Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

Sutton interjected, “Why did he leave his suicide note on his laptop? I reckon if I was about to kill myself, the last thing I’d do is wait for Microsoft bloody Office to load.”

“Apparently he was extremely dyslexic,” Warren volunteered. “He has special pink spectacles to help him read but I don’t know if that’d help him write better as well. He probably used the computer’s spell-checker to help him.”

“That makes a lot of sense when you see some of the strange spelling mistakes he’s made,” agreed Carmichael.

“What state is his wife in?” asked Warren, anxious to speak to her.

“Holding up surprisingly well. She actually had the sense of mind to get her eldest to stop the two youngest kids from coming through the front door and seeing their dad like that.” Carmichael shook her head in admiration. “It’s amazing what a mum will do to protect her kids, even under those circumstances.” Her expression became more sober. “It’s just a shame the eldest lad walked in beside her and saw everything.”

“Do you think she’s up to talking?”

“She was when we last checked. She and her kids are next door with the neighbours and Family Liaison. We’re tracking down friends as we speak. Before you go in, though, I think you should see the suicide note.”

“Has she seen it yet?”

“No, and we’ve not mentioned it. You’ll see why when you read it.”

She pulled out a smartphone; on the screen was a series of photographs. “We didn’t want to risk screwing anything up before the IT whizzes checked it out, so I just scrolled down the screen and photographed it.”

“Good thinking, Allie. Ever thought of joining CID?” suggested Sutton.

“Not if I’d have to see your ugly mug every day, Tony. One evening a month was enough, frankly.” Both officers grinned at each other, then sobered slightly. “Been a while, we must start playing again,” Sutton nodded, his expression neutral.

“Tony used to play my husband and me at bridge, so I saw more of him than I wanted to,” Carmichael explained to Warren, who nodded politely, more interested in the contents of Crawley’s suicide note than his inspector’s social life.

The phone screen was small, but high resolution and Crawley had clearly used a fairly large font size. The suicide note was across three photographs and Warren had to swipe through to read it all. He did so twice, with Sutton looking over his shoulder. It was clear why Carmichael had been unwilling to let Crawley’s wife see the note.

Deer Lizzy,

I am typing this because I can’t bare to look in your eyes when I tell you the truth. I am so sorry for what I did. It was a wicked thing that we planned, I can only hope that by confessing to my crime one day you and the boys will forgive me. Please now that I only did it for us. Money is so tight and with your mum and dad so ill its only going to get worse. I couldn’t bare the fought that you an the boys would be made homeless.

I am sure that you will learn all of the details from the press but I need to confess it here to you. Antonio and I plotted to steal the labs research and set up our won company. But we realised that we couldn’t do it without getting rid of Alan first. Together we planned his killing.

I have decided to kill myself because if I have realised one thing in the past few days, it is that I love you and the boys more than life itself. I cannot bear the thought that my boys’ father will be in prison for murder and I do not think that I could survive. I hope that by confessing my crimes I can also gain your forgiveness. This will be the last time that we are together, us and the boys.

I love you all so much,

Mark

Warren and Sutton looked at each other.

“Well, that was unexpected,” opined Sutton eventually.

“You aren’t bloody kidding. Now I really want to speak to his wife.” Warren turned to Carmichael. “And could you find out who the crime scene manager is and let them know we want a tour as soon as we’ve finished interviewing Mrs Crawley?”

He turned to Sutton. “Either you’ve been right all along, Tony, and I’ve been wasting our time, or this thing just got a whole lot more complicated.”

For the second time in two days, Warren found himself walking up the Turnbulls’ driveway. A uniformed constable stood guarding the doorway to the couple’s house, making sure that nobody intruded on the family’s grief. Except for the local neighbourhood gossip, Warren realised, who had taken them into her home. He found himself hoping that the private grieving of a widow and her children didn’t become fodder at the next WI meeting. He wondered if he should have a word with the family liaison officers to warn them against this possibility.

Immediately he decided against the idea and felt a flush of shame for suspecting the woman’s motives. All too often in the past, after a hard day investigating the terrible crimes that people had perpetrated on others — often their neighbours — he had lamented that a bit more neighbourliness would go a long way towards solving much of society’s ills. Yet the moment he witnessed an example in action he viewed it with suspicion. The cynicism left a sour taste in his mouth.

The Turnbulls’ living room felt crowded. On the couch, surrounded by her three boys, was a tearful Lizzi Crawley. The two youngest boys were clutching each other and crying in the cathartic, shameless way that only children could. The eldest sat with his arm around his mother. Red swollen eyes and dried stains on his cheeks evidenced earlier crying, but now he was stony-faced. The hand that wasn’t protectively draped around his mother held a tissue, which he was repeatedly screwing up and releasing as he balled his fist then relaxed it, again and again in a nervous tic.

Warren recognised the symptoms. The initial surge of grief and shock had been replaced and the boy — no, he was suddenly a young man now — was feeling a confusing mix of emotions. Grief at their loss; anger at his father for doing this to them; helplessness and perhaps guilt that he didn’t see it coming; all topped off with the growing realisation that he was now head of the family.

Appearance-wise, the three boys were almost a perfect blend of both their parents, Warren realised. All of them had an appealing lankiness that Warren suspected would probably turn into the tall ranginess of their father, rather than the short plumpness of their mother. Their mother’s influence was clear in the dark hair and eyes, whilst their pale skin and light freckling were probably an inheritance from both parents.

Sitting in the armchairs, unwittingly mirroring the positions of Warren and Gary Hastings the previous day, were the family liaison officers. A man and a woman, they were dressed smartly but were not in uniform. On the coffee table sat several cups of tea. Only the police officers’ drinks had been touched; those in front of the Crawleys had acquired the glassy look that tea took on when it had cooled to room temperature.

Warren nodded a greeting to the two officers. What a horrible job, he thought every time he met them. All police officers had to deliver bad news at some point in their career — it went with the territory — and Warren knew that he had a reasonably sensitive manner when doing so. Nevertheless, he hated doing it and, when he’d done what was necessary, he couldn’t leave the scene fast enough. Not these guys. Not only did they break more than their fair share of bad news, they stuck around to deal with the aftermath — sometimes for days, or weeks or months. Warren couldn’t imagine what that was like.

Warren and Sutton introduced themselves to a tearful, but apparently rational, Lizzi Crawley. Warren could see that Mrs Crawley was unwilling to leave her children to speak to them alone and so he and Sutton decided to keep the interview as short as possible, extracting only the most important details. A more detailed interview, which might or might not reveal details upsetting to younger ears, could wait until they could interview her in a more private setting.