The Poisoned Rock: A Sullivan and Broderick Murder Investigation (The Rock Murder Mysteries Book 2)

by Robert Daws

  Minutes later he had finished his porridge, washed his bowl and handed it to Daisy to dry. Moving to the backdoor, he popped out his head to greet the breakfasting couple in the courtyard.

  ‘Morning all,’ he called. ‘I’m in a rush, I’m afraid.’

  ‘Daisy doing the honours?’ Cath enquired.

  ‘She is. Who says you can’t get the staff these days? All well with you, Sister Clara?’

  ‘Most well, thank you, Gus,’ said the older woman with a smile. Her clear, unlined complexion showing little sign of her seventy-plus years.

  ‘I like the dress, Sister Clara,’ Broderick said. ‘Very colourful.’

  ‘Why, thank you, Gus.’ Sister Clara smiled, running a hand down the folds of her long, brightly patterned summer dress. ‘A gift from my friends in Sri Lanka. Quite vivid and very much to my taste, I’m glad to say.’

  ‘Yeah. Nice. Anyway, I don’t want to interrupt.’ Broderick turned to leave.

  ‘Join us,’ Sister Clara invited. ‘The coffee’s hot. We’re just discussing some rather exciting news about the orphanage in Kampala.’

  ‘That and tonight’s reception at the Governor’s Residence. We’re being presented with a cheque for the Foundation,’ Cath added, barely hiding her excitement.

  ‘Good, great,’ Broderick mumbled as he checked his phone, his mind already elsewhere. ‘Thanks anyway, but I’ve got to go and clean up the mean streets of Gib. I’ll give Penny a nudge before I go. She’d sleep through to the weekend if given the chance.’

  ‘She’s not the only one, is she, brother of mine?’ Cath teased.

  ‘Don’t make me swear with a nun present, Cath.’

  ‘You should know better than to worry about that, Gus,’ said Sister Clara. ‘Oh, and I trust you’ll be taking time out to concentrate on your costume choice for the Foundation’s Fancy Dress Ball on Friday?’

  ‘Ah, yes.’ Broderick hesitated. ‘It’s quite a busy week for you, isn’t it? Anyway, I’m, er … sure I’ll think of something to throw on.’

  ‘Take a croissant,’ Cath insisted, offering him the plate.

  ‘I’ve just had my breakfast. But they do look delicious …’ Broderick hesitated for a split second, then reached over and helped himself to one of the warm buttery delights.

  ‘Have a good day, Chief Inspector,’ Sister Clara said. ‘Oh … and may your God go with you, et cetera and so forth.’

  Broderick nodded, waved and left. The morning’s banter was over, his working day about to begin.

  8

  At precisely one minute past eight, Sullivan’s desk phone rang. It was Aldarino, informing her that Chief Superintendent Harriet Massetti was waiting to see her. The last hour had been a busy one, and Sullivan felt mildly irritated at having to leave her computer. She had been sifting through CCTV footage taken from a new apartment building on the east side of the Rock at Catalan Bay. An apartment had been rented by a young solicitor by the name of Krystle Changtai who had been reported missing by her firm two days ago after being absent from work for nearly a week. Broderick and Sullivan had set up a missing persons investigation. Checks on flights, boat departures and border crossings to Spain had thrown up nothing. Now there was little more to do than launch a public appeal for information. Changtai was a tall, handsome-looking woman. Someone must have seen her somewhere.

  At 7.31, Sullivan had received a frantic call that had changed the parameters of the case. The call had come from the firm of solicitors that Changtai worked for as a junior partner: £1.5 million was missing from her client accounts. Monies transferred to untraceable offshore accounts over a period of two years. No real reason had been given by the firm for the time it had taken to discover this massive loss, and Sullivan’s questioning about this had been met with embarrassed and unconvincing responses relating to client privacy and accounting software problems. With her meeting with Massetti pending, and neither Broderick nor DC Calbot through the door, Sullivan had decided to review the CCTV footage from Changtai’s apartment building once again.

