The Rock

by Robert Daws

  As Laytham continued to stroke his prisoner’s hair, the room suddenly exploded around her. Both the main door to the hall and the French windows, which Sullivan presumed led to the garden, burst open with terrific force and several police officers, led by Broderick and Calbot stormed into the room.

  With practised ease and speed, Laytham grabbed Sullivan around the neck, holding the blade of the knife inches from her throat. Broderick immediately waved for his fellow officers to stand back. Both he and Laytham stared into each other’s eyes.

  ‘Oh, you’re a little early, Inspector Broderick,’ Laytham said, showing no hint of panic or emotion. ‘I’d hoped to have finished my work here before you arrived.’

  ‘Put the knife down, Laytham,’ ordered Broderick. ‘Let her go.’

  ‘I’d love to oblige, old chap, but I’m afraid no can do. Please feel free to change the record.’

  Broderick nodded to Calbot and watched him move over to the gramophone and stop the record it its tracks.

  ‘Nice house your cousin had here,’ Broderick said.

  ‘Evelyn? Oh, yes. Had to do her post-mortem this afternoon. Least I could do for her, really.’

  ‘Useful, that. Being the pathologist in charge of your own murder victims’ Broderick observed.

  ‘Oh, yes!’ Laytham smiled. ‘It’s come in rather handy, I must say.’

  ‘Bryant? Ferra? I take your late cousin as a given, of course.’

  ‘Oh, no. She was an unfortunate, not to say inconvenient accident. Stupid woman must have taken a tumble. Nothing to do with me.’

  ‘She wrote ‘help him’ in the dust beside her before she died. I presume she was referring to you, Gerry.’

  ‘Oh, how sweet. Pure remorse, I’m sure. Pity she and her husband couldn’t have been a little more understanding when I was younger. But I suppose that was because of the shame.’

  ‘The shame of your father’s conviction?’ Broderick asked.

  ‘That and the fact that he hung himself,’ Laytham replied. ‘Not the done thing for a pillar of the community, is it? The murder happened in here, you know. In this room. My mother. Stabbed with a knife. In many ways not dissimilar to the one I’m holding to your colleague’s throat at this very moment, Inspector.’

  ‘Leave her be, Laytham’ Calbot pleaded. ‘ Please.’

  Laytham laughed. ‘And why should I do that? I think my feelings about the police are fairly clear by now. It was you and those like you who took my father away from me in the first place.’

  * * *

  The police inspector leans over the woman’s body. The boy cannot bear to look. A trickle of blood falls down her cheek, a final crimson animation from her lifeless body.

  He clings helplessly to his father as the policemen lead him from the room. Another policeman holds the boy back and pushes him to the ground. The breeze is warm, the room hot. But inside – deep inside –the boy feels cold.

  * * *

  ‘And that’s why you murdered Bryant and Ferra? Broderick stepped forward half a pace. ‘Because the police took your father away from you?’

  ‘ Bryant, Ferra...and the rest of them,’ he replied.

  ‘Rest?’ enquired Broderick.

  ‘Oh dear me, yes. I’m not entirely sure how many. It’s become a bit of a habit over time. Always the same – make it look like suicide. Make sure I’m the pathologist on call. Make sure I get away with it.’

  ‘Until now?’ Broderick questioned.

  ‘A little sloppy, I agree, but perhaps that’s because I really don’t much care any more. About anything. Least of all about death. Which I suppose makes me an even more dangerous proposition to you Inspector.’

  Broderick moved an inch closer to Laytham, treading very carefully indeed. ‘Why did your father murder your mother, Gerald?’

  ‘She was a whore! Cheated on him. Constantly.’ The anger burst from Laytham, turning his face ugly and distorted. Broderick attempted to calm him once more.

  ‘Please. Let’s stop this, Laytham’ he entreated. ‘Let DS Sullivan go.’ No sooner had the words been spoken, Laytham’s grip on Sullivan tightened. Broderick backed away.

