by Robert Daws
76
‘The Queen of Diamonds!’
Broderick stood in front of the evidence board in the incident room. Turning to the pictures of the three murdered men pinned to it, he jabbed his finger at each image: ‘Cornwallis. Martínez. Maugham.’
He continued: ‘These men weren’t killed by a ghost from the past. They were murdered by someone who is very much alive and motivated to kill. Señora Lascano told us a story we had heard, in part, before. She believes these murders were the result of these men attempting to discover the identity of a supposed double-agent working on the Rock during World War II. Josh Cornwallis wrote a screenplay about her. Martínez believed his cousin had been murdered by her and that Inspector Lorenz had met a similar fate decades later. Graeme Maugham was a specialist on World War II espionage, so we can presume that he, too, had knowledge of her. Also, Jasinski claims that it was because the Queen of Diamonds was responsible for the death of his grandfather that he came to the Rock – to discredit both her and the film. The common denominator here? All these men shared a deep-seated belief in a person who has officially never existed.’
Broderick turned to Calbot, standing behind the other detectives and sipping from a mug of coffee.
‘Do ghosts exist, Calbot? Please tell me we have more to go on than hearsay and ancient paranoia.’
‘Not much more, guv,’ Calbot responded, moving across to stand next to Broderick. ‘Apart from an entry in Wikipedia and a few news articles attempting to puff up the legend of the Queen of Diamonds for entertainment value, we’ve got nothing. I’ve been onto MI6, the Foreign Office, the Ministry of Defence, even put in a call to the Imperial War Museum. All about as useful as a kick in the bollocks. It seems the Queen of Diamonds shares many of the qualities we associate with the Loch Ness monster – lots of people believe in her, but nobody can prove it.’
Broderick let out a sigh of frustration.
‘Okay,’ he conceded, turning to address the group once more. ‘Let’s hope Massetti can access more information on the subject. In the meantime, Sullivan here has another theory that we need to run past the chief super. The brighter among you will have already gathered that it concerns Gabriel Isolde. Anyone turned up anything of interest on our local movie mogul?’
‘As a matter of fact, I was going to flag something up, guv,’ Calbot answered. ‘I’ve been talking to Isolde’s production co-ordinator, Tracy Gavin. She told me that he hasn’t really been himself since he’d heard about Cornwallis and Novacs getting together. She says Isolde worshipped Cornwallis and was very possessive of him.’
‘Is she suggesting a relationship between the two men?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Not a physical or romantic one between the two of them. She says Isolde had given up on that ever happening. However, he was very jealous of the new romance with Novacs and thought it threatened his special relationship with Cornwallis.’
‘Doesn’t do it for me,’ Broderick responded. ‘Might work for the Cornwallis murder, but why kill the other two? Besides which, all three murders were premeditated, not the result of a spontaneous fit of jealousy.’
‘Gavin also mentioned that Isolde had just sacked his line producer,’ Calbot continued. ‘The word is that the line producer had been unhappy about some of Isolde’s work practices – in particular, taking investment money from certain questionable sources.’
‘Such as?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Gavin didn’t know for sure, but she mentioned that Isolde had been in contact with several Eastern European businessmen on the Costa del Sol. Says he was always taking calls from them. Although Isolde never told her outright, she thinks they aren’t entirely legit.’
‘Good work,’ Broderick said, patting Calbot on the shoulder. ‘Follow that up. We need to know who they are and how much power they have over Isolde. If nothing else, being in hock to dubious backers would have considerably increased the pressure on him to deliver the film.’
‘Maybe our three victims had somehow collectively or individually threatened the making of the film. In that case, certain other parties might have silenced them,’ Sullivan said.
‘Let’s get all this to Massetti. Inform her we’re opening a second line of enquiry centred on Isolde.’
‘What about Jasinski?’ Calbot enquired.
‘We’re still waiting for the DNA results. If they’re negative, he could well be in the clear for the murders,’ Broderick replied.
