The Last Straw
The door to Professor Tompkinson’s office was right at the back of the office. An effort had been made to create a sort of waiting area, with a couple of comfy chairs lined up beneath the window. On the opposing side of the room a workstation sat facing the visitors; a name plate on the table read ‘Mrs C Gardner — PA to the HoD’.
Despite the shabbiness of the set-up, it reminded Jones a lot of the chief constable’s office. The logic of the layout there was to keep the boss away from the day-to-day grind, shielding him from unwanted visitors and time-wasters. The HoD’s PA was no doubt the guardian of the appointments calendar and probably a formidable obstacle. Jones himself tended to operate an open-door policy: if the door was open come straight in, no appointment necessary. If the door was closed ask Cathy, the secretary nearest to the office and Jones’ unofficial PA, if it was worth knocking or if it would be better to leave a message. He found himself wondering if Professor Tompkinson was an open-door or closed-door kind of boss.
At the moment, the door was closed. As the two officers waited by the comfy chairs Crawley knocked once and entered the office. A few seconds later he emerged. “Professor Tompkinson is on the phone. He’ll speak to you in a moment. I’d better get back to the lab and give those details to the constable.”
He left quickly.
With the door still closed, Jones turned quietly to his colleague.
“Impressions?”
Karen chewed her lip. She was clearly a little intimidated about being asked her opinion by someone as senior as Jones; nevertheless, she thought the question over carefully.
“Holding something back. He was definitely uncomfortable answering that last lot of questions. I reckon he knows more than he was letting on.”
Jones nodded in concurrence.
“Karen, you asked some interesting questions there — what was on your mind?” He was careful to phrase it as an invitation. Jones valued the instincts of his junior colleagues and encouraged their input more than some. The first DCI he had worked for had routinely told junior officers to remember that they had two ears and one gob, and to use them in that proportion. His aggressive attitude had made young constables nervous about voicing their opinions. Jones was convinced that more than one case could have been closed far faster if the crusty old detective had listened to his colleagues more. Fortunately, he had finally retired six months after Jones had joined CID and his replacement, Bob Windermere, had been the complete opposite. To this day, Jones still regarded him as something of a mentor and regularly sought his advice.
Karen Hardwick took the invitation.
“When I was back in uni, some of my friends were doing PhDs. More than one of them had a supervisor that they argued with. It could get pretty nasty. If this Professor Tunbridge is half as unpleasant and mean as Dr Crawley was saying, he could have given Tom Spencer a pretty good motive for his murder.”
Jones nodded encouragingly. He’d had the same thoughts himself.
“What about the questions on funding you were asking about?”
“Well, typically a student funded by a body like the Medical Research Council is given three years’ worth of funding for their project. That may be awarded directly to the student, but more typically it is part of a larger project grant that their PhD supervisor has successfully applied for. We’ll probably find that Tunbridge’s laboratory had a couple of large project grants running for several years and that his PhD students had studentships funded as part of the grant.”
Jones made a note to follow that up, thankful to the gut instinct that had caused him to choose Karen Hardwick to accompany him and Sutton. Her insider knowledge of the mysterious workings of university departments was proving invaluable.
“Anyhow, full-time students normally have funding for three years and are expected to submit their completed PhD thesis — an eighty-thousand-word dissertation — within four years.”
“What happens if they miss the deadline?” asked Sutton.
“In the worst-case scenario, I suppose they’d fail their degree.”
“You seemed to think it important that Spencer was reaching the end of his four years. Could Tunbridge have been stopping him submitting? Crawley did mention that Tunbridge had been harsh to students in the past over their dissertations.”
Hardwick shrugged. “I don’t know. We should definitely ask though, sir. We should also ask about Tom Spencer’s finances.”
“Oh? Why?”
“If he was towards the end of his four years, he was probably pretty skint. The three-year project funding also extends to the student’s living stipend. Students are usually told to save a bit of money during the three years so they can keep on paying the bills during their write-up period. Sometimes they can get some part-time teaching, but I knew PhD students who had to have bar jobs on top of their research just to make ends meet.”