  ‘All right. All right.’

  ‘I’ll stop this soon enough, Chief Inspector. But not before a little swan song. As it began, so shall it end.’ Laytham smiled enigmatically.

  ‘What do you mean?’ Broderick asked.

  ‘My father worshipped me, you know. As I worshipped him. He was a truly good man, you know, Broderick. My mother cheated on him with just about anyone she could, including that bastard police officer who took my father away from me that day.’

  ‘He knew? About her affairs?’

  ‘He had the patience of a saint. I suppose he accepted it because he loved me. But I never could, you see. I couldn’t accept that my mother was nothing but a cheap whore.’

  Suddenly Broderick could see clearly. He knew what had happened.

  ‘It was you, wasn’t it?’ Broderick questioned. ‘It was you who killed your mother.’

  Laytham smiled. ‘I suppose moments like this are why you get paid the money, my dear Broderick. Of course I did. I hated her. I hated her almost as much as I loved my father. And, oh, my father loved me. He loved me so much he was willing to sacrifice himself for a murder I had committed. To save my reputation. To give me a life. Such knowledge can drive a person insane, you know. Which, I fear, is what it may have done to me.’

  ‘We can sort this out,’ Broderick pleaded. ‘Just let Tamara go. Please let her go, Gerald.’

  Laytham said nothing, but dragged Sullivan to her feet and retreated to the library room door and out into the hall, all the while checking that no police were in his immediate vicinity.

  ‘Don’t, Laytham! Please!’ Calbot yelled.

  Again, Laytham said nothing. With a maniacal grin on his face, Laytham shoved Sullivan to the ground, moved to the kitchen door and took off.

  Broderick and Calbot were at Sullivan’s side in an instant.

  ‘Sullivan, are you okay?’ Broderick asked first.

  She looked up at him, her eyes on fire.

  ‘I’m fine, guv. Just get the bastard!’

  19

  The side of the house had an overgrown garden path running up beyond the three levels of terraced garden to a gateway on higher ground. Through the gateway, there appeared to be a narrow and still more overgrown pathway which rose up the side of the The Rock itself. It was, in fact, a natural shelf that had been developed in the 1860’s to allow access to a viewing point some fifty metres above. Landslips and erosion had meant that it had been declared unfit for use in the late 1940’s, but Laytham had climbed it often as a boy. It had been his secret escape, his hideaway from the tensions and coldness of his home. He stood now at the gate, a length of rope in his hand. Behind him, Broderick and Calbot, followed by several uniformed officers, were approaching at speed.

  ‘Coming to watch, Inspector?’ Laytham shouted back to them. ‘ Very brave of you! Didn’t think you’d have the stomach!’

  The police officers followed him upwards. Thirty metres on, Laytham was forced to climb over a dishevelled barrier which crossed the climbing path. A discoloured sign on it read; “DANGER. DO NOT PASS”. Beyond the barrier, the path almost immediately became a much more dangerous proposition. Narrowing, as the sheer drop to its side increased, it was clear why nobody had thought to venture up it for many years. Eighty metres further up, Laytham reached a small outcrop. Turning to check that he had time, he began to tie one end of the rope around the stump of an old tree which half- protruded over the edge of the outcrop. As he made good the knot, he turned to see Broderick and his fellow officers finally catching up with him.

  ‘What the hell are you playing at, Laytham?’ Broderick yelled.

  ‘Attempting an execution, old boy! One that’s long overdue,’ Laytham replied, tying a noose in the free end of the rope.

  ‘Don’t you think that’s the coward’s way out? You need help, Gerald. This is
n’t the answer’ Broderick pleaded.