‘And that’s why we need everything we can get on our new suspect,’ Sullivan added.
‘Starting with an update on Isolde’s condition,’ Broderick ordered. ‘We need to interview him as soon as possible.’
77
It had taken Sullivan and Broderick less than five minutes to convince the chief super of Isolde’s new status as a prime suspect.
‘If we’ve been biased towards believing in Jasinski’s possible guilt, investigating Isolde could well balance things out,’ Sullivan had argued. ‘With both motive and access to all of the victims, plus new information about some of his more shady business associates, Isolde is looking like a very plausible suspect, ma’am.’
‘Okay,’ Massetti had agreed. ‘Leave no stone unturned. By the time he’s ready for interview, I want you to give him nowhere to go but a full confession.’
‘If he’s guilty, ma’am,’ Broderick added quietly.
‘I’m not an idiot, Broderick!’ Massetti snapped back. ‘I take that for granted. But don’t forget that Jasinski is still our best bet. I don’t want any of you putting yourself into an induced coma about that fact. Understood?’
Acknowledging this, both detectives headed for the door.
‘Oh, just one other thing, ma’am,’ Broderick said, turning back. ‘We need as much information as we can get on the real Queen of Diamonds. We think it’s pivotal to investigating both Jasinski and Isolde.’
‘I’m doing my best, Broderick,’ Massetti replied. ‘The chief minister has put in an official government request for information to the British intelligence services. The governor has also promised to do what he can.’
‘Good, ma’am. Hopefully they’ll be a little more influential than Calbot has proved thus far.’
‘I would think so!’ Massetti replied, trying to hide an involuntary smile. ‘If not, we may find ourselves well and truly stuffed.’
‘Couldn’t have put it better myself, ma’am.’
78
The traffic crossing Vauxhall Bridge early on Thursday evening was as busy as ever. Eleven hundred miles northwest of the Rock and one hour behind Gibraltar time, London was hot and uncomfortably humid.
Looking out from her office window on the eighth floor of the MI6 headquarters building on the Albert Embankment, deputy director of operations, Rachel Shapley, took in the spectacular view across the river Thames and the distant heights of north London beyond. It was a sight that always calmed her and helped her unscramble her thoughts.
The balm offered by this riverside vista was proving particularly welcome now. As both her immediate superiors were engaged in important talks abroad – one in Washington and the other in Israel – an above-average amount of responsibility had been temporarily given to her for the projected forty-eight hours of their absence. It was all proving monstrously challenging. With a morning packed with high-level intelligence meetings in Whitehall and an afternoon spent briefing and being briefed on several new and alarming developments in the Middle East and Russia, Shapley had paid little attention to an urgent request from the chief minister of Gibraltar. On the face of it, it looked like a minor leak of classified information and, as such, well down the list of pressing international security issues and emergencies.
That had been Shapley’s simple view of the matter two hours before – a perspective that had now shifted dramatically. Unable to divest herself of responsibility for it either upwards or downwards, she once more faced the realisation that, for the next twenty-four hours, the buck would stop with her. A short conversat
ion with a senior civil servant at the Foreign Office had provided some unsettling insight into the facts behind the Gibraltar problem. It had become obvious that the situation required her personal intervention. In short, an immediate visit to the Rock. Unfortunately, Shapley could not leave her post until the return of the deputy director from Washington the following evening.
Her head now clear, Shapley realised that she had to do three things. First, inform Gibraltar that the investigation into Graeme Maugham’s murder could proceed only with the upmost secrecy . Second, arrange a flight from RAF Northolt to Gibraltar at approximately 1900 hours the following evening. Third and most irritating, tell her sister that she wouldn’t be able to attend her nephew’s wedding on Saturday morning in Chipping Norton. That piece of news would no doubt deliver a major blow to Shapley family relations for years to come. Not for the first time she ruminated on the negative personal aspects of her job.
