by Robert Daws
‘On it, sir,’ Calbot confirmed.
‘Second priority – a mug of tea and a bacon sarnie if you can find the time between jokes, Sullivan?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Sullivan answered none too happily. ‘Understood.’
* * *
Sullivan, with bacon sarnies in hand, and Calbot, with the forensics results, entered the office through doors on opposing sides of the room. It was like a poorly rehearsed parody of a spaghetti western.
‘Forensics are back from Ferra’s, guv,’ Calbot said, firing the first shot.
‘And?’ muttered Broderick.
‘The rope’s the same make as the one that hung Bryant, sir.’
Broderick’s face lit up. ‘Good! Excellent!’
‘But... not a make that’s been available for about ten years. So obviously not purchased recently, therefore hard to trace.’
‘Bugger. Okay, can we proceed with a little more good news, please?’ Broderick enquired.
‘Well there are several sources for the blue woollen fibres that could match with the piece we found on the door. They’re checking them as we speak. Apart from that, nothing much, I’m afraid. No prints. A shoe mark on the fire escape, but nothing distinctive. Oh, and a small trace of tobacco and curry powder.’
‘How eclectic,’ Broderick observed.
‘They’re analysing both.’
‘And the results on the blood?’
‘Later today.’
‘I see,’ mused Broderick. ‘So it’s ‘suddenly nothing happened’, as per usual.’
‘What do we do with Tavares?’ Sullivan asked, trying to move things on.
‘Let him go,’ Broderick replied reluctantly. ‘What other choice do we have?’
* * *
David Green’s car pulled up to the front of the Tavares’ house. In the passenger seat, Martin Tavares sighed heavily as he spotted the gaggle of reporters and photographers waiting for them on his doorstep. Heaving himself out of the car, he headed for the house doing his level best to ignore the throng.
‘Mr Tavares? How do you feel about what’s happened to you?’
‘Are you an innocent man, Mr Tavares?’
Unable to take the intensity of the intrusion, Tavares snapped. ‘Yes, I am innocent. I did not kill those men. The police know I did not kill those men, and yet they have decided to put me through more hell. My wife is dead. I ask you...how much more pain do you wish to see me and my family go through?’
With that, he went inside, leaving David on the doorstep. He too shaking with anger.
‘Happy now, are you? Got your story? What about the police, eh? They’re the guilty ones. Shame on them. Shame on all of you,’ David shouted before following Martin into the house. ‘Jesus Christ, the bastards.’
Martin was sat at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes were red and his face drawn. David moved to his side.
‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’
‘No,’ Martin replied. ‘I just need sleep.’
He stood and started to climb the stairs.
‘Please. Make sure nobody disturbs me.’ he said without looking round.
‘No bother. I’ll be in the study if you need me.’
A minute later, with David out of sight, Tavares quietly crept back down the stairs. Moving through to the kitchen and the back door, he left the house and crossed to the garage. Entering the garage he carefully locked its door securely behind him. Inside was the covered shape of a 1960’s Alfa Romeo - once his pride and joy. Removing the cover, Tavares opened its boot and rummaged for a few seconds before finding what he had come for. He gazed long and hard at the long length of rubber tubing that he now held in his hand. His trance suddenly broken, Tavares set about the solemn task he had set himself.
16
Sullivan sat alone in the office nibbling a tasteless fruit bar and mentally devouring the information on the screenin front of her.
‘Hello there!’ The voice took her by surprise.
‘Professor Laytham!’
The pathologist stood in the doorway, smiling. It seemed to Sullivan that he had made a little more effort with his appearance than usual. A brightly checked designer shirt and light coloured chinos were not his usual style. Sullivan wasn’t entirely convinced that it was working for the professor.
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Laytham replied. ‘My work does bring me to these parts, you know.’
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ Sullivan excused herself. ‘Got a lot to catch up on.’
‘So I hear. Pity you can’t make tonight. You chaps do enjoy burning the midnight oil, don’t you? Mind you, there has to come a time when ‘all work and no play...’ Well, you know the rest. How about tomorrow?’
