by Robert Daws
‘So perhaps you weren’t going to tell us at all?’
‘Of course I was. I don’t know why I didn’t earlier. I’ve just been too upset to think straight …’
Before he could finish, Sullivan strode to the door and left the room. Isolde sat alone staring after her. Suddenly the dam holding back his emotions burst and a series of deep, heaving sobs erupted into the silent room.
42
As a squad car left New Mole House to drive Isolde back to his apartment across town, a light burned brightly in the ground-floor incident room occupied by the Royal Gibraltar Police CID. Inside, several officers were hard at work. Broderick sat in his section, phone in hand.
‘Sí, Inspector Benitas. If there’s anything else we can do, please let us know right away. Buenos noches.’
Broderick put the phone down and turned to his colleagues. ‘Well, that went down like a cup of cold sick. However, the Guardia will be circulating the Jasinski photograph and they’ve also sent more officers to Novacs’ villa at Marbella.’
‘So it’s a joint operation, guv?’ Calbot asked.
‘Of course.’
‘Shouldn’t you have fessed up to our being in San Roque tonight?’ Sullivan asked, her eyes trained on her computer screen.
‘No need to upset them about that,’ Broderick said. ‘If the Guardia find out about it, Massetti can spin a story as and when. The important thing is that our Spanish compadres are hunting for Jasinski. Where are we on the rest, Calbot?’
‘Forensics are going to be working through the night, guv. The chief minister put in a word, apparently. Hopefully they’ll have something for us in the morning. Same with pathology. Portillo says she’ll get us what she can as soon as possible.’
‘What about the dead men in San Roque?’ Broderick asked.
‘Only been able to do basic checks so far,’ Sullivan said. ‘Don Martínez seems to have been a respected businessman. Property mostly, widowed, ex-mayor, et cetera. The Englishman is more interesting. Graeme Maugham MBE. Retired civil servant. An archivist specialising in the history of the British Secret Intelligence Service and, in particular, its activities during World War II. Spent the last decade as part of a team set up to declassify British Cabinet secrets. Possible link between that and Cornwallis and his film. Source of sensitive information, perhaps?’
‘More than a “perhaps”, I think,’ said Broderick. ‘We know Jasinski’s view of the person known as the Queen of Diamonds, even if we don’t understand his reasons. If he was willing to murder Cornwallis, it would make sense that he might have been prepared to punish those associated with him in a similar manner.’
‘But why not do the same to Novacs?’ Sullivan ventured. ‘He had the opportunity.’
‘Maybe he would have done if he’d found her at the villa the other afternoon. And maybe that’s where he’s heading tonight. Let’s hope the Guardia have that possibility covered.’
‘Massetti has just texted,’ Sullivan interrupted. ‘She’s going to brief the press on Cornwallis first thing tomorrow. She’d appreciate your presence at the conference, sir.’
‘I bet she would,’ Broderick sighed and stood up to stretch his back. The office clock read 1.20 am. ‘I suggest we call it a night. What with Changtai this morning and three more bodies tonight, I think we need a little rest from the carnage.’
43
Ten minutes later Sullivan was surprised to find herself alone with Calbot on the steps of her apartment block. The young officer lived in the opposite direction, but seemingly determined to engage her in conversation about the day’s events, he had insisted on walking her home.
There was little doubt that they had plenty to talk about, but she sensed an all-too-obvious ulterior motive for the late-night perambulation. His attraction to her had been apparent from their first meeting, but his attempts to communicate it had either been awkward or dressed up in the cocky banter of the workplace. He was not unpleasant on the eye – Far from it, Sullivan thought – it was just his infuriating over-confidence and lack of grace that drove her crazy. Besides which, a workplace relationship was not something she was prepared to countenance. She had been badly burned the last time it had occurred, and she was not going to lay herself open to it again. Or at least, she hoped not.
‘I don’t suppose I can tempt you to a little late-night tipple?’ Calbot eventually got around to asking. ‘Jimmy’s Bar is open till two.’
‘You must be kidding,’ Sullivan said. ‘We’re only going to get three hours’ sleep as it is.’
‘All the more reason to keep going, I say.’
