by Robert Daws
‘If this is your boss, tell him to stop. Stop now!’ the mechanic yelled, pointing in the direction of the lift’s control panel. As he spoke, the hydraulic lift sprang to life, the boat dropping a couple of feet in nanoseconds, causing Calbot and Sullivan to spring back in surprise.
Walking briskly around to where they had been directed, Sullivan could see a grey haired and somewhat deshevilled looking man standing at the controls. He seemed unsure of how to work them. Eventually he gave up, switched off the controls and glanced over towards Calbot and Sullivan. Sullivan had assumed, even before spotting the heavy swelling on the side of the man’s face, that this was Chief Inspector Broderick.
‘Bruddy thing!’ the man cursed, dismounting the machine.
‘It’s a skill, you know,’ the mechanic barked. ‘You can’t just turn up and expect to be able to work a machine like that.’
Ignoring his every word, Broderick walked over towards the pair and nodded at Sullivan.
‘Who’s vis?’
‘I’m DS Sullivan, Chief Inspector. Pleased to meet you.’
‘Yoo noo?’
‘Officer on secondment, sir, yes. From London.’
Broderick shook his head. ‘Norody bruddy tells me anyfring!’
‘What did he say?’ Calbot asked Sullivan quietly, as Broderick moved off towards the front of the boat house.
‘He said, nobody tells him anything. I think the anaesthetic is impeding his speech.
Calbot smirked, ‘Oh dear. What a shame.’
‘For me, yeah.’ Sullivan looked resigned. ‘Great start, eh? Just brilliant.’
* * *
Outside, Broderick sat in his Mercedes, scribbling furiously in a brown leather-bound notebook. The mechanic stood beside him. He looked up as Sullivan and Calbot exited from the shadows of the building into the fierce heat of the sun.
‘What is this all about?’ the man asked, raising his arms in the air.
‘I sloddin ‘ell giv ‘ub’.’ the Chief Inspector growled, tearing a page from his notebook and handing it to the mechanic. The man looked at it in confusion.
‘Do you sell fish?’ he read out loud and turned to Sullivan. ‘What the hell does this mean?’
‘The, uh... Chief Inspector asked,’ Sullivan replied, attempting translation, ‘Whether or not you sell fish, Mr...?.’
‘Bessano. It was my wife who died here.’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bessano.’
Sullivan was interrupted by her boss.
‘Yust onsor the gestion, pwees.’
‘Sell fish? No, I mend boats. If you want fish you’ll need to go to the market.’
Broderick furiously scribbled another note and this time simply thrust the pad at Sullivan.
‘The Inspector asks if you can recommend anyone. For fish, I imagine.’
‘Oh. Well, Medina Bros at the market is probably your best bet. Second counter on the left. What does this have to do with the death of my wife, exactly?’
More scribbling, followed by another thrust of the notepad towards Sullivan.
‘He says: “Nothing. I just like good fish.’ A few moments’ confused silence followed. Sullivan decided to change the conversation. ‘Is there anyone else staying here, Mr Bassano?’
‘No, not really,’ Bassano replied, clearly taken aback.
‘Is that right?’ Sullivan queried. ‘Only I thought I saw somebody upstairs when we arrived, sir.’
‘Oh. Yes. Of course. That is my grandson. He’s been here for a few days while his parents are in Portugal. They’re hurrying back now, of course, after the news.’
‘Was he here yesterday?’ Calbot asked. ‘During all that?’
‘Yes, he was. I got him next door to our neighbours straight away. He’s very upset, I’m sure you understand.’
Broderick scribbled another note. It read: ‘Call him’.
‘Please,’ Sullivan added under her breath. ‘Would you mind calling him down, sir? We’d just like to have a little chat. Nothing scary, I promise.’
Bassano hesitated for a moment, then began to call. ‘Julio! Julio, come down here, please!’
The clearly nervous boy appeared at the upstairs window, his eyes stained red.
* * *
Broderick had led the way back into the building. The others followed with Bassano still clearly upset at the request to see his grandson.
