by Robert Daws
‘We all knew he’d taken the Tavares accident badly. Did he give any indication that it might lead to this?’
‘Not to me, guv. He wasn’t himself, but he seemed to be getting on with it.’
‘You ever been here before?’ Broderick asked. ‘To this apartment?’
‘Once or twice. To watch soccer. Have a drink.’
‘The place is immaculate. Even his DVD collection is in alphabetical order,’ Broderick observed. ‘Neat as a pin ,was he?’
‘I wouldn’t say that, guv. Tell the truth the place was always a bit of a pit.
His locker at the station is much the same. We take the piss out of...’
Calbot stopped in realisation of the need to use the past participle.
‘...took the piss out of him about it. Shit. Sorry guv, but why didn’t he just talk to us? He didn’t have to do this.’
Broderick patted the younger man on the shoulder.
‘You get back to the station. Clear your head.’
Calbot pulled himself together.
‘No thanks, sir. I’d rather keep busy if it’s alright with you?’
‘ Okay. Check and see if Bryant used a cleaner. Someone he hired to tidy the pit.’
‘Will do.’
Calbot moved off as Broderick re-entered the living room. Looking once more at the scene, Broderick mused to himself.
‘Or maybe the accident changed Bryant in more ways than one.’
Sullivan appeared behind him at the door. She did her best to avoid looking directly at the hanging corpse.’
‘Sir?’
Broderick turned to acknowledge her.
‘Been talking to the apartment superintendent. She lives directly opposite. She says that she was woken by Bryant. He’d made quite a lot of noise getting into the building, apparently. She thought he’d been drinking.’
‘What time was this?’ Broderick enquired.
‘ She says it was just after four. Ten minutes or so later the fire alarm went off, so she got her pass key and gained entry.’
‘Milk on the stove.’
‘Yes sir.’
Broderick gathered his thoughts.
‘So that means Bryant arrived back home, put some milk on the stove to warm it, switched his radio on and then decided to top himself?’
‘Looks that way, sir,’ Sullivan replied.
Broderick turned to see Bryant’s body being carefully lifted down from the hook in the ceiling.
‘ Yes...I suppose it does.’
* * *
Massetti sat at her desk, her pounding head in her hands as Broderick stood over her.
‘So what are you saying, Broderick?’
‘I’m just voicing my concerns, ma’am.’
Broderick had seen Massetti under pressure many times before, but never quite to this extent. He knew he had to tread carefully. Massetti looked up at her Chief Inspector.
‘If you’re saying what I think you’re saying – that Bryant’s death was the result of something else – then you’d better have more than just a feeling of unease about it. What did Laytham come up with in the post mortem?’
‘Death caused by hanging. Suicide, in his view.’
‘In his view, but not in yours?’
‘No, ma’am.’
Massetti stood and moved to her office window.
‘And the forensics boys?’
‘Nothing of significance from the Glee Club, ma’am.’
‘Please don’t refer to them as that, Broderick’
‘Nothing significant from forensics,’ Broderick corrected. ‘No prints. We’re still waiting on the rest.’
‘Doesn’t look wonderfully promising, does it?’
‘No, but I’d like to keep this open for a bit longer. See if we can get something from it,’ Broderick replied.
‘I don’t need to tell you that it’s a little inconvenient, Chief Inspector. Especially considering the press interest in the case.’ Broderick stayed silent. Massetti sighed. ‘All right. But I can’t wait forever, you understand?’
‘Ma’am.
Gibraltar. 1966.
The sun shines through the open French windows, warming the boy’s face. He’s barely ten years old, and his father is sat beside him, his arm round his son’s shoulder. The boy tries to release his tears, but the tears will not come.
In the centre of the room a police inspector leans over the woman’s body. The boy cannot bear to look. A trickle of blood falls down her cheek, a final crimson animation from her lifeless corpse.
The boy clings helplessly to his father as a uniformed police officer leads the man from the room towards the hallway. Another policeman grabs the boy and carries him kicking and screaming out onto the terrace. The hot air hits the boy’s face, but inside – deep inside – he feels chilled to the core.