  ‘Oh, but it is. You think I did it because of the pain? The rejection? Because my mummy didn’t love me? Oh, no, no, no. I did it for pleasure, Inspector. Pure pleasure.’ He smiled as he spoke. ‘Oh yes, I left that bit out, didn’t I? Watching people die. In pain. In agony. It’s not the same when they come to me to be cut up. They’ve gone. They’re nothing. Just rotting flesh and bone. I killed my mother because I enjoyed it, Broderick old son. And for that, by law, I am guilty.’

  Laytham moved to the very edge of the outcrop and looked down over the sheer drop below.

  ‘I think I have the requisite drop. Don’t you Chief Inspector?’

  As he spoke, the ledge beneath Laytham’s feet began to crumble. Unable to fall backwards to safety, Laytham was propelled forward and over the edge. He began to hurtle through space, the noose of the rope tightening around his wrist, checking his fall as the rope brutally yanked hard and taught. The sound of Laytham’s arm being ripped from its socket and the terrifying scream that emitted from his throat chilled those above ,watching.

  ‘Get help! Anything!’ Calbot yelled across to the police officers behind him.

  ‘No time,’ Broderick yelled. “Stay back the rest of you. The path won’t take all our weight.’

  ‘Sir, be careful!’ Calbot shouted over.

  Broderick moved forward, kneeling down on the outcrop and reaching forward to get some sort of grip on the rope. At last he achieved his aim and begun the surely impossible task of pulling the hanging man back up to safety. Below him, Laytham’s screams and pitiful cries of pain pierced the evening air. Lying on his stomach now, Broderick managed to get another hand to the rope and began to pull in earnest.

  Bit by bit, inch by inch Broderick heaved heavily on the slippery rope. Each pull brought a new scream of pain from below, but there was no help for it. For a short while Broderick persuaded himself that his actions might actually save the life of the cruel and callous psychopath at the other end of the rope’s length. But then reality kicked in. To his right, Broderick noticed that the roots of the tree stump that was securing the line were beginning to come loose of the ground. Upping his efforts to superhuman levels, Broderick quickly realised that he was fighting a losing battle. Even though he could now see Laytham hanging just a few metres below, time was running out. Laytham was looking up at him in utter desperation, like a animal caught in a vicious trap. This was the worst possible way to die for a controlling, meticulous psychopath. A death that Laytham could not control and dominate to the final breath.

  Suddenly the tree jerked free of its hold upon the ground and the rope whipped out of control through Broderick’s now bleeding hands. Below him Laytham saw what was about to happen and began to kick out with even greater fury. But nothing could stop the force of gravity as it propelled his wretched crippled body downwards to its painful, splintered fate on the rocks below. Broderick and his fellow officers looked helplessly on as Laytham fell screaming to his painful ignominious end.

  ‘May God have mercy on your soul!’ Broderick whispered under his breath. Then, realising just how close to experiencing a similar fate he was himself, Broderick called across to Calbot.

  ‘Calbot? I think I’m going to need some help getting back from here.’

  20

  Calbot and Broderick stood on the front porch of The Captain’s House as they observed Sullivan being checked over in the waiting ambulance. The setting sun across the Straights of Gibraltar had turned the distant mountains of Morocco a crimson red.

  ‘I suppose you could say that hanging was too good for him, guv’ Calbot said at last.

  ‘You might also say that the punishment fitted the crimes. How’s Sullivan?’

  ‘Looking pretty good to me. Not much keeps her down.’

  ‘Yes... she’s... a good officer,’ Broderick added thoughtfully.

  ‘You okay, sir?’ Calbot asked, not used to the sound of compliments coming from his boss’ mouth.

  ‘Erm, yes. Course I am’ Broderick replied a little awkwardly. ‘Why wouldn’t I be?’ With that he left his detective constable and walked towards Sullivan as she emerged from the ambulance.

  ‘That was a close thing, sergeant’ Broderick told her.

  ‘Yes sir. Well timed by you if I may say so’ she replied.

  ‘Kept your head pretty well, I must say.’

  ‘You mean for a woman, sir?’