  Now, half an hour later, she was downstairs knocking on her superior’s door. Failing to get a response, Sullivan knocked once more and entered. Harriet Massetti sat at her desk engrossed in paperwork. She did not look up from her task.

  ‘Take a seat, Sullivan,’ she commanded.

  Sullivan did as she was told and for the next two minutes waited patiently for Massetti to finish what she was doing. At last, the chief superintendent signed the bottom of a covering page and turned to look at the detective sergeant sitting in front of her.

  ‘Hell of a day ahead. Lunch with my accountant, then this film reception thing this evening at the Governor’s Residence. Canapés and fizzy wine and the chance for everyone to tell Julia Novacs how wonderful she is. It was the same when they filmed that James Bond thing over here. Everybody goes daft.’

  ‘Except you, ma’am?’ Sullivan asked.

  ‘Someone has to keep a level head,’ Massetti replied coldly.

  ‘They do, ma’am,’ Sullivan concurred, while noting her boss’s new hairstyle and additional use of make-up for the day.

  ‘To make matters …’ – Massetti checked herself quickly – ‘… a little more interesting, shall we say, Chief Inspector Broderick will be accompanying me.’

  ‘Goodness!’ was the only response Sullivan could muster at this intriguing news.

  ‘It was a name-out-of-the-hat job. Aldarino managed to pull your boss’s name out of the mix. Seemed to find that outcome most amusing,’ Massetti added without amusement. ‘Anyway, enough of that. The reason I want to see you is that you’ll soon be coming to the end of your time here.’

  ‘Five weeks, ma’am.’

  ‘So I believe. It’s not been an uneventful period for you. Your work on the Laytham murder case was impressive, but a little unorthodox for my liking.’

  Sullivan let the barbed compliment go.

  Massetti continued: ‘You’ve fitted in pretty well on the whole. Pretty well. So here’s the thing. It seems we have a vacant DS position to fill. As you know, we work organically here at the RGP, promoting from within the force. It so happens that Detective Sergeant Marquez has taken early retirement on health grounds. We thought it was a glandular infection, but the fact is, he lost the use of his voice after a drugs shoot-out last September. Shock, apparently. Anyway, it’s still not come back and neither will he now. Shame, he was a fine officer.’

  ‘I’m sure, ma’am.’

  ‘Unfortunately it leaves us with a little problem. We promoted two officers to detective sergeant rank last month and for the moment there’s nobody else ready.’

  ‘What about DC Calbot, ma’am?’

  ‘As I said, there’s nobody else ready. So you’ve been suggested as a candidate. Subject to it being of interest. Which I’m sure it isn’t. Am I right?’

  Sullivan didn’t know what to think. As out-of-left-field proposals went, this one had caught her well and truly off guard.

  ‘Needless to say,’ Massetti continued, ‘as your return to London is imminent, a quick response would be appreciated.’

  Massetti turned her attention to more papers awaiting inspection on her desk. The meeting, as far as she was concerned, was over.

  ‘“Suggested”?’ Sullivan interrupted.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Massetti responded, unable to disguise her irritation.

  ‘“Suggested”. Someone suggested me?’ Sullivan asked warily. ‘Which someone, may I ask?’

  ‘No, you may not.’ Massetti bristled.

  ‘Permanent?’ Sullivan continued. ‘A permanent placement?’

  ‘Obviously,’ Massetti replied, as though talking to a child.

  ‘With CI Broderick, ma’am?’

  ‘That would be the general idea, Sullivan.’

  ‘I need to think about it, ma’am.’

  ‘That’s what I just proposed, Sullivan. Don’t take too long about it. Might appear rude.’ With that, Massetti rose from her chair to signa
l the end of the meeting.

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ replied Sullivan heading for the door. ‘Oh, and by the way. Is that a new hairstyle? Very nice, ma’am.’

