Authors: Paul Gitsham
“Yes, sir. Bath, then Bristol.” Karen looked puzzled. These days graduate recruitment was the norm, not the exception.
“I believe that you did some sort of biological sciences degree?”
“Yes, sir, I did a bachelor’s degree in Biochemistry and then a masters by research in Molecular Biology.”
“So I would assume that your degrees involved spending time in laboratories?”
“Yes, I did a twelve-month work placement in a pharmaceutical company during my first degree, then my master’s degree involved three rotations in different laboratories within the Biology department.” Karen now had an inkling where this might be leading.
“Well, Karen, my gut is telling me that the reasons for this murder might lie in that university department. I may need an interpreter, somebody who is familiar with the system and the language.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, sir.”
“Good. Now let’s go and round up DI Sutton. We’ve got some trees to shake and I get the impression that the DI is good at shaking.”
Jones, Sutton and DC Karen Hardwick were greeted in the lobby of the Department of Biological Sciences research building by a different young PC from the previous night. After crossing them off his clipboard, he radioed ahead to let the crime scene technicians know that they had arrived. Apparently, Dr Mark Crawley, the laboratory’s experimental officer, was already with them.
Following the same route as the night before — less than ten hours ago, Jones realised wearily — the three police officers headed towards the crime scene. This morning it was necessary to stop a few doors short of the office where the professor’s body had been found, since the whole end of the corridor was now blocked off with blue and white crime scene tape.
Just past the barrier was a set of wooden double doors, with a large sign proclaiming “Tunbridge Group. Microbial Biology”. Next to it were yellow warning stickers with the universal signs for biohazards and, Jones noticed with a touch of discomfort, radiation. A few metres further along the corridor the door to Tunbridge’s office was open, white-suited technicians hard at work. A uniformed constable stood to attention next to the tape, his hands behind his back. Jones pretended not to see the copy of
The Sun
inexpertly concealed behind him. He had spent plenty of time as a uniformed officer guarding crime scenes and knew just how desperately dull it could be.
“DCI Jones. I was told that Dr Mark Crawley was up here?”
“He’s in the laboratory, sir, with Crime Scene Manager Harrison, the lead forensics officer. I’ll fetch him.”
The constable stepped under the blue and white tape and slipped through the double doors into the laboratory. A few seconds later the doors opened again and a tall, middle-aged, rangy man stepped out. He was dressed in faded blue jeans with an open-necked checked shirt, a white forensic hairnet and white paper booties over his shoes. His eyes were red-rimmed behind small eye glasses and Jones noticed that he hadn’t shaved. His right shirt pocket was overflowing with pens and pencils of different colours, one of which appeared to have leaked slightly. The left contained a second pair of glasses, with what appeared to be pink lenses. A lanyard with a photographic ID card and a couple of small keys completed the ensemble.
“Good morning, officers, I’m Mark Crawley, the Tunbridge Group’s experimental officer.” He extended a hand awkwardly. His accent retained traces of a Yorkshire upbringing, although many years in the south had clearly influenced his speech.
“I was familiarising your forensic team with the lab before they go searching for evidence. There’s lots of chemicals and delicate equipment in there — we don’t want any accidents.”
“Good morning, Dr Crawley. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Warren Jones, this is Detective Inspector Tony Sutton and this is Detective Constable Karen Hardwick. First of all, let me extend our condolences on your loss.”
Crawley acknowledged the sympathy with an incline of his head.
“We are here to find out about Professor Tunbridge and try to piece together what happened Friday night. Is there somewhere we can talk?”
“Of course, follow me. We have a tea and coffee area with seating.”
Shucking the hairnet and booties and depositing them in a labelled bin, he led the three police officers back down the corridor past another two doors and ushered them into a small, crowded room. Jones looked around, quickly assessing the space. Metal bookcases crammed with journals and well-thumbed textbooks lined two of the walls. In the centre, a coffee table was surrounded by five soft chairs that reminded Jones somewhat uncomfortably of a dental surgery. Just like in a waiting room, the table was covered in magazines — or, rather more accurately, journals. A cursory glance at some of the headlines on the journals suggested that he would be unlikely to find any diets or salacious celebrity gossip between their pages. That being said, Jones did spot a copy of
Private Eye
sitting next to a pile of
New Scientist
.