He had seen his father’s eyes. The relief. The calm. His father who had reached for his son, protecting him as he always did. That protection was gone now. The boy was on his own. Alone.
10
Although it was only early evening, the Marina Bar was busier than Calbot and Sullivan had expected – it’s customers being mostly German and Swedish cruise ship tourists , lingering on dry land for a cocktail or two before heading back to their floating hotels.
‘One white-wine spritzer,’ Calbot announced as he returned to the table with the drinks.
‘Thanks,’ Sullivan replied, raising a small smile.
‘Cheers,’ he said, lifting a pint of ice cold lager to his lips. Sullivan viewed him suspiciously.
‘So, DC Calbot, what’s all this in aid of?’
Calbot drew a breath. ‘Well, it occurred to me that you hadn’t really been welcomed to The Rock, Sarge. In the traditional way.’
‘With a good old-fashioned police piss-up, you mean?’
Calbot shrugged his shoulders.
‘Well, thanks for the thought. There is, of course, one notable absentee,’ Sullivan added.
‘The guv? Oh, no, no. He doesn’t do social. Too busy at home.’
‘Family?’
‘Sort of. Lives with his sister.’
‘Oh yeah?’ Sullivan questioned, trying not to sound too intrigued.
‘Before he joined the RGP he was in the Met for eighteen years. Then his wife walked out on him and their two daughters. His sister had lived over here since the nineties, so basically he moved the family over so his sister could help him with the girls. Particularly the youngest one. Down’s Syndrome.’
‘Oh,’ Sullivan replied. Whatever she might have been expecting to hear about her boss’s private life, this scenario was not on the list. ‘And the mother?’
‘Vanished. Apparently he spent years trying to find her. But as you’ll know, if a person wants to disappear completely it’s not that hard to achieve these days. He never talks about it. They’ve lived with the sister up in the South District for eight years now.’
‘I see.’
A group of tourists at the next table erupted with loud laughter. Calbot took the cue to lighten things up.
‘And as for me – since I’m sure you’ll be fascinated to know - my mum’s Gibraltarian. I grew up in the UK but spent every summer holiday here on the Rock. When I decided to join the force, it was a no brainer. The mean streets of London or the sunny streets of Gib.’
Sullivan smiled. The wine was working fast. She was actually feeling relaxed for the first time in as long as she could remember.
‘What about you?’ Calbot continued. ‘Complicated, I heard?’
Sullivan raised an eyebrow.
‘You have no idea. So...’ she said, raising her glass. ‘Here’s to changing the subject.’
* * *
Broderick parked his Mercedes in the narrow driveway of his sister’s 1930s semi-detached town house. He glanced in his rear view mirror. He looked tired, he thought, and in need of a hair cut. His head of once thick brown hair now resembled the metallic mesh of a saucepan scourer. As he pulled himself out o
f the car, a motorbike screeched to a halt in the driveway behind him. Before Broderick had a chance to fully register this information, the front door of the house was flung open and his eighteen-year-old daughter, Penny, rushed to greet the motorcyclist - her boyfriend, Raoul.
‘Laters, dad!’
‘Wait a sec, Penny. Where are you off to?’
‘Raoul’s got tickets for the Killers,’ she said excitedly as she clambered onto the back of the bike.
‘The what?’
‘The Killers, Dad. They’re a band!’
‘Really? Look just take care of her on that thing Raoul, will you?’
Penny threw her dad the look she reserved for when she thought he was fussing too much. It was a look Broderick had become very well acquainted with. Before he could riposte, she was on the back of the bike. ‘Yeah, yeah Dad! Bye!’
With a rev of the motorcycle engine, they were gone. Shaking his head, Broderick made his way through the front door and into the kitchen, where his sister was sitting preparing his evening meal. Although ten years older than her brother, Cath looked the younger of the siblings. She had lived on the Rock for nearly a quarter of a century, having married a Gibraltarian lawyer. Widowed far too young, she had welcomed the role of aunty and homemaker to her nieces and brother.
‘Hello, love.’ She smiled. ‘ Good day at work?’
