by Robert Daws
‘What about British tourists?’ Sullivan asked.
‘You can spot Brits at a hundred metres,’ Broderick replied. ‘Hear them, too. Go down to the port when the cruise ships are coming into Gib. It can be a terrifying assault on both eye and ear.’
Inside the Bar El Veral, business was good. Most evenings found it packed full of locals. One or two non-Spanish couples sat at tables. Tourists, Sullivan deduced. This observation being based entirely on the way the couples were dressed.
Broderick moved directly to the bar and caught the barman’s attention. The man smiled broadly and moved swiftly around the bar to shake hands with the chief inspector.
‘Señor Gus!’ he exclaimed. ‘Long time, no?’
‘It is,’ Broderick replied. ‘You look well, Pablo.’
‘And happy, my friend, in spite of these difficult times.’
Broderick quickly introduced Sullivan to the well-built, charming Spanish barman. Sullivan shook his hand and then showed him the image of Jasinski on her mobile. ‘Have you seen this man recently by any chance?
‘Ah, so you two are here only on official business, sí?’ Pablo asked with a twinkle in his eye.
‘Unofficial official business, my friend,’ Broderick quickly replied.
‘Of course,’ Pablo replied tapping the side of his nose with his forefinger. ‘A buen entendedor, pocas palabras.’
Sullivan looked to Broderick for translation.
‘It’s an old Spanish saying. It sort of means he gets it.’
‘Nod’s as good as a wink sort of thing?’ Sullivan asked.
‘No, that’s another saying, but along those lines,’ Broderick replied, showing that his patience was being tested.
‘I get it!’ Pablo interrupted triumphantly. ‘Let me see.’
Pablo put on the glasses that hung on a chain around his neck and peered at the image on Sullivan’s phone. ‘No. Never seen this man,’ he announced.
‘What about this one?’ Broderick asked as he showed him a picture of Josh Cornwallis. The Spaniard inspected it closely.
‘No. This man also I have never seen, but let me ask Miguel.’
Before Broderick could stop him, Pablo had taken the phone and thrust it in the face of a large and rather ugly man sitting further along the bar.
‘Miguel? You seen this man?’
The Spaniard took a moment to sip his brandy before applying his attention to the image before him. He looked long and hard at it.
‘Sí, I see him last night. When you throw us out of here. The man was talking with Don Martínez. We ask if Don Martínez is okay. He tell us to go home to our wives and so … we did.’
Broderick interrupted the man. ‘Last night you say?’
‘Sí,’ Miguel replied. ‘Late.’
‘How late?’ Sullivan asked.
‘I throw them out at maybe one, one-thirty,’ said Pablo.
Broderick shook his friend’s hand. ‘Thank you, Pablo. Now can you please tell us where Don Martínez lives?’
37
The two detectives heard the first scream as they crossed the Plaza de Armas, just seconds away from the Bar El Varal. It was distant, but unmistakably that of a woman in some distress. That it came from the direction in which Sullivan and Broderick were heading made them increase their pace. As they passed Don Benito’s restaurant at the far end of the plaza, a second scream, followed by a high-pitched wail, emanated from the street directly beyond. Exiting the plaza at its southern end, they paused to look along the street that sloped down in front of them. Halfway along the calle, a small crowd had gathered outside the open door of a rather grand-looking townhouse. Approaching now at a run, Sullivan and Broderick could see an elderly woman at the centre of the gathering. She was hysterical and in much need of the comfort being offered to her by the neighbours. Three of them broke away and entered the building. Both detectives instinctively followed them into the main hallway. The cause of the woman’s distress was soon obvious.
Following those that had gone before them into the darkness of the ancient building, they soon came to the courtyard at its heart. The horrific scene there was both shocking and all too familiar to Sullivan and Broderick. Two elderly men lay dead at the centre of the courtyard. One sat sprawled across a chair, his head bent back, jaw slack, eyes bloodshot and open wide. The other man lay face down in a pool of blood on the hard stone floor, the back of his head smashed open, his hair covered with blood, bone and brain matter.
