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

by Robert Daws

  ‘The thing is,’ Sullivan continued, ‘he may have been using it as well as the penthouse. Tracy Gavin had suggested putting up some of the crew at the house, but Isolde vetoed it. She says he seemed annoyed at the idea.’

  ‘So you’re suggesting we have a look-see?’ Massetti asked.

  ‘I’m suggesting we should have a look-see at both the house and penthouse, ma’am. But we’ll need warrants.’

  ‘You’ll get them, Sullivan, don’t you worry about that,’ Massetti stated firmly.

  ‘Excuse me, ma’am?’

  All three turned to see Sergeant Aldarino walking across the room with a printed-out email in his hand. ‘This has just come through for you from the chief minister’s office. Looks important.’

  Massetti took the email and read it.

  ‘Well, well, well,’ she murmured. ‘He’s been as good as his word. MI6 is flying someone out here later today. Seems Maugham may have misappropriated some rather important documents. The chief minister also suggests that there should be no mention of this to anyone outside the investigation unless cleared from above.’

  ‘Do we notify the Spanish police, ma’am?’ Sullivan asked.

  ‘I’ll check that out,’ Massetti replied. ‘Hopefully we can bat that one over to the government.’

  ‘Still won’t be easy, ma’am,’ said Broderick.

  ‘Not our immediate problem. Anyway, the Spanish haven’t flagged up anything significant about Maugham, so it may well stay that way.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Broderick replied.

  ‘All this supports our thinking about what was going on between Martínez and Cornwallis,’ Sullivan said enthusiastically. ‘Maugham comes to Spain and gives Martínez some important information. Martínez then gives it to Cornwallis.’

  ‘And within twenty-four hours, all three were dead,’ Broderick added.

  ‘Their laptops are missing. Briefcase and diary and maybe more stuff we don’t know about, all gone,’ Sullivan continued. ‘Whoever killed them did so to stop that information getting out. It’s as clear as day.’

  ‘No, it’s not, Sullivan,’ Massetti countered. ‘Not until we find out what that information is and who exactly would have suffered by having it revealed.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am,’ Sullivan agreed reluctantly.

  ‘Keep on it, but we need hard facts. Until then, the mad and comatose Jasinski is still our most likely culprit. Understood?’

  ‘Understood, ma’am,’ Broderick and Sullivan replied, almost in unison.

  81

  Ric Danaher had risen early. The journey to Algeciras from his hillside finca was not particularly long or arduous, but the challenges it presented to the ex-policeman’s sixteen-year-old Mitsubishi Shogun were considerable. The off-roader’s regular attendance at the local garage in Gaucín and the many hundreds of euros spent on repairs and servicing should have eased Danaher’s concerns about its general roadworthiness. But they had not. On too many journeys recently, the old tin can had let him down badly. But despite this, Danaher could not bring himself to part with it. Consuela had urged her father time and again to dump the old heap and get something better. In her view, an old donkey would have proved a more reliable form of conveyance. And yet the rusty Japanese giant continued to stand at the top of the dusty track that led down the hill to the main road and Jimena beyond.

  It had taken Ric just four phone calls to track down a contact regarding Marisella Martínez’s orphaned baby, Rosia. As a great believer in the ‘six degrees of separation’ theory, four phone calls had been a pleasing result. Two of them had been to local government officials in Algeciras and the third to a judge. The fourth had led to him speaking to Juan González, a fellow private investigator. Also known as ‘La Rata’ – the rat – González was the go-to man for background on both establishment and criminal figures in southern Andalusia.

  Danaher had built up his personal contact base slowly and surely during his five years on the Costa and it was now paying dividends. He had actually begun the exercise long before he had left the UK to live in Spain. His policeman’s instinct to gather and hoard information meant that he cultivated a network of friends and acquaintances on the Costa del Sol and in Gibraltar, connections that guided and oiled the wheels of his investigations. The Martínez case was proving no exception.

