by Robert Daws
The Rock
Robert Daws
The Rock. Gibraltar. 1966. In a fading colonial house overlooking the Straits of Gibraltar, the dead body of a beautiful woman lays dripping in blood. The steel handle of a knife protrudes from her chest, its sharpened tip buried deep within her heart. The Rock. Present day. Detective Sergeant Tamara Sullivan arrives on The Rock on a three-month secondment from the London Metropolitan Police Service. Her reasons for being here are not happy ones and she braces herself for a tedious and wasteful twelve weeks in the sun. After all, murders are rare on the small, prosperous and sun-kissed sovereignty of Gibraltar and catching murderers is what Sullivan does best. It is a talent she shares with her new boss, Chief Inspector Gus Broderick of the Royal Gibraltar Police Force. He's an old-fashioned cop who regards his new colleague with mild disdain. But when a young police constable is found hanging from the ceiling of his apartment, Sullivan and Broderick begin to unravel a dark and dangerous secret that will test their skills and working relationship to the limit.
The Rock
‘A Sullivan And Broderick Murder Mystery’
by
Robert Daws
© 2012 Robert Daws. The book’s author retains sole copyright to his or her contribution to this book.
All rights reserved.
Acknowledgments
I have been fortunate enough to be a yearly visitor to Gibraltar for some twenty-three years. The warmth and spirit of its people, together with the wonder and magnitude of the Rock upon which they live, has never ceased to amaze me. Even as I write I am looking forward to my next visit.
I would like to thank those within the Metropolitan Police Service and the Royal Gibraltar Police Force who have given their valuable time to offer help and guidance. It has been invaluable.
I hope I will be forgiven for playing hard and fast with the internal geography of the Gibraltar Police H.Q, as well as Gibraltar’s main General Hospital. 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.
I would like to thank my publisher Circlehouse for faith and encouragement, especially my editor Jenni Bird and designer Aldren Gamalo.
Also thanks to Adam Croft for his knowledge and enthusiasm for books, writing, pubs and fine ales.
To Ted Robbins for access to his huge brain and endless enthusiasm.
Last but not least, 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.
To Messrs Adam Croft and Kempston Hardwick - men of mystery and imagination.
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?
Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear?
No,no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!
William Blake
Gibraltar. 1966.
The Captain’s House stands proud above its high walls. From it’s imposing gates, statuesque lions gaze down impassively in reminiscence of it’s colonial past.
A lone Austin Wolesley glides past the gates and continues down the dusty road, the silence of the afternoon broken only by the hum of it’s engine and the strains of Dave Brubeck’s ‘Take Five’ floating from the nearby French windows of the house’s large drawing room. To the east, the garden rises in three terraces finally ending at the base of the gigantic limestone Rock itself. To the west, the view crosses the town to the Straits of Gibraltar and the Moroccan coast of Africa. Below the surface of the narrow and busy seaway that separates these land masses, two mighty continents meet. But here on high ground, net curtains flutter in the breeze as a gramophone needle skips and jumps across deep black grooves.
The boy does not move, nor blink, as he stares at his reflection and his reflection stares back at him. For a fleeting moment, he no longer knows which is which. He needs to know. With huge effort he turns his head from the mirror and forces himself to look once more upon the carnage at the centre of the room.
A woman’s hand hangs limply across the arm of a chaise longue - the trickles of deep scarlet blood dried to the greying skin. The sodden nightdress offers a single bare leg in hope and desperation. The glistening lipstick on her sumptuous lips belies the horror that shines through her bloodshot eyes. The steel handle of a knife protrudes from her chest, its sharpened tip buried deep within her heart.
A man steps in through the French window and surveys the scene. The fine lines of his tailored three-piece suit a sharp contrast to the chaos within the room. He turns and sees the boy trembling in a corner. The boy meets his stare and screams. Screams uncontrollably.
The Rock. Present day.
She sighed contentedly as she looked out through the French windows and took in the sights and smells of the house’s compact but perfectly formed grounds. Even after all these years she never failed to smile when she stood on this spot. This she did every day, enjoying the delicate scent of breeze through the garden, the high westward easing sun beating down on the tall gates at the end of the driveway and the fluttering of the drawing room curtains in the warm summer air.
The radio played, barely audible, as the newsreader continued unperturbed. ‘...Cross border delays are expected from this Saturday the ninth of June, as major roadworks commence on the La Linea approach roads...’
As she raised the glass of orange juice to her lips, the blood-curdling scream rang out, piercing through the ceiling above. A blue rock thrush , momentarily perched on the terrace walls, took flight as the glass of orange hit the cold tiles.
She moved now, as fast as her ageing legs would carry her, up to the first-floor landing. Another scream. She stood frozen to the spot, knowing that she must do something. But what? She moved slower now to the bedroom door at the end of the upper hall and tapped gently upon it.
‘Are you all right, dear?’
Silence. Another tap.
‘Hello? Are you all right?’