‘No thanks. I’m done for,’ she replied, reaching into her pocket for her key.
‘And so to bed?’ Calbot asked.
‘Is that a leading question, Detective Constable?’ Sullivan smiled back, amused by Calbot’s unsubtle flirtation.
‘It’s a question, certainly.’
‘And here’s an answer: bugger off, get some kip and stop being a naughty boy.’
Calbot raised his hands in the air. ‘I’m going quietly, Sarge. I know when I’m not appreciated.’
‘Oh, you’re appreciated, Calbot,’ Sullivan said as she opened the communal door to the entrance lobby. ‘Just not particularly wanted.’
‘Well, that’s charming.’
Sullivan entered the building and the door closed in her colleague’s face.
‘But I’m made of sterner stuff!’ Calbot called through the glass at her in mock outrage.
Stepping back onto the pavement, he smiled to himself and headed south along Rosia Road, towards his lodgings near the old barracks.
‘Never give up, never give up, never give up,’ he muttered under his breath.
44
For a moment, Jasinski had imagined he was back in the desert, an illusion heightened by the gritty feeling of sand in his mouth and the slight chill of a pre-dawn morning. Even before opening his eyes, he could feel his adrenalin levels rising dramatically – a response to potential danger. A soldier’s instinctive readiness for fight or flight. Twelve years earlier, it would have been real. Guarding oil platforms in Iraq or carrying out special seek-and-destroy missions. Jasinski had seen things in Iraq that he had never witnessed during his time as a Polish soldier. Working in the Middle East as a ‘contractor’ for the security firm Halliburton, he had seen things that would never leave him. Living nightmares that played out in his mind on a constant loop. Hell on earth.
It was the sound of the sea that brought him safely into the present. Opening his eyes, he took in his surroundings: the dunes, the sand, the ambient light of the street lights fifty metres behind him. He had slept deeply and dreamed little, but that would change if he went another day without his medication. The madness had already begun and it would soon spiral out of control, with him a hostage to paranoia and hallucinations so real he could almost touch and taste them. He would lose control and all his efforts during the last few days would be in vain. His mission would be aborted due to the lack of mental capacity to achieve them. That could not happen. He had sworn to his dying father that he would take revenge on those who had harmed their family, be they living or dead. He would not fail him now.
Stretching his long muscular arms, Jasinski stood and checked his watch: 0500 hours. Sunrise was still hours away, but he would now move to the border and cross into Gib with the first Spanish workers soon after 0600. Confident in his new disguise and with his false UK passport in hand, he would head back to finish what he had begun the previous day.
Along the shoreline to the south, the huge presence of the Rock loomed out of the dark. Checking his bandana and adjusting his hip belt, Jasinski took a deep breath of the ozone-sweet Mediterranean air. Turning towards the lights of La Línea, he began to jog purposefully across the sands.
45
The electronic throb of Sullivan’s alarm awoke her at 5.45 am precisely. Uncharacteristically, she dallied for a few moments beneath the comforting sheet that covered her. She
had drifted off to sleep three hours earlier with thoughts of Calbot. At the time, the notion had been pleasurable, but now the lack of another physical presence in her bed flooded her with relief. She knew that a relationship with a junior officer would be misguided and such a thing would undoubtedly diminish her career prospects even further. The advice given by a female colleague in the Met many years before came back to her: Never fuck below your rank, sweetheart. Always ends in tears. Harsh words, but bitter experience had taught her that a relationship with any rank ended with much the same result.
This morning she felt tired, a deep exhaustion brought about by the frenetic developments of the last two days. Lack of sleep and the effects of adrenalin crash were taking their toll. The images of the dead she had seen the day before had also played vividly upon her mind. Grotesque, distorted faces and crushed skulls. Sullivan shuddered and rose from her bed to escape the ghosts.
The desire to forego her morning run was strong but one she would override. Her one concession would be to give the more arduous route out to Europa Point a miss and instead take the shorter town circuit. Within minutes of rising, she was dressed and on her way. Across the road in the dry docks, lights were still blazing as work continued around the clock on a container ship in for repairs. Across the bay, a giant cruise liner was on its way out to the Strait, bound for its next port of call in the Balearic Islands. Life goes steadily on, Sullivan thought. Setting herself a fast pace, she headed north along Rosia Road, hoping the day ahead would bring better results and no deaths.
