by Robert Daws
‘Jesus Christ!’
A second motorcycle with a police officer upon it, passed at equal speed as the couple panted in shock. Martin stepped away from his wife and out into the middle of the street.
‘Bloody idiots! What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
Then, to his horror, a third motorcycle appeared. The two-tone wailing of its siren deepened in pitch as the headlights doubled, tripled, quadrupled in size before the bike lurched heavily to its left, it’s plastic and metal scraping along the hard cobbled street. Martin dived to the ground to avoid being hit by the lethal machine. The police rider simultaneously fell from his seat a few yards further on. The now riderless motorcycle careered onwards across the street with huge velocity, hitting a grocery store shop front with a deadening thud.
In a daze, Martin pulled himself to his feet and moved slowly towards the mangled wreckage of plastic and metal.
‘Jennifer? Jennie!’ Martin shouted as he reached the shop front. The long blonde hair was clotted with red as it lay tangled in the gears of the motorbike. Jennifer Tavares’ body lay prostrate and lifeless, her neck bent at a most horrific angle. Martin looked down at his beloved wife. Momentarily paralysed with the enormity and shock of what lay before him, he could not move. For what seemed like an eternity, Martin stood motionless - the calm before the storm of emotions that would inevitably rip free with horrific force. At last, the sound of footsteps behind him. Police Officer Gavin Bryant’s dishevelled form appeared at his side. Martin’s voice betrayed no emotion as he turned his head to look at the blood spattered face of the man responsible for this living hell.
‘What have you done? What have you done to her?’
3
The floor of the A&E Department at Gibraltar’s centrally located hospital felt colder and harder underfoot than usual. The swing doors clattered open as the paramedics swept Jennifer’s stretcher down the corridor like an Olympic bob-sleigh team, Martin Tavares and the police officers followed closely behind.
‘The RTA from the town, Dr Budrani.’ The young paramedic spoke clearly, but with a tangible air of panic in his voice.
‘All right. Get her straight through to theatre,’ came the reply from the doctor- his voice grave with concern.
Martin Tavares was once again in a trance - like state. His anguish had exploded back at the scene of the accident. Seeing his wife’s limp body being lifted into the ambulance, Tavares had punched out at Bryant – the forlorn traffic cop. Only the combined efforts of the newly arrived police officers and several bystanders had prevented him from further adding to the night’s casualty list.
‘Martin?’ The porter’s voice pulled him out of his trance.
‘David.’
‘Are you okay? What’s happened?’ David asked, registering the anguish on Martin’s face.
‘It’s Jennie. She... she’s...’
The hospital porter stood silent for a moment, allowing the meaning of this to set in.
‘Oh God. Oh no.’
The swing-doors were once again pushed apart as the fleeing porter ran down the corridor and into the operating theatre.
‘Jennie? Jennie, it’s me. It’s David,’ he panted.
‘I’m sorry,’ Dr Budrani said sternly, ‘but you’ll have to leave. We’re operating.’
‘But I have to be here!’ he replied. ‘Save her! Please! She’s my sister!’
* * *
The old lady sat alone in the darkened room. The many ancestral faces that stared down at her from the ancient paintings upon its walls all seemed to share the same expression. It was one she recognized whenever she glimpsed her own face in the mirror. A slight aloofness that could not quite conceal an anxiety that played around the eyes and mouth. It was, she had persuaded herself, only imagination – her own fears transferred to the images caught in fading paint upon cracking canvas.
As much as the afternoon sun brought her happiness, so the deep swallowing darkness of night brought her fearful and tormented nightmares. The house, so old and so long a part of her family was not a home but a shell in which her last days would slowly be eked out. She tried again and again to remember the brighter times with husband and friends filling the rooms with life and laughter. But each image, each memory would fade as quickly as it had appeared. All those times. All that love and warmth was gone now. Long gone.
The old lady sat alone in the darkened room and waited - waited for the demon above to rise and engulf her in pain.