  By mid-morning, he had driven to Algeciras and pulled into a car park near the central Plaza Alta. The beautiful square, with its central fountain and magnificent palms, was one of Danaher’s favourite spots in the busy city-port. The sun was heading towards its midday high and the temperature in the town – so different from that of the sea and countryside surrounding it – was quite suffocating. A cocktail of heat and thirst made him seek a seat in a small pavement cafe. Ordering a large brandy-infused carajillo coffee and a small bottle of aqua sin gas, he relaxed at a shaded outside table and collected his thoughts.

  His contacts in local government had informed him that, in 1943, the most likely orphanage where the baby Rosia Martínez would have been placed was a small – by municipal standards – children’s home known as Casa de los Santos Inocentes – House of the Holy Innocents. Most orphans from La Línea had been taken there during that period. The home was no longer in operation, having been demolished in 1967 to make way for a large connecting road serving the giant CEPSA oil refinery in the Campo de Gibraltar. Danaher had discovered that the records from the orphanage had not been sent to the public records department, but instead had been placed with an Algeciras law firm. Judge Romanez, whom Danaher had contacted next, had been a junior partner with that firm. He was also a regular client of Danaher’s. After making his own enquiries, the judge informed the private detective that the records had subsequently been moved to a small firm run by a middle-range lawyer called Miquel Columbus. The mention of Judge Romanez’s name had quickly secured a meeting for Danaher at 11.15 am. Finishing his carajillo, he paid his bill and headed along the palm-shaded street for his appointment.

  Climbing the narrow staircase to the third floor of a half-empty office building three streets west of the Plaza Alta, Danaher knocked and entered the offices of Columbus & Arnez. A middle-aged receptionist with greying hair and the look of the terminally bored took his name and waved him through to Miquel Columbus’ office.

  ‘He’s expecting you,’ she growled, in a resonant Andalusian accent.

  If Columbus had been expecting him, he showed little sign of it as Danaher appeared at his door.

  ‘Yes?’ the lawyer asked awkwardly, closing the newspaper he had been reading and attempting a look of superiority.

  ‘Ric Danaher.’

  ‘Ah, yes,’ Columbus replied. ‘Come in. Sit down.’

  Danaher crossed the room and took the seat in front of the lawyer’s desk. Meanwhile, Columbus reached for a large file that lay across the top of an empty in-tray on the left-hand side of his desk.

  ‘Judge Romanez has asked me to be of assistance to you. You have powerful friends in this city, have you not?’

  ‘If you say so,’ Danaher acknowledged, refusing to offer any more information than necessary.

  ‘I have been looking into your request, Señor Danaher,’ Columbus continued. ‘We do indeed hold the adoption records from the Casa del los Santos Inocentes. They are, as I’m sure you’ll understand, strictly confidential, so I fear I may not be able to furnish you with as much information as you desire.’

  Danaher took in the somewhat dishevelled appearance of the man before him. Columbus’s suit and tie were past their best, a look not helped by the lawyer’s ample stomach, which hung over his trousers and acted as a permanent obstacle to the buttoning of his jacket. The inflamed nose and ruddy, veiny cheeks suggested that alcohol played a prominent part in Columbus’s life. The sweat on his brow and the heaviness of his breathing also led Danaher to conclude that a good work-out was probably only a distant memory for the fifty-something abogado.

  ‘I’d be grateful for whatever information you feel a
ble to give me,’ Danaher answered amicably. ‘As I told you on the phone, Rosia Martínez was admitted to an orphanage in the spring of 1943. Anything you can do to help me find her would be most appreciated, Señor Columbus.’

  Columbus smiled. The respectful tone of the Englishman was pleasing to his ear.

  ‘Well, I have good news for you. According to the file I have before me, a Rosia Isabella Martínez was taken in by the sisters in April of that year. Her actual name, it was noted, was Delgado. Her father’s, I believe, but in his absence, the girl’s grandparents reverted to their own name, Martínez.’

  ‘Rosia Martínez is who I’m looking for, señor. As I say, anything you can do to help me trace her – should she still be alive – would be very useful.’

  ‘Now that is, unfortunately, where I will have to cease to be of use to you, Señor Danaher. Even after so long a time, there are strict rules of confidentiality regarding child adoption. I can confirm that Rosia was adopted at a later date from the orphanage, but her adoptive parents’ identity is protected. Notes regarding this case are attached to the file. It seems the couple in question requested complete anonymity. It is the law regarding such matters, Señor Danaher, and as such, it is my legal duty to obey their wishes in this matter.’

