Читать книгу The Last Straw - Paul Gitsham - Страница 17
ОглавлениеAt first glance, Professor Tompkinson resembled a retired Geography teacher or librarian, Jones decided. Small and stooped, with generous ears and tiny spectacles perched on the end of his nose secured with a safety cord, he wore a grey woollen sweater, checked shirt and plain red tie. In addition, he was wearing a flat cap, as if he had just come in, although the empty coffee cups next to his phone suggested otherwise. Jones was unable to resist a surreptitious glance at the coat stand in the corner of the office and felt almost let down by the absence of a tweed jacket with leather elbow patches.
“Please, do come in. I’m very sorry about you having to wait. The chancellor of the university was on the phone; he’s rather concerned about what happened last night.”
After offering them coffee, which the two officers declined, Tompkinson sat down behind his desk. “First of all, please let me make it absolutely clear that you will have the full co-operation of myself and this department in solving this terrible crime. The vice chancellor and the chancellor have also expressed their willingness to assist in any way.” He paused as if not quite sure how to proceed. “Ah, as you may be aware, Chief Inspector, the university will shortly be hosting a prestigious conference, with a number of high-profile guests.” Warren nodded. “We are a little concerned as to the impact any investigation would have on the smooth running of the conference and the implications such a violent attack may have for the university’s reputation. As such, we would appreciate it if you were able to keep us fully informed of the progress of your investigation.” His piece said, he sat back in his chair.
As he did so Jones noticed that the man’s hands shook slightly. Why? Was he nervous? It seemed unlikely — the professor was clearly a man used to moving in political circles. The presence of a police officer, even one investigating a murder, would be unlikely to unnerve him enough to give him the shakes. Jones made a mental note to check for an alibi. Perhaps he was just wired from too much caffeine.
“Of course, I fully understand, Professor. As soon as we have any information that we are ready to make public I will ensure that the university is informed.”
Tompkinson’s eyes narrowed slightly at Jones’ careful wordplay, but he said nothing, merely nodding acceptance. Jones carefully maintained his poker face, but inside he was satisfied that he had discreetly but firmly laid out the ground rules — the investigation would be run on Jones’ terms and his terms alone.
With the lines drawn and the rules of play established, Jones decided to start off with a little fishing to see what the professor volunteered, before getting down to specifics.
“Tell me, Professor, how well did you know Professor Tunbridge?”
“I suppose I’ve known Alan for about twenty-five years, to a greater or lesser extent. We were postdocs here back in the day, before we went our separate ways for a few years. Eventually, we both found our way back here and set up our own labs. We work in different fields, so we never collaborated. Nevertheless, this isn’t a huge department, so we got to know each other as colleagues. As we became more senior and gained our chairs — professorships — we obviously spent time together on committees.”
Jones nodded. “I see. And how would you say you were on a personal level?”
Tompkinson took his glasses off, and polished them on his tie, frowning. The two officers waited in silence.
Finally, Tompkinson replaced his glasses and let out a weary sigh.
“There’s no point sugar-coating it, I suppose. Alan was a hard man to like. He had an abrasive personality and didn’t suffer fools gladly. He was also arrogant, domineering and bullying, yet strangely petty at the same time. He was a genius, no question. But I can’t really think of anyone that I would describe as a close friend of his.”
Jones repressed a sigh. It seemed that the motives, and thus by extension the suspects, were stacking up.
“Alan and I had a lot of arguments, particularly when I became Head of Department. We butted heads frequently over all manner of policies. Pretty much any decision I made, Alan would question and because he was who he was, often the VC — the vice chancellor — would overrule my decisions and go with Alan’s. Sometimes I wondered who the hell the head of department was, me or him?”
“So do you think Tunbridge was after your job?” Was that a big enough motive, Jones mused, for murder?
Tompinkson let out a bark of laughter.
“Oh, dear God, no, you misunderstand completely. The last thing Alan would want is the hassle that goes with being the head of department, far too much pen-pushing and meetings. No, Alan was a research scientist through and through. He hated any type of ‘admin bollocks’ as he called it.
