by Robert Daws
‘Perfectly, ma’am.’
‘You’ll be joining Chief Inspector Broderick’s team. He should make your stay on The Rock quite an interesting one.’
Before Sullivan could enquire further about her new mentor, a tap at the door interrupted proceedings. Sergeant Aldarino poked his head around the doorframe.
‘Sorry, ma’am,’ he offered. ‘You’re needed.’
‘Very well.’ Massetti replied. ‘ Get someone to escort DS Sullivan here to the third floor will you?’
Both women stood. Massetti felt a sudden twinge of guilt at her welcoming brief.
‘ Er.. settled into your digs alright, have you?’
‘Actually ma’am, I won’t get into my apartment till the weekend. I’m staying at the Alameda ‘til then.’
‘How very pleasant for you.’
‘Yes, ma’am.’
‘ Look, we’re a tight, loyal and highly professional force here on The Rock. A very different scale of operation to the one you’ve been used to. But if you keep your head down and do the work, you could find you’ve gone a long way to digging yourself out of the hole you’ve made for yourself. Understood?’
‘Perfectly.’
‘Good luck then.’
‘Will I need it, ma’am?’
‘I’d say that’s for you to find out and me to observe, Sullivan. That’ll be all.’
5
Sergeant Aldarino had decided against calling another officer to guide their latest visitor to CID. At a fast pace, he led the way himself.
‘It’s a bit of a maze, but you’ll soon get used to it. Old buildings have their charms, but order and convenience tend not to be among them.’
Sullivan had immediately taken a liking to the tall, grey haired Gibraltarian. He was the only policeman who’d bothered to smile at her for as long as she could remember. They continued up a small flight of stairs, then along a narrow corridor and up a further staircase. At the top of this they passed down a long corridor which occupied several offices partitioned off by walls of frosted glass. Eventually Aldarino stopped outside an anonymous door, second from the end.
‘Here’s where you live. By the way, don’t be put off by the Chief Super’s manner. She’s having a bad morning. She’s the best of them here. I’ve been with her a decade now and I wouldn’t want to work for anyone else. She’ll play fair by you, if you play fair by her.’
A pager attached to the sergeant’s tunic began to bleep.
‘Talking of the devil.’ He nodded towards the door. ’You can make your own introductions. They’ll be expecting you .’
Turning his pager off, the sergeant headed briskly back down the corridor. Sullivan turned, gave the door a cursory tap and entered. The small office was cramped. Too cramped for the four desks and many filing cabinets that met her eye. A single large window looked out across the dry docks and the sea opposite. There was only one inhabitant. A single officer sat with his back to the door - his focus firmly on the computer screen in front of him.
‘Sir?’ Sullivan said . The man did not bother to respond. ‘Sir? DS Sullivan. Just arrived from London. Chief Superintendent Massetti tells me I’ll be working with you.’
‘Nope,’ the man replied, still refusing to be distracted from his work.
‘Oh. There must be some mistake...’
‘And you just made it, Sarge,’ said the man, as he finally spun round to face her. His youthful looks suggested to Sullivan that this was not her boss.
‘Whoa!’ the man involuntarily let slip at the sight of his new and attractive colleague.
‘I beg your pardon?’ replied Sullivan coldly.
‘I meant... hello Sarge. I’m DC Calbot’
Sullivan raised an eyebrow, by way of suggesting to the detective constable that he might consider standing in the presence of a senior officer. The expression was quickly interpreted and Calbot jumped to his feet.
‘Completely forgot you were turning up today.’
‘So it would appear,’ Sullivan responded. ‘And Chief Inspector Broderick?’
‘Ah, yeah, sorry. Guv’s not here.’
‘I see. When will he be back?’
‘Tomorrow. Dentist,’ Calbot replied, in his trademark staccato manner.
‘Tomorrow?’ Sullivan questioned incredulously.
‘Abscess. Right at the back.’
‘Sounds painful.’
‘Let’s hope so, eh?’
