by Robert Daws
‘That, of course, cannot happen. The risk to you would naturally be far greater than the potential threat to his own daughter.’
‘Can you be sure of that?’ Sullivan questioned. ‘Has Bainbridge given any assurances?’
‘He’s told us that no harm would come to you. He says he needs to talk to someone who
understands him.For some reason he considers that to be you.
‘With respect sir, the main task here is to get that girl off the boat and out of harm’s way. I’m prepared to co-operate with the exchange. I know him. I think I could persuade him to give himself up.’
‘ The man has just committed four murders. It’s a classic psychotic murder rampage and I’m not prepared to let anyone else put themselves in danger’s way. We’ll stick to protocol and negotiate from here. You speak to him by phone. Understood?’
‘ I still feel...’
Reid interrupted her. ‘That’s an order, detective sergeant.’
For the next hour and a half Sullivan and the special police negotiator, DI Graham had attempted to persuade the gunman to come ashore and give himself up. Bainbridge, however, was becoming increasingly irrational at the refusal to accept his demand.
‘ I need to speak to you alone, Sullivan.’ Bainbridge’s voice crackled through the mobile phone. ‘I’m not kidding here. If you don’t come aboard I’ll have no choice but to kill Naomi and myself. You know I will. You’ve left me no other choice.’
Something in his voice suggested to Sullivan that the end of the road was most definitely approaching. The man had sounded exhausted and over the last few minutes had been increasingly distracted and rambling. Though no one mentioned it, she and her colleagues knew that Bainbridge would most likely follow through on his threat and that two more deaths were now imminent. Chief Superintendent Reid pulled Sullivan to one side.
‘He’s given us no real choice but to board the boat. Commander Laine has told me his men are in position and will make their assault on my order. You’ve done your best Sullivan, but there’s nothing more you can do.’
As Reid strode off towards the Commander, Sullivan realized what had to be done. An assault could lead to a blood bath. She couldn’t allow that to happen. With out further thought, Sullivan moved towards the barge. She held her hands high in the air. She was at the side of the boat before any of her fellow officers could attempt to stop her.
‘Malcolm!’ she called. ‘ It’s me, Sullivan. I’m coming aboard.’
Behind her, she could hear Reid and DI Graham shouting for her to return to safety, but she would not obey.
‘Let me onboard and then release your daughter, Malcolm.’ Sullivan called. ‘I’m going to trust you to do that. Okay?’
From the boat Bainbridge yelled, ‘How do I know you’re not armed?’
‘That’s where you are going to have to trust me, Malcolm.’ Sullivan replied.
Slowly Sullivan walked the narrow plank connecting the river bank to the barge. Placing her hands once more above her head, she moved towards the lighted cabin. As she got to the doors, they were pushed open forcefully by Bainbridge and Sullivan descended into the boat.
Inide, Bainbridge simply stared at her, his eyes on fire. After a few desperate moments of silence he murmured, ‘Thank you.’
Naomi was still huddled in a corner of the cabin. Sullivan looked across to the petrified girl.
‘Let her go, Malcolm. She’s your daughter. It’s what Madeleine would want, you know that.’
The mention of his wife’s name seemed to calm the man. It seemed as though by using it, Sullivan had confirmed that she was somehow still with him. Two minutes later, Naomi Bainbridge made her way ashore to be greeted by police officers and a paramedic. Back on the barge, Sullivan and Naomi’s father sat and talked. They talked for two more hours, Sullivan listening to the man’s story of madness brought on by grief and despair. The anger and rage that had filled his life since the murder of his dear wife. He talked of the blackouts and missing periods that had begun to haunt him during the last few months. He talked of death as being his only choice.
At 3:17 am precisely, Detective Sergeant Sullivan escorted Malcolm Bainbridge ashore to be met by an armed police escort. No further life would be lost that night. Her fellow officers congratulated her on her immense bravery- all except Chief Superintendent Reid . Grave -faced, the commanding officer pulled her to one side.