‘Not great, Cath. You?’
‘You look tired,’ she said, ignoring the question.
‘Makes a change, does it?’
‘You work too hard, you know you do. I take it you bumped into her Royal Highness, then? Out for a night with Justin Bieber.’
Broderick had little idea who she was talking about and even less inclination to enquire.. ‘Where’s Daisy?’
‘Upstairs, putting her glad-rags on.’ Cath replied, placing a basket of bread and small saucer of olives on the table.
‘For what?’
‘She says she’s going clubbing.’
‘Clubbing?’
‘She’s been waiting for you to get in.’ Cath raised an eyebrow by way of wishing her brother good luck in the matter.
Broderick nodded and turned on his heels and headed up the stairs. As he reached his daughter’s bedroom, he tapped lightly on the door and entered.
His fourteen-year-old daughter was sat on her bed, wearing a bright yellow and blue party dress, her hair having been specially combed.
‘Daddy!’ cried Daisy, as she jumped up to hug her father.
‘Hello, sunshine,’ Broderick replied. ‘Looking good!’
And she was. From the moment Daisy was born she had been his little angel. The pain and worry that he and her mother had felt during pregnancy had disappeared for Broderick the moment she had been born. He knew instinctively that this little girl, with her extra chromosome, would be special. And here she was, twelve years of age already, bright, loving, demanding, intelligent and like her sister Penny, the apple of his eye. The same had sadly not true for Daisy’s mother. Black depression and self-hatred had followed the birth. Unable to accept that her Down’s Syndrome daughter was anything other than a punishment for some sin she felt she must have committed, she had struggled for nearly two years to come to terms with life. Unable to cope, she had one day simply disappeared from their lives, leaving two children without a mother and Broderick without the love of his life.
‘Going dancing Daddy!’ Daisy announced, a smile beaming across her face as she sat back on the bed.
‘Oh, good. Where?’
‘Disco. Going to get a boyfriend.’
‘Ah. I thought you had a boyfriend at school? Nicky, isn’t it?’
‘Nah. He’s not a good one. I want a disco boyfriend. I’m going to love him.’
Broderick sat on the bed next to his daughter and put his arm around her. ‘Well, that’s good. That’s good. But it is a Friday night, you know.’
‘Yeah. I know,’ Daisy replied.
‘I could put a DVD on in a minute if you like. Harry Potter maybe?’
Her face lit up. ‘Yeah, Harry!’
‘I thought I’d get some fish and chips from Roy’s as well.’
‘Fish and chips.’
‘And a bottle of cream soda.’ Broderick added, relishing his daughter’s delight.
‘Yeah!’
‘Fancy that, Daisy?’
‘Yeah! Fish and riding whips!’
‘Yeah,’ Broderick smiled and kissed Daisy on her forehead. ‘Fish and riding whips.’
* * *
Sullivan and Calbot were still tucked away in a corner table of the Marina Bar. They had spent over an hour in each other’s company. There was nothing unusual in this. They worked together side by side on a daily basis. What was unusual was that it was out of ‘office hours’ and to her great surprise Sullivan had found herself enjoying her colleague’s company. Calbot’s infuriating cockiness had given way to a natural charm and ease that was usually absent in his dealings with her. So it came as something of a surprise to discover that the time was later than she had expected. After she turned down Calbot’s offer of another drink, they both stood and moved to the door, passing a fellow off-duty officer at the far end of the bar. PC Ferra was nursing a large brandy and seemed to be lost in his thoughts. Calbot broke his colleague’s reverie as he placed a hand on the officer’s shoulder.
‘Ferra? I’m sorry about Bryant,’ Calbot said.
‘So am I. He was a good man.’
‘If you need anything...?’
Ferra nodded as Calbot and Sullivan forced a smile and moved towards the door and out onto the street.
‘Thanks for the initiation ceremony,’ Sullivan said as they got outside.
‘You’re very welcome. Share a taxi home?’ Calbot offered.
‘Nah, I’ll walk. And so should you.’
Calbot gave her a quizzical look.
‘Clear your head.’ Sullivan added.