‘I beg your pardon?’ Sullivan responded, once more uneasy with Calbot’s disrepectful tone.
‘Joke.’ Calbot grinned.‘ Just a joke, Sarge.’
Sullivan’s blank expression told the DC that she had no intention of sharing it.
* * *
The acrid smoke swirled around Martin Tavares’ nostrils as the ash grew longer at the tip of his half spent cigarette. His free hand gripped the armchair as if it were a long-lost friend.
The home he had shared with Jennie all their married life was now full of well meaning, but interfering relatives and friends -all hoping to be helpful. Martin barely registered their presence. He didn’t want help: he wanted Jennifer back. The hushed whispers of the assembled body faded as his concentration was drawn towards the monotonous ticking of the clock on the far wall, its hands showing a quarter to three. For a fleeting moment, he found solace in its stability; its rhythmic continuity. Time would never fade. It could never die or be extinguished. It would always be there, moving forward, expanding. Time didn’t come to an end - only life did. He knew Jennie would not have agreed. She had her faith. Her belief in the continuation of the spirit and soul. But soon she would be nothing more than burnt ashes and a ghost in a thousand grief-filled, haunted dreams. Two people died that night, Martin thought. If there was a God, he hoped that Jennie had found her heaven , because one thing was certain - he had found hell.
* * *
Sullivan was still unsure what to make of Calbot. His apparent laid back approach to work seemed to her a bit “affected”. A little too worked at to utterly convince. He was certainly easy on the eye,although very far from being her type. Too young for a start and far too cocky. Too much like a lot of young coppers, she thought - gobby and overly styled. Male estate agents seemed to suffer from a similar kind of self- presentation. All gelled hair and trimmed stubble above the water. All desperate paddling and no underpants beneath. He had some charm, however, so she wouldn’t completely write him off. Not yet anyway.
‘So, you’re being chucked in at the deep end are you?’ Calbot ventured.
‘Meaning what, exactly?’ Sullivan bridled yet again at Calbot’s inappropriate question.
‘Massetti’s smelt some cheap labour. You’re filling in while DS Marquez is off with glandular.’
‘Glandular?’ Sullivan queried.
‘Fever. Second time in a year. Wiped him out completely.’
‘This department does seem to have more than its fair share of painful medical conditions. I trust you’re not likely to collapse with anything soon?’
‘No Sarge. I’m well fit.’ Calbot twinkled.
‘Any chance of bringing me up to speed with your present case work?’ Sullivan asked, changing the subject. Calbot grabbed the uppermost file from his desk and handed it to her.
‘This one’s fresh. Boat mechanic down at the West Marina accidentally dropped a boat on his wife’s head. Guv’s not completely convinced it was, though.’
‘What? A boat?’
‘No, an accident. Awaiting forensics.’
‘Aren’t we always? This file. It’s a bit chaotic isn’t it?’
‘Yeah, not his strong point, paperwork,’ Calbot replied.
‘Nor yours, by the look of things.’
Calbot smiled as if Sullivan had just given him a compliment. ‘The last bloke they sent over from your lot... nice guy. Bolton, wasn’t it? Lawrence Bolton?’
‘No idea,’ Sullivan answered curtly.
‘Not that we saw much of him. We reckoned he thought he was on a bit
of a holiday.’
‘Really.’
‘We got wind that he’d left the force altogether. Does security now, up in Marbella. Earns three times what he was picking up with the force. At least that’s what we heard...’
‘Well, then you’ve probably heard quite enough,’ Sullivan replied, aware that she was quickly losing her patience.
‘Probably,’ he answered back. The glare on Sullivan’s face told him all he needed to know. ‘Coffee, Sarge?’
* * *
The ice cold water cascaded over his body as he stared unceasingly at the small black mark on the cream tiles. The sound of trickling water had only deepened Martin’s trance-like state. He barely registered the voice which came, muffled but insistent through the wooden door.
‘Martin? It’s David. Are you all right?’
