The Last Straw. Paul Gitsham

suppose, but, even if there are others involved, the evidence so far suggests that he committed the murder alone.”

      “But what evidence? That CCTV image is pretty non-conclusive and anyone could have swiped his access card through that lock. Furthermore, how did he know that Tunbridge would be working late that night? Was that usual for him? If not, who tipped Severino off? And what about Spencer? Something’s not right there.”

      “Well, it looks like it’s as his brief said — wrong place, wrong time.”

      “Possibly, but something smells strange about this set-up. It’s too bloody convenient. He just happens to be in the PCR room when it all goes down and then he stumbles across the body. He checks the pulse of a blatantly dead man, conveniently covering himself in the victim’s blood to wreck any forensics. Why did he check the carotids? Don’t most people check the wrist for a pulse? And his demeanour wasn’t right. He’s just found a freshly murdered co-worker, whilst on his own in a large, deserted building late at night. Chances are the killer is still in the building somewhere, yet he calmly makes a phone call and waits at the murder-scene for us to arrive. I don’t know about you Tony, but I’ve seen enough slasher movies in my time to know that you don’t hang around and call the police from the victim’s phone, you run like hell and find somewhere to hide before using your mobile.”

      Sutton shrugged, clearly not convinced.

      “I think you’re over-complicating things, guv. Shock makes people do strange things.”

      Seeing that he was unlikely to budge his colleague based on what they had so far, Jones decided to give up. In the meantime, the desk sergeant was signalling that Clara Hemmingway had arrived. Motioning to Sutton, they headed for Interview Room Two to avoid contaminating Hemmingway with any trace evidence from Spencer’s interview in Interview One. More than one case had been scuppered because the police had transported two different suspects in the same car or interviewed them in the same room and found it impossible afterwards to disentangle their separate DNA profiles.

      Gathering his thoughts, Warren prepared for his next interview of the day.

       Chapter 9

      A uniformed constable led Hemmingway into the interview room. She was a youngish-looking twenty-year-old in jeans and a crop top with a slim figure, generous cleavage and carefully styled short blonde hair; it was easy to see why a middle-aged university professor might have been tempted. Taking a seat opposite the two detectives, she placed her large black handbag on the floor next to her. Jones introduced himself and Sutton for the benefit of the recording, before explaining that she was not under arrest, nor had she been charged with any crime. She nodded, looking curious but not overly nervous. Jones glanced at the slim file in front of him. Two police cautions in her early teens for shoplifting and a suspended sentence, aged seventeen, for her part in a drunken brawl in Colchester town centre on a Saturday night. Miss Hemmingway had certainly been through this process before, he noted.

      Nevertheless, she’d clearly cleaned up her act sufficiently to pass her A levels and convince the admissions tutor that she was worthy of a place at university. The University of Middle England might not be Oxford or Cambridge, but with the current demand for places they could afford to pick and choose who they offered those places to. He’d have to remember that. This young lady was clearly a little more intelligent than the stereotypes might suggest.

      Watching her carefully, Jones started, “Now, the reason we have asked you down here is to help us with our enquiries regarding the murder of Professor Alan Tunbridge last night. How well did you know the professor?”

      Hemmingway’s eyes widened slightly. “Murdered? Why? Where?”

      “He was found in his office last night. He’d been stabbed.” Jones decided not to give out too much information at this stage. “Again, how well did you know the deceased?”

      Hemingway paused for a couple of seconds. “Well enough, I suppose. I did a bacterial genetics module with him last year.”

      The answer was terse, short and cautious. Jones and Hemmingway locked eyes. She wasn’t stupid. She knew that the only logical reason that she was here was because the police were aware of at least some of her past history with the murder victim. Nevertheless the wariness forged by years of playing so close to the thin blue line had conditioned her not to give away anything more than absolutely necessary.

      Jones spoke softly. “Come on, Clara. We all know it was a bit more than that. You and the professor were extremely close.”

      Clara stared at him defiantly. “So what? We fooled around a bit. He was rich and successful and not all that bad-looking. All those professors are the same. They just want a little bit of fresher pussy.” She paused as if to gauge the reaction to her profanity. Seeing nothing, she pressed on. “You know what the older students call the first week of uni? ‘Fuck a Fresher Week’. Of course the profs can’t get in on any of that — Freshers’ week is just for students. But when classes start and you start having tutorials — well, it doesn’t take much. A little extra help on an essay or perhaps an extension…well, it’s easy to come to an arrangement. And for randy old bastards like Tunbridge, who blatantly hate teaching, it’s probably the only thing that makes tutoring undergrads worthwhile.” Jones noticed that as she became more animated her Essex accent became harsher, betraying her council-estate upbringing.

      “Was that all it was, Clara? Just a bit of fun? Maybe it was more than that — he had a wife. Rumour has it you weren’t the only one. How did that make you feel?” Now it was Sutton, his brusque manner a contrast to Jones’ more measured tones.

      “Yeah, that’s all it was, just a shag. Earned me an extra week to write an essay I was having trouble with — didn’t affect the grade though. He didn’t mark it. I got that A fair and square.” This last bit was delivered with conviction, the flashing in her steely blue eyes daring anyone to contradict her.

      “And before you ask, no, I wasn’t jealous of his frigid wife or any other slappers he slept with and, no, I didn’t kill him.” If she spotted the irony, she didn’t show it.

      “OK, Clara, I can accept that. Tell me, what was his reaction when you found out that you were pregnant?” The question was brutal, deliberately out of the blue, designed to push her onto the back foot.