The Poisoned Rock: A Sullivan and Broderick Murder Investigation (The Rock Murder Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Daws

  Having passed the Law Courts on his right, he had to swerve suddenly to avoid running into a mother and child as they left a small gift shop. Jasinski instinctively muttered an apology to the shocked woman and her little boy. Checking over his shoulder to make sure he was not being followed, he once again set off at a run along the busy pedestrianised street. Had he checked more thoroughly, Jasinski might have spotted the fast-approaching young woman who was attempting to catch up with him.

  At the first sign of the assault, Broderick had moved forward into the cordon to support his fellow police officers. Sullivan had decided on another approach. Thrusting her clutch bag into Cath’s hands, she had skirted around the outside of the crowd just in time to see Jasinski take off down the street. Tearing off her Jimmy Choos and holding one in each hand, she pursued him alone, her colleagues helplessly trapped within the cordon.

  The man is fast, Sullivan thought, but she knew she stood a chance of catching him, even running in bare feet.

  Continuing along Main Street, passing George’s Lane on his right and the C of E cathedral on his left, Jasinski was now beginning to breathe heavily. The spike of adrenalin of a few moments before had dipped and the sheer energy needed to move his considerable bulk at speed was diminishing. Turning his head for a second time, he noticed her, the dark-haired woman running determinedly towards him, gaining by the second. Her speed and the fact that she was holding her shoes like hand-weapons suggested she was not an ordinary member of the public. Plain-clothes police officer? Army? Navy? It did not matter which – he had to outrun her. Even if she was a trained professional, she would not stand a chance against his mastery of the brutal art of combat. For her own sake, he had to shake her off.

  Taking a sharp right into Library Street, Jasinski ran uphill. Fifty metres on, he entered the tree-shaded plaza overlooked by the Garrison Library and the old offices of the Gibraltar Chronicle. Turning left, he moved swiftly past the modern frontage of the O’Callaghan Eliott Hotel, with its cafe bar tables full of early evening drinkers, finally coming to a standstill in front of a large building site. It was a dead end. Glancing behind him, he saw his relentless pursuer turn the corner into the plaza and immediately fix him in her sights. Summoning up whatever strength he had left, Jasinski scaled the perimeter fence of the site, falling heavily on the other side. Pulling himself up, he staggered further on into the maze of half-built walls, mechanical diggers and cement mixers. The ground underfoot was uneven and treacherous, but although he slipped several times, he soon found himself on the other side of the fenced site. Climbing onto a large mobile generator, Jasinski scaled the fence and fell to the ground at the entrance to a narrow, dark alleyway. Picking himself up once more, the exhausted Pole moved off into the cooling shadows of the town.

  23

  On the other side of the building site, Sullivan came to a frustrated halt. With the sound of approaching police sirens in her ears, she was forced to abandon any idea of following the man over the fence. The ground would have cut her feet to shreds, and not for the first time in her life, she cursed designer heels.

  Moving to her right and left, Sullivan tried to find a way around the seemingly impenetrable dead end. It was impossible. She would either have to retrace her steps down to Main Street or attempt a circumnavigation of the site by way of Governor’s Street in the other direction. Not knowing the direction the man had taken after she had lost sight of him beyond the far fence, Sullivan realised that the chase was over. For her, at least.

  Moments later, police motorcycle officers Tarrento and Bartlett pulled up beside her. Quickly showing them the direction in which Jasinski had escaped, Sullivan ordered them to search the streets and passageways beyond.

  ‘He’s a big man. Red cap and green jacket.’ Sullivan told the officers. ‘I’m afraid that, in my present state of dress, I’m of no use to you.’

  As the officers sped off, Sullivan looked down at her sore and swollen feet.

  No chance of getting my Jimmy Choo’s back on this evening, she thought.

  Feeling less than glamorous, she turned to retrace her steps back to the Convent. At least she might be of some help there.

