by Robert Daws
‘Thank you, Tamara.’ He smiled. ‘Thank you.’
Although the detectives had listened patiently to Jasinski’s story, they knew that, outside the room, pressure was mounting to get a result. Caught between the need to push hard for answers and a requirement to consider Jasinski’s medical condition, they had taken the gentler path. Facts were coming, but not enough answers.
‘So what did your father do next?’ Broderick asked, determined to move on swiftly.
‘He went home, Chief Inspector.’
‘He left it at that?’ Sullivan questioned.
‘Not in his mind,’ Jasinski replied. ‘All his life, it ate away at him. Not knowing who Diamant was. He knew Diamant was responsible for deaths of his mother and sisters also. If it was blackmail and my father fail in his mission, the Germans would want to punish him. That is why photograph was left in house and family was taken away to die.’
Jasinski slowly raised the paper cup to his lips and drank the water.
‘He knew that for a fact?’ Sullivan asked.
‘No. But that is what happened. Some things become clear even without all the facts, Tamara.’
‘And did he get results?’ Broderick pushed.
‘Nothing. He received one letter from Lorenz a few weeks after the visit. It surprised my father. Lorenz told him that past should be forgotten and that to continue to pursue this could lead to danger. He did not explain how or why. Not long after, my father learned that Lorenz died. Poisoned. Police were certain it was murder. They could not prove it, though.’
‘We’ll check,’ Broderick said.
‘Lorenz’s death was a warning, Chief Inspector. One my father took notice of.’
‘You’re telling us that Lorenz was murdered to stop him investigating further?’ Sullivan asked.
‘That is what my father believed.’
‘And so he stopped looking?’
‘Yes. My mother was ill. I was child. There were more pressing matters to concern him.’
‘So what changed?’ Sullivan asked.
‘For years, nothing. Then, just months before he died, he read in newspaper about film – Queen of Diamonds. He could not believe his eyes. World may think Queen of Diamonds is made up, but my father knew she had lived and that her real codename was Diamant. When I visited him in hospital, he would tell me about it over and over. The pain and anger were still within him, you understand? So angry that people would make hero out of one so evil. But he was helpless. As he lay dying, I swore to him, my father, that I would find out truth. That is what brought me here. That is why I would not kill. There has been too much death at Diamant’s hands already.’
62
‘Well?’
Massetti projected her question towards the door, over the heads of the busy detectives working in the incident room. Sullivan and Broderick, who had just entered, had not noticed their boss sitting in the far corner. With her crutches beside her, she was resting her swollen ankle on an upturned waste paper basket. The chief super waved them over.
‘Well?’ she repeated.
‘Jasinski’s taking another rest,’ Broderick answered. ‘Headaches are coming back, he says.’
‘I bet they are,’ Massetti replied.
‘He also says he’s innocent of the murders. Just wanted to protest about the film,’ Sullivan added, perching on the edge of a desk. ‘So if you’ve been hoping for a quick confession, I’m afraid it’s not on the cards, ma’am.’
‘What do you think, Broderick?’ Massetti asked.
‘He seems lucid enough. The reasons he gives for coming to Gib and his feelings about the film seem genuine. But the fact is, he was here on the Rock and over in Spain at the time of the killings. We now know that he has motive in spades and a mental condition that could easily have pushed him to murder. He held Isolde at knife-point and, from where I was standing, looked dangerous enough to deliver on his threats.’
‘What’s the status on Isolde, ma’am?’ Sullivan enquired.
‘Not brilliant. Locked himself in Julia Novacs’ Winnebago and swallowed a bucketload of painkillers. It’s touch and go whether he pulls through.’
‘Poor man,’ Sullivan sighed.
‘Novacs has apparently pulled out of the film and taken off for Paris,’ Massetti continued. ‘Can’t say I blame her.’
‘Anything yet from Spanish police?’ Broderick asked.