Minutes later, she passed the HM Naval Base and Dockyards, and reached the tiny Trafalgar Cemetery beside the Referendum Gates that led onto Main Street and the town proper. On recent runs, she had turned left at this point onto Line Wall Road and run along the old Bastion fortifications, but not today. Something had caught her attention fifty metres ahead on Main Street, usually quiet at this hour.
Sullivan could see a small group of people removing large sacks from a shop in the parade opposite John Mackintosh Hall. From her position, it looked as if they were looting the place. Closing the distance between them in seconds, she realised that the group contained some familiar faces. At the centre of the operation at the front of the Rock of Ages charity shop stood Cath and Daisy Broderick and Sister Clara, all heaving sacks into Gus Broderick’s old Mercedes.
‘The question is, should I be arresting you or helping you?’ Sullivan said, catching the group by surprise.
‘Good morning to you, my dear,’ Sister Clara replied with a smile. ‘I’m afraid it’s all hands to the pump this morning.’
‘More like all hands to stop the pump,’ Cath continued. ‘Bit of a panic. Burst pipe in the apartment above the shop. Water’s pouring into our storeroom at the back. Our dear landlord’s upstairs trying to stem the flow, but he’s not having much success.’
Sister Clara nodded. ‘So here we all are trying to save as much as we can,’ she said, placing a bag into the back of the car.
‘Not that you should be here,’ Cath admonished her elderly friend. ‘You should be home in your sick bed. You’re still not a hundred per cent.’
‘Thanks for your concern, but I’m feeling quite well enough for this. Rather exciting really.’
‘Yes, exciting!’ Daisy confirmed triumphantly and marched back into the shop for more bags.
‘Well, that’s stopped it for now.’
All heads turned to see a sprightly and trim-looking octogenarian emerging from the front door of the building. He carried a bag of tools in one hand and a large bunch of keys in the other.
‘My maintenance guys are on their way to fix things properly,’ the old man continued. ‘I can only apologise. The apartment has been empty for over a month and it obviously needs some care and attention.’
‘Thank you, Oskar,’ said Cath. ‘So sorry to have got you out of bed. I didn’t know who else to call.’
‘I’m glad you did. It’s always a pleasure to see you, my dear.’ His eyes twinkled flirtatiously. ‘And after all, it is my responsibility.’
Putting his tool bag down on the pavement, he turned and noticed Sullivan for the first time. ‘And who is this new addition to the tribe?’ he asked.
‘This is Tamara Sullivan,’ Cath answered. ‘A friend. She was just passing. Tamara, this is Oskar Izzo.’
Izzo reached over and, with practised ease, took Sullivan’s hand. ‘It is a pleasure to meet you, my dear.’ The old man smiled, raising her hand to his lips and kissing it. Taken off guard, Sullivan could only smile back weakly.
‘Now, let me assist with this temporary evacuation,’ Izzo said. ‘Daisy, will you help me?’
‘Yes! I’m the best at helping!’ Daisy replied, jumping with excitement.
‘Then let’s get to it.’
Daisy and Oskar Izzo moved swiftly back into the building. A bewildered Sullivan turned to the others. ‘Your landlord, I presume?’
‘Indeed,’ Sister Clara replied. ‘Although he is much more than that. Oskar owns quite a bit of property here on the Rock. And much, much more across the border. He’s a very wealthy man. As he often says about himself, “Not bad for the son of a crooked bar owner from Malta.” He’s also a very generous man. Apart from giving us our premises rent free, he is a major contributor to the charity.’
‘He’s also a terrible flirt,’ Cath added, ‘and always has been.’ The older women laughed.
‘Well, looks as if you’ve still got a bit to do,’ Sullivan observed. ‘I can spare twenty minutes or so before heading into work, if that’s any help.’
‘Certainly more help than my brother,’ Cath replied. ‘Didn’t even make it to bed last night. Fast asleep in an armchair as I left the house. A plate of cheese and biscuits on his lap.’