Silence. Then the single click of the key turning in the lock. The heavy wooden door began to slowly creak open, revealing the terrible scene within. She could utter only four words.
‘Oh... you poor thing.’
1
The violent thrust of the aircraft’s engines sent a disturbing vibration through the plane as it started to power its way down the runway of Luton’s International Airport. Although she had experienced it a hundred times before, the outwardly composed thirty-one year old woman sitting in a window seat at the front of the passenger deck could not completely hide her anxiety. Nothing about the process of aviation seemed natural to her and the grisly mental images from a dozen disaster movies were now running on a loop through her mind. This mental torture had not been helped by the five hour delay the passengers had been forced to endure because of yet another strike by both French and Spanish Air Traffic Controllers. The vented frustration of some of her fellow flyers meant that the flight attendants had little good will to spare for a single woman travelling alone. She had tried smiling at the one male attendant on board, but had been as ruthlessly ignored by him as by his female colleagues.
The plane now started to rise and climb into the skies. A large and heavily perspiring man in the seat next to her gripped his arm rest and started to practice some kind of breathing technique obviously learnt for just such an occasion.
As the plane passed through the low lying cloud and moved higher i
nto the blue, she finally felt relaxed enough to slip off her shoes and stretch her tense feet beneath the seat of the passenger infront. She once again opened the brightly pictured pages of the “Guide to Gibraltar” that had been nestling in her lap. She had attempted this read so often over the previous weeks that her failure to get beyond the opening two pages on The Rock’s history and strategic geographic position at the southern most tip of the European Continent now made her smile rather than grimace. She knew that it was not the lack of interest in the place itself that led to this response, more the circumstances that had led to her having to journey to Gibraltar in the first place. This had not been a part of her plan. The job that she would have to endure for the next three months was a punishment. A barely concealed form of demotion. The hiding away of an embarrassing incident by an obsessively P.R. orientated internationally renowned institution.
Tamara Sullivan once more gave up on the book in her hand. She leaned back in her seat, closed her eyes and prayed that the two and a half hour flight would bring less turbulence than the last few months of her life had managed to generate
2
The wisteria adorning The Gibraltar Straits Hotel seemed to dance in the warm summer breeze. As the sun tipped its way over the western horizon and darkness filled the sky, a young couple sat on the hotel veranda sipping cocktails and gazing into each other’s eyes. Both lovers were oblivious to the more mundane matters being concluded in the main conference room within.
‘So once again, I would like to thank you for your time, energy and dedication, both tonight and hopefully on into the future. And before we all head home, it is my happy duty to announce that our joint small businesses initiative has succeeded in raising its target of £25,000, thus enabling us to create, for Gibraltar’s St. Margaret’s Child Care Centre, a new play garden!’
The audience applauded warmly and with some relief that the meeting was drawing to its long-overdue finish.
‘Thank you, Mrs Jennifer Tavares, for all your hard work,’ added the evening’s master of ceremonies. ‘Now, ladies and gentlemen, that will be all for this six monthly general meeting...’ His words trailed off as he became acutely aware that he was talking to over a hundred rear ends, all heading towards the main exit.
* * *
At the Atlantic Village Marina, the moon shone drunkenly upon the water’s edge. Unlike the opulent, designer beauty which surrounded him, the lone motorcyclist preferred to keep to the shadows, his middle finger flicking the clutch as he waited impatiently.
Thirty yards away, in the darkened main cabin of one of the marina’s finest yachts, his accomplice was hard at work with fevered intent. A hold-all bulged under the weight of its contents as the masked man took anything of obvious value and stuffed it inside. The yacht swayed and bowed on the water, as if trying to shake off its malevolent intruder. With a shrill, piercing screech, the yacht’s alarm rang out as the man rushed back out onto the deck. The roar of the motorcycle engine was music to his ears as he jumped from the boat and clambered onto the back of the waiting bike. Clinging onto his fellow rider for dear life, the bike took off at a speed that only an experienced biker would countenance. The high speed robbers passed effortlessly through the marina’s open security gate as the guard in the booth shouted into his phone.
The bike leant heavily as it ate up the corner and sped down the marina road which ran at a parallel with the airport’s imposing runway. At this moment an Airbus A321 touched the ground, it’s engines exerting the huge power of reverse thrust which would finally bring it to a standstill. Simultaneously, the bike raced towards Sir Winston Churchill Avenue, the main road that crossed the runaway and led to the Spanish border and the Costa del Sol beyond. The first indication that the robbers’ timing was misjudged was a closed barrier prohibiting a crossing and the immediate possibility of an escape northward. The tyres screeched in a sudden turn as its riders leant in hard and headed fast towards the centre of Gibraltar town.
* * *
Peering through the aircraft window as the plane neared touch down on terra firma, Tamara caught a fleeting glimpse of the fast moving motorcycle as it raced down the marina road. Her attention did not linger. Her eyes were drawn instead to the myriad lights of the sovereignty shining brightly against the pitch-black darkness of The Rock’s vast backdrop.