* * *
In a private room just off one of the main wards of the hospital, PC Gavin Bryant sat up in bed, his head pounding beneath a blood-stained gauze. The tap at the door signalled the arrival of his superior officer, Chief Superintendent Harriet Massetti.
‘How are you doing, Bryant?’ Massetti asked with as much warmth as she could muster.
‘Just a few bruises, ma’am. They’re keeping me in for observation.’
Massetti said nothing; just gave a small smile and a slight nod of the head.
‘I didn’t stand a chance. I was in pursuit, turned the corner and there he was... just standing in the middle of the road.’
‘I understand,’ replied Massetti. Whether or not she really did was not entirely clear.
‘I swear. I didn’t even see her standing there !’ The young man continued.
‘Understood, constable. You just, er.. just get yourself together. All right?’
Massetti backed towards the door, her head bowed far lower than usual. Although nothing had been said, Bryant knew something was troubling her.
‘She... they brought her here as well, didn’t they? The woman, I mean.’
‘Yes.’
Bryant hesitated for a moment, unsure as to whether he really wanted to hear the answer. ‘And?’
‘I’m afraid she didn’t make it, Bryant.’
Only two words escaped Bryant’s lips:
‘Oh God’
‘I’ve tried to speak to the husband downstairs, but... for obvious reasons... it’s not the appropriate time. Just try and keep it together, constable. We’ll sort this.’
Bryant lay back, his eyes fixed on the ceiling above him. It was a tragic accident. It wasn’t his fault. He knew that he had to stay strong. A single tear slid down his cheek. He quickly wiped it away and turned to bury his face in his pillow..
* * *
Accompanied by two constables , C S Massetti headed for the main hospital exit. She seemed tiny next to her companions. Her dark, short cropped hair revealed a delicate, finely featured bone structure that her distant Genoese ancestors would have recognized as their own. Yet any serving officer of the RGP would quickly confirm that Massetti’s outward feminine charms hid a ruthless and powerful professional will of steel. These characteristics were about to be challenged. She and her constables had barely reached reception when they were halted in their tracks by a group of local press reporters, all eager for a story.
‘Chief Superintendent Massetti? This is the second accident involving police vehicles from your force in the last twelve months. Would you say your drivers are reckless?’
Massetti kept a calm exterior, despite the anger that was building inside her. ‘Our drivers are highly trained professionals. This is a tragic accident brought about by the reckless driving of mindless criminals. My officer, PC Bryant, is being treated here for minor injuries and shock. I wish to send my sincere condolences to Mr Tavares and his family at this difficult time. I will make a full statement regarding this incident later today. Thank you.’
Sensing her unease, the constables stepped to Massetti’s side and escorted her to the waiting car. Although the reporters had begun to follow, they were soon distracted by the sight of Martin Tavares and his brother-in-law leaving the main building.
Both were visibly pale and shaken. David took a written statement from Martin’s hand and began to read, his voice cracking under the strain of grief.
‘Words cannot express the deep despair that my brother-in-law
Martin, myself and the rest of my sister’s family feel today. Her death should not have happened, but-’
‘The police are supposed to be here to protect us, not take our lives!’ Martin exploded, the spittle flying from his lips. ‘Someone has to pay for this! I will not rest until they are forced to pay!’
The slamming of car doors drew attention to the police vehicle parked just a few metres away. Looking over, Martin locked eyes with Massetti seated in the back of the car. Pushing his way through the reporters, Martin moved towards her.
‘You! You killed her! You killed my wife!’
Before he could reach the visibly shaken Chief Superintendent, the police vehicle was driven away. Massetti sat back in her seat - her head throbbing. This was not the manner in which she wished to see this incident progressing.
4
Sullivan moved swiftly through the reception area of the hotel. She was not due to report to Police HQ until ten, so had decided to spend an hour strolling through the centre of Gibraltar Town. Being unaccustomed to hotel living, she had decided to make the most of her week’s stay in the pleasant three star, centrally-located Hotel Alameda. Since she had expected only budget type accommodation – things were momentarily looking up. Treating herself to a brandy night cap in the hotel bar the night before, she had successfully fended off the inebriated advances of a travelling salesman and for the first time in months, slept like a baby in her deluxe double room. She had even treated herself to a continental breakfast , which had been delivered to her room on the dot of 7:30a.m. and eaten with relish as she viewed the morning’s news headlines on Sky.