“No, Alan would far rather be the power behind the throne. He’d let me and others sweat out all of the details in meetings and just swan in at the last minute. The bugger probably only attended one departmental meeting in three and he was only one of a dozen or more faculty members, yet barely a major decision has been made in five years that Alan didn’t have a hand in.”
“Forgive me, Professor, but so far we haven’t heard a good word about Professor Tunbridge. Some of the behaviours that he has been accused of sound suspiciously close to gross misconduct. Violent rows with postdocs, students reporting him for bullying, constructive dismissal claims and an alleged affair with an undergraduate student. Yet it seems that he hasn’t been subject to any disciplinary action at all. Why is that, Professor?”
Tompkinson looked embarrassed. “You’re right, of course, Chief Inspector. Much of what Alan did was unacceptable. Particularly the way he treated that poor undergraduate — getting her pregnant and then making her get rid of the baby left a bad taste in my mouth. You just can’t act like that. But, senior management decided that it would be in everyone’s best interest if we hushed it up. After all, she was a consenting adult. It’s not like any laws were broken.”
Jones blinked; beside him he felt Hardwick stiffen. Tunbridge had got an undergraduate student pregnant? And then had it hushed up? Tompkinson had blithely admitted it, clearly assuming that if they knew about the affair, they must know about the pregnancy. Why hadn’t Crawley mentioned it? If he was to be believed, he was Tunbridge’s trouble shooter, stepping in after his boss to clear up the former’s mess. Surely he had known about it. Was he trying to protect Tunbridge’s memory? Unlikely, given the way he’d trashed the man’s reputation for the past half an hour. What about the young woman’s? Was he trying to protect her dignity? That seemed a little more likely, Jones decided. And what about his discomfort over questions about Tom Spencer’s finances? Was he trying to protect him as well?
“Could you give me the young lady’s name, please? I think we should speak to her.”
Tompkinson looked a bit uncomfortable. “Is that really necessary, DCI Jones? She went through rather a lot. We decided that a fresh start was best for her. I’d rather we didn’t open old wounds.”
“I’m sorry, Professor, but I really must insist. Better that you give me the details discreetly, here and now, than I have to conduct enquiries.”
Tompkinson sighed.
“The young lady’s name was Clara Hemmingway. She’s a current student, so student services will have all of her details. She was assigned to Alan, along with three other students, after choosing Microbial Genetics as one of her essay preferences. This would have been back in November. It’s a long-standing tradition at the university, designed to bring undergraduate students into contact with the research side of the university. They get a tour of the lab and we even pay for them to go out to lunch with the lab members and encourage them to discuss their lab’s work and findings.
“Sometimes students even manage to get summer jobs or internships with the lab later in their course. To the best of my knowledge, Miss Hemmingway has not had any work experience with the lab, but she certainly made an impression!” His laugh was bitter and his expression suggested that he found the situation far from amusing.
“Thank you, Professor. Now, back to the original question. Why was Professor Tunbridge allowed to behave in the way he did, seemingly with no consequences?”
Tompkinson leant back slightly, before sweeping his hand in an all-encompassing gesture. Again, that nervous tremor.
“Look around you, Officers. This is the University of Middle England, not Oxford or Cambridge.” Seeing their uncomprehending gazes, he leant forward.
“How much do you know about university funding? Are you familiar with the Research Assessment Exercise?”
Seeing their shaking heads, Tompkinson adopted a professorial air — appropriately enough, thought Jones.
“Funding for UK universities comes from many different sources, but broadly it can be categorised in two ways. There is specific funding for a specific project. The university and individuals bid for grants from a wide-range of different funding bodies. Some are governmental, such as the Medical Research Council or the Biotechnology and Biological Sciences Research Council, others might be charitable, such as the Wellcome Trust or Cancer Research UK. These grants may be a few thousand pounds to fund a series of particular experiments; a few hundred thousand pounds to run a research project and employ staff and students or tens of millions to build a new research centre.”
He gestured around the office. “Then there is the more general funding that is used to pay for teaching, maintain our research facilities and run our administrative departments. This comes from central government. You may have heard about the proposed cuts in higher education funding?” Nods all round. “This is the budget that the government is slashing.
