The Rock

by Robert Daws

  ‘Right. Well, I’ll call you tomorrow, Detective Sergeant.’

  Laytham returned to the Cutting Room, leaving Sullivan to wonder why she had failed so miserably in her attempt to give the professor the brush off.

  * * *

  ‘Mr Green’s an excellent worker, Inspector,’ the General Manager explained to Broderick as they stood in the main reception area of the hospital.

  ‘Hugely over-qualified, actually.’ she continued. ‘He took early retirement from the civil service and decided to devote his time to the hospital. He’s also a leading fundraiser for our building fund. The fact is, in a rather short space of time, David’s become quite indispensable.’

  ‘That’s very commendable,’ Broderick replied.

  ‘His sister’s death came as a huge shock to him, though. They were very, very close.’

  ‘Yes, I believe so.’ Broderick confirmed.

  The manager continued.

  ‘I made some enquiries and his colleagues tell me they are a little concerned about him. He’s become somewhat withdrawn. To be expected, I suppose. I’ve let him know that we don’t expect him to come in to work untill he feels absolutely fully able to do so. He won’t hear of it though.’

  The more the Chief Inspector heard about David Green’s state of mind, the more worried he became

  ‘I see. Well, when you see him, tell him I need to speak with him urgently, will you?’

  The hospital manager nodded understandingly and left as Calbot approached at speed.

  ‘Sir? No sign of Green in the workplace. He’s here somewhere, but no one can find him. They’ll call us if he turns up.’

  ‘Right.’ replied Broderick. ‘Well, no point wasting time. Let’s see if Laytham has anything on Mrs Brooks.’

  * * *

  Down on the lower ground floor, the seemingly endless corridors all looked the same to Sullivan. Even the sparse signs that did exist gave no help, giving directions to departments she wasn’t convinced she could pronounce, let alone find. She had not seen the most important sign, which clearly stated that she was about to enter a ‘CLOSED’ section of the hospital. But her mind had been on other things. Thinking ahead. That was about to change.

  Becoming more and more exasperated, she finally opted to turn left. More double-doors followed by more corridors. Suddenly she heard an unfamiliar sound. A distinct creak. She turned to the see what was behind her. Nothing. Walking forward a few steps she became acutely aware of a second pair of footsteps, but where? Why was she feeling so disorientated? Why in a busy hospital was it so deserted down there? She heard the footsteps again. Were they in front of her? Behind her?

  She picked up her pace and headed through the next set of double-doors. No corridor – this was a large room. An old operating theatre perhaps? It was poorly lit and ominously cold. She turned to leave, but the room was suddenly thrust into darkness.

  ‘Okay... who’s there?’ She called out, her voice tightening. ‘If this is some sort of joke...’

  Sullivan barely had time to register the noise behind her, as an arm grabbed her around the neck and a surgical pad was placed over her mouth and nose. Her momentary struggle was followed by a descent into further darkness and deep unconsiousness.

  * * *

  Calbot and Broderick had reached the lower ground floor and were making their way to pathology. A way down the corridor ahead, a porter pushed a trolley across a corridor junction and on through double doors to the side. Broderick’s first thought was that it might be Green, but although they could not see a face, the momentary glimpse of the porter showed him to have a considerably larger frame than that of their suspect. The policemen continued on their way, assuming the body on the covered trolley to be on its way to the mortuary,

  ‘Another one bites the dust,’ Calbot remarked.

  ‘Yeah, they have a habit of doing that in hospitals,’ Broderick replied.

  On reaching the Pathology Cutting Room, both officers could see that nobody was at work there. Moving on to Laytham’s office, Broderick opened the door to find nobody home there either. Laytham’s desk was immaculately laid. Everything in its place – pens, notepad, spare pipe and desk clock – arranged in the perfect order becoming of a surgeon. What Broderick did see however, was a written note lying abandoned on the floor infront of the professor’s desk. Reaching down to pick it up, Broderick easily read the message and the name of its author.

  ‘What the hell’s this?’ Broderick asked, turning to Calbot.

  ‘You tell me, guv.’ Calbot replied.

  ‘It’s appears to be a note to Laytham from Sullivan.’

  ‘Ah...yes...right,’ Calbot muttered.