“Well, that’s certainly a good enough motive,” Jones mused. “If Tunbridge was stopping Spencer from graduating, he could have been in trouble financially. I think we’ve got a few more questions to ask Mr Spencer later.”
Chapter 5
At first glance, Professor Tompkinson resembled a retired Geography teacher or librarian, Jones decided. Small and stooped, with generous ears and tiny spectacles perched on the end of his nose secured with a safety cord, he wore a grey woollen sweater, checked shirt and plain red tie. In addition, he was wearing a flat cap, as if he had just come in, although the empty coffee cups next to his phone suggested otherwise. Jones was unable to resist a surreptitious glance at the coat stand in the corner of the office and felt almost let down by the absence of a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.
“Please, do come in. I’m very sorry about you having to wait. The chancellor of the university was on the phone; he’s rather concerned about what happened last night.”
After offering them coffee, which the two officers declined, Tompkinson sat down behind his desk. “First of all, please let me make it absolutely clear that you will have the full co-operation of myself and this department in solving this terrible crime. The vice chancellor and the chancellor have also expressed their willingness to assist in any way.” He paused as if not quite sure how to proceed. “Ah, as you may be aware, Chief Inspector, the university will shortly be hosting a prestigious conference, with a number of high-profile guests.” Warren nodded. “We are a little concerned as to the impact any investigation would have on the smooth running of the conference and the implications such a violent attack may have for the university’s reputation. As such, we would appreciate it if you were able to keep us fully informed of the progress of your investigation.” His piece said, he sat back in his chair.
As he did so Jones noticed that the man’s hands shook slightly. Why? Was he nervous? It seemed unlikely — the professor was clearly a man used to moving in political circles. The presence of a police officer, even one investigating a murder, would be unlikely to unnerve him enough to give him the shakes. Jones made a mental note to check for an alibi. Perhaps he was just wired from too much caffeine.
“Of course, I fully understand, Professor. As soon as we have any information that we are ready to make public I will ensure that the university is informed.”
Tompkinson’s eyes narrowed slightly at Jones’ careful wordplay, but he said nothing, merely nodding acceptance. Jones carefully maintained his poker face, but inside he was satisfied that he had discreetly but firmly laid out the ground rules — the investigation would be run on Jones’ terms and his terms alone.
With the lines drawn and the rules of play established, Jones decided to start off with a little fishing to see what the professor volunteered, before getting down to specifics.
“Tell me, Professor, how well did you know Professor Tunbridge?”
“I suppose I’ve known Alan for about twenty-five years, to a greater or lesser extent. We were postdocs here back in the day, before we went our separate ways for a few years. Eventually, we both found our way back here and set up our own labs. We work in different fields, so we never collaborated. Nevertheless, this isn’t a huge department, so we got to know each other as colleagues. As we became more senior and gained our chairs — professorships — we obviously spent time together on committees.”
Jones nodded. “I see. And how would you say you were on a personal level?”
Tompkinson took his glasses off, and polished them on his tie, frowning. The two officers waited in silence.
Finally, Tompkinson replaced his glasses and let out a weary sigh.
“There’s no point sugar-coating it, I suppose. Alan was a hard man to like. He had an abrasive personality and didn’t suffer fools gladly. He was also arrogant, domineering and bullying, yet strangely petty at the same time. He was a genius, no question. But I can’t really think of anyone that I would describe as a close friend of his.”
Jones repressed a sigh. It seemed that the motives, and thus by extension the suspects, were stacking up.
“Alan and I had a lot of arguments, particularly when I became Head of Department. We butted heads frequently over all manner of policies. Pretty much any decision I made, Alan would question and because he was who he was, often the VC — the vice chancellor — would overrule my decisions and go with Alan’s. Sometimes I wondered who the hell the head of department was, me or him?”
“So do you think Tunbridge was after your job?” Was that a big enough motive, Jones mused, for murder?
Tompinkson let out a bark of laughter.