“The problem is the way the funding is allocated. Every five years or so, universities undergo a Research Assessment Exercise — an audit if you will. They grade us based upon the quality of our research. The key measure that they use is whether our research is ‘world-leading’. Those departments that are judged to be ‘world-leading’ are rewarded by a bigger bite of the funding cherry than those that aren’t.”
Tompkinson leant forward, taking his glasses off again, his voice becoming heated.
“We 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 of your interest, I took the liberty of pulling Mr Spencer’s file. I had only just started to read it when the chancellor phoned. But, there is a slight problem. If, as 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 me about it.”
Jones nodded silently, but filed the information away nevertheless. Crawley had suggested that Tunbridge had a reputation for being possessive about his lab’s research. Could this have been enough to provoke Spencer to kill him? And why hadn’t he mentioned this when they spoke to him earlier?
Tompkinson flipped over another couple of pages.
“Here is his three-and-a-half-year meeting. Spencer is still working in the lab and has not submitted any more chapters. The head of Graduate Studies, Professor Davidson, has put Spencer on his ‘cause for concern list’ and scheduled a meeting with Alan, Jenny and Mr Spencer.”
He turned over the page.
“The outcome of the meeting is that Alan did not feel that Mr Spencer had fully proven his hypothesis and recommended a number of further studies to back up his claims. Spencer has agreed to do the studies and Jenny has agreed to meet regularly with him to ensure that he keeps on track. They also agreed upon a schedule to write up the less contentious parts of Mr Spencer’s thesis.” Tompkinson turned to two pieces of paper stapled to the current page. “Professor Davidson and Professor Stokes have both written private memoranda commenting on the tense atmosphere between Tunbridge and Spencer. Jenny has spoken to Mark Crawley and asked him to keep an eye on the situation.”
“Is that sort of thing normal?”
Tompkinson looked a little embarrassed. “A complete breakdown in the relationship between a student and his supervisor is rare but not unprecedented, and of course Alan had a reputation for being a little…difficult, shall we say? Mark Crawley is Tom Spencer’s immediate line manager and is used to Alan’s ways.”
“I see.”
Tompkinson continued flicking through the folder.
“It seems that Spencer unsuccessfully applied for a hardship grant from the Student Welfare Office. They don’t usually help students who are in their fourth year unless something exceptional has happened. However, they did promise to try and arrange some more teaching and demonstrating hours for him.”
So, pissed off and broke? The motives were certainly stacking up against Spencer. Again, why hadn’t Crawley mentioned this? Jones knew that at times like this a person’s loyalties were torn. Crawley might well have been trying to protect Spencer, not because he felt that Spencer was guilty, but because he felt responsible for the lad and didn’t want to cause him any trouble. On the flipside, he’d shown no such loyalty to the postdoc Severino. Why? Mark Crawley was worth a second visit, Jones decided.
“What is Spencer’s current situation?”
Tompkinson flicked forward to the last page of the folder.
“He’s coming up on four years. He needs to have submitted by October first at the latest. Apparently he submitted several more draft chapters, all of which Tunbridge accepted. However there is still some disagreement over the final results.”
“What happens if he misses the deadline?”
“Well, there are a couple of options.” To emphasise his point, Tompkinson held out a hand, counting off the fingers. “First, he misses the deadline and has to apply to the Board of Graduate Studies for an extension. They have to consider the university’s standing with the funding agencies as well as what is best for Mr Spencer.
“Second, they decide to simply ditch the disputed work and write up what he has completed for submission. That’ll depend on how critical the work is to the thesis.”
Another finger. Warren wondered if it was just his imagination — now that he was looking out for it — or was Tompkinson’s hand trembling more?
“Third, he could well fail the PhD. In which case we would probably submit his earlier work and examine him for an MPhil.”
“How big a blow would that be to him?”
“Catastrophic. The thing with PhDs is you only get a single bite of the cherry. He could very well end up in debt, with a four-year hole in his work history and bugger all to show for it. It would almost certainly hamper his career. He could massage his CV a bit, claim that he went for MPhil then stayed on and did more research, but it probably wouldn’t stand up to scrutiny in a job interview.”