  Massetti smiled at the compliment before she could stop herself. ‘Yes, well, sometimes a change does one good, Sullivan,’ she replied. ‘On your way out, tell Aldarino to pop in, will you?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  Closing the office door behind her, Sullivan paused for a moment to think. Could it be Broderick who had ‘suggested’ that she stay? Surely not. Then again, who else could it possibly have been? Somehow, some way, she’d find out. More to the point, why was she hesitating giving Massetti an answer? A permanent posting to the Royal Gibraltar Police? That was definitely not part of her game plan. No way. No way, José.

  9

  The Atlantic Marina Plaza towered over its large, yacht-filled marina in the north-west corner of the Gibraltar peninsula, its dynamic glass-and-concrete structure setting it apart from nearby apartment buildings of more conventional concept and design. In his luxurious open-plan apartment on the tenth floor, Josh Cornwallis had been toiling furiously for hours. Julia Novacs had left a long message on his mobile, checking he was okay. She was more than a little peeved to be without her screenwriter on such an important night. She reminded him that they were spending the weekend together in Marbella – she was staying in a villa in the hills above the town, lent to her by film star Antonio Banderas – and pleaded with him to phone her as soon as he could. Gabriel Isolde had also tried to contact him: three messages of increasing urgency. There had even been a tap on his apartment door an hour earlier. Most probably Isolde checking up on him, Josh presumed. The producer returning from the night-shoot and getting out of the lift two floors early, before heading up to his penthouse suite above. That both Isolde and Julia would now be asleep had given Josh a weak excuse not to reply.

  Poring over the documents he had been given by Don Martínez several hours earlier, it had soon become clear to Josh that they were of major importance. As darkness had turned to dawn across his balcony, with its view of the marina and sea further out, he had read and reread the contents of the file. Aided by two cans of beer, a bottle of wine and the sugar rush from a half-eaten Snickers, he devoured the documents arrayed before him. Some of the information confirmed, in great detail, events Josh already knew about. The rest shocked him profoundly. The enormity of the revelations was such that he had been forced, several times, to stop and take in gulps of the fresh, chill air that flowed into the room from the wakening day outside.

  This new and unwelcome information was a game changer of monumental dimensions. It turned on its head most of what he had believed he had known. As thought crowded in on thought, the growing panic made him reach for some whisky, anything to steady his nerves. All he had worked for, all he had achieved, the future of the movie itself could be ruined by the revelations in the file. How could he tell Gabriel? How would he explain it to Julia?

  Downing the scotch, Josh moved out onto the balcony. Although the marina was still in the shadow of the Rock, the sea and distant Spanish coastline to the west were brightly bathed in morning sunlight. Steadying himself, he attempted to think rationally. How many people knew? How had this information remained hidden for so long? Was there any way it might work to his advantage? Could it, even at this impossibly late stage, be used in the movie? It would be a huge gamble, but it might just work if people didn’t panic.

  Encouraged by these new thoughts, Josh returned to the file. One thing remained unknown, he realised: the Queen of Diamond’s real identity. Did Don Martínez know? If so, why hadn’t it been included with the documents? The only note attached to the file was an address, written in the old man’s shaky handwriting. Underneath the address was a scribbled message: ‘I am old. I have not the strength or courage to visit this place. I trust you will be of stronger heart.’

  Picking up a street map and his mobile, Josh left his apartment in search of answers, his heart pounding in his chest.

  10

  The morning was panning out a little better for Broderick than he had expected. Leaving Cath and Sister Clara to their breakfast planning session, he managed to raise his eldest daughter Penny from her slumber. On top of that – Oh, sweet victory! – he had gained a promise from her to spend the day looking for some part-time work. Penny had recently left school, and her year out before going to university had so far consisted of late nights and day-long naps.

  In addition, the ride with Daisy to school had been far less traffic-bound than usual, resulting in him arriving at work ten minutes earlier than expected. Although still late, Broderick did not let that fact colour his unusually good spirits.

  Entering his office at the police headquarters, he was greeted by the smiling face of Detective Constable John Calbot.

  ‘Morning, sir. Bad traffic?’ the young officer enquired.

  ‘Yeah,’ Broderick replied. ‘Hellish.’

  ‘Nice cup of coffee for you there, guv.’ Calbot pointed to a take-away cup on a nearby desk.