“Oh, dear God, no, you misunderstand completely. The last thing Alan would want is the hassle that goes with being the head of department, far too much pen-pushing and meetings. No, Alan was a research scientist through and through. He hated any type of ‘admin bollocks’ as he called it.
“No, Alan would far rather be the power behind the throne. He’d let me and others sweat out all of the details in meetings and just swan in at the last minute. The bugger probably only attended one departmental meeting in three and he was only one of a dozen or more faculty members, yet barely a major decision has been made in five years that Alan didn’t have a hand in.”
“Forgive me, Professor, but so far we haven’t heard a good word about Professor Tunbridge. Some of the behaviours that he has been accused of sound suspiciously close to gross misconduct. Violent rows with postdocs, students reporting him for bullying, constructive dismissal claims and an alleged affair with an undergraduate student. Yet it seems that he hasn’t been subject to any disciplinary action at all. Why is that, Professor?”
Tompkinson looked embarrassed. “You’re right, of course, Chief Inspector. Much of what Alan did was unacceptable. Particularly the way he treated that poor undergraduate — getting her pregnant and then making her get rid of the baby left a bad taste in my mouth. You just can’t act like that. But, senior management decided that it would be in everyone’s best interest if we hushed it up. After all, she was a consenting adult. It’s not like any laws were broken.”
Jones blinked; beside him he felt Hardwick stiffen. Tunbridge had got an undergraduate student pregnant? And then had it hushed up? Tompkinson had blithely admitted it, clearly assuming that if they knew about the affair, they must know about the pregnancy. Why hadn’t Crawley mentioned it? If he was to be believed, he was Tunbridge’s trouble shooter, stepping in after his boss to clear up the former’s mess. Surely he had known about it. Was he trying to protect Tunbridge’s memory? Unlikely, given the way he’d trashed the man’s reputation for the past half an hour. What about the young woman’s? Was he trying to protect her dignity? That seemed a little more likely, Jones decided. And what about his discomfort over questions about Tom Spencer’s finances? Was he trying to protect him as well?
“Could you give me the young lady’s name, please? I think we should speak to her.”
Tompkinson looked a bit uncomfortable. “Is that really necessary, DCI Jones? She went through rather a lot. We decided that a fresh start was best for her. I’d rather we didn’t open old wounds.”
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I really must insist. Better that you give me the details discreetly, here and now, than I have to conduct enquiries.”
Tompkinson sighed.
“The young lady’s name was Clara Hemmingway. She’s a current student, so student services will have all of her details. She was assigned to Alan, along with three other students, after choosing Microbial Genetics as one of her essay preferences. This would have been back in November. It’s a long-standing tradition at the university, designed to bring undergraduate students into contact with the research side of the university. They get a tour of the lab and we even pay for them to go out to lunch with the lab members and encourage them to discuss their lab’s work and findings.
“Sometimes students even manage to get summer jobs or internships with the lab later in their course. To the best of my knowledge, Miss Hemmingway has not had any work experience with the lab, but she certainly made an impression!” His laugh was bitter and his expression suggested that he found the situation far from amusing.
“Thank you, Professor. Now, back to the original question. Why was Professor Tunbridge allowed to behave in the way he did, seemingly with no consequences?”
Tompkinson leant back slightly, before sweeping his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. Again, that nervous tremor.
“Look around you, Officers. This is the University of Middle England, not Oxford or Cambridge.” Seeing their uncomprehending gazes, he leant forward.
“How much do you know about university funding? Are you familiar with the Research Assessment Exercise?”
Seeing their shaking heads, Tompkinson adopted a professorial air — appropriately enough, thought Jones.
“Funding for UK universities comes from many different sources, but broadly it can be categorised in two ways. There is specific funding for a specific project. The university and individuals bid for grants from a wide-range of different funding bodies. Some are governmental, such as the Medical Research Council or the Biotechnology and Biological Sciences Research Council, others might be charitable, such as the Wellcome Trust or Cancer Research UK. These grants may be a few thousand pounds to fund a series of particular experiments; a few hundred thousand pounds to run a research project and employ staff and students or tens of millions to build a new research centre.”