On the wall to the left, a cork notice board was covered in paper, mostly to do with upcoming seminars or courses. The wall to the right had a similar notice board to which photographs of what Jones assumed were the rest of the lab, in a variety of staged and candid poses, were pinned haphazardly, some of them tagged with cryptic in-jokes. Jones recognised Tom Spencer and Mark Crawley in a few of them. To Jones’ surprise, the only image that Tunbridge appeared in was a formal-looking group photo. He didn’t seem to feature in any of the Christmas or other party pictures. A handwritten sheet of paper proclaimed itself as the sign-up sheet for a meal out at a local curry house next Friday. A dozen or so names were scrawled in different-coloured pens, some with ‘+1’ next to them. Jones wondered if that would still take place — would the lab come together to raise a glass to the prof’s memory?
A small window overlooked the car park below. Beneath it sat a small fridge, pulling double duty as a counter top. A mug tree jostled for space with four or five different jars of coffee, a jam jar of sugar and a box of PG Tips tea bags. The white plastic surface was ringed with brown stains from spilled drinks. Several dirty teaspoons were propped up in a coffee mug, itself in need of a good clean. Even by the standards of the CID tea room, the place was a health hazard. All three officers politely declined Crawley’s offer of a hot drink.
Motioning them to sit on the over-stuffed dentist’s chairs, Crawley flopped down himself. He looked physically exhausted, yet at the same time filled with nervous energy, Jones decided. Was it the weariness of grief? Worry about his job? Guilt? At this moment, Jones was keeping an open mind.
“First of all, Dr Crawley, could you tell us a little about yourself? I’m a bit mystified by the title ‘Experimental Officer’.”
“Basically, I’m the person in charge of running the lab on a day-to-day basis. The lab manager, if you will, except that I also do my own research. Alan…Professor Tunbridge…does…or rather did a lot of travelling and so I was the person in charge of making sure the lab ran smoothly in his absence. I’ve been with Alan for about twelve years or so, I guess.”
Jones nodded. “What can you tell me about Professor Tunbridge?”
Crawley sighed, took his glasses off and cleaned them, before placing them back again. The three police officers waited.
“Well, it’ll all come out in the end, I suppose… Alan was a brilliant researcher. His work was well respected around the world, hence his constant travelling. He has dozens of high-impact papers in all the best journals and regularly referees the papers of others in the field before their acceptance into journals.”
Jones sensed a “but”.
“But, on a personal level the guy was less than universally loved.”
Jones’ ears pricked up.
“Are you suggesting that the motive for his murder could be personal, rather than professional?”
“Look, all I’m saying is that, frankly, the bloke was a bit of an arsehole. He had a tendency to rub people up the wrong way, often for no good reason. He could really upset people and he just didn’t give a shit, ’scuse my French. He got away with a hell of a lot because of who he was and senior management used to excuse him ‘because he’s a genius and they can be funny sometimes’. Try telling that to a masters student in tears because her dissertation has been sent back with ‘crap — start again’ scrawled across it in red pen.” Crawley was clearly starting to unload years of pent-up frustration and Jones was willing to let him vent. Who knew what might come out…?
“The genius bit is bollocks. I’ve met a number of geniuses over the yearsand they were all nice blokes. Alan hadn’t got his Nobel yet, but he still acted like a wanker. At least three graduate students made complaints against him and two technicians claimed constructive dismissal. But Alan’s Teflon-coated. He usually got away with it.”
Crawley’s voice had started to rise and he broke off, breathing heavily.
“So why did you stay with him so long?” Jones asked.
Crawley sighed, the energy draining again.
“The sad fact is that despite all the nonsense, he was OK with me. I think he realised that he would be lucky to find someone else who’d put up with his behaviour. As for me, I’ve fallen with my bum in the butter. I can pursue my own research and I still get my name added to pretty much every paper that comes out of this lab.