‘Look, how many times?’ Bassano pleaded. ‘It was an accident! Julia had brought me tea. I thought she had gone. I lowered the boat. It dropped, like you saw. It’s a fault with the lift, it must be – it’s never happened before. It just dropped. I don’t know why she was even under the boat!’
Broderick threw Sullivan a look as if to say that he’d be interested in discovering the reason for that also.
‘Why can’t you just leave us in peace? Bassano continued. ‘We’ve had enough grief this past twenty four hours.’
Julio appeared at his grandfather’s side. Sullivan looked at the clearly traumatized boy and smiled gently.
‘Right. Julio. We are police officers. There’s no need to be afraid. We just need to ask you a few questions. Is that OK?’
The child looked at Bassano for approval.
‘Look, leave the lad alone,’ the grandfather said. ‘Can’t you see he’s upset enough as it is?’
‘I’m sorry, Mr Bassano, but we really do need to get to the bottom of this. Do you like boats, Julio?’ Sullivan asked gently.
The child looked at his grandfather, then nodded his head.
Sullivan continued ‘They’re great, aren’t they?’
Another nod.
‘Is that boat your favourite?’ Sullivan pointed to the boat.
Another nod.
‘Does your grandfather let you get inside the boat sometimes, Julio?’
‘Now, that’s quite enough,’ Bassano barked. ‘This is getting ridiculous!’
Calbot placed a reassuring hand on Bassano’s shoulder. The grandfather’s reaction had alerted Sullivan to another possibility. She continued her probing under Broderick’s silent stare.
‘Have you ever tried to drive a boat on your own, Julio?’
Reluctantly, the boy nodded his head.
‘Is that what you were doing yesterday?’
‘What the hell are you saying?’ Bassano cried. ‘You’ve no right to interrogate him like this! He’s just a boy!’
Chief Inspector Broderick touched Sullivan on the arm and indicated that she should wait. He moved swiftly to the hydraulic’s controls. On the floor where they had fallen lay a large bag of sweets. Holding them up for all to see he asked as best he could... ‘Dese are ‘oors ah vey Oolio?’
‘What do you mean?’ Bassano replied.
Broderick looked to his translator for help. Sullivan nodded to him and turned once more to boy.
‘Those are your sweets, aren’t they Julio?’
The boy looked again to his grandfather but could take no more. Tears began to fall down his cheeks once more. Bassano swept the lad into his arms and then turned on the accusers in desperation.
‘Okay, okay! Listen. It wasn’t his fault. Please. He came down here on his own. He’s done it before – to play on the boat. We tried telling him time and time again to keep away. Julia told me she was going to find him. She must have been trying to catch him when it happened. Maybe that was why she was under the boat, I don’t know. Next thing, I heard a cry and came running down. The boat had dropped and Julio was stood by the controls screaming like a wild thing. He must have set the hydraulics off... somehow...I don’t understand... he didn’t know... Please don’t blame him, I beg you! It’s all my fault, not his. Mine!’
Broderick looked at the ruined man and spoke as clearly as he could. ‘Yes. It is.’
* * *
The marked police car drew up and Calbot showed a WPC into the building as Broderick and Sullivan stood by the old Mercedes.
‘Sir? I’m sorry, but can I be blunt?’ Sullivan asked.
Bro
derick looked at her, but said nothing.
She continued. “I’m sorry that nobody bothered to tell you I was arriving, sir. It’s obvious that it’s irritated you and I understand that. But I’d like you to know that this job is very important to me. It’s not quite the brief I’d been expecting, but I’m glad about that. I’m not really one for just standing around and observing.’
Broderick raised an eyebrow. Sullivan continued.
‘As I’m sure you’ve already noted. I just want you to know that I’m a professional police officer and I intend to work with you and assist you to the very best of my ability.’
Broderick’s expression said nothing. After a moment he scribbled a note and handed it to her. Sullivan read it as her boss got into his car. She wanted to say something, but couldn’t. Finally, Broderick closed the car door, turned the ignition and drove off. Calbot appeared at his colleague’s shoulder.