He gestured around the office. “Then there is the more general funding that is used to pay for teaching, maintain our research facilities and run our administrative departments. This comes from central government. You may have heard about the proposed cuts in higher education funding?” Nods all round. “This is the budget that the government is slashing.
“The problem is the way the funding is allocated. Every five years or so, universities undergo a Research Assessment Exercise — an audit if you will. They grade us based upon the quality of our research. The key measure that they use is whether our research is ‘world-leading’. Those departments that are judged to be ‘world-leading’ are rewarded by a bigger bite of the funding cherry than those that aren’t.”
Tompkinson leant forward, taking his glasses off again, his voice becoming heated.
“We produce some bloody good research, damn it. But we are a small university. The RAE is intrinsically biased against smaller institutions like us. Alan Tunbridge was our biggest name. His work is internationally recognised and he is one of the world’s leading authorities on antibiotics. We simply can’t, or rather couldn’t, afford to lose him. Academia is a dog-eat-dog world and top-flight researchers are constantly being poached by other institutions. Oxford, Cambridge, UCL, Manchester, Warwick and Liverpool have all tried to woo him in the past few years that I know of. And that’s just this country. Harvard, Johns Hopkins, The Pasteur Institute…they’ve all had a go as well. Gold-plated salaries, state-of-the-art laboratories, the promise of no teaching…they’ve offered him far more than we ever could. So we couldn’t afford to piss him off in case one day he’d turn around and say, ‘I’ve had enough, I’m off to Oxford.’ So whatever Alan wanted, Alan got. And within reason, we let him get away with bloody murder. Sorry, poor choice of words.”
Tompkinson now leant back, the passion leaving him.
“So why did Tunbridge stay? No offence, but the University of Middle England is hardly a household name. Surely working in Cambridge or Oxford would have been hard to resist. Why would Tunbridge stay here?”
Tompkinson shrugged. “A good question. Why does anybody stay in a place? I have thought about it over the years and I think it was for a number of different reasons.”
He held up his hand, ticking the points off one at a time. Again, Jones noticed the man’s hands shaking. His voice seemed calm and confident, however.
“First of all, the comfort factor. Alan’s been here for years. Despite his travelling, I think he regards this part of the world as home. He and his wife bought a lovely house at exactly the right time, years ago. You’d never get anything close to it at today’s prices in places like Oxford or London.
“Second, the hassle. Moving laboratories is a big deal. Even with professional movers and managers, it’s a logistical nightmare. Even the best-planned laboratory moves can knock you back six months. And what about his staff? How many would go with him? Mark Crawley, his experimental officer, has a wife and kids — would he be likely to up sticks? Even moving to Cambridge might mean an unacceptable commute for some staff.
“Third, he likes being the big fish in the small pond. I’ve already told you about how much influence he has here. You can’t paint the toilets here without Alan’s say-so. No other institute is going to let him have that much power without the responsibility, least of all Oxbridge. And in terms of stature, he might have got a Nobel one day — but in Cambridge he’d be working alongside people who were invited to Sweden when Alan was still doing his university finals.
“Finally, Alan was almost certainly going to go commercial with his work within the next couple of years. You may have seen in the paper that the university just broke ground on a new incubator building. Brand-new state-of-the-art facilities and expertise designed to support new start-up companies. He’d have been first in line for one of those new labs and the university would have been happy to help him commercialise his work. He’d probably have kept his lab over here doing basic research — which would have been good for us in the RAE — whilst all his commercial work would have migrated to the incubator building.”
Jones nodded; on the face of it, Tunbridge’s reasons for staying seemed plausible.
“Forgive me, Professor, but it would seem that a number of people have motives for wishing Tunbridge was dead, not least yourself.” Jones watched Tompkinson very carefully, gauging his reaction to the implied accusation.
Tompkinson smiled, almost in amusement.
