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

by Robert Daws

  There must be a way through this shit, he thought. There has to be.

  Caught up in his fevered thoughts, the producer failed to notice the fast-approaching figure following him to the parked BMW. Reaching for the car door handle, Isolde was violently pulled backwards as a hand covered his mouth and a fist smashed a mighty blow to his kidneys, sending a searing pain racing through his upper body. As his knees gave way, he felt the razor sharp blade of a knife pressed close against his throat.

  ‘Do not fight me,’ a voice hissed fiercely in Isolde’s right ear. ‘If you fight me, you will die.’

  48

  The rope binding Isolde’s wrists together was tight, but not to the point of cutting into his skin. The tape that covered his mouth had been bound twice around his head, making breathing – solely through his cocaine-infused sinuses – very uncomfortable. Bound and gagged, the producer had been placed on a chair in the middle of his own sitting-room. Isolde calculated that it had been an hour since his assailant had forced him at knife point up the emergency stairs of the apartment building to the penthouse overlooking the marina below. Through the balcony window, he could see morning light break across the bay beyond. That meant it was least 7 am.

  His mobile phone had buzzed several times before the man sitting silently before him had removed it from Isolde’s pocket and turned it off. For much of the time before that, his assailant had methodically searched the apartment. It had produced nothing of interest and so the man now sat unmoving, staring at his hostage, the stillness of his features disturbed only by his eyes blinking and the short, tense rhythm of his breathing. Isolde was in no doubt as to the identity of his captor. Although now clean shaven and in a different set of clothes from those in the police photograph, his build was unmistakable and his accent Polish. Isolde’s heart raced as he sat looking into the face of Josh’s murderer.

  Jasinski’s thoughts, however, were not of murder. He had other things to achieve. So far, all had gone better than expected. On approaching the front of the Atlantic Marina Plaza, he had been surprised to see the two uniformed police officers standing in the reception area. He was equally surprised, on moving to the back of the building, to find no police presence at the entrance to the basement car park. During his brief visit the previous day, he had noted the CCTV monitors in the room behind the reception desk. Now, walking down to the parking level, he took great care to identify the camera positions and avoid their field of vision. Moving stealthily between the parking bays and hiding behind the concrete pillars that lined the car park lanes, he gained a position that allowed him a clear view of all persons leaving or entering the building.

  His plan was simple. Most of the main people involved in Queen of Diamonds were staying in rented apartments within the building. All Jasinski needed was to get his hands on one of them, and the next stage of his plan could commence. What he had not expected, or dared hope for, was that the first person through the doors would be the film’s producer. With Isolde, he had struck gold on his first try.

  Rising from his chair, Jasinski found a sheet of clean paper on Isolde’s desk and quickly wrote a message on it. Picking up Isolde’s mobile from the coffee table, he now moved back to the Gibraltarian and removed the tape covering his mouth.

  ‘Do not say a word until I tell you,’ he threatened.

  Isolde nodded and tried with difficulty to swallow. His mouth and throat felt as dry as sandpaper.

  Jasinski pressed the mobile’s camera symbol and pointed the phone directly at his captive’s face. Holding up the paper and its message for Isolde to see, the Pole fixed him with a cold and terrifying stare.

  ‘Read this out loud,’ he ordered. ‘Now.’

  49

  The number of reporters and cameramen waiting to enter the newly scheduled 8 am press briefing at New Mole House police headquarters was on a scale usually associated with royal visits. For the last hour, Chief Superintendent Harriet Massetti had been barking orders to all and sundry. Moving from room to room on crutches and still in some considerable pain from her ankle, the diminutive police officer was firing on all cylinders. The decision to bring the media briefing forward by an hour had been made minutes after she had arrived at HQ. The murder of Josh Cornwallis had to be announced, plus the subsequent deaths of Martínez and Maugham on the previous evening. Spanish police officers would soon be in Gibraltar and all details regarding the Gibraltar cases handed to them in the spirit of joint investigation. The prime suspect was Lech Jasinski, and the manhunt for him – already begun – needed maximum publicity.

