The Last Straw (33 page)

Warren took a deep breath; he would deal with Sutton later. For the time being, he had to deal with Grayson. With as much patience as he could muster, he repeated everything that the team had just discussed, deconstructing the evidence against Severino point by-point. By the time he had finished, Grayson’s expression had changed from sceptical to thoughtful.

The silence grew as the superintendent contemplated what Warren had told him.

“I’m still not convinced that Severino is innocent, but you are right that there is more to this case than meets the eye. The official line of this department is that Antonio Severino killed Professor Alan Tunbridge as revenge for his poor treatment. We are now simply tying up loose ends. You can have a small team to do just that: a senior officer and a couple of detective constables to do the legwork.

“Either this case is closed by Monday morning or you are standing in front of me justifying how you’ve fucked up and explaining why this town’s university’s reputation as a safe place to live and work is suddenly in the shitter. Do I make myself clear?”

Warren fought back a half-dozen comments. He couldn’t believe the superintendent was turning this whole thing around and laying it on him. Nevertheless, he had a job to do. Not trusting himself to say any more, he merely nodded. “Yes, sir.”

Turning, he headed for the door, before Grayson stopped him. “Oh, one more thing, Warren. This team of yours, make sure it includes DI Sutton. I don’t approve of my officers going behind each other’s backs. Nor do I expect to see them engaged in a pissing contest in front of junior officers. Sort it out.”

“Yes, sir.”

Chapter 36

Jones stalked into the squad room, heading directly for Sutton’s desk. Enough was enough, he’d decided. He’d let it linger long enough and if he and Sutton were going to work effectively as a team the air needed clearing. A few detectives glanced up at Jones’ purposeful stride, then, seeing the look on the boss’ face, quickly averted their gaze.

Sutton was on the phone, listening intently. As he looked up his expression turned briefly to one of guilt and apprehension, before his poker face slid back into place. Clearing his throat, he cut off his caller with a mumbled apology and a promise to call them back. Turning his chair, he looked expectantly at Jones.

“Get your coat, Tony, we’re going for a pint.” Without waiting for a reply, Jones turned on his heel and walked straight back out of the room. Looking neither left nor right, he was nevertheless aware of the covert stares from the working detectives. Behind him, he heard Sutton scrabbling for his jacket and grabbing his keys. Not in the mood to share the lift with him, Warren jogged quickly down the stairs to the main reception. Half a turn behind him, he could hear Sutton struggling to catch up.

Good! thought Warren. For too long, he’d felt on the back foot at Middlesbury and it was about time he took control of the situation.

Sutton finally pulled alongside him as they crossed the car park; he had his car keys in his hand.

“Put them away, Tony. You won’t be driving tonight.”

If Sutton had other plans for the evening, he wisely decided not to share them. Warren kept up the brisk pace down the high street; his longer legs meant that Sutton had no choice but to push himself hard to avoid breaking into an undignified trot and his breathing became slightly laboured.

Finally Warren spied what he was looking for: The Bricklayer’s Arms, a traditional-style English pub. Inside, it was exactly what Warren was after. Dark, slightly dingy with a long bar and, most importantly, tucked in the far corner, a few faded velour bench seats with tables and wooden dividers, giving at least the impression of privacy. At four p.m. on a weekday, the bar was quiet, the only customers two elderly men with rheumy eyes and flat caps sitting in silence behind halves of mild. A rolled-up newspaper, a single pack of Golden Virginia rolling tobacco, some cigarette papers and a battered box of matches sat between them like a barrier. Both glanced up at the newcomers, but made no comment, returning to their contemplative silence.

Without asking, Warren ordered two pints of Theakston Bitter. He’d have preferred something a little lighter, but he remembered from Monday that it was Sutton’s pint of choice. No change was forthcoming from his five-pound note and so he directed them to the corner booth. Sutton still hadn’t said anything beyond mumbled thanks for the pint.

Warren took a long swig of the strong, aromatic beer, wiping the foam off his top lip. Sutton did the same, politely nodding his appreciation. Time to start.

“What’s the problem, Tony?”

“Don’t know what you mean, guv.” His eyes flickered slightly, betraying the lie.

