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

by Robert Daws

  Yes, it was alright for some, Jasinski thought.

  Earlier he had seen Gabriel Isolde from a distance, but had been unable to get close to him. Of the film’s screenwriter, Josh Cornwallis, he had seen nothing. He knew both men from the internet and from the magazine articles he now carried in the rucksack on his back. The tall, formidable-looking Pole possessed a raft of information about the film and almost everyone of influence attached to it. Jasinski had only arrived on the Rock the previous night, having hitchhiked from his home town of Luboń in western Poland. He had come in search of answers to questions that had haunted him and his poor late father all their lives. Clenching and unclenching his fists and moving restlessly from one foot to the other, the Pole pondered his next move. Someone needed to help him. He was a man who needed help.

  12

  The lift doors opened onto the main reception of the Atlantic Marina Plaza apartment building and Josh stepped out. Although it was still early, the place was busy. A team of people were erecting big glossy promotion boards featuring glamorously clad and unclad men and women. As Josh passed the main desk, the doorman called to him.

  ‘Sorry about all this, sir. A big PR launch this afternoon out on the Tropical Deck.’ The man pointed towards the huge private pool and restaurant area that spread across the first-floor marina frontage of the building. ‘It’ll be over and gone by this evening.’

  Josh nodded and moved to the main doors. Looking up at a promotion board he saw that the launch was for a new porn channel called ‘Blue Job X’.

  Nice, Josh thought wryly. Another one of those is just what the world needs.

  As his taxi pulled away from the front of the Plaza, Josh checked the mysterious address scribbled on the notepaper held in his right hand – ‘Sovereign Villa, Prince Edward’s Road’. Whoever lived there had a bearing on the situation Josh was now facing. Leaning forward, he gave the driver his instructions.

  ‘Not filming today?’ the driver responded.

  Josh was momentarily perplexed.

  ‘Picked you up a couple of days ago,’ the man continued. ‘Took you out to Eastern Beach. All that barbed wire and stuff. Very authentic. Very impressive.’

  ‘Yes. It was.’

  ‘So how’s Julia finding Gib then? Staying up there in a penthouse with you, is she?’ said the driver, laughing at his own little joke.

  ‘Prince Edward’s Road is at the top of the town, isn’t it?’ Josh asked, changing the subject.

  ‘Thereabouts. Got a number?’

  Something inside Josh made him disinclined to trust the driver with any more information than necessary. This instinct towards caution surprised him, but then everything recently had been surprising.

  ‘Just the road, please. I know where I’m going from there,’ he lied.

  A few moments later the taxi was making its way along Line Wall Road, passing the City Hall on the left and the Gibraltar War Memorial on the right. The time was now just after 8 am and the town was getting busy. Following the one-way system alongside the old walled fortifications, they eventually passed the Inces Hall Theatre and the Trafalgar Cemetery, and then left and up onto Prince Edward’s Road. It seemed the long way round to Josh, but he was in no mood to argue the issue.

  ‘This will do, thanks,’ Josh commanded. The cab pulled up. ‘I’ll walk from here, if you don’t mind,’ he told the driver, thrusting a £10 note into his hand and opening the passenger door.

  ‘No worries,’ replied the driver. ‘Going to be a scorcher today. Bloody sunshine. I hate it.’

  The driver’s right, Josh agreed. It’s going to get very warm. Wiping his brow, he walked along the road, checking each building’s identity as he went. Some 150 metres on, as the road rose, he found what he was looking for. A small sign with an arrow pointing up a narrow flight of stairs. ‘sovereign villa’, it announced. Moving swiftly to the top of the steps, Josh finally reached an open cobbled courtyard. To his right, an iron gate set in a whitewashed wall protected a further set of steps leading upwards to a house and garden.

  Once more wiping the sweat from his brow, Josh checked the nameplate on the wall before him. In simple lettering on a brass plate, it also read ‘sovereign villa’. Turning the handle on the gate, Josh discovered it was securely locked. Stepping back across the courtyard for a better view of what lay above, Josh could see several palm trees and numerous displays of plumbago and bougainvillea rising above the parapet. The house beyond was almost entirely hidden from view by the foliage. Beside the gate, a narrow metal letterbox was set in the wall, next to which was a cream-coloured button, connected, Josh supposed, to a bell within the villa.