‘Just added background on the two men. As we know, Martínez was a wealthy businessman – property mostly. Came from poor origins. Brought up in La Línea, but got out when the money came rolling in. Two children living abroad. A recluse in recent years. The Englishman may have a connection with Cornwallis and his work. But why Jasinski should want to murder two elderly men is still anyone’s guess.’
All three pondered this for a moment.
‘How’s the fracture, ma’am?’ Sullivan finally asked.
‘Possibly the most painful thing I’ve ever experienced, Sullivan. And I’ve given birth to two children,’ the chief super replied. ‘But thanks for your concern.’
DC Calbot approached the trio from the far side of the room.
‘Cakes and an estate agent,’ he announced.
‘What are you taking about?’ Broderick demanded.
‘Neither of the supermarkets or smaller shops sell the cake we found in Cornwallis’s apartment. The manager at Morrisons and several others think it’s homemade and not a retail product at all.’
Broderick gave the detective constable a withering look. ‘So are we really considering the possibility that Jasinski baked a cake?’
‘Just telling you what’s been said, guv,’ Calbot said.
‘And the estate agent?’ Massetti questioned.
‘An estate agent, as well as a waitress and the landlord of The Angry Friar, have all stated that they saw Jasinski several times as he waited outside the Convent between the hours of 1.00 and 5.30 yesterday. The waitress at the cafe says she was aware of Jasinski hanging around all afternoon.’
‘And Portillo’s certain of the time of Cornwallis’s death?’ Massetti asked.
‘As much as she can be, ma’am,’ Sullivan confirmed. ‘She puts it between 3 pm and 6 pm.’
‘He might have slipped away,’ Broderick suggested.
‘To make it across town, murder Cornwallis and then get back again would have taken Jasinski away from the Convent for well over an hour. Most probably more,’ Sullivan said.
‘Oh, for God’s sake!’ Massetti cried, slapping the desk in anger. ‘I don’t need to hear this. We have one suspect and he better be our murderer. I’ve just seen the three of us on a CNN bulletin, for crying out loud. We’re playing on news channels worldwide. So believe me when I tell you, I’m not going to be the one to inform them that we’ve got the wrong guy. Understood?’
‘And if we have?’ Sullivan ventured.
‘We haven’t!’ Broderick snapped. ‘We need the Wombles to come back with the forensics, that’s all. I predict Jasinski’s DNA will be all over the shop. So right now, I suggest we don’t panic and that we continue with good old-fashioned police work.’
‘In what direction, exactly?’ Massetti asked.
‘For a start, we need to find out why Jasinski needed to kill Martínez and Maugham,’ Broderick replied, turning to Sullivan. ‘Also check out the Inspector Lorenz story in the RGP archives. For all we know, Jasinski’s entire story could be part of some schizophrenic delusion. Ma’am, if you’d be so good as to keep the pressure up on our Spanish compadres, I’ll do the same with Jasinski. Something will give, and soon.’
‘It better had,’ Massetti said. ‘In the meantime, will one of you help me out of this bloody chair?’
63
Jasinski sat in his empty cell. Through the small hatch in the heavy metal door, a police constable kept constant watch over him. His head ached and his entire body felt wired; he had to clench and unclench his hands to rid himself of the strain.
The worst of it was that
he was beginning to believe that he might have killed others. People were saying he had. They were accusing him of crimes that, in his heart, he knew he would not commit. But what if he had? What if he had murdered the men as they said? What if he had finally become insane enough to lose control of his mind and actions? Again and again, he had gone over the past few days. He was convinced that he could remember and account for all his actions. The chronology of events since he arrived in Spain was crystal clear to him. Murder had never been a part of his plan. It had never even entered his mind. But if his mind had been lost, how could he really know?
Lech Jasinski lay down on the hard bed and curled into a ball. Only sleep could save him now. Darkness, unconsciousness. He prayed it would come swiftly.