  24

  Several hundred metres beyond the building site, Jasinski was back on Main Street. Turning down a lane, he stuffed his cap and jacket in a nearby refuse bin and continued on past a small cafe and a busy tattoo parlour. The sound of an approaching motorcycle prompted him to quickly enter the parlour to hide. The customers within were all intent on watching the artist at work and took little notice of the large, slightly breathless Pole. A young woman with a pronounced Birmingham accent was chatting inanely as the tattooist’s needle etched a likeness of Beyoncé on her shoulder.

  Seconds later PC Tarrento and his motorcycle passed the front of the shop at low speed. Glancing into the parlour and seeing nothing untoward, the officer continued on his way. After a few moments, Jasinski stuck his head out into the lane to check that all was clear. Leaving the shop and walking quickly down to the main road, he cautiously turned the corner to find a large red and white Gib bus waiting at a stop immediately in front of him. Slipping through its doors, which swiftly closed behind him, Jasinski paid his fare and took a seat at the back.

  Furious at the loss of his rucksack, the Pole consoled himself with the fact he still had his passports – one in his own name and another with a forged identity. He also had his money and cards tucked away in the small travel bag fastened around his waist. As the bus headed north towards the frontier, Jasinski estimated that he would cross the border into Spain in about fifteen minutes. Then he would have to find himself a knife. A hunting knife would be best, but anything with weight and precision sharpness would do. Once he had acquired that, he would make preparations for the second stage of his plan.

  25

  From the moment of the Julia Novacs attack, Broderick had found himself at the centre of a maelstrom. His first concern was to get Novacs inside the building and clear of any possible further harm. Although she appeared to be covered in red paint, Broderick had to establish that the substance wasn’t of a more sinister nature.

  ‘Get an ambulance here ASAP’ was his first order, sharply directed to one of the crowd control officers.

  Rushing to Novacs’ aid, he and another police officer helped her to her feet. The actress was in great distress, crying and hitting out at those who were attempting to protect her. Gabriel Isolde was the first to get punched in the face for his trouble. Matters were further complicated by the sudden appearance of a rogue paparazzo. The photographer had breached the cordon and was now intent on getting the best shots he could, clicking away just inches from Novacs’ face with almost criminal insensitivity. Broderick was having none of this. Reaching across to the photographer with both hands, he lifted him off his feet and threw him to the ground. Before the man could recover, two other police officers grabbed him and pulled him from the scene.

  Returning to Novacs, Broderick began questioning her. ‘Miss Novacs, the substance you’ve just been sprayed with – is it causing you any discomfort? A burning sensation perhaps?’

  Novacs shook her head.

  Broderick continued: ‘I realise you’re in shock, Miss Novacs, and maybe you’re in some pain, but is there anything to suggest that the substance covering you is causing any further harm?’

  Once again the actress shook her head.

  ‘Thank you, Miss Novacs.’ Broderick turned to the officers at her side. ‘Get her inside please. Quick as you like lads.’

  As the policemen led her into the Convent, the governor’s personal security officer, John Manasco, appeared at the door. Having followed procedure and ensured that the governor and chief minister were secure within the building, he now took control of the developing situation. Although Broderick was the senior officer at the scene, he knew he would have to defer to Manasco while in the governor’s domain.

  Acknowledging Broderick’s presence with a nod, the forty-two-year-old ex-sold
ier got straight to business: ‘What the hell happened?’

  ‘Paint attack from someone in the crowd positioned to the right of the archway,’ Broderick informed him. ‘One lone perpetrator by the look of things. He escaped towards the centre of town. How are things inside?’

  ‘Governor’s secure in the ballroom. So are the rest of the guests. The great and good of Gibraltar. All in there waiting to meet Miss Novacs.’

  ‘I bet they are,’ said Broderick.

  As Manasco headed inside, a police constable appeared at Broderick’s shoulder holding a rucksack.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. The attacker left this behind.’

  Broderick raised his eyebrows in concern.

  ‘Oh, not to worry, sir. We’ve checked it for devices,’ the constable reassured him. ‘Just a load of papers, an old photo and several packets of medication. No name on the packets. There’s also a guide book to Gibraltar. It’s in Polish.’