“My problem is, I’m at the top of the research associate pay scale and my next career step is my own research group, but I’ve got a wife and three kids. The oldest will be off to uni next year, the youngest is still at primary school and has just been diagnosed with hyperactivity disorder and the family curse, dyslexia. My wife’s parents will probably have to go into a home in the next twelve months. I don’t have time to set up my own group, but I’m too expensive for anybody else to want me. Alan, for all his faults, was happy to keep on paying me. I guess we needed each other.” He gave a humourless grin. “If we were having this conversation in five years’ time, I’d say ‘cuff me now’, I’ve got every motive. I’d be ready to bump the old sod off and take over the group. But at the moment, it’s the last bloody thing I need.”
Jones nodded, not yet convinced. He moved on to another tack.
“Who else could have a motive for killing Tunbridge?”
“It’d be easier to ask who didn’t. Frankly he pissed off most people that he met. Plenty of collaborators over the years have complained that he was dictatorial and manipulative. He put plenty of noses out of joint by taking advantage of other people’s research, but the simple fact is that there is one rule for us and one rule for people like him. But that was mostly professional jealousy. I can’t see any of these guys killing him over who deserves to be first name on a paper in the
Journal of Bacteriology
.”
“OK. Leaving aside professional rivalries, what about closer to home?”
“Well, he was a philandering bastard. He shagged at least one of his undergraduate students, not to mention a few colleagues that he used to meet at conferences. For somebody with such an unpleasant streak, he never seemed to have any problems getting laid.”
“Can you give me any names?”
Crawley thought for a moment, his brow creased in concentration.
“I think one of them was called Claire or something. Rumour mill has it that she was one of the students on his Microbial Genetics course and he took a shine to her. There were the usual claims that he gave away good grades in exchange for sexual favours, but that’s bullshit. I know for a fact that undergraduate essays are all marked independently and anonymously from the tutor that sets them to stop that sort of stuff happening. Anyhow, she moved on and we haven’t heard from her since. This was some months ago.”
Jones noted down the details, deciding to pursue the lead nevertheless.
“I guess the people with the biggest grudge against Alan would be his former grad students and postdocs. He treated some of them shockingly. I know, because I usually ended up picking up the pieces.”
“Anyone in particular?”
“Well, I suppose Antonio Severino is the first name to spring to mind. He was one of Alan’s postdocs until recently, then things went horribly sour.”
“How? By the way, could you just clear up some terminology for me? What is a ‘postdoc’?”
“Well, a postdoctoral research assistant or associate is a junior researcher at a university. Basically, you do your PhD, to become ‘Doctor’ and then do a couple of research positions of a couple of years apiece in other people’s laboratories to gain experience. In some countries, such as Canada, you are still regarded as little more than a glorified student. Fortunately in the UK it’s now a properly salaried position with all the usual benefits.
“Anyhow, Dr Antonio Severino joined us about two years ago. He’s a smart guy and managed to solve a couple of really difficult problems that we were struggling with. Anyway, Alan being Alan felt a bit threatened by this as he realised that Antonio was inevitably going to share a lot of the limelight when the research was published and so he announced out of the blue that when Antonio’s initial appointment expired in six weeks’ time, he wasn’t going to renew the post. Furthermore, he was going to hold off on the publication of several key papers until he had some more data. This really upset Antonio. You see, not only was he out of a job in six weeks, he is also not going to have any publications to show for the past two years. In this climate he’ll be lucky if he gets a job cleaning glassware. The long and the short of it is that Alan absolutely shafted the poor bastard.”
“How did Dr Severino take this?”
“How do you think? Not to be stereotypical, but Antonio is a full-blooded Italian. They had the mother of all shouting matches in the lab, which spilled out into the corridor. Half the building must have seen and heard it. Anyway, I finally persuaded Antonio to leave and go home for the day, promising I’d talk to Alan about the papers. Antonio did calm down enough to leave the building, but he went straight down to the pub.
“He’s always been a drinker, but that day he excelled himself. According to a couple of Mick Robinson’s group who were having lunch in there he got absolutely wasted. When they arrived he was already really pissed, drinking shots. They knew him and everyone sympathises with you when you’re dissing the boss, so they sat with him for a bit. Eventually they figured he’d had enough and called him a cab.