Authors: Paul Gitsham
“That’s the only person entering or leaving the building after 21:00 hours that night.”
Jones turned to Raworth. “Can we follow him before or after he left the building?”
“I’m afraid not, Chief Inspector. He heads along the side of the building next to the car park. Unfortunately there’s a blind spot all along that wall a couple of metres wide. As long as he kept close to the wall, there’s no way we could spot him.” He shrugged apologetically. “Budget cuts, I’m afraid. We had a spate of vandalism a few months ago in the car park. We didn’t have the money for new cameras, so we repositioned the ones we already had to cover the car park rather than the side of the building.” He shrugged again. “Not my idea, I must say, but as the old saying goes, ‘who am I to question why…?’.”
“It doesn’t matter though, guv. We know who he is.” Sutton held up the sheets of paper triumphantly. “The building’s swipe-card log. And guess who swiped in at 21:35 and swiped back out again at 22:10?” He pointed to two highlighted entries on the list.
Dr Antonio Severino.
Sutton and Jones walked up the front path of the small suburban house, barely a fifteen-minute walk from the Biology building. After reviewing the video footage, it hadn’t taken long for them to find the address of Severino or to arrange an arrest warrant and a search warrant for his home. The house was a well-maintained two-up, two-down semi in a quiet cul-de-sac. Apparently, Severino had rented the house with his fiancée for the past two years. As Sutton and Jones approached the front of the house two more officers approached the rear, ready to stop any escape attempt via that route. Parked a discreet distance away, two police cars and a police van plus a half-dozen uniformed officers were waiting ready to assist. All of the officers wore stab vests — they’d seen what Severino was capable of and they had no desire to end up the same way as the late professor.
Jones paused at the door before pressing the doorbell. He heard its echoing ring in the hallway, muffled by the front door. Nothing. Not so much as a twitch from the drawn curtains. He paused a few more seconds, before ringing the bell again, this time holding it down for a couple of seconds. Still nothing. Jones contemplated shouting, “Police, open up!” through the letterbox, but he was reluctant to give up the advantage of surprise so soon. He decided to ring one last time, before radioing back to the forced-entry team on standby to bring over their solid-steel two-man battering ram, guaranteed to open pretty much any door.
Holding the bell push down for a full fifteen seconds, Jones was finally rewarded by sounds of movement behind the door and muttered cursing. The door opened and a wave of whiskey and stale cannabis fumes assaulted his nostrils. Standing in scruffy, striped boxer shorts and a stained grey T-shirt was a twenty-something man of average height. His skin had the slight olive cast to it common amongst those from Mediterranean countries, his unruly hair raven black. He blinked at Jones, clearly struggling to wake up fully.
“Dr Antonio Severino?”
The man nodded, puzzled. Jones held up his warrant card.
“You are under arrest for the…”
That was as far as Jones got. Severino’s face promptly lost all of its colour, turning in an instant to a pasty white. Without a word, he turned on his heel and bolted back into the house.
“Shit! Don’t let him get away!” yelled Sutton, somewhat unnecessarily since the two officers at the rear of the house were waiting by the back door with open arms. Much to Jones’ surprise, however, rather than heading through the kitchen and towards the back door, Severino dived up the stairs.
Jones took off after him, Sutton a pace behind. Thundering up the stairs, the two officers struggled to catch up with the fleet-footed Italian. Where the hell was he going? To destroy evidence? Was there somebody else in the house? Maybe he was going to kill himself, throwing himself out of the bedroom window. Christ, it would really screw things up if he topped himself, Warren thought fearfully.
Reaching the top of the stairs, the fugitive carried on running, crashing into what was clearly the bathroom. Barely a second behind, Jones followed, expecting to see the man rummaging through the medicine cabinet for a weapon or a means to kill himself. Instead, he saw the man on all fours leaning over the toilet bowl being violently sick. The sour stench of whiskey and bile filled the room.
Catching his breath and trying to ignore the smell, Jones tried again. “Antonio Severino, I am arresting you on suspicion of the murder of Professor Alan Tunbridge.”
Severino finished vomiting and turned around, opening his mouth as if to speak. He seemed to be having trouble focusing. After a pause of a few seconds, his eyes rolled back into his head and before Jones could catch him he fainted clean away, his head hitting the porcelain of the toilet bowl with a solid smack.