So Spencer certainly had a motive. The question was, was it enough to make him snap? Warren was looking forward more and more to this afternoon’s scheduled interview.
“Moving on, another name that has been mentioned this morning was that of Dr Antonio Severino. What can you tell us about him?”
Tompkinson sighed, taking his glasses off and rubbing them for a few moments before replacing them, something that Jones was starting to associate with the professor being forced to answer unpleasant questions.
“Another of Alan’s diplomatic triumphs.” The irony of the statement was clearly masking a genuine irritation and anger at his former colleague.
“Officially, Dr Severino is taking overdue holiday whilst he waits for the renewal or otherwise of his contract.”
“And unofficially?”
“Alan got rid of him. He claims that Severino had completed the project for which he was originally employed and that his services were no longer required.”
“What about the disagreement over the publication of Severino’s findings?”
“Again, officially the papers are ‘in preparation’ with other members of the lab finishing their part of the project. Unofficially, Severino’s contribution to the overall manuscript was so great that Tunbridge would struggle to justify his position as lead author. Alan was pretty tight-lipped about the results from this particular research, but the rumour mill has it that they had solved several significant problems in the field of antibiotic resistance. I suspect that Alan was going to use the interest garnered by the publication of the research to kick-start his search for funding to start his own company, with him as boss. The last thing he’d want is to share the limelight with someone else. Based on gossip in the tea room, Alan was probably going to split Severino’s work into two separate manuscripts and dilute his influence by padding out the papers with other results from the lab. That way he could retain first authorship on both papers. In the meantime, Severino has practically nothing on his CV to account for the past two years of work, making him almost unemployable.”
“Is that ethical?”
“Absolutely not. But try and prove it. Severino did lodge a formal complaint with the university — and was no doubt planning on writing to the editor of whatever journal Alan finally submitted to — but it would have been his word against Alan’s and he wouldn’t have stood much chance.”
“How did Severino take this?” Jones had already heard Crawley’s version of events; he was interested to see if Tompkinson agreed.
“Badly. Apparently they had it out in the corridor and he very nearly got himself escorted off the premises. From what I’ve heard he made a beeline straight for the pub, before returning rather the worse for wear a few hours later and vandalising Alan’s car. Security prevented him from entering the building to find Alan.”
“So what happened then?”
“Alan was livid and wanted him arrested for criminal damage. However a few of his colleagues in the department calmed him down enough to agree not to press charges as it was in nobody’s interest to see it splashed across the newspapers. Mark Crawley brokered a peace deal in the end and I believe that Severino agreed to work out his notice from home and pay for the damage. In return, I think Alan agreed to let Mark write any job references that came his way.” Tompkinson shook his head. “I don’t know how he does it. Mark’s been with the bugger for over ten years. That man deserves a bloody medal.”
So far at least, it seemed that Tompkinson’s story matched Crawley’s, although Jones still wanted to speak to Crawley again about the omissions he had made earlier.
“Do you know of anyone else who may have harboured a grudge against Professor Tunbridge? I hear that other lab members have also left on bad terms. What about other current members of his lab?”
Tompkinson chewed his lip thoughtfully. As he did so his head twitched forward and backward slightly and his hands, which were now resting in front of him, tapped out a rhythmless tune. Time for more medication? Warren wondered. As if noticing Jones’ scrutiny, Tompkinson clasped his hands together tightly, arresting the tremors.
“You’d need to speak to them, I would imagine. Personnel can give you the details of all the current and former members of the lab. As to whether any still bear a grudge, that’s hard to say. He did have two technicians speak to their unions about a constructive dismissal case concerning alleged bullying. However they decided not to pursue the case after finding better-compensated work elsewhere in the department.”
“You bought them off?”
Tompkinson’s shrug was non-committal. “They found a better position and decided it wasn’t worth their time and effort to pursue the case.”
I’ll bet the unions were annoyed about that! thought Jones, but said nothing.
“I believe that he also had run-ins with some of his other graduate students, although nothing serious enough to cross my desk.”
Jones made a quick note to get onto Personnel and Student Services to find out their details. His list of potential suspects and people to interview was growing longer and longer.
