by Robert Daws
66
Police Constable Argos had called the nurse over to the cell door. Through its hatch, they could see Jasinski pacing up and down in a highly agitated state. The Pole had tried to sleep, but his mind was full of dark and bloody images from his past. Women and children lying dead in bombed-out houses in Iraqi villages. Limbless and torn-apart torsos spread across Arabic market places. Victims of teenage suicide bombers. The faces of colleagues flashed in front of him, all friends taken violently by death and haunting him still, their voices rising in volume within his head until finally reaching screaming pitch. He could take no more.
Turning to the wall, Jasinski rushed towards it, smashing his head into its brick-hard centre. The crack of his skull and the snap of nose cartilage sent pain searing through his body. It was not enough. As the blood streamed down his face, and as PC Argos fumbled with the key to the cell door, Jasinski hammered his head once more against the wall. And again. And again. He would not stop until oblivion took him.
67
Massetti was on the phone as Sullivan and Broderick entered her office.
‘Yes, sir. I fully understand.’ She waved at the detectives to take a seat. ‘We’ll have forensic results by midday tomorrow. In the meantime, we’re pursuing every line of enquiry. As I said, I fully appreciate your concerns. Thank you for your support, sir.’
The call over, Massetti focused on her officers.
‘That was the deputy chief minister. Very understanding, but naturally concerned that we get results ASAP. Says the whole thing is sending out the wrong signals to the world. Threat to the image of Gibraltar – ‘a safe haven for people and a safe haven for investment’, et cetera, et cetera. So you’d better be here to cheer me up. What have you got, Broderick?’
‘A corroborative statement of Jasinski’s back story by none other than Eduardo Martínez, ma’am.’
Massettti raised her eyebrows in surprise.
‘It seems he met with Inspector Lorenz back in 1964. Just before the policeman died and just after Jasinski’s father’s visit to the Rock.’
‘A statement?’ Massetti queried.
‘Yes, ma’am,’ Sullivan said. ‘Martínez was one of the last people to see Lorenz alive. They met just three days before the inspector died of arsenic poisoning. The RGP interviewed him as part of a possible murder investigation. Martínez had visited him because he’d heard that the inspector had a photograph of a woman who looked like a missing relative of his.’
Broderick continued the story. ‘It was a copy of the same photograph Gustaw Jasinski had brought with him to the Rock, ma’am. The army officer in the picture was Jasinski’s grandfather, Major Czesław Jasinski, and the woman in bed with him was Eduardo Martínez’s cousin, Marisella.’
‘All very interesting …’ Massetti said thoughtfully. ‘But how does that help us with the deaths of our three victims?’
‘Both Jasinski and Martínez had lost close relatives, and after meeting Lorenz, they blamed the deaths on an espionage operation allegedly run by a Nazi agent codenamed Diamant, aka the Queen of Diamonds.’
‘How much of this has been confirmed by official sources?’ Massetti demanded. ‘By British intelligence services, for one.’
‘None of it, ma’am. Although we’ve confirmed that the intelligence services took over the case from Lorenz in ’42, which suggests that there’s some truth in all this. Frustratingly, their investigations remain classified.’ Sullivan moved forward in her seat. ‘Ma’am, can we run with this for a moment?’
Massetti shrugged. ‘Okay.’
‘Jasinski, Cornwallis, Martínez and Maugham are joined by one common denominator – the so-called Queen of Diamonds. We have only hearsay as proof that she existed at all, but our three murder victims and Jasinski all seem to have been convinced that she did. Cornwallis wrote a film about her, Martínez and Jasinski believed she was responsible for the deaths of their loved ones, and Maugham was an expert on espionage and spying during the period that Diamant was allegedly active on the Rock. Can we agree on that?’
Massetti and Broderick nodded.
Sullivan continued: ‘Three of the men have been murdered in very similar circumstances, and naturally our suspicions have fallen on the fourth member of the group, Jasinski. We know he had a grievance against Cornwallis for attempting to present Diamant as a heroine. But what was his grievance with Martínez and Maugham? Martínez’s cousin Marisella was as much a victim as Jasinski’s father. Maugham would have had his own story to tell, but at the very least he must have had access to information so far denied to us.’