  Chief Inspector Broderick and his team had already established an incident room on the ground floor, and the whole HQ was alive with adrenalin and anticipation. None felt it more keenly than Sullivan and Calbot. Having helped out at the flooded charity shop for nearly half an hour, Sullivan had rushed home to shower, dress and get into work on time. Both she and an unusually sheepish Calbot had subsequently been working flat out to set up the incident room. They had also been pushing both Forensics and Pathology for any results from the Cornwallis murder scene. So far Forensics had drawn a blank, but Portillo had come through with initial findings from the path. lab. Armed with these, both officers approached Broderick and Massetti.

  ‘Initial pathology has just come through from Portillo,’ Calbot announced, placing several pages of printed material before his commanding officers.

  ‘High levels of Rohypnol in Cornwallis’s blood,’ Sullivan confirmed.

  ‘Rohypnol?’ Massetti asked incredulously.

  ‘Enough to pretty much wipe him out, ma’am,’ Calbot said. ‘Cornwallis would have been completely helpless.’

  ‘But that may not have been the cause of death,’ Sullivan continued. ‘The purple and red spots that we saw on his face are petechiae. They’re also present in his eyes and lungs. All typical of death by asphyxiation.’

  ‘Suffocation?’ Broderick queried.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Sounds like someone was pretty determined to kill the poor fellow,’ Massetti observed.

  ‘Or intent on rendering him helpless enough so he wouldn’t put up a fight when they smothered him, ma’am.’

  ‘Anything from our Spanish colleagues?’ Broderick asked, taking a sip from a cold cup of coffee.

  ‘Afraid not, sir.’

  ‘Although from what I saw of Martínez and Maugham, I’d say there’s little doubt that the Spaniard was asphyxiated in the same way as Cornwallis,’ Sullivan ventured, looking to Broderick for confirmation. The chief inspector nodded in support.

  ‘But as that’s not confirmed, we’ll side-step questions on it for now,’ Massetti said as she rose and, leaning on her crutches, moved with great effort towards the door. ‘Apparently we’re having to set up shop for the press briefing outside in the quad. Nowhere else is big enough.’

  ‘You going to do this on your own, ma’am?’ Broderick asked.

  ‘I’ll do the talking, but I want you and Sullivan out there with me, okay?’

  Both officers nodded.

  ‘So let’s get it over with, shall we?’ Massetti said as she reached the door and waited for one of them to open it for her. ‘If someone would be so kind …?’

  50

  Waiting outside in the quad was a posse of news gatherers. Sullivan counted at least five TV cameras plus reporters whose number was well into double figures. They had been corralled by uniformed police constables into a section of the quad to the right of the custody suite doors. This meant that Massetti could address them from just outside the entrance to the building and quickly disappear inside at the briefing’s end. Entering the quad with Broderick and Sullivan at either shoulder, the chief superintendent swiftly quelled the gaggle of questions fired at her from the throng.

  ‘Ladies and gentleman, my name is Chief Superintendent Massetti and I’d like to thank you for being here this morning.’

  ‘Is it true that Julia Novacs has pulled out of Queen of Diamonds due to concerns about her saf
ety?’ a reporter yelled from the back of the press corp.

  ‘Ms Novacs was the victim of an assault outside the Convent yesterday evening. We understand that she’s safely at her villa in Marbella. We don’t know the position regarding her filming commitments here on the Rock. There have, however, been several very important developments following yesterday’s attack which I would now like to brief you on.’

  ‘Spanish police have released a statement saying they’re also looking for her assailant. Does this mean he’s gone after Novacs in Marbella?’ a female reporter shouted.

  ‘Is he a stalker? Has he contacted Novacs in the past?’ queried another.