  ‘No. For a police officer, sergeant’ Broderick corrected.

  Sullivan looked across to the old house, now empty of life and the living.

  ‘Well this place has seen enough tragedy in its time’ Sullivan observed.

  ‘Not least the tragedy of Laytham’s...’Broderick corrected himself. ‘Gregson’s delusion.’

  Sullivan looked at her boss questioningly.

  ‘He got it all wrong, you see.’

  ‘I don’t understand’ Sullivan said.

  ‘Gregson thought his father loved him and that his mother had made his father suffer. But I’ve read the full report from the archives which included his father’s statement after the arrest. I also made a few enquiries elsewhere. It seems that Gregson Senior was the big philanderer. He was a well- known womaniser here on The Rock. Treated his wife very poorly, by all accounts. Gregson’s mother eventually began to take retaliation on him by having her own lovers. The young boy was only privy to his mother’s behaviour. His father carried on his affairs elsewhere.’

  ‘But to have your father carry the can for a murder you yourself committed? That must have been what turned Gregson into a madman.’

  ‘Yes, he truly believed that his father had sacrificed himself so that he the son could live without blame. However, the man’s statement suggests another story. Gregson knew it was his son that had killed his wife and according to his statement, didn’t hesitate in offering the police that information. One line of that statement has stayed with me. He said, “Don’t think that boy isn’t capable of murder. He is a calculating brat and should never be trusted. It wasn’t me. It was him.” Not exactly the words of a loving father wishing to protect his only child.’

  ‘Dear God.’ Sullivan stopped in her tracks.

  ‘The police dismissed his version out of hand. So, Gregson’s father hung himself, not to protect his son, but to avoid the shaming and disgrace of the murder himself.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell him when you had the chance?’ Sullivan asked.

  ‘Gregson had a knife at your throat, if you remember? I thought it best not to aggravate him further. The truth for him, you see, may well have been more horrific than the fantasy.’

  Sullivan took a moment for this to sink in. Broderick thought it time to change the subject.

  ‘So, at the end of your first couple of weeks on The Rock, do you have any observations, assistance or advice you’d care to give me?’

  ‘Come to think of it, one of each, sir. I observe that your collar is twisted at the back, so I’ll assist you by straightening it out.’ she said, smiling as she did so. ‘And my advice would be to go home and pour yourself a large scotch.’

  ‘And to think you came all the way from London just to tell me that. Almost a waste of valuable police resources’

  ‘Oh, that’s just for starters, sir. I can waste a lot more than that.’

  Broderick smiled as he moved off across the lawn to his parked Mercedes. Sullivan watched him go. Without looking back, Broderick called to her.

  ‘You need a lift, Detective Sergeant?’

  ‘Yes,please, guv’ a surprised Sullivan answered.

  ‘Well get a bloody move on, then!’

  Sullivan smiled to herself and looked up at The Rock towering high above her. It had been there for a million years and more, but tonight, as she headed across the lawn of The Captain’s House to Broderick’s waiting car, that simple fact gave her an unexpected and much needed sense of comfort.

  Robert Daws

  As an actor, Robert has appeared in leadin
g roles in a number of award winning and long running British television series, including Jeeves and Wooster, Casualty, The House of Eliot, Outside Edge, Roger,Roger, Rock and Chips and The Royal.

  For the stage his recent work includes the national tours of Michael Frayn’s Alarms and Excursions and David Harrower’s Blackbird. In the West End he has recently appeared as Dr John Watson in The Secret of Sherlock Holmes. Geoffrey Hammond in Public Property and Jim Hacker in Yes Prime Minister.

  His many BBC radio performances include Arthur Lowe in Dear Arthur, Love John and Trueman and Riley, the returning police detective series he co-created with its writer Brian B Thompson.

  As a writer, Robert is currently working on a second Sullivan and Broderick mystery as well as a number of projects for theatre and television.

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