“Bollocks.” Warren’s voice was quiet and measured, but forceful. “Since when does a DI go to a superintendent to discuss a case behind his DCI’s back?”

“Don’t know what you mean — just being polite, is all. The super wanted a heads up on the case, you were busy, so I filled him in.”

“Really, and so it’s just a coincidence that when Grayson had me in his office he parroted, pretty much word for word, everything you said to me earlier?”

Sutton shrugged. “I’m not the only person who thinks you’ve got it wrong, sir.”

He took another sip of his pint.

Warren mirrored him, letting the silence sit between them.

“You don’t like me very much, do you, Tony?”

Sutton’s eyes narrowed as he looked for the trap. “You’re my DCI. You’re in charge, doesn’t matter if I like you or not.”

“Damned right it doesn’t matter. I’m your DCI and I’m in charge. If you’ve got a problem with the way I’m handling the case, you speak to me about it and my word is final. You don’t go over my head to the boss unless you think I’m incompetent or breaking the law. Do you think I’m incompetent?”

Sutton contemplated him for several heartbeats. “Not that I’ve seen.”

Warren nodded. “Good. We’ll leave it at that.”

The silence grew again, Sutton’s expression sullen. The air still felt tense. It wasn’t enough, Warren realised. All he’d done was mark a line in the sand and dare Sutton to cross it. Whether he did or he didn’t was merely a matter of degree. Warren still hadn’t tackled the core of the problem.

Fortifying himself with another swig of his pint — he was down to the last third, he realised — he started again. “You resent me being here, don’t you, Tony?”

Sutton said nothing, continuing to stare moodily into the dregs of his own pint. Warren motioned to the barman for two refills.

“From what I hear, you were expected to take Sheehy’s place when he retired next year.” Sutton’s eyes flashed at the mention of his former DCI’s name, but he remained silent. “Unfortunately that didn’t work out, did it? Sheehy went down last year and, after months of scrutiny, you were passed over. Bet it really pissed you off when some fucking Brummie turned up out of the blue and took over your job.” Warren’s tone was deliberately provocative.

Sutton scowled and shook his head. “You aren’t even in the ballpark. Sir.”

“Really? So tell me how it is, then, Tony. And forget the ‘Sir’ bullshit. We’re in the pub.”

Sutton took a big mouthful of his fresh pint. The barman had replenished it quietly, taking his payment without comment, experience telling him that he would be better off not interrupting the two men.

“You’re wrong about almost everything. I’ve heard the rumours too; that I was Sheehy’s golden boy, his heir apparent, next in line for the throne. But it’s bullshit. I’ve never wanted to be a DCI and Gavin knew that. I’m a beat copper, always have been, always will be.”

Warren shook his head. “No, you aren’t, Tony, you’re a detective and from what I hear a good one. You are no longer a bobby on the beat. By definition, when you joined CID you joined a team and you need to be a team player.”

Sutton interrupted. “No, you are wrong.” He shook his head vehemently. “This isn’t West Midlands Police, or the Met or even Devon and fucking Cornwall. This is Middlesbury. We are unique.” He waved his hand in the air, suddenly reminding Jones of Professor Tompkinson as he described his university.

“We are
all
beat coppers in Middlesbury. They won’t have told you any of this stuff when they posted you down here, because they wanted an outsider. Somebody to break up the status quo.”

Warren was starting to wonder if Sutton was paranoid or delusional. He sounded like a conspiracy theorist; Warren wondered who the hell ‘they’ were.

Seeing Jones’ sceptical look, Sutton calmed down slightly. “Let me explain what I mean. I come from a long line of coppers. My old man was a sergeant and his old man before him a constable. When he did his National Service he enlisted as an MP, following his own father’s footsteps, who did stints as an MP and as a civilian police officer in the interwar years. Two of his brothers also joined the force. The family history gets a bit hazy before the Frst World War, but my dad swears blind that there is an unbroken chain of us going right back to Robert Peel’s ‘Bobbies’ and the start of the Met.

“None of my ancestors ever made it past sergeant. None of them wanted it. And none of them were detectives. All of them were bobbies on the beat. My granddad got the George Medal after talking down an armed robber in the fifties. All he had was a wooden truncheon and handcuffs. Could have been promoted on the spot, but he turned it down. He didn’t want to leave his patch.”

