be treated as our number one priority. I don’t need to remind you that most murders are solved in the first twenty-four to forty-eight hours; the clock is already ticking. I will start assigning roles in a moment. Those of you that aren’t given an immediate task should use the time to lock down any outstanding jobs so that we can turn all of our attention over to solving this case.” Around the room there were a few quiet grumbles, no doubt from those worrying about the impact this temporary shutdown might have on their own caseload, but nobody dissented openly. They all knew the score without being told, Warren realised. Yet another example of the local instincts that he would need to develop if he was to succeed in this posting.
Warren consulted his notepad.
“Immediately after this briefing, DI Sutton and I will meet with the lab’s experimental officer, Dr Mark Crawley, and the head of the Biology department, to see what we can find out about the deceased and have a look at what names come up. Head of Security should be on campus in an hour or so. I’ll need somebody to meet him and have a quick look at any CCTV footage and the building’s swipe-card access log.
“The neighbourhood around the building is mostly non-residential. However, there are a few houses up the north end of the road. DS Khan, I’d like you to organise a few bodies to go door knocking.” A quick nod from the small man. “I’d also like you to go and see if the security guards working the warehouses on the opposite side of the road saw or heard anything. Check if any of their cameras point towards the university — it’s a long shot but they may have picked up something.”
He looked around the room, searching the assembled faces.
“DS Richardson, can you liaise with Traffic and see if any of their cameras have spotted anything? Remember, people, the time of death is likely to have been after 21:30 hours and Spencer’s phone call was logged at 22:19 hours. Assuming that there was another person involved, they may have been in the area for several hours before the attack.” A short squat forty-something clutching a bottle of mineral water nodded her agreement.
“DS Kent, I want you to set up an incident desk to collate incoming information. You’ll be the shift co-ordinator — everybody should report their progress to you. Get HOLMES up and running and get Welwyn up to speed in case we need resources.”
Kent nodded once and cracked his knuckles. A grey-haired man, well into his fifties, he was Middlesbury’s resident expert on the Home Office’s national serious crime database, HOLMES2. He had been one of the first people Jones had met after arriving at Middlesbury and his reputation for efficiency had preceded him. Even if he hadn’t been on shift this morning, Jones would probably have telephoned him and offered him double time. For his part, Kent looked excited at the challenge. Middlesbury wasn’t quite the back of beyond as far as policing was concerned; nevertheless a big juicy murder, as this could well turn out to be, was a welcome diversion from the car thefts, drunken assaults and mid-level drug dealing that the station usually dealt with.
“The rest of you, get yourselves ready to move at a moment’s notice. As we identify witnesses I want us to be able to pick them up for questioning before they get a chance to swap stories. Let’s hit the ground running, folks.” He paused, looking for questions. None, just impatient-looking faces, ready to get on with the task.
“Dismissed.”
Immediately the assembled officers jumped to their feet, the experienced Detective Sergeants Khan and Richardson promptly corralling the detective constables into groups to assign them their tasks. Without so much as a glance in his direction, Sutton and Grayson headed out of the double doors in the direction of Grayson’s office. Warren frowned, tempted to go after them, but he had more pressing concerns. Moving swiftly, he intercepted a young DC before she could be snagged by DS Khan.
“Karen Hardwick?” The young woman flushed slightly, no doubt a little taken aback to be identified by name by the new DCI.
“Yes, sir?”
Warren felt a twinge of sympathy for the poor girl. A probationer, she had only just finished her detective training, arriving at the station almost as recently as Jones. He vividly recalled his first few months as a trainee detective constable, desperately scared of screwing up or asking a stupid question in front of the boss. He’d hidden at the back of briefings, hoping to avoid catching the eye of anybody above the rank of sergeant.
“I’ve been reading your personnel file and I see that you were at university before you joined the force?”
Immediately, Warren cursed himself for his clumsy phrasing. It probably sounded to the poor woman that he’d pulled her file up especially, when in actual fact he’d been reading the files of everyone in the unit, trying to get to know his new team.
“Yes, sir. Bath, then Bristol.” Karen looked puzzled. These days graduate recruitment was the norm, not the exception.
“I believe that you did some sort of biological sciences degree?”
“Yes, sir, I did a bachelor’s degree in Biochemistry and then a masters by research in Molecular Biology.”
“So I would assume that your degrees involved spending time in laboratories?”
“Yes, I did a twelve-month work placement in a pharmaceutical company during my first degree, then my master’s degree involved three rotations in different laboratories within the Biology department.” Karen now had an inkling where this might be leading.
“Well, Karen, my gut is telling me that the reasons for this murder might lie in that university department. I may need an interpreter, somebody who is familiar with the system and the language.”
“I’ll do whatever I can, sir.”
“Good. Now let’s go and round up DI Sutton. We’ve got some trees to shake and I get the impression that the DI is good at shaking.”
Jones, Sutton and DC Karen Hardwick were greeted in the lobby of the Department of Biological Sciences research building by a different young PC from the previous night. After crossing them off his clipboard, he radioed ahead to let the crime scene technicians know that they had arrived. Apparently, Dr Mark Crawley, the laboratory’s experimental officer, was already with them.
Following the same route as the night before — less than ten hours ago, Jones realised wearily — the three police officers headed towards the crime scene. This morning it was necessary to stop a few doors short of the office where the professor’s body had been found, since the whole end of the corridor was now blocked off with blue and white crime scene tape.
Just past the barrier was a set of wooden double doors, with a large sign proclaiming “Tunbridge Group. Microbial Biology”. Next to it were yellow warning stickers with the universal signs for biohazards and, Jones noticed with a touch of discomfort, radiation. A few metres further along the corridor the door to Tunbridge’s office was open, white-suited technicians hard at work. A uniformed constable stood to attention next to the tape, his hands behind his back. Jones pretended not to see the copy of The Sun inexpertly concealed behind him. He had spent plenty of time as a uniformed officer guarding crime scenes and knew just how desperately dull it could be.
“DCI Jones. I was told that Dr Mark Crawley was up here?”
“He’s in the laboratory, sir, with Crime Scene Manager Harrison, the lead forensics officer. I’ll fetch him.”
The constable stepped under the blue and white tape and slipped through the double doors into the laboratory. A few seconds later the doors opened again and a tall, middle-aged, rangy man stepped out. He was dressed in faded blue jeans with an open-necked checked shirt, a white forensic hairnet and white paper booties over his shoes. His eyes were red-rimmed behind small eye glasses and Jones noticed that he hadn’t shaved. His right shirt pocket was overflowing with pens and pencils of different colours, one of which appeared to have leaked slightly. The left contained a second pair of glasses, with what appeared to be pink lenses.