The DCI Warren Jones Series Books 1–3

Finally, they reached the car park. Bernice and Susan got into her car on the ground floor. “Why don’t you go with Warren, dear? Susan and I have things to talk about.”

Just great, thought Warren, no chance for a crafty Internet search to swot up on the play. Still, the look on Susan’s face suggested that she wasn’t looking forward to the drive home with her mother either. Warren had a feeling that the subject of grandchildren, or rather lack of, was probably on the agenda.

Susan’s decisions to marry a police officer and become a Biology teacher — in a comprehensive school of all things — were perhaps less of a disappointment than her apparent unwillingness to produce a grandchild. Moments before the phone had rung the previous night, Bernice had been rummaging in her oversized handbag for the newest collection of photographs from her latest visit to Susan’s remarkably fecund younger sister, Felicity. This had almost certainly been the prologue to an uncomfortable discussion in which Bernice would have reminded Susan that she wasn’t getting any younger. Warren experienced a brief stab of guilt at the relief he felt that he had been spared that conversation.

As for Felicity, married barely three years, baby number three had arrived only a few weeks ago. There was no suggestion that Felicity had married beneath her station; her husband Jeff was an investment banker in London earning at least ten times Warren and Susan’s salaries combined. So impressed was Bernice by this that the fact that the couple’s first child was born considerably less than nine months after their wedding was never discussed.

No, he’d rather take his chances with Dennis, he decided.

After waving the women off, Dennis and Warren climbed another flight of stairs to Warren’s car. Getting in, Warren decided he might as well do some fishing, to see if he could gain some idea as to what they’d just seen. “So what did you think of the play, Dennis?”

The older man grunted. “Not a bloody clue, lad. I slept right through it.”

Sunday

Chapter 14

For a second morning, Warren swatted the alarm clock’s off button at 6:30. He groaned. He’d gone to bed relatively early the night before. After arriving home from the theatre, the foursome had enjoyed a leisurely nightcap, before retiring shortly before midnight. Bernice had been impressed when Warren had related the events of the previous twenty-four hours. Even Dennis had ventured an opinion, commenting on the speed with which they had tracked down Tunbridge’s suspected killer. Warren had apologised in advance for missing church the following morning and warned that, depending on how the day’s events played out, he might not be back until late. That her son-in-law would be giving a press conference the next morning was enough to appease Bernice, who he suspected would be phoning her friends as soon as it aired to get them to watch it. In reality, Warren doubted that he would be saying anything. John Grayson would be the one to take the limelight — he’d probably even wear his uniform. Besides which, if Severino didn’t hurry up and confess, there wouldn’t be too much limelight to go around. He’d deal with Bernice’s disappointment at his small role when the time came, he decided.

Despite his weariness, however, Warren hadn’t been able to sleep. As he had lain awake, listening to the snores from the guest room, his mind had buzzed with doubts.

Foremost was the nagging thought that it seemed too easy. True, most murders were uncomplicated affairs, but this one wasn’t. Severino hadn’t just stuck a knife in Tunbridge on a street corner, or strangled him in a fit of jealous rage. He’d gone into the university late at night, snuck up behind his victim, bludgeoned him and slit his throat. It wasn’t a crime of passion per se. And how had he known that Tunbridge would be in his office so late? Was that normal behaviour for the professor? And what about the evidence? At first glance, it looked pretty damning, but on the other hand Forensics had yet to find any of Tunbridge’s blood on Severino, whilst the CCTV images were far from conclusive.

Assuming that Severino was the murderer, was he working alone? Tunbridge had been a pretty obnoxious individual — could this have been a team effort?

Other small questions also worried away at Warren’s confidence. Mark Crawley had been cagey when interviewed and both Spencer and Hemmingway had struck Warren as not entirely forthcoming.

Ultimately, Warren knew that the charging of Severino would only be the first step. The case was messy and they had to clean up a dozen and one loose ends before the case came to trial. Unfortunately, no prosecution was perfect. Life just wasn’t like that; there would always be a few unexplained facts. Warren’s job now was to make sure that none of those facts would trip them up in court and lose them the conviction.

As he had finally drifted off to sleep, Warren had been haunted by one last image. The look of uncomprehending fear in Severino’s eyes just before he threw up, ending the interview. Was it the look of a guilty man who had just been caught, or the look of an innocent man facing his worst nightmare?

After a shower and shave, Warren tiptoed quietly downstairs. He’d put on his best suit and smartest tie. His dress uniform remained in the wardrobe in a plastic suit carrier. Unlike some officers, Warren believed that, now he was in CID, the uniform should remain for purely ceremonial occasions and a conference to update the press on the progress of a murder case hardly counted, he felt. His lesson learnt from the day before, Warren quickly made some sandwiches and grabbed several pieces of fruit. Despite Susan’s nagging he’d never really been a breakfast person, but this morning he was ravenous, his paltry diet from the previous day having left its mark. Not willing to risk slopping milk down his suit and tie, Warren settled for toast and marmalade and a slug of orange juice, tucking a tea towel into his lapel to catch any crumbs.

Warren arrived at the station at the same time as Severino’s solicitor. In the early morning sun, Stock looked even younger to Warren. He drove a battered, twelve-year-old Vauxhall Corsa and his trousers weren’t an exact match for his suit jacket — the same suit jacket he had been wearing the day before when his client had vomited in his lap. The two men exchanged a cordial good morning, then separated as they entered the police station, Warren heading up to his office, the young solicitor to the reception desk to announce his presence and get a visitor’s pass.

Warren’s office was pretty much as he had left it the previous night, with the exception of a number of scribbled messages, including several different ones from the numerous divisions within Welwyn’s forensic department that were assisting on the case. Warren decided to deal with them later in the morning after he and Sutton had their first go at cracking Severino. Besides which, it wasn’t even eight on a Sunday morning, he could spend hours playing voicemail tennis before tracking down what he wanted — he might as well just wait until a more civilised hour. The final note confirmed that CCTV from Tesco corroborated Clara Hemmingway’s alibi. Warren made a note to remove her from the suspects board.

At eight a.m., Sutton poked his head around the door. “Morning, guv. Good night out with the in-laws?” Jones’ grunt said all that needed to be said.

“How we going to play this, then?”

“I’m not in the mood for pissing about this morning. Let’s just haul him in, give him a chance to confess if he wants to, then turn up the heat. The super wants to give a press conference at eleven. If Severino confesses first thing, we’ll charge him and announce it at the conference. Otherwise, we’ll just keep the press dangling. Regardless, I want him charged by this evening at the latest, and in front of the magistrate tomorrow morning.”

Sutton nodded his approval. “Sounds like a plan, Chief. I’ll ring downstairs and get them to bring him in.”

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