Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

In the meantime, all Karen could do was wait for news, and comb through the evidence to try and work out who this mystery fourth person was. The owner of the fourth anonymous SIM card was the biggest outstanding question at the moment and Karen felt this person could well be the key to unlock the case. But it was frustrating.

Therefore it came as something of a relief when one of the workers from Welwyn Forensics appeared in the office. A young man, he was carrying a black plastic evidence sack. It clearly held a large, flat, rectangular object of some weight.

“Anyone working the Tunbridge case? I’ve got his personal laptop here. We’ve copied his hard disk and there’s no need for any physical trace analysis. Figured we may as well drop it back here since we were in the area.”

Sutton raised a hand. “DCI Jones is busy at the moment. I’ll sign for it.” The courier wound his way across the office to Sutton’s massively overloaded desk. After trying in vain to find a space to put it, he settled for the visitor’s chair. Handing over a handful of sheets of paper, he asked Sutton to sign multiple times, keeping some of the sheets himself and giving the remainder to Sutton.

After the courier had left, Sutton looked around the office, clearly searching for a ‘volunteer’. Settling on Karen, he grabbed the black bag and its associated paperwork, and carried it over to her comparatively empty desk.

With mock gravitas he started, “DC Hardwick. In light of your hard work this week, the powers that be — namely me — have decided to give you the opportunity to earn the privilege of leaving work…” he glanced at his watch “…thirty-three minutes early, thus allowing you to start your weekend celebrations in a timely manner.”

Karen couldn’t help but smile at Sutton’s attempt to lighten the mood in the office. “I see, sir. And what would I have to do to earn the privilege?”

“Do us a favour and drop this damned laptop back at Tunbridge’s, would you? We’ve got everything we need from it and it’s getting in the bloody way. I’d do it myself, but I’m on the opposite end of town and it’s almost on your way home.”

Karen already had her handbag ready. “Love to, sir.” It was true; she had worked hard all week. She’d been coming off the end of a five-day shift when Tunbridge had been murdered and had taken the opportunity to earn some much-needed overtime pay by working the case all week. Now she was ready for some downtime. Perhaps she’d call one of her girlfriends and go do some shopping and maybe catch a movie. She owed her best friend a phone call and then there was all that washing…

“You’ll keep me posted, won’t you, sir, if anything significant comes up? And if you need anything doing?”

“Of course, you’ve earned that much. Tell you what, give me your mobile number. I’ll make sure that the guv has it as well.”

The two swapped numbers and Sutton ran her quickly through the procedure for returning a victim’s property. It was a bit naughty, but he pointed out that nobody would be likely to need the signed receipts any time soon, so she could file them when she came back on duty Monday morning. Karen made a mental note to file them Saturday; she was a little early in her career to be getting reprimands over sloppy file-keeping, she decided, even if it was something that nobody really cared about. Waving a general goodbye to the office, she grabbed the laptop and headed down to the car park.

The drive to Tunbridge’s house was indeed almost on the way home and ten minutes later Karen was marvelling at the contrast between this wealthy, leafy suburb and the decidedly less leafy area in which her apartment block resided. She felt almost foolish for locking up her twelve-year-old Fiesta — surely her old banger would be way down the list of any potential car thief patrolling this area. Hypothetically speaking, of course, if she were a car thief, top of her wish list would be the white Porsche Boxster two doors down from the Tunbridges’, or maybe the Aston Martin DB7 parked opposite. Of course, they had state-of-the-art anti-theft devices, which her Ford most certainly did not, so maybe locking her car doors was prudent, if futile.

Walking up the drive, Karen saw that Tunbridge’s silver BMW was present, along with what she assumed was his wife’s Ford Focus. The doorbell was answered in a few moments by a young man, who, from the description, was likely to be the Tunbridges’ son. By way of greeting, Karen held up the black bag with the laptop.

“Detective Constable Karen Hardwick. I’ve just popped by to return your father’s laptop.”

“Oh, thank you, that’s very good of you.” He reached to take the laptop.

Karen flushed slightly in embarrassment.

“I’m sorry, Mr Tunbridge, technically it’s your mother’s property and so I will need her to sign for it.”

“Oh, OK.” He seemed slightly nonplussed. “Mum’s actually having a meeting at the moment. Some friends from the university have dropped by and I think they are arranging the eulogy for Dad’s funeral next week.”

Karen cursed herself for not ringing ahead. Now she would have to return the laptop to the station and try again later. It was one thing to hold onto a piece of paperwork overnight, but quite another thing to hold onto a victim’s property — she shuddered to think what would happen if her flat was broken into and the laptop stolen, Unlikely, yes, but still…

“All it requires really is a couple of signatures and a quick visual inspection, then it’s all yours. One more thing ticked off the list.” She gave her most winning smile, making it sound as if the list in question were his, not hers.

He thought for a second. “Fair enough, I’ll see if she’s free. Why don’t you wait in her den? She’s fussy about filing paperwork immediately anyway and, besides which, her den and Dad’s office are usually the only places in the house with working biros.”

Following Simon Tunbridge through the hallway, Karen could hear the murmur of voices in what she presumed was the living room.

It soon became clear to her why they called the professor’s workspace an ‘office’ and Mrs Tunbridge’s a ‘den’. Situated under the stairs, the room was little larger than a closet, with a small desk just large enough for Mrs Tunbridge’s own laptop and a half-size filing cabinet. A couple of shelves held various office knick-knacks; a pile of books was stacked on the filing cabinet. It made sense, Karen supposed. Mrs Tunbridge was a housewife and lady of leisure, from what she’d heard, so was unlikely to spend hours in here working, just the occasional bout of household paperwork, she guessed.

Simon left and she heard him enter the living room. The voices stopped, before she heard Simon’s voice and a female voice talking. The woman sounded annoyed, although Karen couldn’t make out any words. Glancing around the office again, Karen’s eyes were drawn to the pile of books on the filing cabinet. They seemed mostly to be well-thumbed computer manuals. She made out a few of the titles: HTML for Dummies and Designing Winning Webpages . Something tickled at the back of her mind. Hadn’t DCI Jones mentioned in briefing that Mrs Tunbridge designed websites for the local Rotary Club? Looking closer, she was unable to suppress a gasp of surprise.

Hidden behind the manuals, away from prying eyes, was a black, false leather A5 binder. Embossed in gold on the spine was the current year, a small spot of something brown and crusty partially obscuring the number two. Tunbridge’s missing diary!

The phone rang in Jones’ office. Snatching it up, he hoped it was the call he had been waiting for. “DCI Jones.”