On the large rosewood mesa baja before them, half-full brandy glasses, coffee cups and slices of bizcocho seemed to suggest that an orderly evening had preceded the assaults. It occurred to both detectives that an element of surprise may have been involved.
‘Don Martínez. Santa Madre de Dios!’ one of the neighbours gasped.
‘Ambulancia! Ambulancia!’ Broderick barked as he and Sullivan moved closer to check the bodies.
Taking this as their cue to get out of the house, the neighbours headed back outside leaving the two RGP officers to examine the scene more fully.
‘I’d say this one met his end in exactly the same way as Cornwallis,’ Broderick observed, nodding towards the dead Spaniard in the chair.
‘Unlike his colleague here,’ Sullivan replied, kneeling down beside the body on the floor. ‘This one’s skull’s almost completely caved in. Smashed over the head from behind by the looks of it.’
‘And not that long ago, I’d say.’
‘What do we do?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Get out as quick as we can. If the Guardia arrive and start asking questions, we’ll be here for days.’
‘But we can’t just leave!’ Sullivan protested. ‘We’re police officers!’
‘Police officers who are out of their jurisdiction and for the bloody high jump if the Spanish authorities find out. We live in awkward political times, Sullivan.’
‘But …’
‘And don’t think Massetti will come to the rescue. She doesn’t even know we’re here. Remember?’
As Broderick headed for the hallway, Sullivan checked through the pockets of the dead man beside her.
‘Did you hear what I said, Sullivan?’ Broderick hissed.
‘We can’t just leave with nothing, guv.’
With skilled ease, Sullivan gently prised a slim wallet from the inside pocket of the man’s jacket.
‘Jesus Christ, Sullivan!’
Checking its contents, Sullivan found a driving licence. ‘His name is Graeme Maugham,’ she read. ‘UK citizen. Lives in Shrewsbury, apparently.’ She swiftly wiped the wallet free of her fingerprints and returned it to the man’s pocket. As she did so, the sound of voices and approaching footsteps came from the hallway. A moment later, an elderly man carrying a small doctor’s bag entered the courtyard, followed by a horde of emboldened neighbours.
‘Yoy soy medico,’ the man announced. ‘Separar, por favor. ‘
As the doctor set about checking the two bodies for signs of life, Sullivan and Broderick withdrew into the crowd of onlookers. None of the people newly gathered there spared a glance at them. Taking this chance to escape, both officers quickly made their way to the main door and out onto the street. The sound of a distant police siren greeted them. Without a backward look, they headed quickly down the steep calle towards the main road at the bottom. As they stopped for a moment, Broderick glared daggers at his detective sergeant.
‘Sorry, guv,’ Sullivan responded. ‘I had to do something.’
‘I’m not angry with you, Sullivan.’
‘Really?’
‘Just pissed off I didn’t do it myself.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Don’t thank me, Sullivan. Disobey a direct order again and you’ll be on the next plane back to London. Understood?’
Sullivan understood, but knew that on this occasion Broderick didn’t really mean it.
‘Yes, sir. So what do we do now?’
‘We call in and tell Massetti and Calbot about the mess bac
k there,’ Broderick replied, taking out his mobile.
‘Looks like it has to be Jasinski, guv.’
‘It bloody well better be, Sullivan. If it’s not, we really are up shit creek without a paddle.’
38
Ten minutes to the south of San Roque, on the beach to the northeast of La Línea de la Concepción, drug dealers were selling their wares. Business was slow tonight along the promenade and amid the sand dunes covered in marram grass and sand reeds. Two or three backpacking couples had innocently made camp on the beach, unaware of the trade in crack and marijuana going on around them. Most of the beachside properties in this part of town were top-end developments built during the boom years on the Costa del Sol. Some had been bought recently at knock-down prices by foreigners, others belonged to the drug dealers themselves, while still more stood empty and would remain so, slowly rotting in the sun. If you wanted a hit of any kind, this was the neighbourhood you came to at night. The local police kept away from it for the most part, a fact that Lech Jasinski appreciated only too well.