Moving away from her office window and back to her desk, Rachel Shapley remembered what her husband had said after viewing the fantastical goings-on in the Bond movie Skyfall. Seeing the MI6 headquarters being blown up by the villain Raoul Silva, he had remarked, ‘If you’d been in the office next door to yours, that bastard would have got you.’ On days like this, Shapley thought, the Bond baddie would have been welcome.
79
The Trafalgar Sports Bar was uncharacteristically quiet for a Thursday night. No football match filled the super-sized TV screens that hung on the walls, drawing the eye and focusing attention away from normal conversation. Tonight’s customers had only a golf tournament in Australia to entertain them, and this was proving a let-down to those addicted to a pint of Stella and adrenalin-fuelled sports entertainment.
Sullivan had allowed herself to be persuaded by Calbot and the rest of the team to unwind with a quick drink at the end of another punishing day. It had meant walking past her apartment building and the soft inviting bed within, and trekking up to the end of Rosia Road. That was where the Traf was situated, close to the cable car base station and the Alameda Botanic Gardens. On the only other occasion that she had visited the bar, it had been heaving with customers riotously enjoying a Manchester United versus Atlético Madrid cup tie from Old Trafford. She had not stayed long.
Tonight, however, nursing a chilled glass of Pinot Grigio, she was enjoying listening to her colleagues’ usual joke-driven banter.
She had expected to work well beyond midnight, but after running a ‘hot debrief’ with the team on the events of the previous twenty-four hours, Broderick had chucked the day team out of the incident room at 10.30 pm.
‘Go home, the lot of you,’ he had told them. ‘We’re all knackered, and tomorrow is lining up to be even more demanding than the last two days have been. Go home and get your heads down.’
His advice had been taken, but not completely acted on. The visit to the Traf had been Calbot’s idea, and despite initial reservations, Sullivan now considered it a good one. Not that she had totally relaxed; part of her mind was still processing the day’s work.
Earlier in the evening, the team had been told by the Spanish police that certain items belonging to Martínez and Maugham appeared to have been stolen on the night of their murders. Señora Lascano had confirmed that both men’s laptops had been taken, as well as a small briefcase belonging to the Englishman and a desk diary and address book used by Martínez.
They had also informed Massetti that two RGP officers had been seen in San Roque on the night, reportedly asking locals to identify a photograph of Josh Cornwallis. The Spanish police were most displeased by this and had demanded an explanation. Massetti had expressed her surprise at the news and promised to investigate further. It was a promise she had little intention of keeping.
News from the hospital was that Isolde had continued to improve slowly and that Jasinski was still in a coma. Frustratingly, there would be no contact with either of the suspects any time soon.
Calbot had set about identifying the film’s financial backers. Tracy Gavin had emailed the official list across and added the names of three other people she suspected of being ‘unofficial’ contributors to Isolde’s coffers. As she had suggested, the gentlemen in question were Russian and Romanian in origin and, according to police checks in Málaga, had dubious business interests as well as connections with gambling, sex clubs and property development along the length and breadth of the Costa del Sol.
‘Not exactly the sort of people Isolde would be happy inviting to the Oscars,’ Calbot had concluded.
Broderick had agreed. ‘Not exactly the sort of people you want breathing down your neck, either.’
As expected, Broderick had not taken his own advice to go home, choosing instead to check through the event log and make a start on restructuring the incident room evidence board. It was going to be another long night for the chief inspector.
Back in the Traf, detective constables Vallejo, Cassar and Digby were debating, yet again, UEFA’s insistence that the Gibraltar national football team play their games at the Estádio Algarve in Portugal. According to the governing body of European football, the local Victoria Stadium did not meet its rigorous standards, which upset many supporters on the Rock.
‘The sooner we get the new stadium built at Europa Point, the better,’ Vallejo argued. ‘It’s bloody daft playing our matches over in Portugal.’
‘And expensive to go see them,’ Digby added.
‘Didn’t know you’d been over there.’
‘I haven’t. But if I did want to go, I couldn’t afford it!’
Giving up on his friends’ conversation, Calbot turned to Sullivan, who was still lost in her own thoughts. ‘Penny for them?’