Picking up a basic tourist map from the concierge desk, Sullivan exited the main doors and hit the street. Moving from the gentle chill of the hotel’s air-conditioned lobby, the heat outside almost knocked her off her feet. It wasn’t even nine o’clock. She could only imagine what the temperature would achieve by midday and then onwards through a baking afternoon. She had a sun hat in her bag to protect her pale skin, but chose not to put it on - she didn’t want to arrive with ‘Bed Head” on her first day with Royal Gibraltar Police Force. Better instead to keep to the shade and trust in her SF 30 sun protection lotion.
Turning right into the alarmingly named Bomb House Lane, she passed the Gibraltar Museum on her right. Deciding that the ancient Moorish baths within could wait for another day, she headed on towards Main St. She could sense that the heart of Gibraltar was beginning to beat. Down the network of myriad little lanes, shops were opening for the day. The general bustle of local people hurrying to work and the smell of fresh coffee and exotic breads from the many little cafes along the way excited Sullivan. It felt in many ways as though it was the first day of a holiday, and even as she turned onto Main Street to be confronted by the familiar visage of a British Home Stores, she knew she could be nowhere other than the Mediterranean.
Her alloted hour was passing swiftly as she browsed the smaller shops and byways, until a tiny pavement cafe enticed her in for her first cafe con leche of the day and a moment of contemplation. She was aware that she was far more relaxed than she should be on a first day of a new job. The contrast of place and atmosphere were playing their part. Months spent under investigation by her own kind had left her scarred and emotionally battered. She had survived, but only just. Being cleared but not exonerated of the charge of professional misconduct meant that she had no choice but to disappear from the Met and begin again. All her plans, hopes and ambitions had come to nothing. But here, drinking strong coffee in a foreign but familiar land, she felt a strange feeling of freedom.
As the first cruise ship tourists began to populate the lanes around her, Sullivan paid the waiter and hailed a cab to to take her downtown to begin her new life.
* * *
The sign on the front of the Royal Gibraltar Police Headquarters glistened in the mid-morning sun as Sullivan’s taxi pulled up at the front of the building. Instead of heading for the main door, she looked for a side entrance that she guessed would be for police personnel only. A passing motorcyclist wolf whistled as he passed her. She was used to this - even at work. Sullivan had long been admired by her colleagues for her hard work and tenacity but her curvaceous figure and long, , dark, Irish hair had also found admirers over the years. At five foot nine and a half inches tall, she often found herself standing eye to eye with her male colleagues. Much to their annoyance, she was able to outrun and outpunch a good many of them too. Being single, she tended not to mention these last attributes on a first date. Her former Chief Inspector had nicknamed her the “Coleen”. At the time it had been meant affectionately. It was an affection that had worn impossibly thin during her last few months with the Met. The nickname, however, had stuck.
‘You all right, Miss?’ one of two passing constables asked.
‘Sorry?’
‘If you’re looking for a policeman, you’ve found him,’ the constable replied.
‘I’m just looking for a way into the building, thank you very much.’
‘No access through here, I’m afraid. Police personel only. I can... uh... take you round the front, if you like?’
Whether or not the innuendo had been intended was not entirely clear
‘That won’t be necessary,’ Sullivan replied as she pushed her hand inside her jacket, extracting a warrant card. ‘I can sort myself out, thank you constable.’
‘Ah. Er, yes Sarge. Just straight on round,’ the young man replied with a weak smile.
Sullivan moved on to the station’s side entrance, stopped for a moment to compose herself and then strode purposefully into the building .Holiday over.
* * *
The door clicked open and Massetti entered her office.
‘It’s a damned bloody mess, Aldarino. That’s what it is.’