  Broderick stared at his detective constable.

  ‘Do you have any idea what this is about, Calbot?’ He demanded.

  ‘Well, not really. Only that she, er, said she was going to see him. Tell him she couldn’t meet him tonight.’

  ‘Meet him? Meet Laytham? How long’s this been going on?’ Broderick asked, incredulous.

  ‘It hasn’t been going on, guv. She’s been trying to shake him off. He’s a bit of a letch on the side.’ Calbot was cut off by the sound of his mobile phone ringing. ‘Shit.’

  ‘What?’ Questioned Broderick.

  ‘Shouldn’t be on in here. It’s a hospital – could interfere with the patients’ machines and stuff.’

  ‘Jesus, Calbot. We’re in the pathology department! It’ll take more than your crappy ringtone to upset the bodies lying around down here.’

  ‘Yeah, good point,’ Calbot replied as he answered the call. ‘Calbot. Yeah... right... what’s it called again? Okay, thanks.’

  Ending the call, he turned once more to Broderick.

  ‘That was Kemp, guv. They’ve sourced the tobacco. Dutch brand called Dollsberg. Not available in shops over here, you have to order it online.’

  ‘Dollsberg?’ Broderick interrupted.

  ‘That’s what he said...’

  ‘Dear God.’ Broderick stood still, momentarily stunned.

  ‘What, guv?’

  Broderick quickly moved to Laytham’s desk and picked something up from beside the telephone. It was a large colourfully designed pouch of tobacco.

  ‘Dollsberg, Calbot! That’s the brand of tobacco Laytham smokes!’

  ‘That’s a coincidence, guv,’ Calbot replied blandly.

  ‘Is it, Calbot? Is it really?’

  Broderick’s eyes now darted about the room. They settled on a door which obviously led to a large cupboard. Broderick was at the door in a moment, turning the door handle. It was locked. Taking out his pocket knife, Broderick crouched and picked the lock.

  ‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Calbot asked.

  ‘Zumba class,’ replied Broderick. The lock gave. ‘Ah-ha, got it.’

  The cupboard door opened to reveal a plethora of bound files and folders. A black hold-all caught Broderick’s eye and he leaned in to open the zip. Reaching inside, his hand met a large coil of climbing rope. Both he and Calbot recognized it on sight.

  ‘Jesus, guv-’ Calbot exclaimed. ‘ I just don’t bloody well believe this.’

  Broderick moved to the cupboard door. Hanging from a hook was a scarf and a blue quilted jacket. He swiftly checked the sleeves of the jacket, before turning to show Calbot what he had found.

  ‘Look! There’s a tear.’

  ‘Guv, will you tell me what’s going on?’

  ‘The coat, Calbot! It’s Laytham’s! It’s torn on the sleeve. Laytham is a pipe smoker – his brand of choice is Dollsberg. We have particles of that tobacco at the scene of both Bryant and Ferra’s deaths. The rope in that hold-all looks pretty bloody familiar to me as well, and if you check the photos of the professor’s mountaineering expeditions on his wall through there, it seems he knows how to bloody use it.’

  ‘Wait, are you saying...?’

  ‘On the morning of Bryant’s death, Laytham turned up with a plaster on his forehead, remember? Said he’d slipped in
the bath.’

  ‘Yes!’ Calbot said, realisation slowly dawning on him. ‘Or cut his head on a nail running from Bryant’s apartment, perhaps?’

  ‘He was also wearing this jacket.’

  ‘Jesus.’

  ‘Not only that. That smell of disinfectant present at both scenes... it was driving me crazy, remember? I know now why it was so familiar. Stick your head in Laytham’s Cutting Room and you’ll recognize it too.”

  ‘But why? Why would Laytham want to...’ Calbot stammered.

  ‘I don’t know, but we need to find out fast’ Another thought suddenly hit Broderick.

  ‘And where the bloody hell’s Sullivan?’

  * * *

  The sun beating down on Broderick’s head in the hospital car park did nothing to alleviate the many stressful thoughts that were racing through his mind.

  ‘Laytham’s only been on the Rock eight or nine months, Calbot. I want to know where he was before. I want to know everything about him, and I need to know now. Understood?’

  ‘Yes, guv. Sullivan’s not answering her mobile.’