64
Sullivan passed through the iron gates at the front of New Mole House and stepped out onto the pavement. Taking a deep breath and sipping the coffee she had brought from the police canteen, it felt good to clear her head. Only two TV crews remained stationed outside police HQ, awaiting breaking news. The reporters looked at Sullivan and rightly deduced nothing new would come from her direction.
Crossing the road, Sullivan came to a halt by the wall overlooking the dry docks fifteen metres below. Gazing down, she could see the whole site was a hive of activity. Two of the three dry docks were occupied by ships undergoing repair. Engineers and workers scurried about like ants to the sounds of drill and hammer. Out across the busy bay, ships of many sizes lay at anchor or continued on their way to other destinations and ports of call. The afternoon sun on her face was baking, but the gentle breeze made it bearable. The strong scent of the sea and the invisible, life-enhancing force of ozone made Sullivan feel immediately revitalised. A rush of caffeine from her skinny latte had also begun to play its part.
‘Wotcha.’
The voice behind her was Calbot’s, and for a moment Sullivan’s heart sank.
‘You can stroll across the road with a nice cup of coffee, but you can’t hide, Sarge.’ Calbot was pulling what Sullivan recognised as his “handsome” face.
‘Clearly not,’ she replied, watching him light up a cigarette.
‘If you can’t stand the heat, get out of the police station,’ Calbot continued with a second stab at humour.
‘Massetti’s under pressure. Shit comes down,’ Sullivan said.
‘Look, don’t think this is out of order, but I’m having a sort of dinner party next week,’ Calbot said, leaning against the wall and running his hand through his thick brown hair. ‘At my place, just me and two or three others from work. Not sure who. Nobody aggravating, though. Wondered if you might be up for it?’
Taken aback, Sullivan did not quite know how to respond.
Calbot continued: ‘I’m a pretty good cook. Italian stuff mainly. Liguine al frutti di mare is my speciality. Not a veggie, are you?’
‘No, I’m not,’ Sullivan replied with a smile. ‘It’ll be a Come Dine with Calbot sort of thing, will it?’
‘If you like, but without a stupid theme. You don’t have to come dressed up as a pop star or a nurse or anything. Unless you want to, that is.’
Try as she might, Sullivan could not help but be charmed by her colleague. He flirted with all the subtlety of a teenager holidaying in Magaluf. But the sheer transparency and obviousness of his guile somehow made up for that.
‘I’ll think about it,’ Sullivan replied.
‘To tell the truth, it’s a celebration, really.’
‘Of what?’ she asked.
‘It’s not official, but DS Marquez is retiring, and everyone knows I’m the next one up for promotion,’ Calbot told her, with a confidence that took her breath away. ‘Word’s out it’ll be confirmed beginning of next week.’
‘You know that for a fact, do you?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Nothing’s been said, but that’s how it works. There’s no one else ready for the job, so it has to be mine.’
Unless the position’s already been offered to someone else, Sullivan thought. She was not going to burst Calbot’s balloon, especially as she had not made up her own mind about the job. However, if she accepted the offer of a permanent job with the RGP, the dinner invitation from Calbot would most likely be rescinded. Every cloud’s got a silver lining, she mused as she finished her coffee.
‘Back to work, I think, Calbot.’
‘On my way, Sarge,’ Calbot replied, throwing his cigarette to the ground and eyeballing Sullivan’s shapely figure as she strode away from him. ‘Most definitely on my way.’
65
Sullivan did not have long to wait for the Lorenz files to be delivered to her desk. Historic police records were stored in a section of the government’s archive, and a quick phone call from Massetti had elicited an immediate response.
Three files arrived, the first of which contained two pages that confirmed that Inspector Lorenz had been the investigating officer of the young prostitute’s murder in November 1942. The second file also confirmed him as the investigating officer in the arrest of the Spanish dockworker who had been found with the compromising photograph of the prostitute and the Polish major. Both reports stated that the cases had been taken over by the Security Intelligence Department of the Rock’s Defence Security Office. From that point on, they were classified ‘Top secret’ and the RGP’s involvement terminated. Just as Jasinski had told them.
