The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3. Paul Gitsham

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