by Robert Daws
Sullivan shook her head in amazement. ‘And it took your man just one morning to find that out? Eduardo Martínez spent most of his life chasing that information and failed to find a single lead.’
Broderick nodded sombrely and turned to Calbot. ‘Get onto the South African authorities,’ he commanded the young detective. ‘We need to know what happened to Rosia from then on. Find out as much as you can about the Ackermans, too.’
‘Will do, guv.’
‘Meanwhile, the two of us are going to visit the Wombles,’ Broderick announced to Sullivan as he rose and headed for the door. ‘We need to see what’s holding up the forensics.’
‘Right you are, guv,’ Sullivan replied, picking up her mobile and straightening her top.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Calbot interrupted, looking up from his computer screen with a broad smile, ‘may the Force be with you, Sarge.’
‘Thank you, Calbot,’ Sullivan replied serenely. ‘And fuck you, too.’
84
It was well known that Broderick thought the Forensics team on the Rock were a smug, self-satisfied lot. He usually referred to them as ‘Wombles’ – a name taken from the rubbish-collecting creatures of children’s book and television legend. In spite of this, he was always the first to praise their excellent results, often derived from the ever-advancing techniques in the field of forensics. Murderers faced a formidable foe in science. It was a battle they rarely, if ever, won.
On arrival at the oddly named Forensic Scheme Laboratory, Broderick and Sullivan were met by the tall, courteous and scholarly Professor Richard Kemp. His greeting was uncharacteristically effusive: ‘Hello, Chief Inspector, DS Sullivan. I trust you’re both having a good day!’
Broderick nodded. ‘Kemp. What’s the score.’
‘It’s good news. The Jasinski DNA results have just been completed.’
Broderick almost smiled with relief. ‘And?’
‘Bad news there, I’m afraid,’ Kemp replied. ‘Unless, that is, you happen to be Jasinski. No trace of his DNA at the Cornwallis murder scene.’
‘Are you absolutely sure?’ Broderick asked, unable to fully hide his disappointment.
‘We tend to be very thorough here in Forensics, Chief Inspector. If we conclude there is none, it absolutely guarantees that there is none.’
‘Thank you,’ Sullivan said. ‘That eliminates Jasinski as a suspect.’
‘Almost certainly,’ Kemp replied. ‘Unless he went to great lengths to protect the crime scene from personal contamination. Reading the report on the timescale, the circumstances and the mental health of the man, I would consider such a possibility to be most unlikely.’
‘But not impossible?’ Broderick queried.
‘I never rule anything out entirely, Chief Inspector. But if you ask me … Jasinski was never in the room.’
‘And how long before you can give us results on Isolde?’ Broderick asked.
‘He’s not on the DNA database, but as a possible suspect we’ve taken a swab. You’ll have to wait a little longer for that one, I’m afraid.’
‘Right, thanks.’ Broderick said.
‘We have, of course, found other samples of DNA. We’re checking those against the database now. We’ll get the results to you ASAP.’
‘Thank you, Professor Kemp,’ Sullivan replied with a smile, as both she and Broderick turned to go.
‘Oh, by the way,’ Kemp added. ‘I hear you continue to refer to those of us in this department as “Wombles”, Chief Inspector.’
‘Oh, shit,’ Broderick murmured under his breath.
Kemp continued: ‘I only mention it because I’m quite delighted with that one. It is, in many ways, a fine description of us. According to Wikipedia, Wombles are kind and cuddly creatures. Not unlike my assistant William, especially as he now sports a large bushy beard. Wombles also collect things that others discard and then put them to good use. Sums up forensic work rather nicely, I think.’
Sullivan watched as Broderick struggled to remain calm.
With growing amusement, Kemp concluded: ‘I’ll Womble off, shall I? Good day to you both.’ And promptly left the room.
Broderick waited for the professor to close the door. ‘Whichever way you look at it, Sullivan, you have to admit that the man is a bit of a prick.’
‘I thought he was quite charming, actually, sir.’