‘So you don’t think Jasinski did it?’ Massetti questioned.
‘I’m not saying that. What I am saying is that it doesn’t quite add up. I also truly believe that, even if he did kill those men, Jasinski has no recollection of doing so –’
‘Blackouts?’ Broderick interrupted, slight irritation in his voice.
‘Maybe. I just don’t buy it.’
‘So what do you buy, Detective Sergeant?’ Massetti asked, glancing at Broderick.
‘There’s someone else we haven’t considered yet, ma’am.’
‘Who, for God’s sake?’ Broderick asked.
A sharp tap on Massetti’s door was quickly followed by Sergeant Aldarino’s hurried entrance into the room.
‘Sorry to interrupt, ma’am. Jasinski’s had a fit in the cells. I think you need to come immediately.’
68
For the second time in as many days, an ambulance pulled away from the front of police HQ. The television crews, which had been waiting patiently outside, had leapt into action and were now following the ambulance at speed. Somehow, as they followed in a police squad car, Sullivan and Broderick found themselves beaten into fourth place.
Broderick looked at the TV vans ahead of them with growing frustration. ‘Let’s get those bastards for speeding if nothing else,’ he told Sullivan, making a note of the vehicles’ registration numbers and company logos.
The sight that had greeted the detectives on arrival at Jasinski’s cell had been alarming. Three police constables had been called in to restrain the Pole and were now holding him down while the nurse attempted to sedate him. Jasinski’s face was almost unrecognisable. His nose had clearly been broken, his lips split and bruised and his hair and face were smeared with blood.
‘He went berserk,’ Aldarino informed them. ‘Just smashed his head against the wall. Nurse says to transfer him to St Bernard’s for examination and head X-rays. She thinks his medication may not have been balanced.’
Following the ambulance along Rosia Road through the busy late afternoon traffic, Broderick and Sullivan continued their conversation.
‘What were you trying to tell Massetti and me?’ Broderick asked.
‘I was suggesting that we need to look outside the box, guv,’ she replied, shielding her eyes from the bright sun in the west.
‘So where do you suggest we start?’
‘Let’s take Jasinski out of the equation for a moment.’
‘What?’
‘Just imagine that he only did what he’s admitted to doing.’
‘Oh, I see. Just the breaking and entering, assault and kidnapping, you mean?’
‘Yes,’ Sullivan continued, ignoring her boss’s tone. ‘All that, but none of the murders.’
‘Go on.’
‘On the night before he died, Cornwallis met with Martínez in San Roque. What if Martínez arranged to see him because he wanted to tell Cornwallis about his own family’s experiences at the hands of the Queen of Diamonds? Cornwallis was depicting her as a brave double-agent working for the Allies, yes? What if Martínez’s revelations had upset the screenwriter? Upset him enough to change things in his script? Or worse, make him worry that the film might be discredited?’
‘A big “what if”, Sullivan,’ Broderick replied.
‘We’re outside the box, guv, remember?’
The chief inspector nodded, struggling to remain patie
nt.
‘What I’m saying is: what if Martínez had threatened to tell his story?’ Sullivan said. ‘How would Cornwallis react? His film, his reputation, his future would all be on the line. And not just his. Who would Cornwallis have turned to for help?’
Broderick stared at Sullivan, the penny dropping. ‘Are you suggesting …?’
‘Gabriel Isolde.’
‘But …’
‘Gabriel Isolde. The only person who would have more to lose from the film’s demise than Cornwallis. Years of work, millions of pounds in investment, his professional reputation, all lost because his film’s heroine was in reality a double-crossing murderess. How desperate would that have made him to stop the truth from coming to light?’
‘Where was Isolde when the killings took place?’ Broderick asked, already knowing the answer.
‘He’s shown on CCTV arriving at the Atlantic Marina Plaza just after 3.00 in the afternoon and leaving at 5.30 to go to the reception.’
‘But what about San Roque that evening?’
