by Robert Daws
‘But she wasn’t there, and so you came in search of her here on the Rock,’ Sullivan said.
‘I did not know she was to have a night-shoot. If I could have spoken to her before, she would have helped me. I know.’
‘So why didn’t you approach her at the square?’ Broderick asked.
‘I could not get near her. Or anyone. Police. Security. So when they finish, I ask where the important people go. I am told they are at the Atlantic Marina and so I walk there.’
‘With a view to doing what?’ Sullivan enquired.
‘So I can tell them the truth. Speak to them face to face. Make them understand.’
‘And so you went to find them at the Atlantic Marina Plaza. We have you on CCTV that morning, visiting the main reception and checking out the rear entrance and car park,’ Broderick told the Pole.
‘What did you do for the rest of the day up until your attack on Ms Novacs at the Convent?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Walked. Everywhere. I have never been here before, there was much I wanted to see.’
‘Where specifically did you spend your time?’ Sullivan persisted.
‘Main Street. Irish Town. The Botanic Gardens. Everywhere. I drink coffee in cafes. I learn from a waitress at a cafe about the reception for the film people last evening. Then I plan.’
‘You plan what exactly?’ Broderick asked.
‘I plan to get Ms Novacs’ attention. If I cannot speak to her, I decide I must find other ways of telling the world about the lies.’
‘So you decided to assault her?’
‘Of course. I have printed leaflets in my bag that tell the truth. I see a paint-gun in a shop and buy it. I then go to the Governor’s Residence and pick my spot. All afternoon I guard it.’
‘You say you were outside the Convent all afternoon?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Yes, which is why I could not kill anyone. Wherever you think I must have been, I wasn’t. I was waiting outside the Convent for Ms Novacs to arrive.’
‘And obviously just out of view of the CCTV positioned there.’
‘Of course. I could see the cameras. I know how not to be seen by them. I am trained in such things.’
‘You did not return to the Atlantic Marina Plaza. Is that what you’re saying?’ Sullivan continued.
‘Not till today. I came back because I had no choice. Nobody hears my message. The news people say I am just a stalker. They do not tell the truth. It is just more lies.’
‘And yesterday evening? You crossed back into Spain?’ Broderick asked, anxious to move things on.
‘After my escape … from you, Tamara …’ Jasinski said, smiling at Sullivan.
‘Detective Sergeant Sullivan,’ Broderick corrected.
‘From the detective sergeant,’ Jasinski continued playfully. ‘I take a bus and go to the border.’
‘And then?’
‘I sleep, then shave my beard. Then I go shopping.’
‘And when did you head out to San Roque?’ Sullivan asked.
‘That’s a leading question, Detective Sergeant,’ Jasinski’s lawyer interrupted. ‘My client, I think, denies ever being in San Roque.’
‘Well, he hasn’t denied it to us,’ Broderick snapped back.
‘You deny it, don’t you?’ asked the lawyer, turning nervously to his client.
‘I did not go to San Roque,’ Jasinski confirmed with a smile. ‘I have never been. Last night I went to beach and stay there till dawn. Then I returned here to finish what I started.’
‘And at no point yesterday did you experience what you describe as “blackouts”. Loss of time and so on?’ Sullivan asked, looking Jasinski straight in the eye.
‘Not that I remember,’ Jasinski replied. ‘But then again, I can never be sure.’
‘I don’t believe you,’ Broderick interjected, his patience waning.
‘About the blackouts or about everything I tell you?’ Jasinski replied, mischief playing in his eyes.
‘Pretty much everything. I think your plans went far beyond assaulting Novacs and taking Isolde. I think you murdered Cornwallis yesterday afternoon and then went on to the Covent. After your assault on Ms Novacs, you crossed back over to Spain and found your way to San Roque with the express purpose of killing both Martínez and Maugham. I don’t believe you experienced your so-called “blackouts” either. I think you were fully in control of all your actions and carried out your plans to the letter.’
‘Interesting,’ Jasinski replied.
‘In what way interesting?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Interesting neither of you ask me why I would do such things. You have not asked me about the lies.’