Sergeant Aldarino decided not to confirm his boss’s negative appraisal of the situation. After nearly ten years at Masetti’s side, he knew this was by far the best approach. Especially when he had negative news of his own to impart.
‘The Commissioner’s telephoned, ma’am. He’s returning from his holiday straight away.’
‘Yeah, I bet he is.’ Massetti replied curtly.
She sat at her desk, the pile of pending paperwork upon it only darkening her mood. Alderino continued.
‘And, uh, television and radio have been on. They want a statement from someone.’
‘I’ll need time to draft something. Tell them they’ll have it by lunchtime and get that report from the crash site as soon as possible, will you, Aldarino?’
‘Well it’s a bit early for...’
‘Just get me the basics, all right? And please, God, let it be as Bryant and Ferra said it was. The last thing we need is this incident spiralling into a public relations nightmare.’
‘Yes ma’am. Oh, and ma’am?’
‘Yes, Sergeant?’
‘DS Sullivan is here.’
‘Who?’
‘The new Met officer on secondment. Arrived from London last night.’
‘Ah.’
Alderino could see that she was still none the wiser.
‘I briefed you last week, ma’am. You said to-’
‘Yes, yes, all right, Aldarino. I have had a lot on my mind.’
Aldarino nodded and left the room, leaving Massetti a few minutes in which to stew before once more tapping upon the door with another list of urgent matters and dates for her itinerary. Not for the first time and certainly not for the last, Aldarino thanked his lucky stars that he had chosen to remain a sergeant.
* * *
The old lady bent to pick up the basket of damp washing on the floor of the kitchen. She would now carry out the familiar job of drying and ironing the clothes that were in it. It was a task she found increasingly difficult to perform - her mobility recently becoming so much more limited with the pain from her arthritic hip joints . If only Maria had been able to stay. For twenty five years her housekeeper had effortlessly taken the weight of household chores away
from her mistress. But the old lady had had to let her go. She would not have understood the changed priorities within the household and the very particular demands of the person who now occupied the upstairs bedroom of the house with its view of the upper garden and The Rock. Maria would have wanted to help. To care and ease her mistress’s burden. But the old lady could not allow that. What possessed the house now could only be exorcized by herself and herself alone. It was her duty. A guilt that had to be assuaged.
The old lady moved slowly across the kitchen - the basket of washed clothes in her hands. She had to get them dried and ironed to perfection. The punishment for not doing so would be too much to bear.
* * *
‘So, you’re with us for three months then, Sullivan.’ Massetti peered over her desk at the female officer in front of her.
‘Yes, ma’am. I’m very much looking forward to it.’
Masetti knew this to be a lie and made a mental note to make sure that it wouldn’t be the first of many.
‘The last one that came over here from the Met was supposed to have “enhanced relationship and liaison mechanisms” between our two forces. At least that’s what the blurb said. By the time he left, I can’t say I’d spotted much enhancement – though there had been a couple of liasons. Perhaps your reason for being here is a little less ambitious...?’
‘I’m just here to observe, assist and advise, ma’am.’
‘Ye-es. There’s a lot of observing and advising going on these days. Not much of it seems to be of assistance, though.’
‘Well, I hope I may prove to be of some use to you, ma’am.’
‘Indeed. From what I’ve read of your record, Detective Sergeant, we may be the ones proving useful to you.’ Massetti hadn’t wanted to set this tone, but it had been a rough morning and she wasn’t in the mood for niceties.
‘I very much hope there’ll be some mutual benefit gained during my stay here, ma’am.’
‘I’ll insist upon it, Sullivan. If you think you’re just going to be mooching around like a United Nations observer you’ll be sadly mistaken. I’ve decided that the best way you can observe is to serve. You’re a police officer and therefore you should be doing police work. You can conclude what the hell you like after you’ve finished here. As it happens we’re temporarily short of a Detective Sergeant in CID, so as far as I’m concerned you’re the man. If you have any complaints you can bleat back to your bosses in the Met. Understood?’
