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’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.’