‘You may think that you’re a hero, Sullivan. Don’t fool yourself. What you did tonight was unprofessional and fool- hardy in the extreme. You disobeyed a direct order from me and seriously put at risk the entire operation.
‘Please, sir...’
‘Don’t interrupt me officer!’ Reid shouted, red -faced. ‘Just because you managed to pull it off doesn’t mean it was the right thing to do. You risked the lives of everyone here on a simple hunch. If it had gone wrong, who knows what catastrophic events may have occurred. I’m going to make sure that this is investigated Sullivan and when it is, your career as a police officer will be finished. You may think that the end justifies the means, but that’s not how this police force operates and never will. Now get out of my sight.’
Sullivan moved to the waiting police car. She knew Reid was right. She knew she had been a fool. But right now, as she looked across at Naomi Bainbridge being treated for shock in the back of the waiting ambulance, she couldn’t give a damn.
* * *
Sullivan was at her desk, her back turned towards Broderick. The sun shining through the office window was warm on her face as she went through the motions of organising her desk. In reality, she was letting her mind wander back to that night on the River Crouch eight months before. It was a process she had repeated a hundred times. She had asked every question as to how differently she might have handled the situation. In the cold light of day, it was clear that she had thrown the rule book into the river and then jumped in herself without a life jacket. At the time, the danger of the situation and the adrenalin running through her system had made her feel certain of the course she had to take. It was madness and she’d known it, but her instincts had pulled her firmly away from the procedures she would normally have unquestioningly followed to the letter. Her intervention had undeniably brought the situation to a positive close – for the twelve year old hostage at least – and most probably kept her fellow officers from having to step into the firing line. The accusations made by her superiors that lives had been put at risk by her actions had hurt the most.
Breaking the rules she would plead guilty to. Risking her colleagues’ lives was something she knew she would never have countenanced. Therefore it was a great relief when the official enquiry into the events had cleared her of that last charge. The fact that it found her guilty of breaking the chain of command and wilful insubordination was something she could not deny and would have to live with.
So here she was, a thousand miles south of London, sharing a cramped office with two strangers. Cast aside in a distant country, far from her home and the old sureties that life was unfolding exactly as it should. Back in the Met she would have made inspector by now. Here in Gibraltar, she was reduced to helping out an old school operator like Broderick and a pushy upstart like Calbot. At least the climate might enable her to get a little tan on her legs, she thought. That and the chance to regroup and plan for some kind of future. Who knew, she might even follow in her predecessors footsteps and find an alternative form of employment down here on the shores of the Mediterranean.
Sullivan’s reverie was broken by the sudden entrance of Calbot. He was carrying a polystyrene cup and a strange smelling, roughly wrapped sandwich.
‘One tea –two sugars- and a jamon sarnie for the guv’nor!’ he announced.
Sullivan smiled. Just go with the flow, she thought. Go with the flow.
* * *
The slight thud and click of the heavy front door preceded by seconds the large hallway clock chiming the hour. It was seven a.m. precisely. The old lady stood on the upstairs landing.
She had been waiting there, hardly daring to breath for fear of drawing attention to herself. But now the house was hers once more and she relaxed for the first time in hours.
She had been awake most of the night, as usual, though the screams from the far bedroom had been far less intrusive than of late. The demon had left the house and would not return for at least ten hours. Sometimes, if she was lucky, it would not return for days. But return it would, bringing danger and malice as its gifts.
The old lady was uncharacteristically hungry, but breakfast would have to wait. She did not want to have to manage the stairs too many times in a day. Besides, her chores for now were centered upstairs. As she moved slowly down the corridor towards the door, the sense of dread at what she might find behind it gripped her as it always did. She would tidy and clean, mend and sew if needed. But these were simple physical tasks, achieved with ease. The blackness and pain that hung heavily in the room at the end of the corridor were metaphysical. Stains which could not be tidied away or expunged nearly so easily.