  ‘As I said, there have been several other developments that you need to made aware of. Ms Novacs’ attacker has been identified as a Polish national called Lech Jasinski. Enquiries have led us to believe …’

  Massetti was suddenly aware that mobile ringtones had begun to sound among the assembled journalists. At first, it was just one or two, but within seconds the number had increased considerably. To Massetti’s consternation, almost her entire audience was now speaking into their mobiles or checking their messages.

  Turning to Broderick, she hissed: ‘What the hell’s going on?’

  ‘Looks like something’s broken, ma’am.’

  Massetti turned to the group once more. ‘Ladies and gentleman, if I might continue …’ Her words died out as she watched helplessly as the entire press contingent headed out of the quad and back towards the street. ‘Where are you going?’ she called after them, somewhat desperately.

  ‘The Polish stalker’s holding Gabriel Isolde hostage over at the Atlantic Marina Plaza,’ one of the reporters called back. ‘Check your messages!’

  A furious Massetti pivoted on her crutches to confront Broderick and Sullivan. She was alone. A glimpse of Sullivan’s back through the custody suite door told her all she needed to know. Both detectives were heading to the incident room without her. Across the now press-free quad, several uniformed police constables stood uncomfortably. Spying them over her shoulder, Massetti finally flipped.

  ‘Don’t just stand there. Help me inside, for God’s sake!’

  51

  By the time Massetti reached the incident room, Broderick, Sullivan and Calbot were on their way out.

  ‘Will someone tell me exactly what’s happening?’ Massetti demanded, stamping the ground with one of her crutches.

  ‘Sorry, ma’am,’ Broderick begun. ‘Officers Thompson and Basco called in a few minutes back. Jasinski is holding Isolde hostage in the main reception at the Atlantic.’

  ‘Jasinski also contacted several news agencies, GBC Radio and the Chronicle, alerting them of his whereabouts,’ Sullivan said.

  ‘And he’s uploaded a message from Isolde onto YouTube,’ added Calbot.

  ‘Firearms are on their way to the scene and we should be, too, ma’am,’ Broderick insisted.

  ‘On your way,’ Massetti consented, swallowing back the desire to question why she was the last person to find out.

  As they left, she moved to Sergeant Aldarino sitting at a computer on the far side of the room.

  ‘I’ve got Isolde’s message online, ma’am.’

  ‘Play it,’ she ordered.

  Both officers looked at the image before them. Isolde’s face, pale with fear, stared at them from the screen. Falteringly he spoke:

  ‘My name is Gabriel Isolde. I am the producer of the film Queen of Diamonds. It is the story of a spy known as the “Queen of Diamonds” – a British agent working in Gibraltar during World War II. In my film, I have been attempting to depict her as a heroine. She was not this. The Queen of Diamonds was a murderer and a traitor. A destroyer of families and a servant of evil. The world must now know the truth. My film is a lie.’

  The screen went blank. To Massetti’s horror, she noticed that the message had already received several thousand views.

  52

  By the time the three officers arrived at the Atlantic Marina Plaza, a major ‘situation’ had developed. Uniformed policemen were struggling to cordon off the area at the front of the building from a growing crowd, news of the hostage situation having spread rapidly through social media and online outlets.

  The curse of the internet, Sullivan thought.

  The main road that passed the building had been closed by RGP patrol cars, and traffic police were now focusing on the massive logistical problem of redirecting rush hour traffic.

  The Plaza building stood outside the Old Town fortifications, on land reclaimed from the sea. A massive hi-tech apartment complex of coloured glass and steel with a balconied frontage – a clear architectural expression of luxury and grandeur. It was the face of the new Gibraltar and its hopes for the future. Its current role as a place of murder and hostage-taking was definitely not part of its carefully marketed image.

  At the scene, the first to greet Broderick, Sullivan and Calbot was Inspector Pérez, head of the RGP’s Firearms Unit, a huge bear of a man with a reputation for calmness and professionalism under pressure.

  ‘Jacket up,’ he commanded, handing them all bullet-proof vests. ‘PCs Thompson and Basco were confronted by Jasinski and forced to leave the building. He has subsequently taken a position behind the desk in the main reception area and is holding the man at knife-point. However, we can’t be sure that he hasn’t got a firearm as well.’