‘He was definitely in Spain. Took the helicopter to Marbella with Novacs and then drove back to Gib. He said he stopped on the way to recce a location at La Alcaidesa. That’s barely ten minutes from San Roque,’ Sullivan replied with growing excitement.
‘And his phone was out of charge for nearly two hours as I recall,’ Broderick added. ‘Convenient, that.’
‘We can place him at or near to both murder scenes. If he had the motive to kill and silence the three men … he could be our murderer.’
The buzz of Broderick’s mobile interrupted their enthusiasm for Sullivan’s new theory. The name on the screen was Massetti. Broderick took the call.
‘Ma’am?’ he answered. ‘Not quite at St Bernard’s yet. I see. That’s very interesting, ma’am. Right, thank you. Yes, that could be helpful.’
Broderick ended the call and turned to his detective sergeant. ‘Cake again,’ he announced. ‘The Spanish have followed up on our pathology findings. They say Martínez and Maugham had also eaten cake before they died, and like the wine, it had high levels of Rohypnol in it.’
‘Cake?’ Sullivan queried.
‘Slices of bizcocho were on the Martínez coffee table with the wine and coffee, remember?’ Broderick said. ‘It’s Spanish sponge cake. Not a patch on a coffee and walnut cake, I grant you, but okay-ish.’
‘Unless it’s packed full of Rohypnol.’
‘Obviously,’ Broderick said, regretting his sweet-toothed enthusiasm.
‘And I bet it was home-made, just like the Cornwallis one,’ Sullivan added. ‘Tell me, guv, does Isolde strike you as the kind of man who could bake a cake?’
‘Easily, Sullivan,’ Broderick replied with a rare smile. ‘Very easily.’
69
Passing the sculpted family on the Gibraltar Evacuation Monument on Waterport Road, the convoy of vehicles approached St Bernard’s hospital. The impressive state-of-the-art medical facility had been created within a large converted office building constructed on land reclaimed from the Bay of Gibraltar. Its Accident & Emergency Department had been alerted and staff were now waiting for the incoming casualty from police HQ.
TV cameras and reporters were up and running at the A&E entrance as Sullivan and Broderick raced from their car and followed Jasinski and the paramedics into the hospital.
‘Can you tell us what’s happened?’ one reporter yelled into Broderick’s face.
‘Is that Lech Jasinski being admitted to the hospital?’ cried another.
‘Has he tried to take his own life or has he been the victim of police brutality?’
Sensing that her boss was about to deal with the last question in a less than diplomatic manner, Sullivan placed her hand on the small of his back and firmly pushed him forward and through the doors of the hospital.
‘Bastards!’ Broderick exclaimed under his breath.
‘Yes, guv. But best left to themselves,’ Sullivan answered, heading for the reception desk.
Within a minute, a young female doctor was briefing them.
‘He seems to have wreaked havoc on himself,’ Dr Felice informed the detectives. ‘He’s in and out of consciousness, and we suspect he may have badly fractured his skull.’
‘He went berserk,’ Sullivan told her. ‘One minute he seemed fine and the next …’
‘Judging from his condition, he might have been avoiding medication,’ Felice replied.
‘The nurse has been giving him his meds since his arrest,’ Broderick informed her.
‘You’d be surprised what patients can get away with if they really want to. Be worth checking, though. Either way, it’ll be an hour or so before we have a better picture.’
‘How’s Gabriel Isolde?’ Broderick asked, changing tack. ‘We’d like talk to him if possible.’
‘Mr Isolde is still unconscious, but showing some improvement. I’m afraid he won’t be of any assistance to you quite yet, Chief Inspector.’
‘I see,’ Broderick replied, handing the doctor his card. ‘We’ll leave two constables with Jasinski and I’ve asked for another officer to be stationed outside Isolde’s door. As soon as you learn anything about either of our patients, please contact me on that number.’
The doctor smiled thinly and headed back into the department.
Broderick sighed. ‘Well, that’s just great. Two suspects and we can’t get near either of them.’
‘Massetti’s going to have a fit.’
‘I don’t care about that. What I care about is presenting Massetti with your new theory, backed up with actual evidence.’