Broderick and Sullivan glanced at one another. It was true.
‘We’ve only just begun, Mr Jasinski,’ Broderick informed the man. ‘We’re just warming up.’
‘Well, I am sorry to have to tell you that I am tired now, Chief Inspector. I need a break,’ Jasinski replied coldly.
‘Well, of course you do.’ Broderick responded. ‘Of course you do.’
‘Lucky for me you are both excellent police officers,’ Jasinski added.
‘Meaning what exactly?’ Broderick bridled, his voice dropping in pitch.
‘Meaning I am innocent of murdering these people and I trust you will prove it so.’ Jasinski now turned to his lawyer. ‘You, I do not trust to help me. I demand another lawyer.’
The young man opened his mouth to reply, but words failed him.
‘We’ll see what we can do,’ Broderick said, frustrated by the two of them.
‘Thank you,’ Jasinski replied. ‘And now I must rest.’
57
‘He won’t be fit for interview for at least an hour, his nurse says,’ Broderick announced, exiting the building and making his way across to where Sullivan was sitting on a bench beneath a palm tree in the central quad.
‘If you ask me, Jasinski’s using his condition to call the shots on this,’ he continued. ‘He doesn’t appear to be particularly mentally disturbed to me.’
‘Just because he’s not twitching doesn’t mean he’s not a lunatic, guv,’ Sullivan observed.
‘I suppose not. But I’m not having him lead us a merry dance. If we have to get tough, we’ll get tough. He’s not crying out for a nurse every time things get uncomfortable for him.’
Sullivan sat looking into the middle distance.
‘I know that face,’ Broderick continued as he sat down beside her. ‘Usually means you’re working up to a good one.’
‘I’m just not sure.’
‘Here we go!’ Broderick exclaimed, raising his hands in exasperation. ‘“Our Lady of the Met” is on one. What’s the problem? Got anyone else in mind for our triple murder?’
Sullivan shrugged her shoulders.
‘Didn’t think so. You don’t have to be a fancy-pants profiler to put this one together, Sullivan. Jasinski’s means and opportunity are rock solid. His ability to kill with ease, not in question. He says he wasn’t at either murder scene. We have only his word for that. I’ve got the team checking through every witness statement from outside the Convent. See if anyone saw Jasinski hanging around through the afternoon before the assault. My guess is that it’s a waste of time. Spanish police are doing the same for any possible sightings of him in San Roque. Forensics are rushing through the DNA results – some extra money has been chucked at them apparently – and I have every confidence they will prove that Jasinski is not only a loony, but a murdering son of a bitch as well.’
‘I’m sure you’re right, guv …’
‘But?’ Broderick interrupted. ‘There’s a “but” coming, isn’t there?’
‘But … I think I believe him.’
‘You believe he didn’t kill those three men?’
‘I believe he believes he didn’t kill those men. Whether he can’t remember or he just didn’t do it, I’m not sure. But when you cautioned him, I think he was truly shocked to learn we had him there on suspicion of murder. He was
completely knocked sideways by that, and he wasn’t acting. He really wasn’t. Jasinski believes he’s an innocent man.’
Broderick looked at his detective sergeant for a moment. Her passion was undeniable, even if her reasoning was out of kilter.
‘Well, that’s neither here nor there, Sullivan,’ Broderick said in what he hoped was a calm, reasonable tone. ‘We just need to find out who murdered those men – whatever Jasinski thinks or believes is irrelevant. Whether he ends up in solitary confinement or bouncing around in a padded cell, it’s all the same to me. So while we wait for the evidence to prove that he’s a killer, I suggest we find out the reasons why he became one.’
‘The “lies”,’ Sullivan murmured.
‘Yes,’ Broderick replied, standing to go, ‘the “lies”.’