Without so much as a glance at his detective sergeant, Broderick turned and headed for the exit. It was clear he did not agree.
85
Broderick parked at the front of the police HQ. Once out of the car, Sullivan took a moment to warm her face in the late afternoon sun. On a normal working day, she would have finished her shift by now and would be sunning herself or swimming from one of the Rock’s many sandy beaches. Roused from these thoughts by the approach of reporters demanding fresh information about the case, she turned and followed Broderick through the high metal gates and into the police station’s inner courtyard.
Once inside the building, both detectives spent the next forty minutes briefing Massetti and the newly returned commissioner of police. The latter was jetlagged and in no mood to hear anything other than good news. He was soon disappointed. The negative forensic results on Jasinski were not received well, and both senior officers demanded to know where the investigation now stood. Broderick updated them.
‘Our main suspect is now Gabriel Isolde. We’re awaiting DNA results on him from the scene of the Cornwallis murder and putting pressure on our Spanish colleagues to deliver the same from the San Roque murder investigation. We’re also pursuing all lines of enquiry regarding Isolde’s possible motive or motives for the crimes – In particular, determining the precise nature of Cornwallis’s relationship with Martínez and the information from Maugham given to the screenwriter. We hope our visitor from MI6 will shed some light in that area. We’re not relying totally on that, however. We’re also following our own enquiries regarding all possible links between the victims and the film Queen of Diamonds. These include possible connections between Isolde and criminal elements on the Costa del Sol.’
‘Sounds impressive,’ Massetti responded. ‘But the fact is, with Jasinski out of the picture, we’re pretty much back to square one.’
‘With respect, ma’am, I’d suggest we’re at square two and moving as swiftly as possible towards square three.’
‘Since when did you become the optimist?’ Massetti demanded.
Broderick took a deep breath. He had taken enough ear-bashing for one afternoon. Levelling his gaze at his commanding officers, he replied with icy precision: ‘We’ll get whoever did this, ma’am. I promise you that. It just might not be in time for you to catch the next news bulletin.’
Broderick’s words did not go down well with either Massetti or the commissioner, and the meeting was quickly brought to a close. As Sullivan and her boss walked back to the incident room, she was tempted to say ‘Oops!’, but the look on Broderick’s face had convinced her to let the sentiment remain unexpressed.
As they entered the room, Calbot jumped up from his desk and almost pounced on the two of them.
‘Got something on the Ackermans, guv!’
‘Good,’ Broderick grunted, sitting at his desk. ‘Any movement would be welcome.’
Sullivan made herself comfortable on a nearby chair. It was clear from Calbot’s theatrical demeanour that he was not going to be rushed.
‘I thought this was going to take some time, but then I remembered the contacts I made at the South African embassy in London two years ago on the Vreugdenburg fraud investigation. Luckily I had favours to call in.’
Sergeant Aldarino and two other detectives crossed the room to listen to Calbot, who was pleased with his growing audience.
‘The first thing I did was to check records over here. The orphanage stated that the Ackermans had been working in Gib. First piece of evidence that came up was a marriage certificate for the couple. Thirty-one-year-old Max Ackerman married twenty-four-year-old
Diana Candoza here on the Rock on 26 February 1944. With that, I got back to my guys in London. They tell me that Ackerman, a South African, had been an intelligence officer for the Brits, based here before the north Africa Invasion in 1942. He was later wounded during the Allied push through Italy in ’43, after which he returned to Gib and became engaged to Candoza.’
‘What’s her background?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Born in England to an English mother, father a Spanish banker based in London. Found herself in Gib in 1940 and held several clerical posts of varying degrees of military and civil importance until her marriage and move to Johannesburg in 1944. The couple left Gibraltar with their adopted daughter Rosia in late April of that year.’
‘Just a few weeks after the first of the Gibraltar evacuees arrived back home from the UK.’ Aldarino interjected.
Calbot glared at the sergeant. ‘What’s that got to do with anything?’