‘We’ll need help from the Cuerpo, guv. Check out Isolde’s Spanish alibi. The more we find out about why Martínez met Cornwallis and what the old man had to tell him, the better.’
‘The Cuerpo and Guardia will help us,’ Broderick observed. ‘Leave that to me. I’ll call in some favours and I might even ask an old mate of mine to help out. In an unofficial capacity.’
‘Sounds intriguing,’ Sullivan replied, knowing better than to ask for more details.
‘You and Calbot check out Isolde’s history more fully and I’ll get Massetti to go “upstairs” for some leverage on finding links to British intelligence.’
‘Okay, guv.’
‘Oh … and this is awkward …’ Broderick turned to Sullivan tentatively.
‘Guv?’
‘My sister Cath is taking the girls to Roy’s in Casemates Square at 6.00 for a fish and chip supper. She asked me to ask you if you fancied joining them. I’m sure you haven’t time, but at least I’ve asked.’
‘Are you going, sir?’ Sullivan enquired, enjoying Broderick’s discomfort at asking.
‘I shouldn’t, but I promised, and besides, I’m bloody well starving.’
Sullivan checked her watch. It was 5.45 pm already. ‘Massetti will have a fit if she …’
‘Aldarino will cover. The slightest development and I’ll be back here before you can say “Cod and mushy peas”,’ Broderick countered.
‘Well, in that case … I’ll make a call and then join you,’ Sullivan replied. ‘All work and no play can make coppers rather dull in my experience. Wouldn’t you agree, guv?’
Broderick didn’t know what to say. Settling for a shrug of his shoulders and a muffled grunt, the chief inspector turned to the main door and caught sight of the waiting camera crews. Without hesitation, he turned on his heel and headed in the opposite direction.
‘Let’s take the back door, Sullivan.’
70
Ric Danaher steadied himself and slowly stood upright. Balancing carefully at the apex of the finca’s roof, he looked out across the almost uninterrupted landscape spreading westwards as far as the eye could see. The Rock of Gibraltar, forty kilometres southwest of where he stood, was seemingly the only obstacle between him, the sea and the Atlas Mountains of Morocco beyond.
Looking out from his lonely vantage point on the outskirts of the hillside town of Gaucín, Ric felt a sense of calm
and belonging. It had been eight years since he had first set eyes on the isolated farmhouse. It had taken him three to finally leave London’s Metropolitan Police Service and give himself over to a quieter life in Spain. With a reasonable pension, supplemented by occasional work as a private detective on the Costa del Sol, life was sweet. A feeling enhanced by the closeness he now enjoyed with his daughter Consuela, both geographically and emotionally. The acrimonious divorce from her Spanish mother twenty-three years earlier had made their relationship difficult at first. When his wife had left the UK for Spain with the three-year-old Consuela, Danaher had become determined that his daughter would not disappear from his life. It had not been easy over the years, but buying the farmhouse and making Spain his permanent residence had finally made it possible.
Shielding his eyes against the sun, Danaher looked out on his hillside retreat. Several hundred olive trees spread down the slope towards the river below. Harshly dried vegetation sprouted between outcrops of dark grey rock and slopes of parched thin soil. For two hours, as he had worked unceasingly to repair and replace the red clay tiles on the main part of the old Spanish farmhouse, the scent of myrtle carried on the warm breeze had given his senses the pleasure it had always done.
In the kitchen below, Consuela was busy preparing an early supper for the two of them. She had arrived from her home in Estepona just after lunch and immediately set about imposing order on the finca’s interior. By the time Danaher climbed down from the roof and entered his home, he knew it would be clean and tidy. He also knew that it would take him only a few hours to return it to the topsy-turvy domestic landscape he enjoyed and needed. Mixing with the myrtle now came the full, flavoursome smell of one of his daughter’s delicious tagines. They would eat soon and talk. Then Danaher would walk Consuela to her car and watch her drive off down the dusty narrow track to work. She was on nights this week, and as a detective with the Spanish police in Málaga, the twenty-six-year-old was working long, punishing hours.