58
The glass-like surface of the villa’s infinity pool merged seamlessly into the blue Mediterranean horizon beyond. The mid-morning sun had been gaining in heat as it moved towards its zenith, its rays creating diamond-like sparkles on the pool’s edge. Wendall Phillips walked briskly past its diving board, wishing he could plunge into the water’s cool depths. It would be a welcome escape from the heat outside the villa and the emotional volcano within it. He had not slept that night. His vigil over Julia Novacs had been unrelenting. The decision not to wake the heavily sedated actress during the night had been the right one; she had not needed to know that Jasinski had gained access to the villa in which she now slumbered. Julia had suffered enough from the assault at the governor’s reception and needed to recover, Wendall had reasoned. That situation was about to change. Just after nine o’clock, the phone call had come from Chief Superintendent Massetti informing him of the kidnapping of Isolde and the murder of Josh Cornwallis. From that moment, everything had been thrown into a nightmarish spin.
Anticipating Novacs’ reaction, Wendall had planned ahead. A private jet was put on standby at Málaga airport. A suite at the George V hotel just off the Champs-Elysées in Paris was booked for two nights. A discreet call to Novacs’ friend Carla Bruni meant that a sympathetic shoulder to cry on would be available on the star’s arrival on French soil. All other conversations, with agents and family, would have to wait.
Novacs had risen at 9.30 and taken breakfast at 10. Wendall had gone into her rooms with the breakfast tray and broken the news before the star had taken the first sip of her favourite herbal tea.
The following hour had proved as traumatic as Wendall had suspected it would be. Novacs had completely fallen to pieces. Distress and anguish had swiftly given way to anger and feelings of retribution as Novacs turned on Wendall. Why hadn’t he told her sooner? How had the security team left her so vulnerable? Did they take her for an idiot? At last her tirade abated, and she fell into Wendall’s arms, sobbing uncontrollably. From that point, he knew that she would do as she was told and go where she was taken.
Wendall once again looked out across the pool. In ten minutes, they would leave for the airport and their flight to Paris. As he turned to head inside the villa, his phone rang. It was Isolde. Wendall had avoided his increasingly frequent calls all morning. But the time had come to speak.
59
Sixty kilometres south, in Gibraltar, Tracy Gavin stood outside Julia Novacs’ seventy-five foot Winnebago at the Queen of Diamonds unit base. Inside the palatial vehicle, Gabriel Isolde was supposed to be resting on the super-king-size bed in the star’s boudoir. Tracy had been taking calls from cast and crew all morning. She had also had to keep the press at bay and smooth-talk several deeply panicked executive producers of the movie. Half an hour earlier, Isolde had been released from St Bernard’s hospital still suffering from shock. It was clear to Tracy that her boss was in no state to deal with anything, but things had to be dealt with nevertheless. To facilitate this, she had stepped outside of the Winnebago to make his calls for him. All in all, she had managed to hold things together, but there was one person she still desperately needed to talk to.
For the twentieth time in an hour, she picked up Isolde’s phone and called Wendall Phillips. To her huge relief, she got straight through to him. Minutes later she wished she hadn’t. The news he had given her was the worst imaginable. The star of the movie was leaving Spain within the hour and would not be returning to complete her filming commitments. All future communications would now be through Novacs’ agent in Los Angeles. There was also a strong possibility that her lawyers would contact Isolde. Wendall did not go into detail, but Tracy could well imagine the demands they would make. It all pointed to one thing: Queen of Diamonds was finished. Over. A complete train wreck.
Taking a moment to compose herself, Tracy plucked up the courage to inform her boss. Reaching for the Winnebago’s door handle, she was surprised to discover that it was immovable. Trying with more force, she realised that the door had been locked from the inside.
‘Gabriel!’ she called, attempting to turn the handle once again. ‘Gabriel! Can you let me in?’
60
‘Cake,’ Hannah Portillo announced, ‘and wine. Vino blanco. The last two substances ingested by Cornwallis. As his tox screen identified Rohypnol, I sent samples from his digestive tract for analysis.’
‘Rohypnol was found in both the cake and the wine?’ Sullivan asked, reading the report that the elegant, statuesque pathologist had delivered to the incident room.
‘Yes. A higher percentage of the drug was found in the cake, strangely enough. I’m sure Forensics will have more to offer. The cake itself was found in the kitchen.’
‘We saw it,’ Broderick added. ‘Coffee and walnut. My favourite.’