Unruffled, the sergeant said: ‘Just an observation. Could be one of the reasons they left. She’d have probably lost her job. By ’44, the Rock wasn’t a forward operating base any more. Things would have been a lot quieter around here.’
‘Be that as it may,’ Calbot continued ‘the fact is they married and adopted Rosia and then buggered off to South Africa all within a few months. Maybe it was just a whirlwind romance. Brave wounded warrior returns to the Rock, sweeps his girlfriend off her feet and then whisks her south to play happy families in Africa.’
Broderick interrupted. ‘Calbot, I am very much hoping that your research is going to get a bit more helpful and a lot less Mills & Boon.’
Calbot checked his notes quickly and went on: ‘Max Ackerman’s family were wealthy mine owners. Gold, mostly. His father was also a politician, holding ministerial rank in the South African government. The Ackermans moved to a Johannesburg suburb, and Max, like his father, entered politics. For the next five years, all went well it seems, but then, in the spring of 1948, Diana came home one day to find her husband dead.’
Calbot handed Broderick and Sullivan printouts of two newspaper articles that he had downloaded from the Johannesburg Star website. One showed a front page from May 1948. Its headline was bold and clear: ‘gardener guilty of ackerman murder.’ The story below it told of the trial of the Ackermans’ gardener, Sehloho Mankana, charged and found guilty of poisoning Max Ackerman with arsenic.
Broderick nodded. ‘Interesting. What happened to the wife and daughter?’
Calbot produced another newspaper clipping with the headline ‘murder widow becomes missionary’.
‘This was published about five months later. It seems Diana Ackerman took Rosia to Kenya and started work at a Christian missionary centre. That’s as far as I’ve traced them. I should be getting an email from Nairobi any moment now, which will hopefully help us discover what happened to them next.’
Broderick stood and stretched his arms. ‘All very interesting, Calbot, but sadly nothing to help us with Isolde.’
‘Finding out what happened to Rosia may prove helpful further down the line, guv,’ Sullivan observed.
‘Maybe, maybe not,’ Broderick replied. ‘We need stuff that’s relevant to the last few days. Any word on Isolde’s criminal associates up the coast?’
‘Still working on it,’ Aldarino replied.
Broderick’s mobile buzzed. It was Forensics.
‘Kemp?’ Broderick answered. ‘What’s new?’
The rest of the team looked on as Broderick listened to the professor. At last, he rang off.
‘The DNA results from the Cornwallis apartment. Kemp’s found a match on their database. Someone who’d been in the apartment recently and strangely never bothered to mention it to us.’
‘Who, guv?’ Sullivan asked impatiently.
‘Tracy Gavin,’ Broderick answered. ‘She was charged six years ago in the UK for dangerous driving so her DNA’s on record. Let’s pay her a visit. I think we’re due an explanation, don’t you?’
86
O’Reilly’s Irish Pub, in the Ocean Village marina complex, was the scene of a wake. Many of the crew and production staff of Queen of Diamonds had gathered outside for an early evening drink and some last goodbyes before flights home the next day. Overlooking the yachts moored in the marina and just a few metres along from the Casino – an establishment several of the crew had earmarked to spend time in later – O’Reilly’s had become a favourite watering hole for many of the team during their short time filming on the Rock.
Fifty metres away, Sullivan and Broderick walked along the wooden boardwalk, past the restaurants and bars that lined the quay. Broderick wiped his brow with a handkerchief. The early evening air still had considerable heat in it and the chief inspector was feeling its effect.
When Sullivan had contacted Tracy Gavin and told her that she had some further queries to make, Gavin had told her she was at an impromptu end-of-shoot party at the marina and asked if the detective could join her there. But now, as O’Reilly’s came into sight, both Sullivan and Broderick were taken aback by the large number of people drinking outside the watering hole.
‘Bloody hell!’ Broderick exclaimed on seeing the heaving throng. ‘How many people does it take to make a movie?’