* * *
It had been nearly a week since Sullivan had first set foot on The Rock. A week spent mostly improving the efficiency of Chief Inspector Broderick’s office. After the quick conclusion of the boathouse death, things had been a little slow. Too slow for Sullivan’s liking. If this was the pace of police life on Gibraltar, her time there was going to be boring in the extreme.
Today she was moving from the hotel to a small fourth floor apartment overlooking the Naval base in the South District. She had loved it on sight. It even had a balcony and a small plunge pool in the ground floor courtyard. Quite a contrast from her London studio flat back in Wood Green.
Broderick had given her the morning off to effect the move and she had used it to work out in the hotel gym and do some shopping for the apartment. Having settled her extras bill, she was now sitting in the hotel reception waiting for a taxi to take her to the South District. Glancing at the front page of the daily newspaper, she noticed that the funeral of the local woman who had been killed by a police motorcycle was to take place that morning. She had, of course, been told all about it at H.Q. She had even been introduced to one of the officers involved one lunchtime in the canteen. She had felt sorry for him. He’d had a haunted look about him and seemed totally wiped out by the incident. Both officers had subsequently been suspended pending the results of a police investigation.
The doorman approached Sullivan and announced that her taxi had arrived. Picking up her cases, he led her out of the Hotel Alameda to the waiting car. She would give the man a generous tip. After all, she was in an unexpectedly good mood.
* * *
The atmosphere outside the crematorium was fittingly sombre as Bryant and Ferra observed the relatives and friends of the Tavares family arriving for the ceremony. The two police officers stood a discreet distance away from the building. They had come to pay their respects, but didn’t want to draw attention to themselves. Though they knew they would not be welcome, it was something they had felt needed to be done. Ferra, however, was now having doubts.
‘Look, Bryant, I can’t do this, okay?’
‘Well I’ve got to.’ Bryant replied.
‘I’m sorry. I thought I could, but I just can’t.’
Bryant nodded his reluctant understanding as Ferra headed back down the street to his car. Bryant braced himself to face the music on his own.
As the last of the mourners entered the building, he crossed the street and entered the chapel. The service had begun, so he took a seat right at the back. Hoping that he might leave unnoticed before the end, Bryant breathed a little easier.
His entrance had not gone unnoticed, however. On the front row, sitting next to the grieving Martin Tavares, David had spotted the policeman and was now whispering to his brother-in-law. Immediately Tavares spun round and launched himself up the aisle towards the young police officer - his face flushed with fury.
‘Get out! You’re not welcome here! Can’t you leave us in peace for god’s sake!’
Murmurs and shocked whispers reverberated around the chapel as David caught up with Martin and restrained him As Bryant made a sharp exit, he glanced around to see Martin Tavares’ eyes boring into his.
‘You’re a murderer! I hope you die, you bastard!’
* * *
The bright lights illuminating the signs on the outside of Gino’s Bar began to flicker off as Bryant stumbled out of his watering hole of choice. Gino had been trying to close up for an hour and a half. It was nearly three thirty in the morning and the bar owner had little sympathy for the state Bryant had got himself into.
The walk home took the off-duty policeman twice as long as it usually did, his legs seemingly incapable of supporting him for more than a few paces as he zig-zagged and stumbled down the narrow streets. The brandy was causing the blood to pound in his head, numbing his every thought and feeling. Just what he had wanted.
As he reached his apartment and took out his key, the drunken officer did not notice the curtain flickering at his living room window. Nor did he notice the figure watching him from the shadows of his hallway as he struggled through the apartment’s front door.
Fumbling like a blind man, Bryant headed straight for the kitchen. Opening the fridge, he took out a carton of milk and poured it into a pan. His microwave had partially exploded a month before, so he was reduced to warming it the old-fashioned way – an electric hob on his cooker. Bryant needed a hot drink. It would settle him and help him sleep. Moving into the sitting room, he switched on the radio for company. He looked around him. The room seemed different somehow. He couldn’t begin to work out exactly how it was different, but then he couldn’t work anything out in the state he was in. It was all he could do to remain upright. He gave in at last and slumped into his all-enveloping armchair.
He had barely managed to kick off his shoes before he felt the rope tightening around his neck.