For the first time since arriving at the pub, Sutton’s features took on something less than a scowl. “When I announced I was taking the detectives’ course, my old man nearly disowned me. That was until he came and saw where I worked and met Gavin and the team.

“Middlesbury has always been a small place, even with the outlying villages. Beat coppers really do know their beats and their beats know them. It’s about as close to
Dixon of Dock Green
as you’ll ever get in modern policing. Well, CID isn’t much different. We all know our patches, who our grasses are, who is dodgy and who can be trusted. The fact is, it works. By any measure, we punch above our weight when it comes to solving crimes, you know that.”

Warren nodded; it was true. Middlesbury had an impressive clear-up rate, putting it amongst the top-performing CID units within the country. He admitted as much.

“Yeah, well, tell that to the penny pinchers. A few years ago, Herts and Beds decided to pool resources and move all CID units to Welwyn Garden City. Gavin was devastated. You see, to Gavin’s way of thinking, Welwyn is too far away for that sort of community policing. We’d almost be better off joining up with Cambridgeshire. In the end he made his case strongly enough that it was decided to make Middlesbury CID a local first-response unit, responsible for Middlesbury and the surrounding towns. We come in, assess the situation, use our local contacts where appropriate and request back up from Welwyn as and when we need it. But we are constantly under scrutiny. We’ve set ourselves a high benchmark in terms of our performance figures and any deviation away from that could spell the end for the arrangement.”

“OK, I’d figured that something along those lines must have happened — I still don’t see what your problem is though.” Warren had the feeling that he was being told something significant here, something that would impact upon his entire stay at Middlesbury, but he couldn’t see what.

Sutton took another gulp of his pint. “Gavin Sheehy was a good man.” He raised a hand as if to still any protest. “I know, what he did was absolutely wrong and he deserves everything he gets. Still doesn’t change the fact that fundamentally he was a good man who fought for what he believed in. The battle to keep Middlesbury CID was messy and bloody and more than one promotion was earned based on the savings achieved from the merger. But Gavin wouldn’t give up and he fought his way up the food chain, arguing his case. Eventually he won his battle. But it cost him. He never went higher than DCI. He pissed off too many people and burnt too many bridges.”

Warren tried to hide his incredulity. Stick tens of thousands of human beings together and ask them to get on with a job as complex and important as policing and factions would inevitably emerge, but this seemed too far-fetched.

Seeing that he still had some way to go in convincing his superior, Sutton took a deep breath and tried again.

“When Gavin was caught, it was seen by many as proof that we’d be better off under the direct control of Welwyn.” He made a bitter face. “That way they can keep a closer eye on us and spot rogue officers like Sheehy before they do too much damage. Gavin’s greed and stupidity might just scupper his whole dream. Our whole dream.”

With that, Sutton slumped into a moody silence.

It’s personal, Warren realised. Sheehy convinced Sutton and goodness knows how many others to go along with him and then turned around and betrayed them with his corruption.

Warren already had his suspicions what the answer would be but he asked anyway.

“I’m still not seeing why you have a problem with me or how I am dealing with this case.”

“Isn’t it obvious? With Gavin out of the picture, they’ve appointed you to do their dirty work.”

Despite himself, Warren bristled. “I’m not here to do anybody’s dirty work. I’m here to solve crime and do my duty.”

Sutton raised a hand in a half-hearted gesture of placation.

“I’m not saying that you have anything but the best of intentions. There’s no way you would be briefed in on this, but you are the perfect man for the job.”

Warren listened in growing anger; he couldn’t work out if he was being accused of naiveté or dirty tricks. “And what job would that be, Inspector?” His voice was now icy cold as he forced a lid onto his temper.

“To close down Middlesbury CID and see it merged with the rest of Herts and Beds Serious Crime.”

Warren was aware that his mouth was open in surprise.

“Why on earth would anyone think that? Let me assure you, I have not been given any other job, other than to lead this unit to the best of my ability, and I am offended that anyone could think otherwise.”

Sutton repeated his calming hand gesture.