  ‘Right. Organise a search of the hospital and its grounds. Did you get Laytham’s home address?’

  ‘Sir,’ Calbot replied, handing Broderick the sheet of paper.

  ‘Right, that’s where I’ll be.’

  Broderick opened his car door and got in. Neither he nor Calbot had noticed the dark green Peugeot estate drive past them a few moments before. If they had, they might have recognised its driver and discovered the unconsious body, wrapped in hospital bed linen and covered in a tarpaulin sheet, that lay in the back of the innocuous looking vehicle.

  * * *

  Five minutes later Broderick had driven past the Victoria Sports Stadium and turned right onto Devil’s Tower Road. The address Calbot had given him was an apartment on the east side of The Rock at Catalan Bay. His police radio crackled and buzzed feverishly as Broderick managed to escape the heavier traffic and put his foot down.

  ‘DC Calbot reports search underway at the hospital, sir,’ Sergeant Aldarino said over the radio.

  ‘Tell Calbot to join me at Laytham’s house straight away. Oh, and bring back up.’

  ‘Yes sir,’ came the response.

  18

  Consciousness started to return to Sullivan in small waves as she was carried up the stairs and placed on a large four poster in a bedroom. She was aware of someone thrusting open the French windows, allowing the warm breeze to flutter the net curtains. She knew she should be afraid, fearful, but she was not. Her head swam with images from her childhood. Her mother and father on a beach on holiday - smiling and laughing. Her pet dog, Bruce, running along a country lane. A Christmas tree, heavy with lights and glitter. All benign. No threat at all.

  A sliding noise and a short click preceded Dave Brubeck’s Take Five starting to play. The music filled the room as Sullivan once again slipped into unconciousness.

  * * *

  ‘Hey, what’s going on?’ the neighbour called out to Broderick, in response to the vast number of flashing blue lights and assembled police officers gathered outside the exclusive apartment building overlooking the bay.

  Broderick, who had been knocking on the door of apartment number seven, turned to answer.

  ‘Police. I’m looking for Professor Laytham. He lives here, I believe.’

  The elderly man looked concerned. ‘Yes, that’s right. Gerry’s okay, isn’t he?’

  Broderick peered through Laytham’s window; the apartment looked to be deserted.

  ‘Is he in, do you know?’

  ‘Haven’t seen him. Works at the hospital.’

  Something was niggling away at the back of Broderick’s mind.‘I know.’

  ‘He keeps pretty irregular hours,’ the man continued. ‘Mind you, he’s been spending quite a bit of time up at his cousin’s place.’

  Broderick spun round to face the man. ‘And where is that?’.

  The man looked slightly startled at the brisk response and stuttered as he answered. ‘The Captain’s House, Up on...’

  Broderick interrupted. ‘Yes. I know exactly where that is.’

  ‘His cousin’s quite elderly and lives on her own. He’s been looking after her a fair bit.’

  Broderick had been about to try and gain entry to the apartment, but now suddenly realised what had been nagging him.‘Wait. Did you say Gerry?’

  ‘That’s right, yes.’

  A daze of realization filled the Chief Inspector’s features as he mentally began piecing things together.

  ‘Gerry Laytham. Gerald Gregson!’ Broderick announced.

  ‘Has Gerry done something wrong?’ the neighbour asked. But Broderick was already waving the other police officers away as he ran to his car.

  * * *

  Sullivan awoke. She had no idea how long she had been under since last she was conscious. The music was still playing, but a different, slower jazz number now filled her awakening senses. She immediately felt less calm and more than a little disoriented. Across the room she could see the back of a man standing by the windows. He seemed to be inspecting a large knife, which glistened in the light of the late afternoon sun. The man turned to reveal himself. Professor Gerald Laytham smiled across at her.

  ‘Ah, welcome back, Detective Sergeant,’ Laytham said softly. ‘Or may I call you Tamara?’

  Sullivan could not speak. Her throat was parched and her heart was pounding.

  ‘Don’t rush,’ Laytham advised as he walked towards her. He reached for a glass of water from the bedside table and brought it to her lips. Sullivan drank. At last she mustered speech.

  ‘What do you want?’ she asked.

