Paul Gitsham - The Last Straw

“I could see that working,” Sutton started, still looking a little dubious, “but what about Spencer and Hemmingway? How could they entice them to take part, beyond simple revenge?”

“Well, I wouldn’t dismiss revenge out of hand Tony, but, even so, much of the work was Spencer’s. With Crawley as head of the group he’d probably pass his PhD and then end up with a job in the company, no doubt with all the usual perks. As for Hemmingway, it could just be money but she’s a science student as well. Probably guaranteed employment in the new company, I would have thought. I don’t think the details really matter right now. The main thing is to get an arrest warrant for Annabel Tunbridge. I just hope that she hasn’t done a runner like Spencer and Hemmingway.”

Suddenly, Sutton went pale. “Oh, fuck!”

Warren noted the look on his face. “What is it, Tony?”

“I asked Karen Hardwick to return Tunbridge’s laptop on her way home.”

* * *

In situations like this, it was better to overreact than underreact and regret it later, Warren decided. As Sutton and Gary Hastings raced for the car park he grabbed a phone and rang the main switchboard, asking for emergency assistance from any uniform patrols in the vicinity of Tunbridge’s house. That done, he left the room in the steady hands of DS Kent, asking him almost as an afterthought to notify Superintendent Grayson of the breakthrough. As he clambered into his car and headed for the scene he offered up a silent prayer that Karen was OK.

* * *

Gary Hastings used his knees to brace himself as Sutton threw his sporty little Audi into yet another squealing turn. Strictly speaking, this was against regulations. The car was a private vehicle without lights and siren and as such shouldn’t be driven in such a manner. At this point, neither man could care less.

“Straight through to sodding voicemail again. Either she’s turned it off, or that bloody handset has turned itself off. Shit, I have a spare handset at home from when my smartphone was playing up. I could have brought it in for her and then she wouldn’t be in this mess-” the illogic of that statement didn’t seem to register with the young detective constable “-and if I hadn’t forgot to go back to Tesco for those surveillance tapes when I said I would, we could have solved this days ago.”

Sutton was in no mood for Hastings’ self-recriminations at this time. “Get over it, son, what’s done is done. Now we need to focus on cleaning this mess up and making sure that Karen is OK. Besides which,” he started, ignoring his own advice, “if anybody should be blaming themselves it’s me. What the hell was I thinking sending a trainee DC off on their own to return a victim’s property like she’s bloody FedEx or something?”

With that, the car squealed into the road that led up to the Tunbridges’ house.

“Which number is it?”

“Twenty-six — but look, there’s Karen’s Fiesta.”

The fire-red Ford stood out like a sore thumb amongst the expensive Aston Martins and top-of-the-range BMWs. Sutton pulled up behind the Fiesta with a final squeak of his tyres. Hastings was out of the passenger seat before the handbrake had clicked fully home.

“Calm it, Constable,” hissed Sutton as he joined the young man. “We don’t know what we’re going into. They could be sitting in the drawing room having a cup of tea for all we know. No need to make a drama unless we have to.”

Gary took a couple of deep breaths and nodded. Cautiously the two men approached the house. Keeping to the edge of the driveway in an attempt to minimise their visibility, they could see that the living room was empty. As they approached the front door both men stopped at the same moment.

“Is that…?” started Hastings in a harsh whisper.

“Looks like blood,” confirmed Sutton grimly, looking at the small reddish-brown patch on the top step. The front door was ajar.

Procedure at this point would have been to wait for back-up, rather than going in alone, but the voices through the hallway put paid to that.

“Stick her, she knows too much.”

The two men exchanged glances; they recognised the voice. Hemmingway. And there was no more time to waste.

* * *

Warren pulled up behind Sutton’s Audi, leaving a second set of tyre marks on the smooth tarmac of the leafy suburban street. A few seconds later a marked police Peugeot, lights flashing, made it three sets.

As the police piled out of the cars Warren spied Sutton and Hastings either side of the front door. He turned to the sergeant who’d joined him, ready to co-ordinate their assault on the building. Before he got a chance, though, all hell broke loose as Sutton reared back and planted his boot in the middle of the front door, yelling, “Police, everybody down on the floor!” The force of Sutton’s kick against the unlocked door almost took it off its hinges.

“Now you know why they call him Subtle Sutton!” shouted the sergeant as they raced up the drive. Sutton and Hastings disappeared into the house. Barely a second later, Hastings re-emerged backwards and horizontally, crashing end over end down the steps. Leaping over his prone body emerged a wild-eyed Tom Spencer. Skidding slightly on the loose gravel of the drive, he raced around the side of the house. Hastings shook his head slightly, before scrambling to his feet and taking off after the fleeing student.

Warren made it to the front door, his heart sinking as he saw the prone figure of Karen Hardwick sprawled on the floor. Blood was smeared across her pale forehead. Sutton was kneeling next to her.

“She’s breathing,” he confirmed. Lying on the floor next to them was the still figure of Annabel Hardwick, still holding a knife. Blood was trickling from her nose and her lips were split. Sutton shrugged, a grim smile on his lips. “Self-defence.”

He motioned over his shoulder. “Clara Hemmingway legged it through there. I think there’s a back door through the kitchen.”

“On it,” confirmed the uniformed sergeant, pushing his way through the crowd and running towards the kitchen. A wail of sirens heralded the arrival of another police car in the distance.

* * *

Hastings was sprinting flat out. Dressed as he was in trousers and smart shoes, he was nevertheless keeping up with the fleet-footed PhD student. Crossing the Tunbridges’ back garden, Spencer headed for the fence, a six-foot, wooden-panelled affair. Grabbing it with both hands, he swung over it assault-course style, dropping down onto the other side. Without pausing, Hastings followed suit. Ignoring the ripping sound of his trousers, he landed clumsily in the next-door neighbour’s flower bed. Scrambling back to his feet, he saw that Spencer was already halfway across the neighbour’s garden and was racing for the next fence.

Forcing his legs to pound even harder, Hastings managed to gain a couple of metres before Spencer reached the next fence. This time the student misstepped slightly, stumbling on the soft soil of a vegetable patch. With less momentum behind him than he needed, he barely made it over the fence, having to scrabble with his feet and pull with his arms to complete the manoeuvre. Hastings took full advantage of the other man’s error, pushing himself to reach the fence only a couple of seconds after Spencer. Learning from his predecessor’s mistake, Hastings timed his strides perfectly and sailed smoothly up and over. Landing gracefully on both feet this time, he took off again, before realising that his quarry was nowhere to be seen. Barely had this registered when he felt a huge weight crash into his left-hand side.

Rolling as he’d been taught in jiu-jitsu class, Hastings struggled back to his feet, just in time to ward off a lethal snap-kick that threatened to remove his head from his shoulders. This was followed swiftly by a punch towards his face and another kick, aimed at his groin. Hastings parried all of the attacks, aware even as he did so that he was operating at the edge of his ability. He was pretty good at hand-to-hand, particularly the dirty, street-fighting style that his jitsu instructor was an expert at, but he realised that this guy was better. By quite a margin. And he had a dirty little advantage, Hastings saw, even as he realised his error, leaving his chest exposed as he sought to protect his face and his groin. The perfect target for the six-inch kitchen knife clasped in Spencer’s fist.