  The desk belonged to Sullivan and Broderick suspected that the coffee had not been intended for him. A suspicion that would not stop him drinking it. Calbot was after promotion and the confident twenty-seven-year-old was shameless in not hiding the fact.

  ‘Right. Where’s Sullivan?’ Broderick asked.

  ‘Downstairs with Massetti, guv.’ Calbot shrugged his shoulders. ‘No idea why.’

  Broderick had no idea either. ‘I see. So where are we on the Changtai disappearing act?’

  ‘Got breaking news on that, sir.’

  Both men turned to see Sullivan standing in the doorway.

  ‘It seems Miss Changtai relieved Philips, Barton & Sholto of one-and-a-half million pounds before she disappeared,’ Sullivan continued, moving to her computer and pushing a button. ‘They called about an hour ago in quite a state.’

  ‘I bet they bloody well were,’ replied Broderick. ‘How come they took so long to find out?’

  ‘They gave unconvincing reasons, sir. My guess is they tried to track her down themselves. You know how these firms hate involving the police and making things public.’

  ‘Should have thought of that before reporting her missing,’ Calbot observed.

  ‘Still nothing back from possible ports of exit?’ Broderick asked.

  ‘No sightings, sir,’ Sullivan answered.

  ‘What about phone and email contacts?’

  ‘No communication from either since she left work, guv,’ responded Calbot. ‘No bank or credit card transactions either.’

  ‘Thought I’d triple-check the CCTV footage from her apartment building before getting authorisation for a public appeal, sir,’ Sullivan continued.

  ‘Anything new?’

  ‘Not really, sir. All other occupants accounted for. The evening she went missing, we see her enter the building but not leave it. To do so, she would have had to pass through reception and automatically be picked up by the camera.’

  ‘Anyone on it that’s yet to be accounted for?’

  ‘Just one, sir.’ Sullivan pointed to the screen where she had freeze-framed the figure of a suited gentleman passing the unstaffed reception desk on his way to the main door. The man sported a shaven head and carried a briefcase. His facial features were not particularly clear, but his general demeanour suggested nothing suspicious or untoward.

  ‘Well, let’s start with him – the only person in the building on the evening of Changtai’s disappearance we can’t identify.’

  ‘I’ll check town and border CCTV with the Defence Police straight away,’ Sullivan said.

  Broderick moved to the door. ‘In the meantime, I’ll check in with Massetti about launching an appeal.’

  Sullivan looked up from her computer, a slight gleam of mischief playing in her eyes. ‘Looking forward to tonight, sir?’

  Broderick stopped in the doorway as the phone on Calbot’s desk rang. Calbot picked up as Sullivan continued: ‘E
nvious myself, sir.’

  ‘Of what, precisely?’ Broderick asked.

  ‘The film reception for Queen of Diamonds? Governor’s Residence? Julia Novacs? Champagne and canapés?’

  ‘Shit,’ replied Broderick. ‘That’s tonight, isn’t it?’

  ‘I believe so, sir. As does the Chief Super.’

  ‘Bollocks.’ Broderick slumped in despair. ‘Why does everything happen to me?’

  Before Sullivan could bring herself to console her boss, Calbot interrupted. ‘That was Marbella police on the line, guv. Seems they’ve found Miss Changtai. They want someone to go up there and identify her.’

  ‘Identify her?’ Broderick questioned.

  ‘At the mortuary, sir. Apparently she’s been dead for a week.’

  11

  Lech Jasinski had spent the night watching the filming in Grand Casemates Square. Upon wrap, as the detritus of filming was packed away and moved off, he stopped one of the film crew to ask how he might contact the movie’s producer and writer. A moody-looking electrician told him to go to the unit base out at the old Royal Navy Dockyard, now known as Gibdock, or maybe the Atlantic Marina Plaza. All the big boys were staying there, except Julia Novacs. Apparently, the star of the movie was helicoptered off to her Marbella villa at the end of each filming session.

  ‘Alright for some, innit, mate?’ the spark added, loading another lighting stand onto a truck.