  ‘Right now I’ll settle for you changing into the clothing I’ve arranged on the bed for you, Tamara.’ He nodded to the scarlet silk nightdress and dressing gown spread neatly beside her.

  ‘Why are you doing this?’ Sullivan murmured.

  ‘Just do as you’re told and change into the clothes. Or believe me, I will kill you where you lie.’ He raised the knife a little. ‘Forgive me for not averting my eyes, Tamara.’

  Sullivan pulled herself up to the side of the bed.

  ‘Look, I really think...’

  ‘Do it!’ came the ordered response. Laytham’s normally warm, avuncular tone had been replaced by something coldly detached and menacing.

  Sullivan recognized the tone. She had interviewed psychopaths in the line of duty and Laytham was clearly in a place where reasoned argument would never reach him.

  Moving slowly around the side of the bed, Sullivan looked down at the silk nightdress. As she struggled to control her breathing, she slowly began to unbutton her blouse.

  Across the room, Laytham poured himself a large glass of single malt scotch from a bottle on the dressing table. He then turned to watch Sullivan as she disrobed. Sullivan felt his cold intrusive stare upon her as she delicately pulled the nightdress over naked shoulders and slipped on the silk slippers that had been laid out on the floor by the bed. Somehow she had to escape. She glanced towards the bedroom door.

  ‘Oh, I really wouldn’t contemplate it if I were you, Tamara,’ Laytham said, raising his glass. ‘To your very good health.’ He took a sip of his drink and swallowed. He now moved closer, but stopped a few feet from Sullivan and looked up at a large picture hanging upon the wall. It was a full length portrait of an extremely glamorous woman in a scarlet dress. ‘That’s my mother, you know. They kept that picture hidden away up in the attic.

  ‘She’s...’ Sullivan tried to speak.

  ‘Beautiful? Indeed she was Tamara. Indeed she was.’ Laytham mused, his eyes gazing upwards at the picture in an almost trance- like state.

  ‘Does she remind you of anyone?’he asked.

  Sullivan looked once again at the striking portrait hanging above them. The subject of the picture gazed down at them with an imperious look. Her long dark, curling hair tumbled over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and her lips scarlet and full. She loo
ked every inch a Hollywood movie star. A woman used to getting her own way. But the artist had also managed to capture something else about his subject. There was the slight look of the trapped about her. A wild animal caged.

  ‘No.’ Sullivan shook her head. ‘I don’t recognize her.’

  ‘Then you should look in the mirror more often, Tamara. The moment I saw you I felt I had gone back in time. You look just like her.’ Laytham smiled as though this gave him some comfort.

  Sullivan looked again, but could not see any real resemblance at all. But it was enough that Laytham had and did. Whatever his warped mind was seeing, she knew it would be best not to disagree with him.

  ‘Ah, yes’ she responded. ‘ I can see something, now you mention it.’

  Laytham stayed looking at his mother’s image as if unable to break the spell it had put him under. Meanwhile, Sullivan weighed up her chances of getting to the door. She might have tried it had her captor not suddenly downed his scotch and moved to the door himself. ‘Shall we, Detective Sergeant?’

  Sullivan thought for a moment, then followed Laytham out onto the landing and down the large staircase that led to the main entrance hall of the house. At the bottom of the stairs, Laytham waited for her and then gently took her by the elbow to guide her into the the drawing room. It was a room that Sullivan imagined only existed in stately homes - large, imperious and like everything that was happening to her - frightening. Laytham gestured for her to sit down on the large chaise which dominated the centre of the room. Once more observing the knife in his hand, she quickly obliged. Laytham moved to a large gramophone in the corner of the room and placed a needle on the record spinning on the turntable. Once again the sound of jazz filled the air.

  Sullivan was now drawing on all her reserves. She knew she had to do everything in her power not to upset Laytham. One false move and he might lose it and lash out. Staying calm and engaging him in conversation offered her the best chance of gaining time and achieving escape.

  She now watched as Laytham moved slowly across the room towards her. As he reached the back of the chaise, he reached out to touch her hair. If the knife had not been held inches away from Sullivan’s throat, she might have taken her chances there and then. Although Laytham was a big man, Sullivan had deduced that she stood as good a chance as any of tackling him successfully. She guessed that Laytham had figured this out also and was taking no chances.