Paul Gitsham - The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3

“Was that all it was, Clara? Just a bit of fun? Maybe it was more than that — he had a wife. Rumour has it you weren’t the only one. How did that make you feel?” Now it was Sutton, his brusque manner a contrast to Jones’ more measured tones.

“Yeah, that’s all it was, just a shag. Earned me an extra week to write an essay I was having trouble with — didn’t affect the grade though. He didn’t mark it. I got that A fair and square.” This last bit was delivered with conviction, the flashing in her steely blue eyes daring anyone to contradict her.

“And before you ask, no, I wasn’t jealous of his frigid wife or any other slappers he slept with and, no, I didn’t kill him.” If she spotted the irony, she didn’t show it.

“OK, Clara, I can accept that. Tell me, what was his reaction when you found out that you were pregnant?” The question was brutal, deliberately out of the blue, designed to push her onto the back foot.

Clara’s mouth opened in surprise; clearly she hadn’t been expecting the question.

“Wha...? How did you know? Who told you?”

“It doesn’t matter who told us. Please, just answer the question.”

Clara slumped back in her chair; for the first time since she’d entered the room the defiant façade cracked slightly.

“He was angry at first. Blamed it on me. Said I should have been more careful.” She snorted. “You’d think that a Biology professor would know that it takes two to tango.” This last sentence was delivered with no trace of mirth. “In the end, he made me get rid of it. Said it was for the best. He gave me some cash and arranged for me to move tutor groups so we wouldn’t see each other again.”

Jones now, in a gentle voice.

“How did that make you feel, Clara?”

She sighed. “Cheap.” She looked at the ceiling and it was as if she’d forgotten where she was.

“The thing is, he was right. I couldn’t have had that baby. Even with the university’s support, I can’t see how I would have looked after it. And Alan made it clear that he wasn’t going to help. Not that I’d want him to anyway. The worst thing would be going back home. All the fingers pointing, all the whispering: ‘See, I told you so, stuck-up bitch, thinking she’s better than us.’” She looked the two detectives squarely in the eye, one at a time. “You see, I’m not only the first person in my family to go to university, I’m the first on my whole estate. Of all the kids I grew up with, not one of them stayed on to do A levels. Most of them barely finished their GCSEs. I got six A*s. Then I got an A and two Bs at A level.” She laughed harshly. “Shit, with my background when I got to university I ticked so many boxes on the outreach programmes I’m amazed the government didn’t stick me in their election manifesto. It’s just a shame I’m not a black lesbian in a wheelchair, then I’d have completed the fucking set. Anyway, that’s all in the past. I can’t say I’ll mourn the bastard, but I didn’t kill him.”

The statement hung in the air, the look of defiance back on Clara’s face. Despite her protestations, Jones wasn’t convinced. This was one angry young woman and she had a hell of a motive. Nevertheless, it was time to move on. It seemed that everyone who’d ever met the professor could conceivably have a motive. And motive was only part of the equation. Without opportunity, motive meant nothing.

“Now, Clara, we would like to ask you some routine questions about your whereabouts yesterday evening, between the hours of nine p.m. and ten p.m.”

Shifting uncomfortably, Clara gazed into space for a second.

“Boring night in. I watched a DVD then went out to Tesco to get some munchies. Figured whilst I was there that I’d do me shopping as well.”

“Can anyone vouch for you? Flatmates, boyfriend, friends?” Jones continued probing gently.

“No, I was on me own. Me flatmate was away for the weekend and I ain’t seeing anyone at the moment.”

Nodding as if satisfied for the moment, Jones continued conversationally.

“So what time did you go to Tesco?”

“Must have been about half-nine or ten. Cupboards were bare so I did me big shop.”

“Very strange time to walk half a mile to the supermarket, ten p.m. on a Friday. Especially when you have a corner shop just around the corner from you,” Sutton interjected.

“Yeah, well, like I said, I was having a quiet night in and I wanted some snacks. Figured I may as well do me big shop then — it’s quiet that time of the night.”

Nodding as if the explanation was perfectly reasonable, Jones took over.

“I don’t suppose that you have any witnesses? Bump into anyone that knows you? Did you keep the till receipt?”

“I didn’t see nobody I knew, but I think I might have the receipt.”

Bending down, Clara started to root through her handbag. As she did so both officers were treated to a look down her impressive cleavage. A small tattoo of a rose adorned the top of her left breast.

You can take the girl out of Essex…I guess that’s what happens when you aim for fifty per cent of school leavers going to university. Jones felt a sudden flash of shame, both at the eyeful he was getting and his sudden unbidden academic snobbery.

He glanced over at Sutton, who smirked back at him and winked, before restoring his poker face. Clearly no shame being felt there.

Finally, Clara sat up holding a large purse in triumph. Opening it, she removed a till receipt from Tesco — a very, very lengthy till receipt. With a flourish, she passed it over. A cursory glance and Jones felt his hopes fade. According to the time stamp on the receipt, Clara had been at the checkout at pretty much the same time that Tom Spencer was reporting the murder of Tunbridge. If the receipt was to be believed, Clara really had done her ‘big shop’ that night; he was amazed she’d managed to carry it all home. Even on a quiet Friday night, he couldn’t see how she could have travelled to Tesco from the crime scene, filled a trolley this big, then put it through the checkout in those few minutes. He’d get her story verified by somebody as soon as possible. But it looked as though she was in the clear.

With everything concluded, Jones asked a uniform to see her out. Alone in the room with Sutton, he looked at him questioningly.

“Thoughts?”

Sutton was uncharacteristically wary.

“I don’t know, guv. She has one hell of a motive and she was definitely not telling us the whole truth — her dialect wobbled quite a bit, the inner-city Essex came through more strongly towards the end. That might be an indication that she was lying—” he sighed “—but that till receipt looks pretty convincing,”

“I agree. She was definitely holding something back, but we did hit her pretty hard with the questions about her pregnancy. She’s clearly still upset over the incident — that may have been enough to rattle her cage. Nevertheless, unless she had an accomplice, I don’t see how she could have done a shop like that in the time she would have had. I’ll send someone down to Tesco to speak to the manager and see if any of the checkout staff remember her or if she pops up on the CCTV. However, I think we can probably rule out Ms Hemmingway’s direct involvement.”

By the time they had finished interviewing Hemmingway it was getting on for four p.m. Jones’ stomach was growling, the breakfast banana and single bite of cheese sandwich not nearly enough to placate it. Thirty minutes more, he decided, then they were waking up Severino regardless. If he was to have any chance of making the restaurant for six-thirty, they needed at least a preliminary statement from him within an hour or so.