  ‘I understand completely, señor,’ Danaher replied, his smile widening. ‘However, I should tell you that, if there was any way to – how can I put it? – circumnavigate that necessity, it could prove greatly beneficial to you.’

  ‘I trust you are not suggesting that I would consider a bribe, Señor Danaher.’

  ‘A bribe is very far from what I’m suggesting, señor.’

  The lawyer could not entirely hide the look of disappointment he felt on hearing this news.

  ‘Then what, exactly?’ Columbus demanded, his tone hardening.

  ‘We’re both very busy men, señor, so I’ll get to the point. The benefits I’m suggesting would be those attached to my not revealing to certain interested parties – your wife being perhaps a particularly good example of one – that you have for some years now been seeing, on a weekly basis, a “lady friend” in Cádiz. That this “lady friend” is also the wife of a notable judge of the province may allow you to deduce a second interested party. Needless to say, such information could prove damaging to you both personally and professionally.’

  Columbus struggled to his feet, his face turning purple and his paunch miraculously shifting to his chest area. ‘This is an outrage! How dare you!’ he roared.

  Danaher remained seated and placed his forefinger over his lips. ‘I think it best not to alert your secretary to the situation, señor.’

  Columbus stopped in his tracks, his large bulk swaying back and forth behind his desk. After a moment or two, he breathed deeply and addressed the man before him with as much dignity as he could muster. ‘Your actions are despicable. I am an honourable man, Señor Danaher.’

  ‘Which is why I chose not to bring up your gambling debts and your many brothel visits in Marbella, Señor Columbus.’

  Columbus’s head was now spinning and he had to steady himself against the desk. After what seemed an eternity, the Spaniard spoke: ‘The file is here before you. I will now leave the room for approximately ten minutes. What you do during that time is none of my concern.’

  Columbus moved from behind his desk and walked with an unsteady gait towards the door. Once there, he turned around imperiously to look at Danaher. Sadly for Columbus, the private detective had completely ignored the lawyer’s dramatic leave-taking and was already reading from the file. For what little it was worth, the deflated lawyer gritted his teeth and spat at the Englishman.

  ‘Bastardo!’

  82

  The bougainvillea adorning the entrance to the townhouse was at its most colourful and resplendent, drooping heavily over the windows and covering the cracked, patched plasterwork of the walls. Built high up in the Old Town and hidden from street view up a steeply rising passageway, Gabriel Isolde’s Gibraltar home had taken Sullivan and Broderick a few minutes to find.

  The detectives had not come alone. They were accompanied by a police constable from the Dog Unit whose black labrador Panza had been specially trained to sniff out drugs.

  A similar operation was also underway across town at the Atlantic Marina Plaza building, where officers, including Calbot, were searching Isolde’s penthouse apartment. Everyone involved knew that it would take very little time for word to get out that Isolde was being investigated by the RGP. The hope was that, by the time it did, there would be some fresh developments, either from the new investigations or from the forensics on Jasinski. With the world’s media breathing down their necks, Massetti and the team had to be seen to be doing something.

  Broderick had summed things up neatly: ‘We may not be clutching at straws, but it feels as if we are.’

  The morning had already proved exasperating. Forensics had called to say there would be a delay on the DNA test results, and in spite of Massetti’s assurances, the search warrants on the Isolde locations had taken hours to organise. It was now nearing one o’clock and it already felt as though the day was slipping away from them.

  Broderick now turned the key – which had been found in Isolde’s possessions at the hospital – in the lock of the front door of Isolde’s townhouse. Entering the hallway, the first thing that struck the officers was an unmistakable mustiness, a smell redolent with mould and long-closed rooms. The house had obviously not been lived in or even visited for quite some time. Moving through to the sitting-room and then on into the dining-room and kitchen beyond, Sullivan and Broderick were also surprised at the state of the décor. ‘Seventies retro’ described the style of the fixtures, fittings and furnishings in each room. Multi-coloured carpet or lino covered the floors. A three-piece suite that would have been the height of fashion in the late 1960s filled the sitting-room. An ancient Grundig colour television sat in one corner, and on the main wall the tiled fireplace boasted a log-effect electric heater of dubious taste and doubtful efficiency. The kitchen was even more fixed in time. Formica-topped pale-coloured units lined the room alongside a small electric cooker and a basic refrigerator of Eastern European origin.