‘Another note? What’s it say?’ Calbot asked.
Sullivan handed her junior the note and walked off towards their parked car, a smile on her lips. Calbot looked down at the one line scrawled on the cheap note paper. He too smiled as he read Broderick’s untidy scrawl... “Keep your hair on, sergeant.”
8
Martin Tavares sat staring at the television, unblinking. The doctor had left him some tablets which he hadn’t wanted to take. David had insisted though. He needed to rest, to somehow switch off and out. He barely registered the local TV news item going on, yet again, about his wife’s death. His heart and mind felt overloaded with thoughts and feelings, none of which he could fully grasp or identify.
‘It would appear that this has been a tragic accident.’ The voice of Chief Superintendent Massetti flowed from the box in the corner of the room. Martin observed the clear, crisp and professionally compassionate delivery of the police officer. He thought she sounded a bit like Margaret Thatcher. ‘In attempting to avoid a collision, the police patrol bike hit Mrs Tavares, resulting in her death. At this stage I am entirely satisfied that the officers involved were not riding irresponsibly, but attempting to pursue the getaway motorcycle in very difficult circumstances.’
‘Lying bitch,’ David murmured under his breath, as he watched from the doorway.
‘We believe the thieves may be part of an Eastern European criminal gang based on the Costa del Sol that targets luxury yachts and marinas. Their abandoned motorcycle was found earlier today and we are currently working with Spanish Police to identify and apprehend the men in question. Once again, I wish to send our sincere condolences to Mr Tavares and his family at this very difficult time.’
* * *
Her interview over, Massetti crossed the yard at the rear of the police headquarters, Broderick’s car only narrowly missing her as it pulled into the parking area.
Having marched across the yard and burst into the building, he had narrowly missed being nabbed by Sargeant Aldarino. That would have meant at least half an hour with Massetti. He had nothing against his commanding officer, but he hadn’t got time to be a sounding board for her problems this morning. Not that Massetti would have been able to understand much of what he might have advised anyway. He felt she always dealt with him as though she was Dr Dolittle conversing with a talking baboon. It was not a pleasant sensation.
Moving swiftly upstairs he quickly found the the sanctuary of his office.He was particularly grateful to get back to it this morning as it meant he could get his hands on the high strength ‘prescription only’ painkillers he kept secreted in his drawer. He was so pleased, in fact, that he was even willing to forgive the inordinately bright and cheery dispositions of Calbot and Sullivan as they both beamed at him from their desks. Were they competing against one another for some kind of cuteness award?
‘Morning, sir,’ Sullivan announced airily.
‘What are you two looking so pleased about? Broderick half sneered. He was relieved. There was a limit to how much he could take of this after all.
‘Just sorting the paper work on the Bassano case, sir,’ she replied.
‘And I’m just getting the file on the Webster trial in order,’ Calbot added. ‘You’re in court later in the week, guv.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Feeling better, sir?’ Sullivan asked.
‘No, but at least the injections have worn off so I won’t be sounding like an inebriated Muppet all day.’ He turned to Calbot. ‘Get us a tea and a bacon sarnie, son.’
‘I’m afraid the sarnies are off the menu in the new canteen, guv. They do a very nice choritzo and avocado panini.’
Broderick simple stared at the DC.
‘They also do a nice low calorie tuna salad wrap.’
Before he’d had the chance to see it, the large file of papers had flown across the room and struck him hard on the side of his head.
‘Ouch!’ he whimpered.
‘Ouch, my backside,’ reponded Broderick. ‘Now get down there to Poncey Snacks Ltd and get your patient and forgiving guv’nor a sarnie and an industrial strength cup of cha.’
‘Guv.’
Calbot backed meekly out of the office, knowing that he now had to run the quarter of a mile to the greasy spoon mobile cafe near the docks. Broderick smiled to himself, fully aware of the mission that lay before his detective constable. And god forbid he should return with any part of the order cold. Life’s a bitch, he thought, and this morning I’m just giving it a helping hand. He turned swiftly to the slightly shocked detective sergeant.