  He pressed the button hard and long. Several minutes later, the door remained unopened. He was tempted to try scaling the wall, but he quickly thought better of it. Frustrated, Josh took the only course of action left open to him. Retrieving pen and paper from his jacket pocket, he wrote a brief note asking the villa’s resident to contact him at the Atlantic Marina Plaza. He also mentioned his credentials as the screenwriter of the film being shot on the Rock, adding that he believed a meeting to be of the greatest importance and urgency – ‘I have in my possession secrets and there are serious questions I need to ask.’ Signing off with his name and his mobile and apartment numbers, he posted the note through the letter box, turned and descended the steps to the road below.

  13

  As the near empty toll road to Marbella opened before him, Broderick put his foot on the accelerator and let his old Mercedes’ three-litre engine have its head. The thrill of speed was not something drivers on the Rock were used to as they navigated the myriad meanderings of the narrow lanes and steeply climbing roads, each with its own rigid and sensible speed limit in force. But now, as the speedometer hit 130 kilometres an hour, Broderick enjoyed another thrill –breaking the law. A nervous look from Sullivan sitting beside him made him lighten his touch on the pedal, but to no noticeable effect.

  They had crossed the border into Spain with little delay. Their warrant cards took them to the front of the long four-lane traffic queue and through the passport checks with formal ease. Just the day before, the British prime minister had reprimanded the Madrid government for denying a reported shooting incident by Spanish police in the Gibraltarian waters surrounding the Rock. As usual, draconian checks by Spanish customs on all cross-border travellers to and from the Rock comprised Madrid’s indignant response to the incident. The queues that Sullivan and Broderick had jumped were a regular and unhappy result of failing diplomatic relations.

  Once in Spain, Sullivan and Broderick went swiftly on their way. A smart and super-efficient toll motorway had been built in recent years to relieve pressure on the old coastal road that ran from Gib to Málaga and beyond. Once thought to be the most dangerous road in Europe, it had finally, after many years of lobbying, been relieved of major duties by its sister motorway. Cynics had observed that it was only the honour of Spain hosting the Ryder Cup at Valderrama that had finally shamed the government into constructing a decent road system to and from the main airports. Whatever the real reasons, it now provided a fast, if somewhat expensive drive to the main towns and cities of the Costa del Sol. Not that local Spaniards were impressed – refusing to pay the tolls, they mainly kept to the old road that snaked its way along the coast. As Broderick and Sullivan now bypassed the town of Estepona on their right and headed towards the Sierras towering above Marbella in the distance, they simply sat back and enjoyed the ride.

  Forty minutes later, the two detectives had arrived at the police mortuary in the centre of Marbella old town. It had been a while since Broderick had visited the opulent seaside resort and he quietly marvelled at how much it had improved in both infrastructure and architectural flourishes. A visit to the majestic promenade and beach would have to wait for another day, but he had already decided that a family outing to the town was long overdue. Sullivan’s reaction had been much the same. It’s just a shame, she thought, that my first visit to Marbell
a has be to a mortuary.

  They were met in the reception area of the sterile, characterless municipal building by Inspector Juan Córdobas. Broderick had had dealings with the officer before and had found him to be both friendly and efficient. He also spoke excellent English.

  After being introduced to Sullivan, Córdobas led them through to the main mortuary room. A technician was waiting beside a trolley that held a covered cadaver.

  ‘This one has proved quite interesting,’ Córdobas began. ‘The victim of a brutal mugging down near the front in Alameda Park, which is, as you probably know, in a particularly pleasant and wealthy part of town.’

  Broderick did know. It was a district of Marbella full of luxury apartment buildings and fine restaurants, which had long been fashionable for both Spaniards and foreign residents.