Karen Hardwick had remained silent throughout most of the interview, but Jones could see that she had been paying close attention.
“What will happen to Professor Tunbridge’s research group, now that he is gone?”
“A tricky question. This has never really happened before. A few years ago a young Principal Investigator was tragically killed on holiday. However, he only had a single PhD student and a research technician. The student moved into another lab, taking enough of the lab’s funding to complete his project. The research technician was also redeployed and the research group was wound up. It was a bit messy for a few weeks, but it all sorted itself out.
“Alan’s lab is another matter. For a start it’s much larger and it has rather a lot of allocated funding. I suppose there will have to be a meeting of all of those concerned. In the interim at least, the lab will probably continue running under Mark Crawley. The students will be dealt with on a case-by-case basis — some may go and work in different laboratories with like-minded research groups, others may continue to work with Mark. As to the long-term, the funding agencies and the university will have to decide what happens.”
So, it seemed as though Crawley might be the heir apparent to the research group after all. Would he want it, though, or would it be, as he’d claimed, a weight of responsibility he could do without? A point for future consideration, Jones decided.
“Well, thank you for your time, Professor. We may need to ask you a few more questions in the future. In the meantime, could you speak to your Personnel and Student Services department and let them know that we will be asking to see your records?”
“Of course. I suspect I’ll be in here all day if you want to contact me. But I’m surprised that you are leaving so soon.”
Jones blinked in surprise. “I’m not sure I see what you are getting at.”
“Well, it would seem that you have missed the most obvious motive, Chief Inspector.”
“Oh? What might that be, then?”
“Well, money, of course.”
Jones blinked in surprise.
“Money? How would killing Professor Tunbridge make his killer rich? Was Professor Tunbridge particularly wealthy?”
“No, at least not that I know of. However, Alan’s work was potentially very lucrative.”
“So, tell me about Professor Tunbridge’s research and why you think it provides a motive.”
Tompkinson took off his glasses and polished them again, before replacing them and resuming his ‘teacher pose’.
“Where to start? OK, to fully appreciate how big a motive this is, you need to understand some basic science. I’m sure that you’ve heard about the problems with bacteria becoming resistant to antibiotics? So-called ‘hospital superbugs’ such as MRSA, resistant to even the strongest of antibiotics?” Jones and Hardwick both nodded.
“Well, the problem cannot be over-stated. There are strains of Staphylococcus aureus, the bacterium that MRSA stems from, that are resistant to all commonly used antibiotics, even the so-called ‘last resort’ drugs such as vancomycin. Let me be clear, here. If you develop an infection from this strain of bacteria, you will die. And it’s not just hospital superbugs. Extreme Drug-Resistant Tuberculosis, or XDRTB, is now being seen in TB hotspots around the globe. The current vaccination against TB, the BCG, is woefully poor and it’ll be years before the latest version comes online. TB is spread by coughing and sneezing. Regular TB still kills millions of people each year. Without antibiotics to kill off the infection, the death rate will soar. These days, a person with TB can pick it up on one side of the world and cough and sneeze his way across the globe in twenty-four hours, infecting everyone he comes in contact with. Can you imagine what it would be like if the strain that the person was carrying was XDRTB?”
Jones tried to imagine such a scenario and felt a cold chill sweep over him.
“Of course, drug companies are trying to develop new antibiotics as we speak. however the speed at which bacteria can become resistant to these drugs is frightening. Did you know that the first antibiotic, penicillin, was first used to treat patients in the 1940s yet within four years cases of resistant bacteria were reported? By the 1960s it was present in hospitals and by the end of the 1990s almost forty per cent of Staphylococcus bacteria were resistant. Since penicillin’s discovery, dozens of different antibiotics have been discovered — almost all of which are now resisted by bacteria. Some of those antibiotics were rendered all but useless within ten years. Because of that, there is actually less incentive for drugs companies to invest in new antibiotics.”
“Huh? You’ve lost me, Professor. Surely with such a need for new antibiotics, whoever discovers a new one stands to make a fortune!”