‘Er, well,’ Sullivan replied, now getting uncharacteristically flustered. ‘If I can get away...’
‘Excellent! Why don’t you drop by the hospital when you’re finished? That way, I can continue working in the unfortunate circumstance of you having to cancel again,’ he chuckled. ‘See you when I see you.’
‘Uh, sure,’ Sullivan replied, as Laytham headed off. Shaking her head with disbelief, she rose from her chair. Laytham was a nice man, she thought, but somehow she couldn’t quite see herself ever dating a last chance trendy. In fact, she couldn’t really see herself dating anyone at all. Relationships had always been a torturous source of anxiety for her. She had always preferred her own company and had become increasingly resigned to the fact that it was just as well she did.
Her thoughts were broken by Broderick returning from lunch. He was eating a chocolate muffin. Sullivan raised an eyebrow.
‘Stops me reaching for a cigarette’ Broderick announced with his mouth full. ‘Confectionary. The default position of the non-smoking stressed out professional.’
‘I’ve given up both.’ Sullivan smiled grimly.
‘Congratulations. You’ll no doubt live a long life.’
‘I doubt it,’ Sullivan replied. ‘It’ll just seem longer.’
Their double act was suddenly interrupted by a breathless Calbot striding into the room with a printed email in his hand.
‘Guv. Gerald Gregson, only child, aged ten at the time of his mother’s murder. Orphaned by his father’s subsequent suicide. Only family were the Brooks’, it seems.’
‘How close?’ Broderick asked.
‘Cousins. Very distant ones at that. They inherited the house and moved out from the U.K. They adopted Gerald and then packed him off to school in the UK.’
‘How very of the time.’ Broderick mused.
‘Not a happy bunny it seems. He was expelled from a succession of boarding schools during his teens. All claiming difficulties with him. Left school at sixteen and effectively vanished off the radar. The Brooks’ apparently never saw him again. There’s no record of Gregson ever returning to Gibraltar, and the Brooks’ never visited England.’
‘So if her message in the dust was a plea to help him, where did it come from? Guilt?’
‘Maybe,’ replied Sullivan.
‘And if he was Mrs Brooks’ house guest, then he’s been visiting Gibraltar under another name.’
‘Do you think there’s any chance he’ll still be here, guv?’
‘Unlikely. Still, we need to find him if we can.’
‘With no physical description and no known name for him, that’s going to be fun’ Calbot observed.
‘You said you could do it when you wrote in Calbot.’ Broderick teased. ‘ Meanwhile, I’ll go and kick some arse over at the Glee Club.’
* * *
Broderick’s exterior disdain for the forensic department in reality hid a deep respect for their work. He knew that good forensics was mostly responsible for all successful convictions in murder cases. Advances in forensic techniques and the wonders of DNA tracing had revolutionised detection during the last decade. At times he resented the smugness of the scientific arm of the force, but he couldn’t deny its effectiveness in identifying killers. Even if it at times t
ook longer to get answers out of them than he would have liked.
‘We’re moving on this as swiftly as we can, I assure you.’ Richard Kemp wasn’t a man to be rushed. Not that it ever stopped Broderick trying it on anyway.
‘By swift, you mean when exactly?’
Kemp, refusing to be drawn, simply continued with his work.
‘The fibres are a woollen weave. Dark blue jacket or coat, I’d say. Samples from both scenes match exactly. The curry powder is a basic mix. Good quality though. Possibly brought over from Morocco, but that’s just a guess I’m afraid. The tobacco is most probably Dutch. Aromatic.’
‘Popular brand?’ Broderick asked.
‘Well, definitely not a ‘Condor Moment’. I’d say it’s a rarer shag. Oh, and I just received this note before you came in... It appears that things are happening rather swiftly. The blood results.’
‘And?’ Broderick asked impatiently, barely believing that Kemp had kept that information until the end.
‘Not a match with Martin Tavares, I’m afraid.’