‘Many more than you’d think,’ Sullivan replied. ‘Keep your eyes out for Gavin, guv.’
Arriving at the pub, the detectives looked around for the production co-ordinator. Not seeing her in the vicinity, Sullivan turned to a couple sitting at the nearest table. The man was in his fifties but dressed much younger. The woman by his side, several years his junior, had her arm around him but was clearly not enjoying herself.
‘Excuse me, we’re looking for Tracy Gavin. Have you seen her?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Haven’t a fucking clue, sweetie,’ the man replied in a strong Glaswegian accent. With a drunken sway of his head, he looked Sullivan up and down, then gestured to the bottle of champagne he had on ice beside him. ‘D’ya wanna a drink? You look like you’re gasping.’
The woman next to him gave Sullivan a look of disdain and took her arm from around the man’s shoulder.
‘No,’ Sullivan replied. ‘Thanks anyway.’
‘I’m Jerry,’ the man continued, running his fingers through his near shoulder-length grey hair. ‘Jerry Callum-Forbes. I was director of the movie we’re bidding farewell to. Could have been one of the big ones, you know, if it’d gone the fucking distance. Now the whole thing’s just a bloody mess.’
‘Sorry about that,’ Sullivan said.
Jerry nodded towards the woman at his side. ‘Oh, and this is Natasha, my missus.’
Sullivan smiled and nodded to Broderick standing at her side. ‘And this is Chief Inspector Broderick.’
The colour left the director’s face. Broderick leaned forward a little. ‘Enjoy your evening, Mr and Mrs Callum-Forbes,’ he told them icily. ‘Meanwhile, some of us will continue to clear up this bloody mess for you.’
Both detectives turned and headed towards the entrance to the pub. ‘Pillock,’ Broderick muttered under his breath as he pushed his way through the crowd.
The interior of the pub was no less busy, but after a minute, Sullivan and Broderick found Tracy Gavin standing at the end of the bar. She was laughing and flirting with a couple of good-looking men, both of whom had an air of wealth and privilege.
‘Sorry to interrupt, Ms Gavin,’ Broderick said, drawing her attention away from her handsome companions. ‘May we have a word? Somewhere a little quieter, if possible.’
‘Outside I think, Chief Inspector,’ Tracy suggested, excusing herself from the men and leading the way out.
Much to Broderick’s annoyance, their passage out of the pub and through the multitude of film people took a good ten minutes as Gavin was stopped every few metres by friends and colleagues keen to chat and gossip about the film’s demise. At last the three of them cleared the front of the building and moved along the boardwalk to a quieter spot at the end of the quay.
‘Sorry
about that,’ Gavin apologised. ‘All very sad. Particularly as Gabriel isn’t here.’
‘We’ve just heard that he’s out of intensive care, Ms Gavin,’ Broderick informed her. ‘We’re hoping to interview him a little later.’
‘Makes me feel guilty really. Being down here having a party. But it’s what Gabriel would want. The show goes on and all that.’
‘Even when the show clearly isn’t?’ Broderick queried.
‘It’s tradition, Chief Inspector. Movie people work hard and party hard. Even in the face of adversity.’
‘Fair enough,’ Broderick conceded. ‘We’re not all made the same, are we?’
‘So what can I do for you both?’ Gavin asked.
‘At any time during this week, were you in Josh Cornwallis’s apartment?’ Sullivan asked.
The look of shock on Gavin’s face confirmed that the question had taken her by complete surprise. ‘I’m sorry? I beg your pardon?’
‘It’s a straightforward question, Ms Gavin,’ Broderick said. ‘Were you in his apartment and, if so, when and why?’
The repetition of the question appeared to rob Gavin of oxygen. Her shoulders collapsed and her head bowed low as if she were about to faint.
Sullivan reached to support her. ‘Steady now,’ she said. ‘Take your time.’
After taking several deep breaths, Gavin attempted to respond. ‘How did you find out?’
‘You don’t need to know that for now,’ Broderick answered. ‘When were you in the apartment?’