Tompkinson smiled sadly. “Unfortunately, it doesn’t work like that. It takes up to a billion US dollars and anything up to fifteen years to develop a new drug. The success rate from good idea to pharmacy counter is tiny. The vast majority of potential drugs are eliminated in the early stages of development because they don’t work or have unacceptable side effects. Drug research is an incredible gamble, with the pay-off being massive exclusive sales in the years before the patent expires after which everyone and his uncle can use your research to make your drug at a fraction of the cost and undercut you. Because of that, pharmaceutical firms favour drugs that will recoup that investment. They like to play safe. So what’s the point of spending a billion dollars developing a new antibiotic that ninety per cent of bugs are going to be resistant to before you’ve even made your investment back?”
The question hung in the air.
Scratching his head and trying to keep up, Jones asked the obvious.
“So where is the motive, then? Presumably anyone stealing his idea would still have to spend millions doing the safety trials. I don’t know much about this sort of thing, but I seem to recall from an article in some Sunday supplement that the bulk of the cost of developing a drug lies with the safety testing. Who is going to murder the prof over something that won’t make them any money?”
The professor nodded.
“You are quite right, of course. As regards the bacteria acquiring resistance, rumour has it Professor Tunbridge had solved that particular conundrum.”
“He’s developed a multi-pronged attack to delay the onset of antibiotic resistance, hasn’t he?”
The question was blurted out from DC Hardwick.
Tompkinson nodded enthusiastically as if praising a favourite student.
“Very good. I see that you know something about this, Constable. Did you study at university before joining the police?”
She nodded, confidence buoyed somewhat by the praise.
“Yes, sir. I did a Molecular Biology degree and we learnt a lot about antibiotic resistance. You mentioned that Professor Tunbridge was planning on going commercial with his work — is this what you meant?”
“Yes, ‘Trident Antibacterials’ was the name he was considering. Alan was just starting to put out feelers for potential backers. It was all very hush-hush, of course. I believe that he was in the process of protecting the work with patents before he went public. The word on the grapevine is that he had successfully developed a drug system that attacked three unrelated drug targets simultaneously. The theory is that whilst the odds of one bacterium developing a chance mutation that renders the cell resistant to an antibiotic is fairly good when you consider the trillions of bacterial cells that will be treated over time, the likelihood of all three targets being thwarted simultaneously is infinitesimal. Even if a cell becomes resistant to one or even two of the methods of attack, the remaining drug target will still remain viable.”
“So you are saying that Tunbridge’s murder may have been, for want of a better word, industrial espionage?”
Tompkinson shrugged. “I would say it’s a possibility.”
“Who would benefit from his death, then, and how?”
“I suppose the most obvious candidate would be a rival pharmaceutical company. The idea of a multi-pronged attack isn’t in itself brand new. I’ve no doubt that dozens of laboratories around the world are working on similar approaches. Stopping Tunbridge from launching Trident would buy them time.”
“Murder seems a bit extreme. Why not just buy him out? If the stakes are as high as you say they are, surely somebody could just throw a few million quid his way to sell them his work, or even offer him a job in their company to finish it with them.”
“That may well have happened. However, knowing Alan as I do, working for another company wouldn’t appeal to his ego. For Alan, being the CEO of his own company that produced this miracle cure would be the ultimate goal. He was a huge self-publicist and he’d have relished the idea of a four-page spread in New Scientist or even the front cover of a major news magazine such as Time. In terms of money, if he wanted to sell his work, then he’d make much more if he was able to sell a fully working product. If it is as successful as he wanted it to be — and it is still a big if — he could float Trident on the stock exchange or even license it to the highest bidder. In this case we could be talking hundreds of millions, if not billions.”
“What about the research that he has already published? Surely, the cat’s out of the bag now. Isn’t it just a question of time before somebody else follows his work? What about the other members of his lab? Surely, if they got together they could assemble the pieces and finish the work?”
“Perhaps one day, but you have to realise how controlling Alan was. He still performed some of his own research. That’s rare — most professors of his standing haven’t wielded a pipette in anger for years. I would imagine that the central piece of the jigsaw is all Alan’s own work and he probably hasn’t shared his data with anybody else. I fear that when Alan died, Trident died with him. And with him millions of people who could have been saved from a horrible death.”