  ‘Understood,’ replied Broderick, taking off his jacket and slipping on the protective vest. Beside him, Sullivan and Calbot followed suit.

  ‘I have three police marksmen in place. None has a clear shot of Jasinski. He’s chosen his position well,’ said Pérez.

  ‘Ex-Polish Special Forces,’ Sullivan contributed. ‘Most probably covered every angle.’

  ‘Thank you,’ Pérez bridled slightly. ‘I’m aware of that. I have three more officers covering the rear car park exit and six more ready to go in at the front if given the order.’

  ‘Anyone made contact with him yet?’ Broderick asked.

  ‘No, sir. We tried to contact Inspector Gomez, our principal negotiator, but he’s in Madrid.’

  ‘Doing what?’ Broderick asked.

  ‘He’s at an international symposium for police negotiators,’ Pérez replied.

  ‘Is that supposed to be joke, Pérez?’

  ‘I wish it was, sir.’

  ‘Looks like I’ll be speaking to Jasinski then,’ Broderick continued. ‘How do I do that?’

  ‘He told Thompson and Basco that he had Isolde’s mobile phone. We’ll connect you to that, sir.’

  ‘I also want him to have visual contact with me,’ Broderick added. ‘I’ll start outside the main entrance and persuade him to let me into the reception area to talk face to face.’

  ‘So long as you keep your distance, sir,’ Pérez advised.

  ‘I have no intention of being a hero, Inspector. I leave that sort of thing to you guys.’

  Pérez handed Broderick a head-set. ‘You’ll be connected to Jasinski once you’re in position. I’ll be listening in and can interrupt without Jasinski hearing. If I do, it’ll most probably be to tell you to back off. Understood, sir?’

  ‘Understood.’

  ‘I suggest you take up position five metres from the main entrance,’ Pérez continued. ‘You should have clear sight of him from there. The rest of us will stay in view but further back. I’ll be following the conversation on my own head-set. Good luck.’

  Broderick nodded. ‘Thanks.’

  With Pérez leading the way, the police officers crossed the road and moved into position at the front of the building – Broderick near the main doors and Sullivan and Calbot ten metres directly behind him. Pérez crouched behind a police patrol car with a view of the whole scene. Looking into the building through the huge windows that fronted the street, Broderick could see both Jasinski and Isolde. The Pole had Isolde in a tight grip and held him in the doorway of the monitoring room immediately behind the reception desk. Broderick’s earpiece clicked a
nd Pérez’s voice came through, calm and clear.

  ‘Connecting you now, sir.’

  Three rings later and Broderick was through.

  ‘Yes,’ the harsh voice at the end of the line answered.

  ‘Lech Jasinski?’ Broderick asked, knowing full well the voice could belong to no one else.

  ‘Who do think?’ was the terse reply.

  Broderick continued. ‘My name is Chief Inspector Gus Broderick. I’m the senior officer here. I need you to listen carefully, Lech. You’re aware of the situation you’re in and the response you’ve forced us to make. I need to ask you to lay down your weapon, release Mr Isolde and give yourself up.’

  Silence greeted Broderick’s words.

  ‘Did you hear me, Lech?’

  ‘I hear you. Now you will hear me. There is a woman standing directly behind you. I can see her. I will speak with her now.’

  Looking over his shoulder, Broderick realised that the Pole was referring to Sullivan. ‘I’m afraid that is not possible, Lech. I am the person you need to talk to and I hope you understand fully what I’ve just asked you to do.’

  ‘I will speak with the woman or I will speak with no one. Don’t mess with me or you will regret it. I hope you understand fully what I have just asked you to do, Chief Inspector.’

  As Broderick looked across to Pérez, the channel on his head-set clicked. ‘Pérez here, sir. I don’t know why he should want Sullivan, but I see no reason to refuse him at this stage. Would you agree?’