‘Thought you’d be more of a jam sponge sort of guy,’ Sullivan said mischievously.
‘I wouldn’t turn a slice of that away either, Detective Sergeant.’
‘Sadly, neither could Cornwallis,’ continued Portillo. ‘Be interesting to compare with the Spanish examinations when they arrive.’
‘“When” being the operative word.’ Broderick sighed, leaning back in his chair and putting his feet up on a desk.
‘Strange that it should be in two foodstuffs, don’t you think?’ Sullivan asked Portillo. ‘Spiking the drink would have been enough surely.’
‘I agree. Unless whoever administered the drug was worried that the victim wouldn’t drink enough and brought the cake along as backup.’
Calbot suddenly laughed.
‘What’s so funny?’ Broderick asked the young officer disapprovingly.
‘Well, I know he’s supposed to be funny in the head, but I can’t quite see Jasinski turning up with cakes for his victims, can you?’
‘Just what I was thinking,’ Sullivan said.
‘Could have been a gift. Something like that. A way of making himself welcome in order to gain entry,’ Broderick pondered.
‘Must have been shop-bought. And locally. We need to check food stores in the vicinity. Morrisons. The Eroski supermarket near the border,’ Sullivan said. ‘If we find he’s bought cake, then I guess we’ve caught him.’
‘I’ll get on it,’ Calbot said, heading across to his desk.
‘So Jasinski’s modus operandi was to drug his victims and then finish them off by suffocating them, knowing they could offer no resistance,’ Broderick conjectured. ‘And the only reason he resorted to smashing Maugham’s skull in was because the man didn’t eat or drink a sufficient amount to knock him out properly.’
‘Still doesn’t make sense, guv,’ Sullivan replied. ‘Why go to the trouble of rendering them physically incapable before asphyxiating them? He’s a powerful man and a trained killer. He could have snapped any of them like a twig.’
Before Broderick could formulate an answer, Massetti hobbled into view across the crowded room and nodded for the two detectives to join her.
‘What is it, guv?’ Broderick asked as he and Sullivan arrived at her side.
‘Gabriel Isolde has just been rushed to hospital. A drug overdose by the sounds of it.’
‘Jesus,’
Sullivan said.
‘Get someone over to St Bernard’s as quick as you can,’ Massetti ordered. ‘Meanwhile, the two of you get some results out of Jasinski. Understood?’
‘Perfectly, ma’am,’ Broderick replied, already heading for the interview room.
‘And what’s the matter with you?’ Massetti asked, turning to Sullivan. ‘Not feeling up to the job?’
‘I’m just fine, thank you, ma’am,’ Sullivan said, choosing to keep her thoughts to herself. ‘I’m on my way.’
61
‘My client denies any involvement in the deaths of Cornwallis, Martínez or Maugham.’ The young woman’s confident tone did not go unnoticed by Sullivan and Broderick. Having been quickly briefed, Flora O’Harrigan, Jasinski’s new sharp-minded and immaculately presented solicitor, was now ready for business. ‘The assault on Ms Novacs at the Convent and the subsequent abduction of Mr Isolde were actions driven by the despair caused by not being heard,’ she continued. ‘My client wishes to tell his story and clear himself of your suspicions. He can then reveal the truth about what brought him to Gibraltar in the first place.’
‘So he wants to blame his actions on his medical condition, while getting a platform to explain his motives for committing them,’ Broderick replied evenly. ‘Sounds a bit “cake and eat it” to me, Ms O’Harrigan.’
‘Mr Jasinski just wishes to place his actions in the context of his family history, Chief Inspector. How those actions were influenced by my client’s schizophrenia is for others to determine.’
Broderick looked at Sullivan and raised an eyebrow. Jasinski had found a good advocate in O’Harrigan.
‘If your client has a story, we’d like to hear it. The more information he gives us, the more we can deduce just how much of a story Mr Jasinski is telling,’ Broderick replied.
‘Or just how much of the truth,’ O’Harrigan countered. ‘Mr Jasinski, please make your statement. If you need to rest, please tell us.’