“Reckon you’ll probably have to read him his rights again, guv,” Sutton noted from the open doorway.
* * *
A cursory inspection by a paramedic pronounced Severino to be dead drunk but otherwise fit and so the semi-comatose Italian was loaded into the back of the waiting police van. Back at the station, he was roused enough to be read his rights before being stripped and put into a paper suit, his own clothes bagged and sent off to Forensics. Severino was clearly in no state to be interviewed and his lawyer would doubtless try and get anything he said declared inadmissible as evidence. Therefore, Jones decided to play it by the book. Dumping him in the drunk tank to sleep it off, he asked the desk sergeant to organise a solicitor and, as an afterthought, an Italian translator for when he awoke in a few hours. The last thing they wanted was any language problems slowing down the interview process.
In the meantime, Jones and the rest of his team finally had time to eat and an opportunity to compare notes. Unfortunately, the station’s small canteen was closed for hot meals at the weekend, so the team had to make do with the rather sorry-looking sandwiches left over in the self-service fridge from the previous day. As a result they decided not to linger over lunch. All of them were keen to get on with their work, but Jones insisted that they take a short break.
Despite the rapid early progress of the investigation, Jones knew from experience that a murder investigation was a marathon not a sprint and he wanted his team to remain fresh. Furthermore, Jones firmly believed that a few minutes’ break would allow each officer’s subconscious to process what they had learnt so far, supplying new insights and new questions. Besides, Severino wouldn’t be going anywhere for a while and Spencer wasn’t due to return for further questioning for some time.
Whilst the others tucked into the stale sandwiches, Jones snagged Sergeant Kent and asked him to collate the latest reports from his incident desk. Glancing at his watch, Jones then decided he had time to ring Susan and headed into the corridor for some privacy. The phone connected on the third ring. “Hi, sweetheart, it’s me.”
“It’s Bernice. Susan’s busy preparing a salad for the picnic. And of course it’s you — it says so on the screen.”
Jones stifled a groan. He had hoped to have a private chat with Susan, explaining what was going on. But that clearly wouldn’t be possible. Mustering all of his tact and injecting a false note of positivity into his voice, he addressed his mother-in-law.
“Hello, Bernice, Happy birthday.”
A sniff at the other end of the line.
“I’m sorry I had to leave so suddenly last night. Unfortunately I got an emergency call.”
“I see. And that kept you out all night? I suppose you are calling now to say that you won’t be coming to Cambridge for the picnic today?”
Bloody woman, she wasn’t making it any easier for him. Susan must be a bit annoyed as well, he decided. Normally she tried to wrestle the phone from her mother; today she was letting him stew as Bernice grilled him. Changing tactics, he decided to appeal to her baser instincts. Bernice loved to gossip and the idea that she had got the inside scoop on such a big story before any of her friends would appeal directly to her self-importance. Besides which, the press had already started sniffing around. It wasn’t as if he was telling her any information that wouldn’t be in the public domain within a couple of hours.
“I’m afraid so, Bernice. It’s all a bit hush-hush, you understand, but last night a famous scientist was found murdered at the university.” Warren could almost hear Bernice’s interest pique. It wasn’t exactly a lie, after all; in terms of celebrity, Tunbridge was famous in the field of antibiotic research, wasn’t he?
“Really? Which college? It wasn’t that lovely Professor Hawkings, was it? He was on television last week and I said to Dennis, ‘It’s such a shame, such a wonderful mind trapped inside that poor broken body.’ Who could murder that lovely man when he’s so helpless? I tell you, Warren, there are some truly wicked people out there! Why have they brought you in? Isn’t Cambridge a bit out of your jurisdiction?”
Jones blinked as he tried to process the torrent of misunderstanding flooding down the phone. It was no wonder Dennis never said anything in public.
“Er, no, it wasn’t Stephen Hawking, Bernice, it was a Biology professor and it was at our local university, the University of Middle England.”
“Oh.” A pause. “I didn’t realise that Middlesbury had a university.”
“Oh, yes, it’s quite a good one.” Warren suddenly felt an irrational need to defend the institution against the withering disdain of his mother-in-law.
“Anyway, the body was discovered late last night. We had to secure the crime scene and then this morning we started our enquiries.”