  Sullivan looked at her boss. ‘It’s like a museum, guv.’

  ‘Yeah,’ Broderick replied. ‘One that’s lost its funding by the look of things.’

  The upstairs and the rest of the house were exactly the same. The room that had been Isolde’s bedroom as a teenager had been kept in a perfect state of preservation. It was as if the schoolboy was expected home at any moment. Boxes of Monopoly, Cluedo and Mastermind games were stacked neatly on shelves. Movie posters covered the walls, Hitchcock’s Psycho and Carpenter’s Halloween taking pride of place. Sullivan also noted the poster for the original French version of La Cage aux Folles covering the door of the wardrobe in the corner. Nothing had changed in the house since the death of Isolde’s parents ten years earlier. It was also clear that his parents had altered their living environment little, if at all, during the forty-five years they had occupied the house.

  ‘No wonder Isolde wasn’t keen on putting some of the film crew up here,’ Sullivan observed.

  A careful look around the house revealed nothing of use to the detectives. No laptops. No papers. No Rohypnol. Panza the police dog remained even less impressed with the place, and soon left the building with nothing more than a chew treat in his mouth.

  The news from Isolde’s penthouse was no better. All hopes of finding anything to confirm suspicions of the Gibraltarian’s guilt had come to nothing. Both teams of officers returned to New Mole House and braced themselves for the wrath of Massetti.

  83

  ‘Have you noticed,’ Calbot moaned, ‘that that bunch downstairs sprinkle a lot less chocolate on the cappuccinos than they used to?’

  The detective constable was sitting at his desk in the incident room staring glumly at his canteen-purchased frothy coffee. Across from him, Sullivan and Broderick w
ere lost in their own thoughts. Massetti had not been there to greet the returning search teams. She was seeing a specialist at St Bernard’s for her ankle and would not be back for at least another hour. Everyone was taking advantage of the calm.

  On her return to the station, Sullivan had been handed a large carrier bag by Sergeant Aldarino. It had been delivered by Cath an hour before, and the note attached explained its contents:

  Sorry to miss you. On the off-chance you’ll be able to make it to the fancy dress fundraiser tonight, I’ve taken the liberty of providing you with a costume. Might be a little big, but with a few pins I’m sure you’ll knock it into shape and look just lovely. Don’t work too hard, and please tell my brother the same.

  Best wishes, Cath

  Opening the bag, Sullivan was ashamed to feel her heart sinking. The costume was a Star Wars Princess Leia dress and wig. Her feelings were compounded by the sudden presence of Calbot looking over her shoulder.

  ‘Not bad, Sarge, but I reckon a nurse’s outfit would suit you better.’

  It did not really matter. The way things were going, the chances of herself or Broderick getting away to the ball that evening were minimal. Neither had mentioned it to the other, which was how, Sullivan presumed, it would continue.

  Back in the incident room, Broderick was taking a call from Ric Danaher. Sullivan and Calbot looked on as the chief inspector busily wrote notes on a pad in front of him. After several minutes, he thanked Danaher and ended the call.

  ‘We’ve got a lead on Marisella Martínez’s baby,’ he began. ‘My friend across the border has been very industrious. The baby Rosia was taken to an orphanage just outside of Algeciras in April 1943. A year later, a Mr and Mrs Ackerman arrived at the home enquiring about adopting a child. Mr Ackerman was South African, his wife was British. They were childless and had both been working in non-military capacities over here in Gib during the first years of the war. They stated that they were moving to Johannesburg and wanted to adopt a Spanish orphan. As non-Spanish citizens, they were at first met with some opposition, but a large donation from the Ackermans to the orphanage oiled the wheels for the adoption to take place. The child that they chose was nineteen-month-old Rosia Martínez. They were told nothing of her family history and were ignorant of the fact that Rosia was the daughter of the missing Marisella Martínez. The couple took their adopted daughter with them, giving a future contact address in Johannesburg.’