On the front of the third file was a covering note from a clerk in the archives. She informed Sullivan that the file had been deposited with them after the death of Inspector Lorenz in 1964, and because it appeared to be connected to what the detective was looking for, she had sent it across with the others. Within moments of opening it, Sullivan was grateful that the clerk had done so. The file, was considerably thicker than the other two, included information about the police investigation into Inspector Lorenz’s death.
Twenty minutes later, Sullivan was at Broderick’s desk, briefing him and Calbot on the file’s contents.
‘Lorenz was found dead in his apartment on 28 October 1964. The post-mortem concluded that death was caused by arsenic poisoning. There was no suicide note and so foul play was immediately suspected. Police duly took statements from the last people to see him alive. One name on that list might interest you, guv.’
Sullivan handed the document over to the chief inspector to see for himself.
‘Dear God!’ Broderick exclaimed, after seeing the first name on the list. ‘“Señor Eduardo Martínez”,’ he read. ‘“Resident of San Roque, Spain”.’
‘I’ve read his statement. Martínez had a cousin named Marisella who disappeared in Gibraltar during the war. She lived in La Línea with her parents and eight-month-old baby – its father had walked out before the child was even born, according to Martínez. One day Marisella went to work at the fruit and vegetable depot here in Gib, but never returned home.’
‘And the RGP investigated?’ Broderick asked.
‘Of course, but apparently came up with nothing. Marisella’s family took her disappearance badly. They were a close-knit lot. They had also depended on her income to survive. The repercussions were horrific. Months later, the mother died, apparently from grief, and Martínez says that the baby was placed in an orphanage.’
‘And Marisella’s father?’ Calbot asked.
‘Shot himself. Borrowed a revolver from a friend and blew his head off in a field near Jimena de la Frontera.’
Calbot whistled slowly through his teeth. ‘Jeez.’
‘So Martínez kept the search going?’ Broderick questioned, rolling his neck to relieve the tension.
‘As best he could, but the years passed and he gave up,’ Sullivan continued. ‘Then in 1964 he heard that a photograph of a girl resembling his cousin was circulating on the Rock. He made enquiries, which led him to Lorenz’s apartment in Irish Town –’
‘– where the inspector showed him a picture of a certain young woman in bed with a Polish officer and told him that she was later found murdered,’ Calbot
interrupted.
‘Exactly. That’s where Jasinski’s story links with the Martínez statement. The Spaniard was devastated by the news. First, by the manner of his cousin’s death, and then by the realisation that she’d been working as a prostitute. He then, naturally, wanted to know why her death hadn’t been investigated.’
‘And Lorenz told him what he’d told Jasinski’s father. Tales of Diamant, blackmail, suicide, murder and British intelligence,’ Broderick concluded.
‘Exactly,’ Sullivan confirmed. ‘Jasinski’s father had only left the Rock a few days prior to the Martínez meeting. It’s interesting that Martínez doesn’t mention the Pole’s name. Maybe Lorenz kept that from him. One thing is clear, though: the case was finally coming together for Lorenz. He told Martínez that he had new information that might identify the Queen of Diamonds. He also mentioned that he was being watched, and that his life might be in danger. The inspector finally warned Martínez to keep a low profile until he got more information. Three days later Lorenz was found poisoned.’
‘So what did Martínez do?’ Calbot asked, sitting forward in his chair.
‘At the time of the statement, he said he was making enquiries with government and the intelligence services in both Gib and the UK,’ Sullivan said. ‘One can only assume that that was how he came into contact with Graeme Maugham.’
‘What about the police investigation into Lorenz’s death?’ Broderick asked.
‘Put on the shelf, sir.’
‘But they had a written statement that claimed that Lorenz thought his life was in danger. They must have done something about it,’ Broderick replied.
‘The investigation could find no evidence to back that up. They even tried to interview Martínez again, but they never got him back over the border.’
Broderick stood and made for the door.
‘Let’s get this to Massetti.’