by Robert Daws
Once again Sullivan felt the pull of this place. The feeling of being at home on this impressive limestone outcrop, with its Mediterranean climate and warm, generous people. Should I go or should I stay? Sullivan thought, feeling the sun on her face and breathing in the hot, sea-salted air. Before she could attempt an answer to that question, a familiar voice interrupted her thoughts.
‘You found him then?’
Sullivan turned to see Gus Broderick standing a few paces behind her.
‘Nice thought,’ he added, looking down at Lorenz’s gravestone. ‘The flower.’
‘What are you doing here?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Got the day off. I’m driving Cath and the girls up to Gaucín to see Ric Danaher and his daughter. Ric’s finally completed the roof on his finca and he wants to celebrate. It’s taken him seven years to finish it, so I reckon we’re in for quite a party.’
‘How’d you know I was here?’ Sullivan asked.
‘I didn’t. We were driving by and Daisy spotted you walking through the gate. They’re over in the car. This place gives them the creeps. I hope you don’t mind, but I thought I’d find out what you were up to.’
‘Paying my respects, I suppose,’ Sullivan replied.
‘He deserves them. He was a brave man. Must have known he was in danger, but he didn’t give up.’
‘Unlike us.’
‘We haven’t given up. We’re just having to bide our time,’ Broderick replied. ‘The fact is, we know the truth, and in my experience, secrets don’t remain secrets for ever.’
‘Diana Ruiz and Sister Clara got away with murder, and there’s nothing we can do about it.’
For the first time, Broderick saw how hurt his colleague really was. ‘Sunday afternoons. BBC2,’ he said.
‘I beg your pardon?’ Sullivan replied.
‘Me and my dad. Every Sunday when I was a lad, we’d sit down in the front room and watch an old movie. Anything, so long as it was good. Westerns were our favourite. Gary Cooper, John Wayne, Jimmy Stewart, Alan Ladd. If they were playing cowboys, me and my dad would be watching. At the end of every film, he’d say the same thing to me: “The man in the white hat always wins in the end.” For years after that, whenever I found myself down or angry or frustrated with the world, I’d call home and my old man would say the exact same thing to me: “Don’t you worry about it, son. The man in the white hat always wins in the end.’’’
‘And does he?’ Sullivan asked. ‘Always win?’
Broderick paused for a moment and looked her straight in the eye. ‘Eventually, Sullivan. Eventually.’
For a while, they both looked down at the gravestone and the single flower that lay at its foot.
‘I haven’t got a flower,’ Broderick said gently. ‘I don’t do flowers. It looks like this will have to do instead.’
Slowly and a little awkwardly, Broderick stood to attention and raised his right arm in a police salute. At his side, after a moment, Sullivan did the same.
The sound of a car horn broke their reverie.
‘That’ll be Penny, I expect,’ Broderick said. ‘Patience is a virtue unknown to the teenage mind.’
‘Hope you all have fun,’ Sullivan said. ‘I guess I’ll see you on Monday.’
‘And, hopefully, many more Mondays after that, Detective Sergeant.’
Sullivan found herself quite taken aback by Broderick’s words. ‘Well … y-yes … s-sir – hopefully,’ she stammered.
‘Good,’ Broderick replied with a smile. ‘That’s very good.’
Slowly, Chief Inspector Gus Broderick turned round and headed back along the path towards the cemetery gates and his waiting family. Sullivan looked on until his tall, powerful and untidily dressed figure disappeared from view. Allowing herself a smile for the first time in several days, Tamara Sullivan looked up at the gigantic and immovable Rock of Gibraltar that towered above her.
‘You’re right, guv,’ she whispered to herself. ‘It is good.’
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Acknowledgments
I have been a yearly visitor to Gibraltar for some twenty-five years. The warmth and spirit of its people, together with the wonder and magnitude of the Rock on which they live, have never ceased to amaze me. Even as I write, I am looking forward to my next visit.
I would like to thank those within London’s Metropolitan Police Service and the Royal Gibraltar Police who have given their time to offer help and guidance. It has been invaluable. Thanks also to Stuart Green and Peter Canessa, and to my friends at the marvellous Gibraltar Tourist Service and Gibraltar Literary Festival.
I hope I will be forgiven for having played hard and fast with the internal geography of the Gibraltar police headquarters, as well as Gibraltar’s main general hospital, St Bernard’s. I have also changed the names of several places and establishments. Other than that, I have tried to be as accurate as possible with situation and location.
Huge thanks to my agents at Independent, Paul Stevens and Will Peterson, for years and years of help, energy and kindness. Good men.
To Laura Mackie and Sally Haynes for having faith and acting on it.
To Samantha and Norbert Oetting – blessed with genius in all things to do with websites, SEO, marketing and a thousand other things I know next to nothing about.
Thanks also to my editor Nancy Duin – a great professional.
To Mr and Mrs James, for their invaluable support, friendship and encouragement.
To Adam Croft for passing on his huge experience and joy about the strange business of publishing.
To Marina and Jason at Polgarus. Great formatting and creative publishing advisors.
To Debbie at The Cover Collection. Invaluable help and a willingness to walk the extra mile.
To Katie, Jo, Kate, Emma, Mark, Jane and Steve for help in tough times.
For Ben, Betsy and May for being lovely and remaining only mildly interested in what I do.
Last, but not least, to my wife Amy, for her wisdom, patience and wonderfully creative mind. A dear writer friend, Christopher Matthew, once wrote, ‘Eighty-five percent of a writer’s life is spent thinking and thinking very hard. Unfortunately for writers, unless they are seen to be pounding away at a laptop keyboard, nobody really thinks they are working at all.’ Amy has always understood this strange process, even when my ‘thinking’ has drifted into a pleasant little afternoon siesta.