‘We had a busy time of it yesterday,’ Sullivan informed her, grabbing a box from the ground and squeezing it into the back of the car. ‘And I’ve got a feeling today’s going to prove even more challenging.’
46
From his position on a park bench eighty metres from the border, Jasinski waited for the number of people crossing over to the Rock to increase. Soon after 6 am, the Pole felt safe enough to join the migration and become just another anonymous face in the flow of workers and visitors moving towards and through the custom gates. Minutes later, he was in Gibraltar once more, passing the old airport terminal on his left and heading onwards across the runway to the town. As hoped, his passage had gone unchallenged by the border guards, who gave only a cursory glance at his passport.
Thoughts of his father filled his mind once more. How proud he’d be of me now, Jasinski told himself. After all the years of pain, frustration and impotence he went through, something is being done.
Buoyed up by these thoughts, he quickened his pace, a sense of clarity and purpose moving him forward. He would at least have the element of surprise on his side. As an ex-soldier, he appreciated the huge advantage that gave him. In fifteen minutes, he would be in position and then it would be a waiting game. Once more he checked off his list of actions. Once again he glanced over his shoulder to make sure that he was not being followed. Not that he would be able to tell if he was. There were too many people travelling on foot both behind and ahead of him. None of them stood out as suspicious or in any way interested in him. Why, then, did he feel as though he was being watched?
Pulling his new rucksack tighter to him, Jasinski passed the Victoria Stadium on his right and glanced fleetingly at the ‘Cross of Sacrifice’ war memorial on the opposite side of the road. A sharp jab of pain crossed his forehead. The headaches would soon begin. He prayed that time would be on his side.
47
Several lines of coke had fuelled Gabriel Isolde’s attempts to remain conscious through the night. Events had moved so swiftly over the past twenty-four hours, he felt helpless in the face of them. Julia Novacs had been assaulted by a madman, her Marbella villa trespassed, and the Queen of Diamond’s backers were now terrified that the star would walk ou
t on the movie. In the morning, the cast, crew and production team, numbering nearly two hundred, would demand answers to questions that Isolde could barely comprehend, let alone respond to. The media attention, already at a frenzy, would no doubt reach new levels of intrusive hell. Above all else was the still unimaginable truth that Josh was dead. Josh, who Isolde had loved and adored. Josh, to whom he had so often been cruel. Josh, his handsome, talented friend, was gone for ever. Murdered most horribly, just a few hundred metres from where Isolde now sat with his head in his hands and tears still falling down his cheeks.
A moment later, Isolde forced himself to take several deep breaths.
Feeling a little calmer, he checked his watch. To his horror, the time on the dial read 6 am. In half an hour, he would have to be in the production offices out at the docks. His mobile was full to bursting with messages from the hundred and one people demanding to know what was going on. With shooting scheduled to recommence in just over twenty-four hours, and news of Josh’s death yet to be announced, the best he could hope for was a delay. His main challenge was to keep Novacs on board. That she and Josh had recently become lovers was not going to make things any easier. Julia would also have to be told that security at the villa had been breached in her absence. It would not take her long to figure out what might have occurred had she been at home the previous evening. Given her volatile nature and obsession with personal safety, Isolde realised that calming her down was going to take every ounce of his considerable negotiation skills.
Deciding to take one step at a time, he put in a call to his production co-ordinator, Tracy Gavin. Having sacked his line producer, Isolde had had to place more responsibility on her shoulders. Instructing her to have the director and department heads ready for a briefing, he then requested a helicopter to be on standby to fly him up to Marbella to meet Julia Novacs for breakfast. Knowing the seriousness of the situation, Tracy took her instructions without question. Relieved that he had made a start, Isolde showered and dressed, grabbed his car keys and headed for the door. Minutes later, a lift had taken him to the basement. Exiting, he moved across the small lobby and pressed the green release button to unlock the door to the car park. Feeling the chill of the early morning air, sea fresh and awaiting the warmth of first sun, Isolde moved to his car parked close to the exit ramp. Slowly, very slowly, his head was clearing.