The Last Straw
She nodded, confidence buoyed somewhat by the praise.
“Yes, sir. I did a Molecular Biology degree and we learnt a lot about antibiotic resistance. You mentioned that Professor Tunbridge was planning on going commercial with his work — is this what you meant?”
“Yes, ‘Trident Antibacterials’ was the name he was considering. Alan was just starting to put out feelers for potential backers. It was all very hush-hush, of course. I believe that he was in the process of protecting the work with patents before he went public. The word on the grapevine is that he had successfully developed a drug system that attacked three unrelated drug targets simultaneously. The theory is that whilst the odds of one bacterium developing a chance mutation that renders the cell resistant to an antibiotic is fairly good when you consider the trillions of bacterial cells that will be treated over time, the likelihood of all three targets being thwarted simultaneously is infinitesimal. Even if a cell becomes resistant to one or even two of the methods of attack, the remaining drug target will still remain viable.”
“So you are saying that Tunbridge’s murder may have been, for want of a better word, industrial espionage?”
Tompkinson shrugged. “I would say it’s a possibility.”
“Who would benefit from his death, then, and how?”
“I suppose the most obvious candidate would be a rival pharmaceutical company. The idea of a multi-pronged attack isn’t in itself brand new. I’ve no doubt that dozens of laboratories around the world are working on similar approaches. Stopping Tunbridge from launching Trident would buy them time.”
“Murder seems a bit extreme. Why not just buy him out? If the stakes are as high as you say they are, surely somebody could just throw a few million quid his way to sell them his work, or even offer him a job in their company to finish it with them.”
“That may well have happened. However, knowing Alan as I do, working for another company wouldn’t appeal to his ego. For Alan, being the CEO of his own company that produced this miracle cure would be the ultimate goal. He was a huge self-publicist and he’d have relished the idea of a four-page spread in New Scientist or even the front cover of a major news magazine such as Time. In terms of money, if he wanted to sell his work, then he’d make much more if he was able to sell a fully working product. If it is as successful as he wanted it to be — and it is still a big if — he could float Trident on the stock exchange or even license it to the highest bidder. In this case we could be talking hundreds of millions, if not billions.”
“What about the research that he has already published? Surely, the cat’s out of the bag now. Isn’t it just a question of time before somebody else follows his work? What about the other members of his lab? Surely, if they got together they could assemble the pieces and finish the work?”
“Perhaps one day, but you have to realise how controlling Alan was. He still performed some of his own research. That’s rare — most professors of his standing haven’t wielded a pipette in anger for years. I would imagine that the central piece of the jigsaw is all Alan’s own work and he probably hasn’t shared his data with anybody else. I fear that when Alan died, Trident died with him. And with him millions of people who could have been saved from a horrible death.”
Chapter 6
As Jones and Hardwick left Professor Tompkinson’s office they were met by a young PC. “Sir, DI Sutton has found something at the main campus security office he thinks you should see.”
Motioning for the young man to lead on, Jones and Hardwick followed him out of the Biology building into the bright sunlight. “Main campus Security is just along here, sir, a few minutes’ walk.”
The temperature had picked up a little now, but the air was still fresh. In a couple of hours it would be too warm for his suit jacket, Warren judged. Impatient to see what Sutton had discovered, he walked as briskly as possible, arriving at the small building slightly out of breath, his calf muscles aching. His more youthful colleagues, he noticed with mild shame, seemed to have taken the rapid pace completely in their stride, so to speak.
You’re getting old, Warren. Too much time behind a desk, not enough time on the beat, he admonished himself.
The campus security centre was a nondescript building, tucked away next to the library on a busy main road. Seeing them arrive, Sutton opened the door to let them in. In his hand he held a sheaf of printed sheets of A4 paper. He was clearly excited; even his customary smirk was absent. As quickly as was polite he introduced Jones to Terry Raworth, Head of Security. A solidly built man his ram-rod straight bearing and no-nonsense attitude suggesting either ex-police or former military. Noting the tattoos on the backs of his wrists as they shook hands, Jones decided upon ex-military. Tattoos hadn’t been encouraged in the police back when this man would have been serving and it seemed unlikely that a retired copper would suddenly develop an interest in body art.
