Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

As Warren mulled over the unanswered questions, hoping to come up with a new approach, his phone rang. Glancing at the caller ID, he was glad to see that it wasn’t from Superintendent Grayson; he wasn’t looking forward to that particular conversation.

“Callum Foster, Image Analysis here. I’ve got some preliminary news on the nightclub footage you sent us from the Tunbridge case.”

Warren grabbed a pen quickly, “That’s great, Callum, thanks for the quick turn-around.” Seventy-Two hours was a frustratingly long time to wait in a fast-moving case, but a surprisingly quick response from the overworked and undermanned Image Analysis department. Besides which, Warren had been taught long ago that making the effort to be polite and sounding grateful for any assistance given to you by the people whose services you relied on was rarely effort wasted. You never knew when you might need to ask them for a favour.

“Well, don’t thank me just yet. We’ve barely started looking at the feeds from the cameras in the club and have only just located her. It seems that he was doing all of the buying — she doesn’t go to the bar once. No full facial shots there, I’m afraid.”

“Oh, well, I’ll take whatever you’ve got so far, Callum” Warren did his best to hide his disappointment.

“I’ve just sent you an email of some enhanced still images taken from the video footage on the door. I think you might just find them useful for identification purposes. The pictures are blurry, but they are the best we can do, I’m afraid. See what you think.”

At that moment, a new mail icon popped up on Warren’s desktop computer. Double-clicking, he saw that it contained several JPEG images. Opening the first image revealed it to be a close-up of the woman’s left ear. Despite the poor quality of the hugely amplified image, Warren could clearly make out the shape of her earring. A small metal trinket, in the shape of a teddy-bear. He made a quick note to have any future suspects’ houses searched for just such a trinket. Two more images showed the same picture with different enhancements, adding more detail.

The next images were a close-up of her left hand. Her little finger had a gold sovereign ring on it, her ring finger was unadorned, whilst her middle finger appeared to have a simple band with a small stone embedded in it. Warren dutifully added these to his note. The presence of any one of these items of jewellery would mean nothing in court, but the presence of all three, although circumstantial, might be worth admitting as evidence.

“The final image is a beauty, in more ways than one. We discovered it quite by accident when we were enhancing her ring finger. Thought it was a shadow at first, but then we took a closer look.”

Warren opened the image, then gasped loudly, his heart rate leaping.

“Er, you OK, guv?” The voice on the end of the phone sounded slightly worried.

Somehow finding his voice, Warren reassured him that he was fine. Hanging up the phone, he continued to stare at the image. He now knew exactly who the mysterious woman was, but it didn’t seem possible. Everything had just got even more complicated.

* * *

Warren strode into the main office, heading for Tony Sutton’s workspace. On his way he called Karen Hardwick over to join them. Gary Hastings was nowhere to be seen. With a flourish he laid out the enhanced nightclub pictures, still warm from the laser printer, on the only clear space on Sutton’s desk.

“I know who the mysterious young woman is that seduced Severino.”

The two officers eagerly pored over the photos, their expressions turning from excitement, to recognition, then confusion. Sutton spoke up first.

“Well, that doesn’t make any sense.”

Hardwick said nothing at first, but her expression spoke volumes. She too was at a loss to explain the woman’s identity.

“Are we sure it’s her? It could just be a coincidence.” She didn’t sound convinced.

“That’s what I’m about to go and find out. In the meantime, I want you guys to try and come up with an explanation.”

With that, Jones turned on his heel and left the two officers standing at Sutton’s desk staring at each other. Sutton broke the silence first.

“Any suggestions, DC Hardwick, would be gratefully received, right about now.”

Karen managed a tight smile.

“I’m just a rookie, DI Sutton. I defer to your wisdom.”

“Yeah, I was afraid of that.”

Warren parked in the same spot as before, in the street adjacent to the White Bear. It was a little later in the day than his Tuesday visit and the pub doors were unlocked. Walking in, Warren noted the familiar smell of cigarette smoke. The room was empty, with nobody at either till.

Behind the bar, an open doorway led through to the rear of the building; cigarette smoke drifted over the threshold. Warren could hear muffled voices and what sounded like cardboard boxes being moved around.

“Hello, anybody in?” Warren called.

“Yeah, ’ang on. Hold your bleedin’ horses,” the wheezy voice of Larry Stribling replied loudly.

Hardly a textbook example of good customer service, Warren mused as he waited. A few seconds later, the landlord arrived, concealed from view by the three cardboard boxes of McCoys crisps he carried.

“Oh, it’s you again,” Stribling greeted him, unenthusiastically. Warren remembered the smouldering bar towel from his last visit and wondered if it had caught fire in the end; that would probably account for his lukewarm reception today.

“Good afternoon, Mr Stribling,” Warren proclaimed, forcing a wide smile. “I was wondering if I could ask you and your family a few more questions. It shouldn’t take too long.”

Stribling opened his mouth to say something, then looked around the empty bar and let the lie die on his lips. He clearly wasn’t too busy to help.

“Kids are out the back.” He turned and yelled through the open doorway. “Kel, Dazza, get down here. That detective’s back, wants to ask some more questions.”

It took a further two more attempts, before the two teenagers finally appeared. Either Dazza had bought a multi-pack of same shit, different day T-shirts or he was attempting to reduce his carbon footprint by wearing clothes for several days at a time. A quick whiff of sweaty teenager suggested to Warren it was the latter.

“Do you remember that girl I was asking you about? She came in here a couple of Fridays ago?”

Cautious nods.

“Could this be her?” Warren slid his mobile phone across the counter, a clear headshot on the device’s large screen.

Kel and her father looked first, both nodding tentatively. “Could be, hard to tell,” Stribling, admitted. His daughter was similarly unsure.

“What about you, Dazza?” Warren held his breath as the grubby teenager reached over to look at the image. He paused for a long moment. “Yeah, definitely. She was well fit.”

“Any distinguishing marks or features that you can remember?” Warren continued, holding his breath, now in anticipation.

The youth continued to stare at the photo before clicking his fingers loudly. “Oh, yeah, I remember now. She was well fit, like I said, and she had a tattoo on her tit, a flower I think.”

Warren resisted the urge to punch the air at the confirmation. A tattoo of a rose on her left breast; the same tattoo visible on the photos taken by the security camera in Mr G’s nightclub; the same tattoo that he and Tony Sutton had seen in the interview suite on Saturday. Clara Hemmingway.

* * *

Back outside in the warm, hazy air, Warren called Sutton.

“Yeah, it was definitely her. Have you any ideas how Severino could have failed to recognise her?”