  The inspector nodded to the technician to proceed. Pulling back the green sheet covering the body, he revealed the victim’s head and shoulders. The woman’s shaven head and badly bruised facial features came as a shock to the detectives.

  ‘Dear God,’ Sullivan gasped.

  ‘This is an unusual assault in this part of the Costa,’ Córdobas explained. ‘Cash and jewellery were taken from the victim, but we traced her identity and address from what was left in the wallet.’

  ‘This took place on the evening following her disappearance from Gibraltar,’ Broderick commented. ‘She’d embezzled one-and-a-half-million pounds. Can you be sure that this was just a random assault? Could it be linked to something else she might have been involved in?’

  ‘Hard to say. That the mugger, or muggers, left a wallet full of credit cards and stole only cash and jewellery points to a random robbery. Wrong place at the wrong time, that sort of thing.’

  ‘Not quite the dream she’d been hoping for,’ Sullivan added.

  ‘It was only by chance that we connected your missing-persons alert to the body,’ the inspector continued. ‘The name on the victim’s credit cards and driving licence was that of Myrie Valeria. The address on the licence was for a luxury leased apartment overlooking the park itself …’

  ‘She’d changed identity,’ Broderick interjected.

  ‘… If we hadn’t found another passport in the name of Changtai during our search of the apartment, we might never have made the connection. But that isn’t all. There’s another anomaly.’

  Once more, Córdobas nodded to the technician. The man now pulled the green sheet away to reveal the body in its entirety. Sullivan and Broderick looked on in stunned surprise. Krystle Changtai was not only flat chested, but below her waist she sported a full set of above-average-sized male genitalia.

  ‘A penis?’ Sullivan asked incredulously.

  Inspector Córdobas nodded.

  ‘Fuck me!’ Broderick heard himself exclaim. ‘I didn’t see that one coming.’

  Nobody had.

  The drive back to Gibraltar proved a more sombre affair for Sullivan and Broderick than their outward one. Krystle Changtai had conducted both a double and treble existence. Her escape to a luxury life in Marbella had been tragically short lived. Her ability to deceive over such a long time had been extraordinary. Sullivan had quickly concluded that Changtai had been the shaven-headed man seen on the CCTV leaving the apartment building on the night after the embezzlement.

  ‘He must have taken off his dress, shaved his head and then changed into a suit before leaving the building,’ she said, piecing it together. ‘Changtai as a man being the perfect disguise. Far removed from the long-haired, glamorous woman he presented to the world as Krystle.’

  Discovering Changtai’s true identity and recovering the embezzled money would now be a joint investigation with the Spanish police.

  ‘We can hand this one over to our fraud boys now,’ Broderick told Sullivan, putting his foot down on the accelerator and enjoying the blast of air through the driver’s window.

  ‘And Córdobas continues to investigate Changtai’s murder?’ Sullivan asked.

  ‘That’s about the size of it.’

  As the two detectives sped back along the toll road towards the Rock looming in the distance, the baking sun reached its midday height. Although it was only noon, both detectives felt as though they had done a full day’s work already.

  14

  Sullivan had phoned through the developments in Marbella to Calbot half an hour before. Although originally irritated that Broderick had chosen Sullivan instead of him to go on the Costa del Sol expedition, he was now relieved not to have been part of it. He sipped his latte, freshly bought at the station’s canteen, and scrolled through his mobile contacts list. Who’ll be the lucky girl tonight? he wondered.

  A moment later the door swung open and Chief Superintendent Massetti strode into the cramped office.

  Calbot jumped up. ‘Morning, ma’am,’ he spluttered.

  ‘Afternoon, Calbot,’ Massetti corrected. ‘Good to know you’re alert and ready for action.’

  Calbot looked at the chief super in surprise: Massetti was not wearing her usual uniform, but rather an attractive black dress and high heels – lunch with her accountant and the evening reception at the Governor’s Residence did not necessitate formal uniform. It was the first time Calbot had seen his senior officer in civvies, and he was impressed by what he saw. Slender and with something of an Audrey Hepburn look, Massetti, in his opinion, scrubbed up well. The look he gave her did not go unnoticed.