“So will you be coming to the picnic?”
“No, I’m sorry, we have too much going on at the moment. But I promise that I’ll make it tonight.”
Bugger! Why did I just promise that? What if I can’t make it?
Slightly mollified, Bernice offered to pass the phone over to Susan, who pointedly walked out into the garden so she could talk in private. Even so, she kept her voice low and Warren could imagine Bernice staring through the French windows, trying her best to lip-read Susan’s half of the conversation.
“I’m sorry, darling, there was a murder up at the uni last night and I’m lead investigator.”
“I thought Stephen Hawking worked at Cambridge University? Why are you investigating his death?”
Warren stifled a curse. “No, it’s not Stephen Hawking. It’s a local Biology professor at UME. Your mum just got the wrong end of the stick.”
“So are you coming tonight?”
“I should be, yes. I’ll ring you a bit later and we can decide where to meet. I’ll probably come straight to the restaurant.”
“Well, don’t forget the table’s booked for six-thirty and the show starts at eight. And I suggest that you bring some sort of peace offering.” Whether it was for Susan or her mother wasn’t clear. Warren decided he would play it safe and get something for both of them.
Hanging up, he turned to see Sutton grinning, clearly having heard at least part of the call.
“Mother-in-law’s birthday,” Jones offered weakly by way of an explanation.
Remarkably, Sutton’s expression changed to one of sympathy.
Given the strained relationship between them, Jones decided to take advantage of this slight wind change and attempt to build some common ground.
“Do you have the pleasure of a mother-in-law, Tony?” It was a weak opener, nevertheless Sutton seemed willing to run with it.
“I have two.”
“Two? How the hell does that work?” Jones grimaced. Maybe he should cut the man some slack, he thought — it must be a tough life with two of them.
Sutton let out a bark of laughter. “Badly!”
Jones said nothing, simply smiling in sympathy. Sutton accepted the implied invitation. “My current wife has a mother who is very much alive and kicking…mostly kicking. She’s never really liked me and isn’t very good at hiding it. Sometimes I think she watched a little too much Les Dawson and decided that’s what mother-in-laws were supposed to be like.”
Jones chuckled. “Now, take my mother-in-law. No, please, take my mother-in-law,” he intoned in a fair interpretation of the comic’s rich, northern baritone. Sutton smiled in acknowledgement of Jones’ attempt at levity.
“Mother-in-law number one, Betty, is also still on the scene. She doesn’t like me very much either.”
Jones raised an eyebrow in surprise at the intricacies of Sutton’s personal life.
Sutton shrugged. “Long story, short — Angela and I got married far too young. Everybody said it wouldn’t work, but we were young, stubborn and in love.” He smiled wistfully. “Anyway we did our best for five, six years but it was hard work. I was a young copper on a constable’s pay; Angela worked shifts at the local hospital. We rarely saw each other and when we did, we never had any money to enjoy ourselves. So we did what hundreds of foolish young couples have done before us and decided to have a baby to bring us together.”
“And did it?”
Sutton snorted. “What do you think? At first it was great. Angela had a pretty good pregnancy and we were both thrilled when Josh was born. The excitement lasted a year or so, until Angela went back to work. Then it was as if the clock had turned back twelve months. We both still worked shifts, so we still hardly saw each other and when we did we could never have any time alone because Josh was there.
“Fortunately, Betty and her husband Doug lived nearby and loved Josh to bits, so they would babysit whilst we went out.” Sutton’s expression turned thoughtful. “You know, in many ways, although she didn’t like me very much, I really think Betty wanted me and Angela to succeed. The problem was, we were both feeling hemmed in. Angela wanted to go back to college to study for her nursing degree. I wanted to go to night classes and do a degree before studying for my sergeant’s exam, but that was no longer possible. So we carried on as we were for another year or two, before I fucked up. Big time.”
“What happened?” Warren asked cautiously. Sutton’s candour was unexpected and he didn’t want to kill the moment.
“It was such a bloody cliché. I got absolutely hammered at the nick’s Christmas party and woke up the next morning in bed with one of the civilian office workers. Needless to say, when I finally slunk home, Angela was furious. I didn’t try to deny it. There was no point — it was bleeding obvious what had happened. I packed my bags, left the house and kipped on a mate’s floor.