David had been on some sort of suicide watch since leaving the hospital. He had not consciously admitted this to himself, but that’s what his constant monitoring of Martin amounted to. As a voluntary hospital porter, he had seen trauma and grief many times before and could spot the signs of imminent self -harming well in advance. Concentrating on his brother-in-law had stopped him from drowning in a sea of his own grief. His beautiful sister - his kind, funny and ever present sister was now lying cold within the hospital’s morgue. That same morgue to which he had pushed so many hundreds of dead bodies over the years. He could feel the pain and anger rising inside him. He must keep control. Concentrate on the living. Care and protect the living.
‘Martin? It’s me. Please let me know that you’re all right.’
6
The clanging of metallic trays against the recesses in the counter did nothing to help Ferra’s headache that morning. The police canteen in which he and Bryant were queuing had been recently refurbished and a new “self-service” regime instigated. The new decor was an obvious pastiche of Starbucks, but sadly, the opportuity for it’s customers to serve themselves with any speed or efficiency was being undermined considerably by the painfully slow cashier at the end of the line. The food and coffee were of a better standard though, but then the rise in quality had also meant a hike in prices. But if you didn’t pack yourself a sandwich – and a number of officers didn’t, wouldn’t or couldn’t – then there was little else by way of convenient choice.
‘Three-nil tonight, I reckon,’ Calbot offered his colleagues as he joined the line and reached for a ham and cheese sandwich.
‘Two-one,’ Bryant replied.
‘Nah, no chance they’ll score. Two-nil, maybe.’
‘Both goals Berbatov?’
‘Oh yeah. What do you reckon, Ferra?’
‘Not a whole lot, really,’ the officer replied. ‘Not been keeping up with it. I still reckon Porto for the cup, though.’
Calbot pulled a face. ‘I reckon you need to start watching golf, mate.’
‘I don’t want to die in my sleep ,thank you.’
The men laughed and moved a little further along the line picking up soft drinks along the way. Calbot took his opportunity...
‘I was told you two were temporarlily suspended pending the accident investigation. That’s just shit.’
‘Due process.’ Ferra replied, shrugging his shoulders. ‘That’s why we’re in today. They know it wasn’t our fault. Doesn’t stop them making you feel as if it was though.’
‘You both okay?’ Calbot asked.
‘Been better,’ Bryant replied, looking Calbot straight in the eye..
‘Yeah, well,’ Calbot continued, unsure of what to say. ‘Not your fault. That’s clear as day. Tough on you though.’
His colleagues simply nodded. There was an awkward pause.
‘Actually, I’ll grab this lot later.’ Calbot looked across to the cashier. ‘You could stand here all day waiting for her to get your change right. Catch you tonight. I owe you both a pint.’
‘Tell us about it.’ Ferra called after his colleague, ‘We were thinking you’d had your pockets sewn up.’
* * *
Calbot entered the office to find Sullivan still rifling through the files - a mountain of seen and to-see on either side of her.
‘Sorry, no coffee. The queue was running out of the building’
‘That’s ok.’
‘How you getting on?’ he asked.
‘Fine.’ Sullivan barely raised her eyes from the files, trying to keep conversation to a minimum.
‘Fancy seeing a corpse?’ Calbot asked, reaching for his mobile phone.
‘Corpse?’ Sullivan looked up, her attention finally having been secured.
‘The boat mechanic’s wife. Thought a trip to pathology might break your morning up a bit.’
‘Well, put so sweetly, how could a girl refuse?’
Sullivan was up and out of the door before Calbot could compose a retort.
* * *
‘She was flat as a pancake when we got to her,’ Calbot said, finishing off the ham panini he had stopped off for on the way to the hospital. The pair made their way through the main reception avoiding the lifts in favour of the stairs.
‘What?’
‘Well, not completely flat, but... well, you’ll see. Never seen anything like it myself. ‘
They headed down to the basement level, through double doors and into a long corridor with many other corridors running off it. Calbot strode on as Sullivan followed.
