The Last Straw. Paul Gitsham

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СКАЧАТЬ and set up the chairs. As he approached the room he spotted that the door to the superintendent’s office was ajar. It would be rude not to pop his head in, he decided, plus it wouldn’t hurt for the boss to notice how early he was in.

      He rapped confidently on the door, his knock answered immediately with a curt, “Come in.” Stepping in, Jones stopped in surprise. Sprawled in a large, comfy-looking visitor’s chair, sipping a cup of freshly brewed coffee, was Detective Inspector Tony Sutton.

      “Ah, good morning, Warren. Tony was just filling me in on last night’s discovery.”

      So that’s how it is going to be, thought Jones, pushing down a sudden flash of annoyance. His first big case since moving here and already Sutton was trying to muscle in on his territory, ingratiating himself with the boss.

      Sutton smirked. “Just the juicy bits, guv. Thought I’d leave the details to you.”

      “So kind, Tony,” commented Jones. If the super noticed the tension crackling between the two men, he gave no sign of it.

      “This is a big case, Warren. A murder is a nasty business at the best of times, but this one could be especially problematic.” The superintendent leant back in his chair, rubbing his eyes wearily. “The vice chancellor of the university phoned me at six this morning, ‘to express his concern’ and emphasise the need for a ‘speedy resolution’. If I ever find out which bugger gave him my home phone number, they’ll spend the next twelve months telling primary-school kids not to talk to strangers.

      “Either way, we do need to solve this quickly and decisively. A murderer running about the campus could be disastrous for the university’s reputation, especially with next month’s Controversies in Science conference. The guest list for that event looks like a who’s who of shit-stirrers. Richard Dawkins and the President of the British Union for the Abolition of Vivisection are some of the less controversial speakers. If they think we can’t guarantee their safety, the organisers may well cancel the conference or, worse, up sticks to bloody Cambridge.”

      Sutton grunted. “Rumour has it, King’s College wanted to host it, but Channel 4, who are footing the bill, reckoned it would seem too elitist. You can bet they’ll be the first in line to offer their facilities again if we lose the conference.”

      Jones tried to hide his puzzlement. They seemed to be taking this whole thing rather personally. During his time in the West Midlands, Jones had worked dozens of serious cases linked to the region’s several universities. The reputation of the university in question hadn’t been a huge worry. As far as the police were concerned, a crime was a crime and it would be solved with no more or no less vigour than an offence occurring anywhere else on their patch. Seeing Jones’ lack of comprehension, Grayson leant back in his chair, assuming a professorial air.

      “Look around you, Warren. Middlesbury is a small market town, with bugger-all local industry. The decision to turn the technical college into a university forty-odd years ago gave this place a lease of life. It’s the biggest employer in the area and the students bring millions into the local economy. Part of the attraction for students is the location. We’re seen as a safe, quiet place to live and study. We have none of the hustle and bustle of Cambridge or the crime of some of the Essex cities. It’s a huge draw for overseas students, who bring in massive amounts of foreign money — even if some of our more conservatively minded residents aren’t too fond of them.”

      Nodding his understanding, Jones tried not to feel patronised by the unnecessary lecture and oblique reference to his status as a newcomer, opting to reply with a simple, “I see.”

      “So, DCI Jones, I want you to give this case top priority. I’ll back you completely resource-wise. Pull everyone off what they are doing and get them to focus fully on solving this murder. We have some spare money in the Major Incident Budget, so feel free to offer overtime and buy in all the forensics you need. I’ll sweet-talk Uniform into giving us some bodies for routine stuff. Let’s nail this bastard.”

      Jones nodded, not trusting himself to say anything. He could see how it was going to be. This case was a big deal and a lot was resting on his shoulders. It was his first case as a DCI and it looked as though it was going to be sink or swim. He had the deeply uncomfortable feeling that the outcome of this case would set the tone for the rest of his time in Middlesbury. Suddenly, the banana he had eaten for breakfast seemed to be weighing heavily in his stomach. His palms felt damp and his collar too tight. As if a major incident such as this weren’t enough for him to deal with, now he had to negotiate local politics as well. For the first time since his move, Warren allowed the ever-present whisper of doubt that lurked in the back of his mind speak louder.

      He’d known that becoming the DCI of such a small unit in a semi-rural town would probably be less glamorous and exciting than his previous job with West Midlands Police and that the shameful downfall of DCI Gavin Sheehy had left a lot of collateral damage that he might well have to deal with, but the simple fact was that there were already plenty of DCIs in the WMP and he’d risked getting stuck in a rut as a detective inspector. If he ever wanted to make it as a detective superintendent or even a chief superintendent, he needed the command experience. Consequently, when the vacancy in the Middlesbury CID unit had become available, Jones had been encouraged to apply.

      Making his excuses and repressing the treacherous voice at the back of his mind again, Jones left the office and went into the main briefing room. A large conference room, it lacked the sophisticated wall-mounted plasma screens that were being installed as he left the West Midlands. Nevertheless there were several oversized marker boards on wheels and plenty of chairs. As a concession to the twenty-first century, a ceiling-mounted projector allowed video and computer imagery to be displayed on the back wall. Most importantly, a large urn bubbled away on a corner table, next to a wicker basket filled with packets of tea, coffee, sugar and powdered creamer. A stack of cardboard cups served those without a mug. The old coffee tin now doing double duty as an honesty jar was suspiciously empty, and Jones hid a smile. Human nature was human nature, and coppers were all too human. Before doing anything else, Jones made himself a strong black coffee. After a moment of indecision, he emptied three sachets of sugar into the cup. The resulting brew was far sweeter than he liked, but the caffeine and sugar hit would hopefully chase away the remaining cobwebs. As an afterthought he chucked a fifty-pence piece into the honesty jar — lead by example and all that…

      It was now five to eight and the CID day-shift were starting to file into the room. After two weeks, Warren could put a name and a rank to most of the faces. Some acknowledged him with a nod, one or two with a cautious, “Good morning, sir.” Warren was again reminded of the veiled scrutiny with which he was being viewed. Suspicion was probably too strong a word, but there was still a certain wariness. He was acutely aware that he was on probation with these people and that he had to prove himself to be up to the job.

      By eight, he judged the room to be full, with a couple of dozen detectives of various ranks seated in rows. Grayson and Sutton stood at the back, watching. Calling for quiet, he wished all those assembled a good morning. Taking a deep breath, he launched in.

      “As I am sure that most of you have heard, there has been a murder at the university in the Biology building up on Mills Road. At 22:19 hours last night a call was received from a member of the public and approximately ten minutes later two uniform colleagues on patrol confirmed the finding of the body of a middle-aged white male in a first-floor office within the main research wing. Paramedics confirmed that the victim was dead when they arrived. Preliminary identification is that of a Professor Alan Tunbridge, the occupant of the office. The PM will be held later today, but early indications are that the deceased was bludgeoned, possibly with a souvenir granite rock, before having his throat sliced open. Probable cause of death, exsanguination.”

      A low murmur rippled around the room. Looking СКАЧАТЬ