  ‘Thank you, constable.’ Broderick said, taking the bag. ‘Names and addresses of those closest to the incident, please. We’ll need statements.’

  ‘Sir.’

  Reaching into the rucksack, Broderick took out an old and faded black and white photograph. It showed a couple on a bed. Although asleep, there was little doubt what they had recently been up to. After glancing quickly through the rest of the bag’s contents, Broderick moved into the Convent.

  Once inside, he saw Novacs sitting in the shaded hallway out of harm’s way. One of the governor’s people was attempting to wipe the paint from her arms, while Gabriel Isolde stood by her side holding a glass of water. Novacs had calmed down a little, but it was clear the assault had affected her deeply.

  Broderick sought out Manasco.

  ‘The minister of justice is locked in the ballroom, too,’ Manasco informed the chief inspector. ‘Mad as hell not to be out here, but I had to secure the whole room when the alarm went up. No exceptions. You never know what it might be these days.’

  Broderick nodded and handed Manasco a leaflet from the rucksack.

  ‘“Queen of Diamonds – Murderer” – looks as though whoever did this has an issue with the subject of the film.’

  ‘Or with the actress playing the starring role,’ Manasco replied, heading over to check on Novacs.

  Or with the actress? Broderick considered this for a moment and then accepted that an answer to that question would have to wait. For now, a major world celebrity had been assaulted on Gibraltar soil. With the siren of the approaching ambulance ringing in his ears, Broderick realised that the repercussions of the incident could well be huge.

  Moving out to the front of the Convent, Broderick scanned the crowd for signs of his sister. Cath was where he had left her, at the entrance to the cordoned-off area. As he strode towards her, the ambulance was waved through the barriers and came to a halt beside the still waiting limousine. Within seconds, the paramedics from St Bernard’s Hospital were on their way into the building to check on Julia Novacs.

  ‘How is she?’ Cath asked her brother as he reached the barrier.

  ‘In shock, but okay, I think.’

  ‘Poor thing. Why would anyone want to do that?’

  ‘Who knows? Some lunatic. One thing’s for sure, though,’ Broderick observed. ‘There’ll be no reception here this evening.’

  ‘Looks as if I’ll be off home for an early bath then,’ Cath replied. ‘I take it you might be working late?’

  ‘Looks likely.’

  ‘Oh, and by the way – could you give this to Tamara, please?’

  Cath handed her brother Sullivan’s rainbow-hued clutch bag.

  ‘There’ll be something to eat in the fridge when you get in. Take care of yourself, Gus.’

  With that, Cath headed off, leaving her brother holding Sullivan’s bag as if it were a hot potato.

  ‘Suits you, guv,’ a voice announced from the crowd.

  Looking up, Broderick saw his DS making her way to the barrier entrance.

  ‘Where the hell have you been? Things kick off here and you bugger off.’

  Gaining entry to the area, Sullivan quickly removed the clutch bag from her boss’s hands.

  ‘I haven’t exactly been idle, sir. Got a sighting of the guy and tried to chase him down. Lost him up by the Eliott unfortunately.’

  ‘Bugger.’

  ‘Got a description out though, so hopefully he’ll be picked up.’

  ‘Get another one out. There’s a strong possibility our man’s Polish.’

  ‘Yes, sir. How are things here?’

  ‘Julia Novacs is covered in red paint. The governor, the chief minister and the minister of justice have been locked in the ballroom and are pissed off as hell. And somewhere out there is a lunatic who needs catching. So put your shoes on, will you? You’re a police officer, remember?’

  Without waiting for a reply, Broderick headed back inside the Convent, leaving Sullivan to experience the agony of pushing her swollen feet back into her Jimmy Choos.

  26

  Having found that no actual physical harm had befallen Ms Novacs and recommending complete rest and a check-up within twenty-four hours, the paramedics left the Convent. An hour had now passed since the attack and the crowd outside the Governor’s Residence was showing no signs of diminishing; if anything, it had grown. An increased media presence also guaranteed that the news was going global. The BBC, ITV, Sky and CNN were all running the story in their bulletins, and that was just the tip of the iceberg. Simon Granger, the dapper and highly skilled press officer for the Gibraltar government, was at the centre of the scene, fighting off a mountain of requests for updates.