Having ditched his baseball cap and jacket immediately after crossing the border earlier in the evening, he had headed straight to the centre of La Línea. Stopping off in a bar, he had viewed the news bulletins that were covering the attack on the movie star. Although his Spanish was only basic, Jasinski figured out that the description given by the newsreader mentioned just the attacker’s nationality, size, beard and colour of jacket. Surprisingly, given how popular Julia Novacs was, there seemed to be no clear pictures of the attack, just a few blurred images. There was also no mention of his protest about the Queen of Diamonds film. The report’s conclusion was that the attack was the act of a deranged stalker. This was not what Jasinski had intended at all. His message had been ignored.
Finishing his brandy with a furious gulp, Jasinski had left the bar. Finding a large Supermercado, the Pole had bought a razor and shaved off his beard in the gentlemen’s toilets. The face that stared back at him from the mirror looked younger but no less haggard. Leaving the shop and moving along the street, he found a large sports and outdoor recreations store open. Ten minutes later he had purchased a new T-shirt, a brown fisherman’s waistcoat and a brightly patterned bandana – a look very far from the one in the description that the authorities had given out. He also purchased a new rucksack and a small hunting knife. A new plan was forming in his mind and the knife would be essential to its success.
The loss of the rucksack and its contents was a setback. His identity would now have been traced. The medications discovered in the bag would also have given the police a clear indication of his troubled mental health. He had been rationing his drug intake to make his limited provisions last as long as possible and had already experienced three blackouts of varying lengths. They had left him, as they always did, disorientated and unable to recollect his movements or actions. He knew that, in these time lapses, his behaviour was unpredictable: sometimes he would curl up into a ball and hide; other times, massive and violent mood swings would leave him raging. For now Jasinski felt fine, but that wouldn’t last without his medications. This was not what he had planned. There was now less time to achieve his aims. Less time to be in control of his thoughts and actions.
Now, moving between the grassy dunes, Jasinski found a quiet spot to dig in for the night. He would sleep for a few hours, lulled into unconsciousness by the rhythm of the waves rolling onto the shore nearby. He would rise before dawn and once again cross into Gibraltar, this time on his false passport. Something more had to be done. Something dangerous. People would have to be made to listen.
39
After a day of escalating dramas, Harriet Massetti could hardly believe her ears when Broderick phoned HQ to tell her about the deaths in San Roque. Apart from her continued relief that the murderer was off her patch and no doubt holed up on the other side of the border, a different can of worms had now been opened.
It probably would not take the Guardia long to discover that two RGP officers had been making enquiries in the town and had also turned up at the crime scene. Broderick had suggested she send details of the Cornwallis murder and all information pertaining to Jasinski across to the Spanish police. It might help to defuse any complaints from that quarter. It was also imperative that the Spanish police begin a full-scale manhunt for the Pole.
Broderick had just reported all this to his superior when his mobile lost signal. Or, as Massetti saw it, the chief inspector had pulled off a very convenient ploy to stop her bawling him out there and then. That pleasure would have to wait until he and Sullivan got back. Meanwhile, she would grudgingly set about doing all the things CI Broderick had suggested. His methods might be a pain in the arse, she thought, but he’s rarely wrong about what needs to be done.
40
A few minutes after midnight, Sullivan and Broderick arrived back at New Mole House. Calbot met them at the gate.
‘Massetti calmed down yet?’ Broderick asked as they moved across the central quad.
‘She’s just left,’ Calbot informed them. ‘Her husband’s away, so her son picked her up. Aldarino and I had to carry her out to the car. Her ankle’s the size of a pumpkin.’
‘She needs rest,’ Sullivan responded sympathetically.
‘We should be so lucky,’ Broderick observed. ‘With the amount of shit that’s hit the fan today, she’ll be back in tomorrow ready to take us apart.’