Raworth led them through the back into the main control room. It was small and cramped, one whole wall given over to banks of black and white TV screens, with digital video recorders blinking below. An ancient desktop computer sat on a rickety desk, its fan wheezing loudly. The air was close, smelling of stale coffee and unwashed bodies. Sitting on an even more rickety-looking plastic chair in front of the monitors was another man, similar in age although without Raworth’s military demeanour.
“What have we got, Inspector?”
“First things, first — it looks as though Spencer is off the hook. The security logs for the PCR room show him swiping in at 21:05 hours. He remained in there until 22:13, six minutes before he reported the murder. Coroner reckons the time of death was about 21:30 to 22:00 at the latest. Furthermore, if he’d done it, he’d have been covered with a lot more blood. I can’t see how he could have killed the professor, changed out of his blood-stained clothes and got rid of them in six minutes.”
“What if he had an accomplice?” Jones was unwilling to dismiss Spencer just yet.
“The logs for the main entrance show that building was completely empty by twenty-past nine that night, except for Spencer and Tunbridge. The last half-dozen to leave included the two graduate students that Spencer claims he spoke to just before he went into the PCR room. We’ll have to review the full CCTV footage to make sure that we didn’t get anybody sneaking in on somebody else’s coat tails earlier in the day, but it seems unlikely.”
“So who the hell killed Tunbridge, then?”
Sutton smiled, clearly enjoying himself.
“Well, guv, I think we might just be able to answer that little question.” With a flourish he motioned towards the bank of video monitors. As if on cue, the video started playing.
“This is the front reception desk in the Biology building. It’s the only entrance to the building and the only security camera inside the building.” The image was black and white but clear, evidently shot from a camera positioned above the swipe-card doors, angled to take in as much of the reception area as possible.
Raworth took over the commentary, pointed a stubby finger at the screen. “During the day, whoever is manning the reception desk can control the cameras, panning around or zooming in and out if they want to. The rest of the time it can be controlled from here. At that time of the night it is left in standby mode, covering as much of the lobby as possible with a wide-angled lens, recording only when it detects movement. A rolling buffer means that the system also saves fifteen seconds either side of the trigger, to ensure that nothing is missed.”
He pointed at the time stamp at the bottom of the screen. 21:35h. As he did so a figure emerged from the right of the screen, outside the building, the automatic glass doors opening to admit it. The person — it looked like a man to Jones — walked beneath the camera. The footage was slightly jerky, but from what Jones could see the man appeared to be of average height, wearing a dark-coloured hoodie. Underneath the hoodie was a baseball cap, completely obscuring the mystery person’s features. A crude, but effective, disguise. Both the hoodie and the baseball cap had what appeared to be small logos. Warren felt his heart skip a beat. He was certain that image analysis could identify them. Clearly visible in the mystery man’s hand was a credit-card-sized white plastic rectangle. Without hesitation, or so much as a glance up towards the camera, he swiped the card through the machine and entered the building proper. A few more seconds elapsed before the footage stopped.
The time stamp at the bottom of the screen jumped forward to 22:10h. The mysterious form re-emerged from the bottom of the screen, coming through the door. This time he was clutching what appeared to be a bin bag in his left hand. Clearly in a rush, he half ran across the lobby and out of the front doors, heading right again towards where he had emerged thirty-five minutes earlier.
“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.
Chapter 7
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.
“That could have been the end of it. Angela kicked me out, fair play, and I’m sure Betty and Doug were happy to tell her ‘I told you so’, but there was still the issue of Josh. Angela never wanted to see me again, unsurprisingly, but amazingly Betty stood up for me. By now Angela was back with her parents and Betty basically said, ‘My house, my rules. Josh needs his dad and I’m not letting him get off scot-free.’ I think at first she was worried that I’d just piss off and leave them.