‘Yeah. You know, it’s funny. Thought you’d be Irish, name like Sullivan.’
‘What makes you think I’m not? My dad was from Dublin.’
‘You’ve got a slight accent. Odd. Where’s it from?’
‘My mum’s from Chester, which is where I was brought up. So I’m a half Paddy.’
‘Wherever you’re from, you’re not what I thought you’d be.’
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Sullivan challenged half heartedly.
‘Nothing....nothing really.’ Calbot attempted a change of topic. ‘I enjoyed that. You should be initiated more often.’
The awkward pause that followed was broken by Sullivan. ‘Right. Well. Good night, Detective Constable.’
‘Night, then.’
Calbot crossed the street towards the sports bars across the way. The night was obviously still young for him. Sullivan waited a moment. Had Calbot really given her the slight come on? Had she perhaps ever so slightly encouraged it? Had she not learnt by now how dangerous the after work drinks with fellow officers could prove? She shuddered a little inside and headed off in the other direction for home.
* * *
Ferra knew he shouldn’t drive – not after the amount he’d drunk – so it came as a relief to bump into some friends leaving the bar next door. They promptly offered him a lift. Ferra’s home – a boat - wasn’t far, but he needed sleep now and quickly. His mooring was half a mile away on the Kingsway Wharf. The ‘Ailsa’, a 1960’s built four berther, had been his home for three years now. It belonged to his great uncle, who had a long lease on the mooring at a ridiculously low – by Gib standards – annual rent. Ferra paid next to nothing for his lodgings in return for keeping the old man’s boat seaworthy.
Ferra’s pals dropped him off and as their car drove off, the policeman made his way carefully down the third avenue of pontoon moorings. It wasn’t late, but the place seemed deserted. The nearby boats were mostly owned by local Gibraltarians who would turn out during the day, but be off home come the dark. There were other fellow boat residents in the basin, but they had
either turned in already or were elsewhere. Taking a deep breath, and being careful not to slip, Ferra stepped aboard the Ailsa’ and tried to find his keys, with no success. Distracted by the sudden sound of an object hitting the deck of the boat, he turned to see what it might be. As he did so, he felt a sudden blow to the back of his legs. Falling to his knees, he was stunned to feel a rope being slipped over his head. Managing to stagger upwards he flailed out at his assailant, but before any contact could be made his head was violently yanked upwards as the rope was tightened around his neck.
Turning and twisting in desperation, Ferra felt his feet lift from the ground as a forceful push propelled him over the side of the boat and into mid-air. The rope jolted sharply as the policeman’s neck snapped in an instant.
11
The hot water cascaded down Sullivan’s back as she threw her head back and exhaled. Her morning shower was a sheer pleasure and she wasn’t going to miss a second of it. She had been up at five thirty and half-way through her daily three mile jog by six. She varied her jogging route once or twice a week and as such had got to know Gibraltar quite well. It was, in fact, even smaller than she had imagined. The combination of its densely packed population and housing, together with the presence of international financial services, the shipping trade, tourism and the large naval docks and military garrison, gave Gibraltar a diversity and energy that would not have been out of place in a major city. It wasn’t just the sunshine that had made Sullivan feel at ease upon The Rock. Increasingly it was both the place and its people.
But now, as she rinsed the shampoo from her long dark hair, she caught a glimpse of her showered body in the bathroom mirror. Tall, muscular and athletic was the shape that met her eye. A far cry from the modish anorexic look so favoured by the high fashion houses and movie world. Besides, she rarely looked at herself these days, vanity being an indulgence she had long given up on. She knew she was attractive, that much was clear by the way many men and some women treated her on first meeting. She also knew better than most that good looks in her trade could prove more of a handicap than a virtue. She had sometimes unkindly thought that if she’d had a face like a pug dog and a body like a shot putter, she would have made it to Inspector by now. Not that her own actions and judgements hadn’t slowed the speed of her career advancement to a near standstill by themselves. But for now, she felt good and looked okay, so why dwell on the negative? The water was hot, breakfast was waiting and order had been restored to her life.