‘It’s a maze down here,’ Calbot told her. ‘You’ll get used to though’
‘Pathology departments always seem to be hidden away,’ Sullivan observed.
‘That’s because it’s the last department anyone wants to have to find.’ Calbot responded. ‘Besides, half of the people who come down here don’t come back out again. Not right away anyhow.’
The pathology department located, Calbot and Sullivan pushed the double-doors aside and entered. On the right was the door to a consulting room. There was a name upon it : Prof. Gerald Laytham. Calbot tapped and entered straight away.
Standing at his desk was a tall, avuncular looking man in his mid-fifties. Calbot breezily made introductions.
‘Morning, Professor Laytham. This is DS Sullivan. On secondment from the Met.’
The professor held out his hand in greeting. Sullivan shook it and smiled.
‘Pleased to meet you, Sullivan. I’m fairly new here myself. Welcome, I suppose. Shall we visit the dead?
Laytham led the two detectives out of his office and across the corridor to the pathology theatre. The large cold and austere space had a covered corpse on an examining table at its centre.
‘Not much I can offer you, I’m afraid,’ Laytham remarked, as he peeled back the cover to reveal the wildly distorted shape of what was once a middle-aged woman. ‘Mrs Bassano’s death was instantaneous, there’s no doubt about that. Multiple internal organ rupture, haemorrhaging, you name it. The weight of the boat, plus gravity, and you can imagine what happened. Like stamping on a balloon full of water, really.’
‘Thanks for that, Prof.’ Calbot replied, his ham panini beginning to trouble him.
* * *
The viewing over, Calbot and Sullivan made their way back towards the unmarked police car parked outside the hospital. A dog started to bark and Sullivan looked around her. Calbot answered his mobile and the dog stopped. How irritating, Sullivan thought, to be caught out so easily. Calbot smiled smugly and spoke into his phone.
‘Yeah. Yeah, that’s right. Laytham just confirmed the cause of death, guv. Where are you now? What? I can’t make you out. Where? Guv?’
It was Calbot’s turn to be irritated.
‘Bollocks.’
‘What did he say?’ Sullivan asked.
‘Dunno. Couldn’t understand a word he was yelling at me. Oh, except one that is. How do you fancy a trip to the waterfront?’
Sullivan had already decided that, for today at least, Calbot could lead and she would follow.
7
The two detectives had driven along the Rosia Road turning off into
a maze of industrial units leading down to the water’s edge. Amongst them stood an older building with a large sign anouncing marine enegineering services. Back in the eighties when the site was being developed, a preservation order had been slapped on it just days before it was to be pulled down. Although no beauty, it was certainly an eccentric looking building , complete with ample living quarters above the vast catacomb of the building itself.
As they approached, Sullivan and Calbot could see an old Mercedes estate had been parked at an alarming angle on the hard standing at the front.
‘Brace yourself,’ Calbot replied, nodding in the direction of the Mercedes. ‘That’s the guv’nor’s car.’
Parking up, the two walked towards the open doors which led to the inside of the large building. Just yards from the doors, Sullivan spoke.
‘Don’t look now, but there’s someone watching us.’
‘Calbot scanned the vicinity. “What? Where?’
‘First floor window. Behind the net curtain.’
Calbot looked straight up at the window, catching a glimpse of a hand as it retreated behind the curtains. Sullivan looked at the Detective Constable with disapproval.
‘I hope you don’t respond to all orders in that way, Calbot?’
‘You what, Sarge?’
‘I said, don’t look’. Sullivan reitterated.
‘Oh. Yeah. Sorry,’ Calbot half heartedly apologized as Sullivan led the way into the building.
Both officers now saw that a large area within had been cordoned off with police tape. A hydraulic boat lift rose from the decking within the area - a fifteen-foot motor launch attached to it. Although she had little doubt that it presented no danger, the whole set-up looked fairly precarious to Sullivan. Suddenly, from behind the boat, a middle-aged man appeared wearing old overalls.