  ‘It’s trending on bloody Twitter now,’ he groaned. ‘Never get this kind of coverage when you’re promoting good news, do you?’

  Getting positive spin out of the incident was clearly going to take every bit of his considerable skills.

  The dilemma was one that had not escaped Gabriel Isolde’s attention. Going into damage limitation mode, the producer had decided that his main energy should be focused on getting his star performer away from the press and safely back to her villa in Marbella. Pleading Novacs’ special needs, he had requested and been granted safe passage for the star back to the unit’s base at the old Royal Navy Dockyard. Tani Levitt would be standing by in the star’s Winnebago to tend to her make-up, and her PA and entourage had been put on standby to assist. Isolde had even demanded that Novacs’ helicopter be able to land at the docks to facilitate a quick get-away for the star and himself to the Costa del Sol. John Manasco had been quick to agree to the plan. Broderick was to follow them to the docks to ask the shaken actress a few more brief but necessary questions.

  ‘I’ll need to question you as well, sir, I’m afraid,’ Broderick had told the producer.

  ‘By all means, Chief Inspector,’ Isolde had replied with charming ease. ‘Whatever I can do to assist.’

  Helping Novacs to her feet, Isolde and Manasco led the star – her ruined dress having been replaced with a dark grey blanket that enveloped her – out of the hallway and along a passageway towards the rear of the building. Stopping along the way to receive heartfelt apologies from the governor and the chief minister – ‘A complete and unprecedented outrage, dear lady’ – Novacs was swiftly taken to the back door of the Convent. Reunited once more with her limousine and chauffeur, the bedraggled star was whisked away in seconds.

  27

  A police squad car had taken Sullivan and Broderick back to HQ, where they transferred to Broderick’s Mercedes and drove the short distance to the old Royal Navy Dockyard. The vast area of warehouses, engineering shops and dry docks had been run by commercial companies since the downsizing of British military activity on the Rock a decade earlier. Only a small percentage of the docks was now used in any meaningful way, resulting in a lot of dormant space. Some bright spark in government had seen its potential for the Queen of Diamonds unit base for the duration of the filming in Gib, offering both size and security. Gabriel Isolde ha
d jumped at the chance to use it.

  Presenting their warrant cards for inspection at the main entrance to the dockyard, Sullivan and Broderick were efficiently waved through by the security guards.

  The arrow-shaped direction signs, tied to lamp posts and attached to buildings along the way, soon guided them to a massive hangar close to the harbour’s edge. Parking outside, the two detectives were once more asked for identification by the film company’s own security guards at the entrance.

  ‘Mr Isolde has asked me to escort you through,’ the largest of the guards informed them. ‘Follow me, please.’

  Entering the cavernous building, both Sullivan and Broderick were stunned by what they found within. A great number of Winnebagos and other trailers, at least one for each of the film’s main departments. Make-up, wardrobe, crew and production staff facilities stood alongside dining buses, generators and mobile lavatories. It was a small town engulfed in the shadows of the former engineering hangar.

  ‘Bloody hell,’ Broderick said. ‘No wonder this filming lark costs an arm and a leg.’

  The security guard led the officers to the far end of the building, to the largest Winnebago on the site. This was where Ms Novacs resided while at work.

  Broderick stopped for a moment to take it all in. ‘You could get half of police HQ in that thing.’

  ‘That would suit me fine,’ Sullivan replied.

  Outside the main door of the trailer, several staff were standing by to accommodate the star’s immediate needs. Two of them were glued to their mobiles, fending off the many enquiries concerning Julia Novacs’ health and state of mind. Walking past them, the security guard knocked gently on the door. After a wait of at least a minute, it finally opened and Isolde appeared in a state of some consternation. He ushered Sullivan and Broderick into what was obviously considered a hallowed domain – a luxurious lounge area, replete with reclining chairs, sofas, a bar and a huge television on the far wall. Isolde gestured for the detectives to sit.