“I am well aware that some might see me as having a motive for Alan’s death. And I’m certainly honest enough to admit that my life would have been a lot easier over the past few years without him second-guessing me and breathing down my neck. But believe me, Chief Inspector, if I’d wanted to kill him it would have happened a long time ago. Besides which, it no longer matters. In two months I retire. I’m hanging up my lab coat. Frankly, I was looking forward to a quiet last few weeks wrapping up a few personal projects and making sure that my research group are ready to move on. The last thing I need is this.”
Jones wasn’t convinced.
“I can see your point, Professor. However, sometimes unexpected things happen; arguments flare up, old grudges simmer until they reach boiling point. In fact, if you don’t mind me saying so, you look a little young to be retiring. Did Professor Tunbridge have any influence in that decision?”
Tompkinson laughed, a short bark.
“The man had influence, but he wasn’t God! No, Alan Tunbridge had nothing to do with my retirement. If anything, he’d probably have liked me to stay in the job, since whoever replaces me will probably be less of a pushover. No, it’s probably genetics and bad luck that is forcing me out.”
Noting the police officers’ blank looks, he held out his hands.
“I’m sure that trained observers such as yourself have noticed that my hands shake. I’m afraid that it isn’t nervousness, too much coffee or the after-effects of a good night out. I’ve got Parkinson’s disease.”
He took off his hat, revealing an almost entirely hairless scalp, bisected by an angry-looking red scar.
“I was diagnosed a few years ago. The symptoms were kept in check for a while by drugs, but as I’m sure you know it’s a progressive disease. A year or so ago I had deep-brain stimulation.” He gestured at the scar. “Unfortunately it’s had little effect. Maybe if this had happened a decade or so from now I would have phoned a few old colleagues and seen if I could wangle a place on a clinical trial for stem cell therapy, but it’s a little too early for that yet.”
He sighed regretfully. “Since the beginning of the year it’s been obvious that I am going downhill pretty fast. The shakes are getting worse. I daren’t go near any of my students’ work in case I have an accident and wipe out six months’ research. Most days I slur my speech and nod my head constantly, but I’ve learnt how to regulate my medication, to ‘overdose’ on days that I need to speak more clearly or move more carefully. My GP doesn’t recommend it, of course, since the pills have side effects, but a lot of patients do it. Anyway, I decided a few months ago that enough was enough. The university has been very understanding and I’ve managed to secure a fairly generous pension. My wife and I are going to move to the South of France to be near our daughter and enjoy the grandkids whilst I still can.”
There was an uncomfortable silence for a few moments. The man’s story would need to be checked out, of course, and nothing he had said would make it impossible for him to be involved in Tunbridge’s death, but Jones mentally moved him to the ‘unlikely’ list.
“I see. Well, leaving aside yourself, it would seem that there are still a fair number of people with a motive for killing Professor Tunbridge. I would like to ask you a bit about some of the members of his laboratory. First, Thomas Spencer.”
“Ah, so those rumours are true. I heard that Mr Spencer had been arrested at the scene. Covered in blood, I heard.” The Professor looked excited. Not an unusual reaction, noted Warren — the popularity of crime drama on TV and in best-selling fiction was a testimony to the fascination of the general public when it came to crime. And, of course, the more lurid and salacious, the better. It would seem that news was spreading fast, probably aided by the security guards present at the scene. The building’s virtual lock-down wouldn’t go unnoticed either, as the various Saturday workers were turned away at the door. Nevertheless it was important to make sure that any information was accurate, particularly when the press turned up. Which would probably be any moment now, Jones realised.
“Mr Spencer found the body and is currently assisting in our enquiries. We would greatly appreciate your help in ensuring that any information that gets passed to the press is accurate and won’t compromise the investigation.”
Looking suitably chastened, the professor nodded.
“Of course. Well, in anticipation of your interest, I took the liberty of pulling Mr Spencer’s file. I had only just started to read it when the chancellor phoned. But, there is a slight problem. If, as you say, Mr Spencer is merely helping with your enquiries I am afraid that, under the Data Protection Act, I cannot let you look at his file without a warrant.”