Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

It took the best part of fifteen minutes to explain the events that had led up to him changing his mind. Despite herself, Susan soon became caught up in the case and was particularly impressed by Karen Hardwick’s inspiration about the inconsistencies in Spencer’s alibi.

“I can see why you have your doubts and, from what you’ve found out today, it sounds as though you were right. But I still don’t understand why Tony Sutton was so against you reopening the case. And even more, why you went out on the piss with him last night and he ended up sleeping in our living room.”

Warren recounted what Sutton had told him the night before. By the time he had finished, the two of them had cleared their plates and Susan was shaking her head in disbelief.

“When we moved down here, I worried that you would be bored in such a small unit after working for so long in the WMP. But it seems as if there’s more going on inside the police station than outside.”

Warren nodded his agreement. “Yeah, well, give me murderers and rapists any day, but please spare me the political bullshit.”

Susan reached across the table and took his hand; it was the most affectionate gesture the two of them had shared all week, he realised.

“Sweetheart, when you went for the promotion, we knew that you would have to become more political. It comes with the territory.”

Warren nodded, morosely.

“But the most important thing is that you must talk to me. Let me know what is going on at work. I had no idea that things had got so bad between you and Tony Sutton.”

Warren squeezed her hand tightly and nodded. “You’re right. No more secrets. And the same goes for you — I keep on forgetting that this is a big change for you as well.”

Susan nodded in return, before standing up. Stepping around the table, she settled herself down on Warren’s lap, her arms around his neck, kissing him on the forehead.

“What time is that film due to end?” asked Warren.

“About eleven, I think,” she murmured into his ear.

“Then that gives us until about ten to eleven before we have to worry about tidying up the dishes before your mum and dad get home.”

Susan’s giggles were music to Warren’s ears. When had they last shared a joke? Grabbing her hand, he raced for the stairs, Susan laughing all the way. Suddenly it was as if the years had melted away. It didn’t matter that it was their own house and they were a married couple; it was like their first Christmas together. Warren had stayed over at Bernice and Dennis’ with Susan. They had only been dating a few months and Bernice had prepared the guest room for Warren. The two young lovers were far too embarrassed to admit that they had been sleeping together for a while by that point and so had endured three frustrating nights and days before, finally, Bernice and Dennis had gone out for an afternoon stroll in the crisp December air.

As they hurried into the bedroom, it was as if they had been transported back in time to that magical afternoon. Tearing at each other as if starved, they had been like wild animals at a feast; desperate to fulfil their hunger, yet not daring to let their guard down in case predators attacked. The sound of a car door that day had almost sent Warren flying off the bed in panic, before he realised that it was the next-door neighbours.

Susan leant back on the bed as Warren stood and removed his shoes. As he took his tie off and unbuttoned his shirt, his gaze swept across his wife.

Susan had spent the day decorating the kitchen; her hair was tousled, with flecks of white emulsion. Her T-shirt was an old, baggy affair that she reserved for messy work. Her tracksuit bottoms were similarly shapeless, having been washed on too hot a cycle too many times. She wore no make-up and her fingernails were chipped and covered in paint. She was the most beautiful person in the world.

Warren finally finished undressing and joined Susan on the bed. Her kiss was tender, a tenderness he tried to match with his hands as he gently caressed her body, rediscovering her curves, the soft places that distinguished men from women. It had been too long, Warren decided, vowing there and then never to allow something as trivial as work to come between them. He closed his eyes, giving himself over to Susan’s tender embrace.

The loud ringing of Warren’s mobile phone shattered the mood as effectively as a football shattered a greenhouse window. The two of them stopped and lay there, completely still, holding their breath, as if by doing so the phone would magically stop ringing.

It didn’t.

Warren thought about leaving it. “Answer it, it could be important,” whispered Susan, the disappointment in her voice plain.

Giving in to the inevitable, Warren clambered off the bed, fumbling in his trouser pocket as the phone continued to trill. He glanced at the screen. Tony Sutton. With a sigh, he pressed the connect-call button.

“Sorry, guv, hope I didn’t disturb anything. I wouldn’t have rung, but it’s urgent.”

Warren mustered a smile. “Not at all, Tony, it’s nothing that can’t wait.” He looked over at Susan apologetically. “At least tell me you’ve rung with some good news.”

Sutton’s voice was leaden. “It’s not good news for Mark Crawley. He’s topped himself.”

Warren and Sutton both pulled up outside Crawley’s house at the same time. The number of vehicles in the road meant that Warren ended up parking several doors down the street, in almost the same spot he’d parked with Gary Hastings. Sutton squeaked to a halt just behind him.

Two police patrol cars and a police van with Scenes of Crime Unit stencilled on the side were parked either side of the Crawleys’ drive. For the second time in a week, Warren noted an ambulance, lights and engine off with its back doors open, waiting for a passenger that wouldn’t need all of the hustle and bustle of an emergency transfer to the local hospital. Warren wondered idly if it was the same crew that had picked up Tunbridge the previous Friday.

Across the street a few of the neighbours had gathered in a huddle. A couple of uniformed police constables had their notebooks out and were questioning the local residents. Warren and Sutton flashed their warrant cards and introduced themselves to the constable logging arrivals and departures.

A tall, willowy woman in the uniform of an inspector broke off from the conversation she was having with a sergeant. Hand extended, she introduced herself to Jones as Inspector Alison Carmichael. Sutton, she already knew.

“We thought it was just A.N. Other suicide at first, but when we saw the note and realised who he was I figured we’d better get you guys down here, asap.”

“So take us through what’s happened, Inspector.”

“The wife arrived home with the couple’s kids about two hours ago. Found him hanging from a rope he’d rigged around the bannister at the top of the stairs. Looks like he did the sums; clean break, probably killed him instantly. Living room has an empty litre bottle of vodka and an empty pot of strong, prescription painkillers, made out in his name. He also left a suicide note on his laptop — looks like he confessed to being involved with killing that professor of yours.”

“What state is the scene in?”

“Not too bad. His wife tried to lift him up, but she’s no fool — she could see he was dead, probably a few hours. Obviously the paramedics saw it was a potentially suspicious death and as soon as they pronounced him they left the scene untouched. When we got here, and saw the suicide note on the laptop, we declared it a crime scene and called in you guys and Scenes of Crime.”

Warren nodded in approval; until it was confirmed as a suicide he was treating the death as suspicious and unexplained. A suicide was just too coincidental at this time.