‘You’re certain?’
‘As certain as any member of the Glee Club can be, Chief Inspector,’
Kemp turned to Broderick, a slightly confrontational look in his eye. Broderick was certainly taken aback.
‘Ah,’ he managed.
‘Yes, we’ve heard your nickname for us up here,’ Kemp said, cocking his head to one side.
‘Well, its, uh... it’s just a bit of fun, Kemp,’ Broderick explained.
‘A little explanation would be appreciated.’ The scientist insisted.
‘I don’t know...it’s just that you all look a bit the same, I suppose. Like members of a choir
- or Glee Club- I suppose. You all seem a bit...you know...?’
Kemp was enjoying seeing Broderick struggle.
‘Might it be, Chief Inspector, that you feel we sometimes ‘show off’ a bit? What with our incredible skills and hugely successful results and all? Do we upset you in much the same way as the squeaky clean and cloyingly perfect cast of the similarly named television programme ‘Glee’ most probably does?’
‘I wouldn’t go quite that far.’ Broderick was now beginning to perspire.
‘So you have watched the programme, I take it? Kemp continued.
‘I’ve seen glimpses. My daughters like it.’
‘So I’m somewhere in the right neighbourhood? Am I not?’ Kemp queried.
‘Sort of. It’s just a joke you know,’ Broderick replied weakly.
Kemp saved his most withering look till last.
‘How very amusing. Anyway, the blood still doesn’t match.’
‘Right.’
‘Goodbye, Chief Inspector.’
Broderick turned and left the laboratory feeling like a naughty schoolboy.
‘Bollocks’, he murmured.
* * *
David Green had been sitting in the small study of the Tavares home, trying desperately to clear his mind. But instead of calm descending upon him, a new anxiety entered his thoughts. He could not explain the reason that led him to leave the study and climb the stairs towards Martin Tavares bedroom. He would just check on his brother-in-law, he thought, to make sure he was asleep. He knew that he had been asked not to bother him, but some nagging and inexplicable feeling was forcing him to make sure all was well.
He reached the door to the bedroom and knocked gently.
‘Martin?’
No answer. Opening the door, David could see straight away that the room was empty. Turning to check the other rooms and the bathroom, David called once more.
‘Martin!’
Again there was no answer and no sign of his brother-in-law anywhere. David started to panic. Moving downstairs now, he entered the kitchen. The back door was slightly ajar. He opened it fully and entered the garden. There was still no sign of Martin. It was then David heard the low throb of a car engine coming from within the garage. Three strides and he found himself frantically trying to turn the handle of the garage door. It was locked.
‘Martin!’
He gave himself a short run-up and attempted to shoulder-barge the door open. The hinges gave only a couple of inches, and only for a split second, but it was enough to reveal the horror of what was taking place inside.
‘Shit. Martin! Martin!’
Stepping back, David kicked full-force at the door, taking it clean off its hinges.
* * *
Broderick had managed to acquire a larger room on the second floor of the police HQ. Operations would now be run from there. Somewhat grudgingly, Massetti had given the nod to continue the Bryant/Ferra investigations, as well providing a few more officers to work it. Sullivan sat listening to her boss. Calbot meanwhile was back in the office and working the phones in pursuit of Gerald Gregson. It would appear that for now, Sullivan was going to be working both cases.
‘So basically, that means it’s not Martin Tavares,’ Broderick explained to the room. ‘At least not on his own. Check and cross-check anyone who might have had a grudge against these officers, starting with the brother-in-law.’
‘David Green?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Well, he’s been as upset as anyone over this. Where does he work?’
‘At St. Bernard’s Hospital,’ Sullivan explained. ‘He’s a porter. He was there when they brought Jennifer Tavares in.’
At that moment, the door to the ops room opened and Sergeant Aldarino entered with a flushed look on his face.
‘Sorry to interrupt, sir. It’s Martin Tavares. He’s tried to kill himself.’