Sullivan smiled. ‘Nothing worth shelling out for, I’m afraid.’
‘Busy days. Not that I’m complaining. Beats shoplifting and cigarette smuggling any day.’
‘People have been murdered, Calbot. There’s never anything good about that.’
Calbot looked suitably shamefaced. ‘I didn’t mean that. I just meant …’
‘I know what you meant, Calbot,’ Sullivan replied. ‘No need to explain.’
‘About dinner next week,’ he said, changing the subject a little too obviously. ‘If you think this bunch of muttons are coming, you’re wrong.’ He nodded towards his fellow officers. ‘I’ve actually invited the chief inspector.’
‘Will he come?’ Sullivan asked, unable to explain why she felt so alarmed at the prospect.
‘No way,’ Calbot replied with confidence. ‘Never goes anywhere.’
‘He’s going to a fancy dress ball.’
Calbot shook his head. ‘He’ll get out of it somehow.’
‘So who will be coming to yours, then?’
‘I’m still thinking about it. If you’ve got any ideas, let me know.’
‘And if you’ve got any ideas, you’ll get more than just my thoughts, Detective Sergeant,’ Sullivan replied, softening the reprimand with a twinkle in her eye.
Behind the bar, the barman, bored with the slow-moving events unfolding at the fourteenth hole of the Royal Melbourne Golf Club, changed the channel to watch the news. Immediately the screens were full of scenes filmed earlier at Charles de Gaulle Airport. Sullivan and the rest of the table turned to see the arrival in Paris of Julia Novacs and her entourage. The American star was being greeted with open arms by her friends Carla Bruni and Juliette Binoche. Cameras flashed and reporters jostled to capture the highly stage-managed event. Moments later the screen showed a montage of images: the Rock of Gibraltar, the recently dismantled Queen of Diamonds movie set in Grand Casemates Square and, finally, a photograph of Josh Cornwallis.
Calbot whistled through his teeth. ‘Bloody hell. This is huge.’
Sullivan nodded as she continued to watch the news bulletin play out. ‘You bet it is.’
80
‘We have been informed by the medical team at St Bernard’s that Lech Jasinski will be operated on this morning,’ Massetti told the
throng of reporters gathered once again in the inner courtyard of police HQ. She had begun her press conference at 8 am and now, ten minutes later, was attempting to bring it to a close.
‘As you know, we had been questioning Mr Jasinski in connection with the three murders this week, one here in Gibraltar and two in San Roque. We’ll continue to pursue our lines of enquiry while Mr Jasinski’s in hospital, and widen them to take on board new information and leads pertaining to the case.’
This last statement released a wave of questions from the attending journalists. Unperturbed, Massetti doggedly continued to the end of her prepared brief. ‘The RGP is working closely with our Andalusian counterparts, and we’ll bring you up to date with our progress as and when appropriate. Thank you.’
She turned and nodded to the two police constables at her side, who immediately moved to support her and her bad ankle. All three headed for the custody suite door on the right-hand side of the courtyard. Massetti was in pain and, with the press looking on, was determined to milk every ounce of sympathy she could out of the situation. Sadly, little appeared to be on offer. Ignoring the barrage of questions and barely disguised accusations of police brutality yelled at her from the press corps, the chief superintendent entered the building and headed straight for the incident room, where she joined Broderick.
The team had been hard at work since before 7 am. Sullivan had already come up with something new on the film producer: ‘Isolde’s house in Upper Town, ma’am.’
‘Didn’t know he had one,’ said Massetti.
‘Left to him by his parents ten years ago,’ Sullivan continued. ‘Uses it several times a year on his visits from London.’
‘Why hasn’t he been using it during the filming,’ Massetti asked, ‘instead of staying at the Plaza?’
‘Probably trying to show off his movie mogul bollocks,’ Broderick interrupted. ‘Posh penthouse fits the part a little better than your average townhouse, don’t you think, ma’am?’