9
The flash of blue lights from the assembled police cars and ambulance bounced off the white walls of the surrounding buildings as Broderick’s Mercedes pulled up outside the apartment. It was six a.m. and the chief inspector had been summoned from his bed. A clearly agitated Calbot was on the pavement, waiting for him.
‘It’s definitely Bryant, sir,’ the detective sergeant informed him. ‘The building’s superintendent found him when she entered his apartment after a fire alarm went off. Said the place could have burnt down. Bryant had left a pan of milk on the stove.’
‘Have the Glee Club arrived?’ Broderick replied.
‘Laytham’s here and forensics are on their way. Not worth the journey, I’d have thought. Looks like suicide, poor bastard.’
‘He was a friend of yours, wasn’t he?’
Calbot nodded his head.
‘Why don’t you bugger off? Leave this to me and Sullivan.’
‘Thanks guv, but he was my mate. I feel I should...’
Calbot could not finish. He was clearly moved.
‘I understand.’ Broderick sympathised. ‘At least stay out here.’
Calbot pulled himself up.
‘I’ll do my job, guv. Thanks anyway.’
Broderick nodded and both men entered the building. A moment later they were in Bryant’s apartment and moving through into the living room. The sight before him, although expected, still managed to shock Broderick. Bryant’s lifeless body hung from the ceiling. His legs swung in limbo over a fallen chair as the breeze came in through an open window. The police photographer was at work recording the grisly image. Broderick noticed that the rope around Bryant’s neck had been looped over a large hook in the ceiling, then fed back to the bedroom door where it had been tied off and secured around the handle. The hook had clearly been installed especially for the job and had obviously proved fit for purpose. It suggested to Broderick that the dead officer had put some real thought into creating this macabre scene.
‘Morning, Chief Inspector,’ Professor Laytham boomed.
> ‘Morning, Prof. Been in the wars?’
Laytham had a plaster on his forehead. Typically of the pathologist, the dressing had been attached at a rather sporty angle.
‘Slipped in the bloody shower this morning. Could have achieved a most ignominious end for myself, Chief Inspector. Still, not as bad as this poor fellow. One of yours, I hear?’
Remarkably, the radio was still playing in the corner. Broderick bit. ‘Will somebody PLEASE turn that bloody thing off?’ Calbot obliged, and Broderick continued. ‘Suicide?’
‘I’d say. Typical of its kind. A painful one, too, I fear. They always think it’s going to be quick, but they never give themselves a long enough drop. To break the neck, I mean. That’s the hangman’s skill. Too long, mind, and you’ll snap the head clean off.’ As Laytham said this, he snapped his fingers as if to emulate the noise.
‘Yes, well .’ Broderick turned to his DC. ‘Calbot? Did he leave a note? Anything at all?’
‘Not that we’ve found, guv.’
‘Right. Well, keep looking.’ Broderick looked troubled. Moving back into the hall, he entered the small kitchen. The burnt out pan had been placed in the sink. There was some damage to the electric hob, but nothing major. There had obviously been more smoke than fire associated with the incident. There was another door coming off the kitchen. Much to his surprise, Broderick found it wasn’t locked. It opened onto a shared communal yard full of bins and detritus. A few yards down he could see a door in the wall which most probably led out onto a side street.
‘He was a good bloke, you know, guv.’ Calbot was at his boss’s shoulder.
‘Didn’t know you mixed with uniformed.’
‘Not if I can help it. We just liked the footie, that’s all. He was a United supporter, like me.’
‘Not really a good enough reason to commit suicide, Calbot.’
Calbot momentarily appreciated the black humour.
‘Heh.’
Broderick checked the kitchen cupboards. All plates, pots and pans spick and span in regimental order. He also was aware of a distinct smell. A sort of disinfectant. He’d noticed it first in the living room, but it was somewhat stronger in the kitchen. An old-fashioned smell, at least to Broderick’s senses, an aroma that was familiar. He couldn’t place it. The Chief Inspector turned to Calbot.