  ‘A busy day on the social front,’ Massetti informed the detective constable, a faint blush spreading across her pale cheeks. ‘Nice to be out of uniform for once.’

  ‘I bet it is, ma’am.’

  ‘I was passing, so I thought I’d drop in to see CI Broderick. Any idea where he is?’

  ‘He’s in Marbella, ma’am.’

  ‘Marbella?’

  Calbot thought he’d add a little more information. ‘Took Sullivan with him, actually.’

  Massetti focused her beady eyes on the young man. ‘Please tell me it’s on police business, Calbot.’

  ‘Oh, absolutely, ma’am. It seems that the missing Krystle Changtai’s turned up dead over the border. Only, when they found her, she wasn’t a she, but a he.’

  Massetti took a moment to take this in. Deciding that it was a conversation she no longer wanted to continue, she turned to go. ‘Just tell Broderick I want to see him,’ she ordered.

  Before Calbot could answer, she had gone. Returning to his latte, Calbot put his feet up on his desk, pressed ‘Apps’ on his mobile and began his second game of Angry Birds that morning.

  His concentration was immediately broken by a loud, piercing scream from the corridor outside. Jumping up, Calbot rushed out of the office. At the top of the stairs at the far end of the corridor, he saw Massetti slumped against the wall in agony. Running to her aid, he saw immediately that one of her heels had snapped and the chief super was nursing her ankle, which was clearly causing her a great deal of pain.

  ‘Are you all right?’ Calbot asked, ineffectually.

  The look on Massetti’s face told him all he needed to know, and the expletive-laden tirade that followed introduced him to one or two swear words he had never encountered before. As a trained first-aider, the detective constable quickly established that Massetti’s ankle was sprained and possibly broken. His prognosis was that the chief superintendent’s day – with all its glamorous social appointments – was about to end, somewhat prematurely, in hospital.

  15

  Josh Cornwallis had not returned directly to the Atlantic Marina Plaza. After leaving his message at Sovereign Villa, he had paced the streets for almost two hours, stopping first at the House of Sacarello for some breakfast – an espresso and brandy – and then later at Jury’s Cafe on Main Street, for a large piece of chocolate cake. He had even looked in at the Catholic Cathedral of St Mary the Crowned a little further up the street. Wandering around the cool interior, he had found himself lighting a candle and attempting a mumbled prayer. Strange behaviour for an agnostic, he ha
d thought, but any port in a storm …

  Restless and impatient, he had twice returned to the villa in the hope of finding someone in. After pressing the bell button and banging on the wrought iron gate several times, he finally gave up. Before moving on, though, he knocked on two of the neighbours’ doors to enquire about the identity of the villa’s occupants. One door remained closed; the other was swiftly slammed in his face. He would have to be patient.

  By the time he walked through the door of his apartment back at the marina, it was past midday. He had been religiously checking his mobile for messages. There were two more from Isolde – definitely pissed off by Josh’s lack of communication – and none from Julia. No contact from Julia was either very good or very, very bad, Josh concluded. Isolde was already back in the production office out at the docks. There was no filming today, or indeed until the weekend – just a reception at the Governor’s Residence, which Josh knew he had to attend – but there was still an impossible amount to do to prepare the filming schedules for the weeks to come.

  Josh attempted to read the documents he had spread across the apartment’s floor one more time, but the words no longer made sense to him. Suddenly overwhelmed with tiredness, he collapsed onto the large sofa and fell into a deep dreamless sleep.

  A distant knocking brought Josh back to semi-consciousness. Waking slowly, he was at once aware of the sun’s blindingly bright rays hitting his face through the open door of his balcony. Disorientated, and with a throbbing head, he turned towards the source of the knocking. As he walked to the apartment’s front door, he attempted to pull himself together. Checking his watch, he was amazed to discover that nearly three-and-a-half hours had passed since his return to the Plaza.

  Once again, the person on the other side of the door knocked gently. Josh slipped the lock and swung the door open to reveal his visitor.