‘She’s on enough painkillers to paralyse a bull on heat,’ Calbot continued. ‘Still capable of inflicting damage, though. Aldarino persuaded her go home, but she wasn’t happy.’
‘I imagine she was looking forward to seeing us,’ Broderick said with a raised eyebrow.
‘She was looking forward to expressing her thoughts on your Spanish excursion, guv,’ Calbot replied with a smirk. ‘But there’s someone else here who needs to see you.’
‘Oh, yes?’
‘Isolde turned up half an hour ago in a hell of a state. He got back to the Atlantic Marina Plaza this evening and went looking for Cornwallis at his apartment. Found our boys there instead. He’s furious that he wasn’t informed earlier. We put him in one of the interview rooms to cool down.’
‘While you got Massetti out of the building,’ Broderick observed.
‘If you like, guv. You want to see him?’
‘I’ll do it, sir,’ Sullivan interjected. ‘Give you and Calbot a chance to catch up.’
Broderick nodded his head wearily as all three entered the building. A long day was turning into a long night.
41
Isolde was pacing up and down when Sullivan entered the interview room, in one of several refurbished additions to the police HQ, on the ground floor of the northern side of the quad. Not that the refurb had made it anything more than just a plain room with a table and four chairs at its centre.
‘At last!’ Isolde exclaimed on seeing Sullivan. ‘I was thinking that you’d be locking me up next.’
‘Sorry to keep you, Mr Isolde,’ Sullivan replied calmly, gesturing towards the chairs. ‘Please take a seat.’
Isolde hesitated for a moment and then moved to the table and sat on the far side of it. Sullivan took her place opposite him.
‘I understand you must be upset, Mr Isolde …’
‘Upset? Upset!’ Isolde replied with mounting anger. ‘“Upset” doesn’t come close to describing what I’m feeling right now. Josh and I were close. He was like a brother to me, you understand? I should have been told immediately about his death. Instead I turn up at his apartment and your people tell me to come over here. Jesus Christ, do you have any idea how that feels?’
‘Mr Isolde, I understand your distress.’
‘Apart from my feelings, have you any understanding of the possible repercussions of all this?’
‘We do, Mr Isolde, and you would have been one of the first to have been informed once it was wise to do so.’
‘“Wise”? Are you insane? There’s obviously a killer out there and it doe
sn’t take an Einstein to figure out who it might be. Miss Novacs was assaulted by a man this evening and now I’m told Josh has died in mysterious circumstances …’
‘Who told you that, sir?’
‘Your colleague, Calbot, told me when I arrived here. Don’t you people talk to each other, for God’s sake?’
‘We do, sir, and again, I’m sorry. Things have been developing at a rapid pace, but I’m sure that from now on you’ll be informed in an appropriate manner.’
Isolde fixed his eyes on Sullivan’s. ‘Catch the bastard. No fucking about, okay?’
‘If it’s the same man who assaulted Ms Novacs, we’ll get him, sir.’ Sullivan stood to signal the end of the conversation.
‘He’s planned it all, you know. He was even at her villa yesterday. Thank God, Julia was here on the Rock doing the night-shoot.’
Sullivan stared at the producer, who had remained seated. ‘I beg your pardon?’
Isolde looked up at her. He had not planned on saying quite so much. ‘My phone ran out of juice on the way back from Marbella. I was out of contact till I arrived back at my apartment. I’ve only just found out from my head of security at Ms Novacs’ villa that a surveillance recording of a man fitting the description of her assailant has been discovered. It shows him inside the villa yesterday evening. He somehow breached our security systems.’
Sullivan could hardly believe her ears. ‘When were you informed of this, Mr Isolde?’
Isolde shifted in his chair uncomfortably. ‘About … about an hour ago. When I got back and charged my mobile. It was the first message up.’
‘And it’s taken you this long to tell us?’ Sullivan demanded, unable to keep the fury out of her voice.
‘I’m sorry.’ Isolde squirmed. ‘You’ll understand that it’s imperative not to alarm Ms Novacs further. The future of the film depends on it. My security team have procedures they must adhere to and …’