17
Doctor Budrani and Broderick stood in the corridor leading to the A&E Department of the hospital. Budrani exuded the air of gravitas that most doctors perfect as part of their medical training. Sullivan and Calbot stood a respectable distance away, allowing Broderick to take the brunt of the news.
‘Mr Tavares was fortunate to have been discovered when he was, Chief Inspector. A few more minutes and he would most definitely have been dead. As it is, he’s suffering from severe carbon monoxide poisoning.’
‘Can I see him?’
‘Oh no, he’s far too weak for that.’
‘But he’ll be okay?’ Broderick enquired.
‘There, uh, might be some long-term effects.’ Budrani answered.
‘Like what?’
‘Well, it’s hard to tell. Some forms of neurological or psychological abnormalities may develop. These can take time to present, so very difficult to pinpoint. He’s got age on his side, but he did fall unconscious whilst breathing the fumes, so that will increase the likelihood of developing delayed symptoms.’
‘So he’s going to be a vegetable?’
‘Oh, no, I shouldn’t say so. It’s possible that short-term memory loss, amnesia, even dementia may result. Physically speaking, there may be the possibility of some speech abnormalities due to the oxygen starvation, but it really is far too early to tell.’
‘Christ, that bad?’
‘Well, the fire service detected just over nine thousand parts per million of carbon monoxide in the cockpit of the car. Put it this way – six thousand will see you dead within twenty minutes, twelve thousand within three minutes.’
‘So his brother-in-law really did save his life at the eleventh hour.’
‘Eleventh hour, fifty-ninth minute, fifty-ninth second, if you ask me.’ Budrani concluded.
‘Tavares’ brother-in-law came in with him, apparently. Where is David Green?’
‘No idea,’ Dr Budrani replied. ‘Said he was going to contact family and friends.’
‘Right,’ said Broderick, turning to address Calbot and Sullivan. ‘Can you two...?’
Broderick realised that only Calbot now stood in attendance.
‘Where’s Sullivan?’ he questioned.
‘Probably gone for a waz, guv,’ Calbot replied crudely.
‘’Powder her nose’ would have done the job, Calbot. Humour me. I’m an old-fashioned sort of chap.’
&n
bsp; ‘If you say so, sir,’ Calbot replied hiding a smirk.
Broderick took off down the corridor.
‘Come with me,’ he ordered. ‘We need to find David Green.’
* * *
The real reason for Sullivan’s disappearance had not been a call of nature. With that evening’s impending “date” lying heavily on her mind and having asked Calbot to cover for her, she had taken the opportunity to head downstairs to pathology. The time had come to let Laytham know that, romantically speaking, things were definitely a ‘no go’.
Finding the department a little easier than on her previous attempt, she arrived at the Cutting Room. Glancing through the portholes of the door, she could see the pathologist hard at work. Tiptoeing past, she entered the professor’s office. Finding a piece of paper and a pen on his desk, Sullivan resolved to take the coward’s way out and write him a note.
‘Ah-ha. Making good your escape, Detective Sergeant Sullivan?’
Sullivan perceptibly jumped with surprise. The professor stood in the doorway wearing his full surgical gown.
‘Jesus Christ, Laytham!’ Sullivan blurted out.
‘Sorry, I certainly didn’t mean to make you jump. Is everything all right?’
Sullivan composed herself. She realised how furtive she must look, but knew she had to somehow bite the bullet.
‘Fine. I was... just leaving you a little note. I’m sorry, but I’ll probably not manage to get away tonight.’
‘Well you’ve certainly gone out of your way to tell me. A text message would have sufficed.’
‘Ah, well I was over here anyway. Thought it was the least I could do, really.’
‘Oh? Visiting the hospital?’ Laytham asked.
‘Some enquiries. About the Bryant-Ferra case.
Laytham smiled. ‘Ah, yes. I’m working on your Mrs Brooks right now. Quite a mess. Old bones fracture so easily. I’ll be finished shortly, though, if you fancy hanging around.’
‘Uh... no, I think I’d better help Chief Inspector Broderick out. Thanks all the same.’