‘Read your file, er...’
‘Sullivan, sir.’
‘I know your name.’ Broderick insisted . ‘Impressive. One of the youngest women to join the Met CID. High flyer. Very ambitious.’
‘Sir.’
‘Then you nearly wreck it all by thinking you can do the job all by yourself.’
‘It was a miscalculation, sir. I’ve learnt from it.’
‘Chief Superintendent Reid writes about you in far from glowing terms, Sullivan. I quote: “By confronting the gunman alone, without back-up or respect to chain of command, DS Sullivan endangered not only her own life, but also that of the hostages and her fellow officers in the field of operations”’
‘I paid for that mistake, sir,’ she responded bitterly.
‘Passed over for promotion and a soft temporary posting over here? I’d say you’ve been lucky, if you ask me. Officers who don’t pass the ball around really tend to – how can I put this – piss me off. Is that clear enough for you?’
‘Crystal, sir.’
‘Good. Then we should rub along famously, shouldn’t we?’
Sullivan returned her focus to her computer screen, wishing Broderick hadn’t made his last remark sound like the challenge it clearly was. A moment later her thoughts were elsewhere.
Five months earlier
The fierce rain was not helping things. It blurred the surroundings, making it hard to see more than a few metres ahead. Had it been daylight, things would have been easier. But here on an inlet of the River Roach, a fierce wind was blowing in off the North Sea and across the bleak and treacherous Essex coastline. The nearest hamlet was a few hundred yards back from the high banks of the river, too far to offer any glow of ambient light. The first officers on the scene had to navigate their way along the pitch black lane with hand torches. They quickly found the car they had been searching for. The silver XJ Jaguar had nearly made it to the river’s edge. The thick mud under its tyres had finally stopped it in its tracks, forcing the occupants to continue onwards on foot. The officers had information as to where they would be heading - information which was confirmed thirty metres on at the first sight of the Thames sailing barge, ‘The Ness’, moored to the river bank, its lights blazing from within.
By the time Sullivan arrived at the scene from London, the area had been cordoned off. Essex Police had immediately requested armed marksmen to the riverside. They had duly arrived minutes earlier and were taking up strategic positions around the barge. Sullivan had been woken two hours ear
lier with the news that Malcolm Bainbridge, a multi - millionaire property developer, had gone on a shooting spree earlier that evening. He had shot, at point blank range, two of his employees at Bainbridge Developments PLC. Returning home to his large Wimbledon mansion, he had shot a neighbour, a visiting friend and his housekeeper. Bainbridge had then attempted to burn his home down, before escaping into the night with his twelve year old daughter ,Naomi ,in the back seat of his car.
And now Bainbridge sat calmly aboard his beloved Thames barge with his shotgun on his lap and his traumatised daughter huddled in the corner. The last few hours had been a blur. A blinding rage. An overpowering madness that had only now begun to dissipate and be replaced by a cold understanding of what he had done. He also knew what he now had to do.
It had come as some surprise to Sullivan that Bainbridge had demanded to speak to her and her alone. She had met the man eight months earlier under tragic circumstances. The property tycoon’s wife had been murdered in a car mugging that had gone terribly wrong. Stopping late at night at traffic lights, Madeleine Bainbridge had been attacked by two youths who had smashed the driver’s window and pulled her from the car. Finding her cash card in her handbag, the thieves had demanded that she take them to a cashpoint and draw out money. Madeleine had stubbornly refused and been smashed over the head with a metal crow bar. She had died instantly. Sullivan had been an investigating officer on the case and had interviewed Bainbridge on several occasions. It was also a lead that she had followed that eventually led to the arrest of the assailants.
And now she stood a few yards away from the barge, the chill November wind in her face, wondering what she could possibly do to end the terrible events of the evening. Sullivan was quickly briefed by Chief Superintendent Reid on the things she couldn’t do.
‘Bainbridge has demanded that you speak to him.’ Reid told her. ‘In short, he has agreed to let his daughter go free if you replace her onboard the barge.’
‘I see,’ Sullivan replied.