.”

Her frosty glare reminded Warren who her mother was.

The two of them sat down at the dining-room table as Warren spread out the foil containers. Susan had already fetched plates and cutlery from the kitchen and proceeded to spoon out the rice as if she were trying to kill it. The silence stretched uncomfortably between them.

“Susan, I am so sorry about last night. In fact, I am sorry about the last week.”

“Do you have a good explanation why I sat up waiting for you until midnight, before finally going to bed, then being woken up by you at half-past one, stinking of beer and bloody donner kebab? And then, to add insult to injury, I come downstairs in my nightdress at seven this morning to find a total bloody stranger snoring on the couch?” Susan’s voice was cold and calm. That, he knew from experience, was when she was at her most dangerous.

Warren knew that the only acceptable course of action in this situation was to tell the truth and take it on the chin like a man.

“Yesterday afternoon, Tony Sutton and I had a huge row over my decision to reopen the Tunbridge murder case. Immediately afterwards he went in to see Superintendent Grayson in the hope that he would cut me off at the knees and stop me revisiting the case.”

“Let me see if I understand this,” interrupted Susan incredulously. “One of your subordinates openly argues with you, then goes behind your back to try and get you into trouble and your response is to get pissed with him and bring him back here to sleep on the couch?”

Warren winced. “When you put it that way…”

“And what if my mother had been the one to find him? Can you imagine the scene?”

Warren could imagine the scene and for the briefest of moments found himself torn between maintaining a suitably chastened expression and bursting out laughing at the image. He maintained his expression. It was the correct decision.

“And just one more thing — what do you mean, ‘reopen the Tunbridge case’? You’ve arrested and charged someone, haven’t you?”

Warren sighed. “Let me explain from the beginning.”