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

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.”

      Shit. Bloody lawyers.

      “I fully understand, Professor, and I will have no problem getting a warrant. Indeed I will be getting one issued as a matter of course to assist in our investigation. However, it will take some time for a warrant to be signed. In the meantime, we could well have a killer on the loose.”

      The older man licked his lips nervously. Jones could see the conflict in his eyes. It was obvious that the man genuinely wanted to help the police and was almost as frustrated as Jones that bureaucracy was threatening to get in the way. Unfortunately, under the Police and Criminal Evidence Act, any information that Jones saw might well be inadmissible in a court of law unless he had that warrant.

      Of course there was a compromise and Tompkinson was an intelligent enough man to see it.

      “What if I were to allow you to take a peek at the information, informally of course, and then if you found anything of interest you could then read it officially after having shown me the warrant?”

      Jones suppressed a smile. He didn’t need to look at Hardwick to know that she too had been hoping for the offer. “Thank you, Professor, that will be most useful.”

      The file was rather thick, Jones noticed. As if reading his mind, Tompkinson gestured into the main office.

      “You are welcome to photocopy the file once you have the warrant, to read it at your own leisure, but in the meantime what if you tell me what you are looking for?”

      “Well, first of all, how well do you know the lad?”

      “Not at all well, I’m afraid. In fact although his name rang a bell, I couldn’t recall his appearance. I do recognise him though, now that I have seen his picture in his file. I have probably said a few words to him at the Christmas party or the summer barbecue, but his work is too different from my own and his lab too far away for me to have spoken to him much.”

      “Well, why don’t you tell us a bit about his background?”

      Slipping his glasses back on, Tompkinson flicked through the pages of the file.

      “OK, I have his original application form. Thomas Michael Spencer. Born June twenty-sixth 1985. Parents’ address is given as Stockport, although this file is four years old now and that address may not be current. You would need to speak to Student Services to find out the address he lives at when he studies. He’s listed as unmarried, ethnicity white British, no disabilities, sexual orientation heterosexual.” He looked up, slightly embarrassed. “Equality monitoring. World’s gone bloody mad. Again, you will need to speak to Student Services to check if that’s up to date. For the marital status that is, obviously his ethnicity hasn’t changed or his sexual orientation… actually I suppose that could have changed and he could have had some sort of accident…sorry. Where was I?” He cleared his throat.

      “Ah, yes, well, Mr Spencer joined us in October 2007, having got an upper-second-class degree from Sheffield University. He worked, as you know, in Alan Tunbridge’s group and was directly supervised by Mark Crawley.”

      Tompkinson leafed through a few more pages.

      “OK, so he passed his first year with distinction, with the recommendation that he be allowed to transfer onto the PhD course.” Tompkinson paused and backtracked slightly. “It is common practice for students to be registered for a Master’s in Philosophy initially — an MPhil — and then transfer to a Doctor of Philosophy, PhD, after the production of a satisfactory first-year report, roughly equivalent to a master’s dissertation. It’s a safeguard that allows students who don’t wish to continue their studies to graduate with something.”

      “And Spencer was passed with distinction? Who examines the dissertation?”

      “The report is marked initially by the student’s supervisor, in this case Tunbridge, and then passed on to two other members of faculty, who will also verbally examine the student to make certain that it is their own work etc. Alan signed off on it and then Professors Abdullah Omara and Jennifer Stokes marked it formally as a distinction.”

      “So he was a promising student?”

      “It would seem so.” Tompkinson leafed through a few more pages. “Here is his second-year report. This time it’s the result of a verbal meeting between the student and the faculty advisor. Jenny Stokes reported that Spencer was progressing well in his research and was confident that he would be in a position to start writing up within the next twelve months. Alan Tunbridge again signed off on the report, saying that Spencer had made sufficient progress and that with hard work he would be in a position to write up within twelve months. Neither Jenny, Alan or Mr Spencer reported any concerns, either publicly or confidentially.”

      Tompkinson carried on reading.

      “Oh. This is his mid-third-year report.” He adjusted his glasses again and peered over them, a gesture that Jones was starting to recognise as his ‘teaching pose’.

      “Standard full-time PhD courses, such as the one that Spencer was enrolled on, are funded for three years by the funding council, in this case the MRC. The expectation is that students complete their research, write it up and submit at the end of those three years. Either way, they stop being funded and they are no longer paid. In reality, we have found that most students take about three and a half years to finish and write up. The funding councils get very antsy if they don’t submit in four years and can penalise the university. So about halfway through the third year we start progression-to-submission meetings.

      “Mr Spencer, at this point, was still working full time on his research, but was confident that he would be completed within the next few months and written up by the beginning of his fourth year. That’s fairly typical. Alan has signed the bottom to say he agrees. No further action required.”

      He turned the page.

      “Three months from the three-year deadline. Spencer is still working full time. Some experiments have had to be repeated. He will start writing up when they are completed. Signed by Alan.”

      Another page.

      “Three-year deadline. Spencer is still repeating key experiments. He agrees to submit a first couple of chapters of his thesis to Alan for checking by the end of the month. Both sign the form.”

      Another sheet of A4.

      “Hmm. This is three months later. Spencer has started another set of experiments. He has submitted his first two chapters, which Alan has signed off as satisfactory. However, he requested a confidential meeting with Jenny Stokes where he expressed concern that Alan was insisting that he complete more research and won’t accept the conclusions of a paper that he has written for the Journal of Bacteriology. Jenny advises him to follow Alan’s advice for the time being.”

      Jones sat up a little straighter. “So Spencer and Tunbridge had an argument.”

      Tompkinson waved a hand in a dismissive gesture.

      “I wouldn’t read too much into that, Inspector. Disagreements between PhD students and their supervisors aren’t uncommon at this stage. In fact there is an old saying that your PhD supervisor is the first person that you have a truly professional argument with. It’s almost a rite of passage. Strange as it may seem, but at this stage Mr Spencer will probably be the world’s leading expert on that one tiny facet of his research. He will have lived and breathed his project for the past three years and so will be very possessive of his work.”

      Tompkinson’s eyes misted over and he smiled slightly. “It’s been thirty years but I remember the arguments with my PhD supervisor like they were yesterday. Of course, my prof was right and his decision to force me to delay publication of my first paper was absolutely correct. In the end it was published in a far more prestigious journal than it would have been otherwise. At the time though I thought the old bastard was past it and nearly walked out. I went to his eightieth birthday a couple of years ago and he still teased