The flight had been a non-stop battle to stop her fellow passenger chatting her up. The large man with the flying phobia seated next to her had insisted on transferring his fears into a constant stream of questions and banal observations. Worse still, he had begun to smell and the stench of drying perspiration was beginning to hang cloyingly in the air, despite the best efforts of the aircraft’s noisy air conditioning system to disguise it. At one point, as they flew high over the outskirts of Madrid, she had even toyed with the idea of utilising her oxygen mask by way of escape. Fortunately for her, her companion had eventually noticed the lack of warmth being returned by his beautiful co-passenger and had ceased conversation. However, as the plane began its descent to the peninsula, it became clear that he had merely been planning his revenge for Tamara’s lack of bonhomie.
‘It’s quite dangerous, you know,’ he said ‘ Landing in Gib. Fifth most dangerous airport in the world’.
‘Goodness,’ replied Tamara.
‘The number one, numero uno dangerous airport in the whole of Europe. It’s the Rock, of course. Apparently causes dangerous up currents or down drafts, that sort of thing. And the runway is ridiculously short. Designed for military aircraft, you see. Pretty hairy most of the time. You religious at all?’’
If she had bothered to answer, Tamara might have told him that she was a Catholic. A lapsed Catholic and guilty about it. But guilt was something she was used to. Her religous failings simply joined the back of an ever- growing queue of imperfections.
The aircraft reached the end of the runway and began to taxi towards the terminal- the sound of the premature unclicking of seatbelts signalling the beginning of the crush and rush to be off and out of the claustrophobic tube. Tamara chose to relax and wait for the mob to leave. Flying was no fun on a budget airline and the rush to the baggage carousel was something she would pass on. After all, luggage handlers made all travellers equal by their talent for not serving up cases, prams and golf clubs on a first come first served basis. One got one’s baggage as and when the fates allowed and tonight, Tamara was cool with that. After all, she was in no hurry to check into her budget hotel - merely short term accommodation until her apartment was available at the end of the week. There would also be no one to welcome her at the passenger terminal and Tamara was cool with that too.
‘Welcome to Gibraltar,’ the flight attendant offered as Tamara left the aircraft.
‘Thanks,’ she replied, ‘but I’m not entirely sure I will be.’
* * *
The narrow streets of the town were still busy with tourists, although it was evening. The motorcycle weaved its way through them – it’s engine roaring in frustration as the robbers grew increasingly anxious. This had not been their intended getaway route and as such was proving to be a haphazardly improvised plan B. Rounding a corner, they narrowly missed a group of teenagers crossing the street - the exchange of insults between both parties broken only by the bike’s angry acceleration up the street and away.
Minutes before, motorcycle officers Ferro and Bryant of the Royal Gibraltar Police Force had witnessed the speeding bike blaze past them. Within seconds, the policemen and their powerful Honda motorcycles were pursuing at speed - their duo of sirens giving clear indication that a chase was on.
Entering the densely packed Casement Square, alive with restaurants and promenaders, the thieves were forced to slow and manoeuvre through the thick throng of humankind. As they kicked and punched their way through, the shocked crowd parted like the Red Sea. No sooner had the parting closed, it was forced open again to allow the flashing police bikes clearance. The younger revellers in the square laughed carelessly at the di
sruption. Older and wiser heads looked on in concern. A female tourist cried out in pain at the broken nose she had just received from the flailing fist of the passenger on the first motorcycle.
At last the felons broke free of the crowd and escaped down a narrow byway. Officers Ferro and Bryant followed just seconds behind, unfazed by the mayhem, their steely professionalism maintained in pursuit of their prey.
* * *
Jennifer and Martin Tavares had chosen to walk home from the hotel stopping off at their favourite restaurant, Cafe Rojo, for a drink and some light supper. It had been a big night for Jennifer - the culmination of over a years’s charity fundraising. Getting the much needed cash for the children’s garden from local businesses had not been easy in difficult financial times. Martin looked at his handsome wife and felt the rush of pride and deep attraction he had always experienced in her company.
‘That was a fantastic speech, Jenny. Really.’
The woman stopped dead in her tracks as she turned to look at him.
‘Are you feeling all right, Martin?’
‘Uh... fine. Why?’
‘Well, I might be mistaken, but that sounded like a compliment!’
Her man seemed almost hurt, but put his pride to one side as he looked into her eyes.
‘I mean it. I’m very proud of you, Mrs Tavares.’
She smiled as her gaze moved to his lips, her body rising up on tiptoes as they kissed.
‘Glad to see you’re feeling charitable this evening,’ Martin said, his cheeks reddening. As he leant in for a second kiss, his wife turned her head - distracted by the shrill sound of a fast approaching police siren. The road rumbled underfoot as a speeding motorcycle hurtled round the corner and headed straight for them.
