Sullivan, with bacon sarnies in hand, and Calbot, with the forensics results, entered the office through doors on opposing sides of the room. It was like a poorly rehearsed parody of a spaghetti western.
‘Forensics are back from Ferra’s, guv,’ Calbot said, firing the first shot.
‘And?’ muttered Broderick.
‘The rope’s the same make as the one that hung Bryant, sir.’
Broderick’s face lit up. ‘Good! Excellent!’
‘But... not a make that’s been available for about ten years. So obviously not purchased recently, therefore hard to trace.’
‘Bugger. Okay, can we proceed with a little more
‘Well there are several sources for the blue woollen fibres that could match with the piece we found on the door. They’re checking them as we speak. Apart from that, nothing much, I’m afraid. No prints. A shoe mark on the fire escape, but nothing distinctive. Oh, and a small trace of tobacco and curry powder.’
‘How eclectic,’ Broderick observed.
‘They’re analysing both.’
‘And the results on the blood?’
‘Later today.’
‘I see,’ mused Broderick. ‘So it’s ‘
‘What do we do with Tavares?’ Sullivan asked, trying to move things on.
‘Let him go,’ Broderick replied reluctantly. ‘What other choice do we have?’
David Green’s car pulled up to the front of the Tavares’ house. In the passenger seat, Martin Tavares sighed heavily as he spotted the gaggle of reporters and photographers waiting for them on his doorstep. Heaving himself out of the car, he headed for the house doing his level best to ignore the throng.
‘Mr Tavares? How do you feel about what’s happened to you?’
‘Are you an innocent man, Mr Tavares?’
Unable to take the intensity of the intrusion, Tavares snapped. ‘Yes, I am innocent. I did not kill those men. The police
With that, he went inside, leaving David on the doorstep. He too shaking with anger.
‘Happy now, are you? Got your story? What about the police, eh? They’re the guilty ones. Shame on them. Shame on all of you,’ David shouted before following Martin into the house. ‘Jesus Christ, the bastards.’
Martin was sat at the bottom of the stairs. His eyes were red and his face drawn. David moved to his side.
‘Can I get you anything? A glass of water?’
‘No,’ Martin replied. ‘I just need sleep.’
He stood and started to climb the stairs.
‘Please. Make sure nobody disturbs me.’ he said without looking round.
‘No bother. I’ll be in the study if you need me.’
A minute later, with David out of sight, Tavares quietly crept back down the stairs. Moving through to the kitchen and the back door, he left the house and crossed to the garage. Entering the garage he carefully locked its door securely behind him. Inside was the covered shape of a 1960’s Alfa Romeo - once his pride and joy. Removing the cover, Tavares opened its boot and rummaged for a few seconds before finding what he had come for. He gazed long and hard at the long length of rubber tubing that he now held in his hand. His trance suddenly broken, Tavares set about the solemn task he had set himself.
16
Sullivan sat alone in the office nibbling a tasteless fruit bar and mentally devouring the information on the screenin front of her.
‘Hello there!’ The voice took her by surprise.
‘Professor Laytham!’
The pathologist stood in the doorway, smiling. It seemed to Sullivan that he had made a little more effort with his appearance than usual. A brightly checked designer shirt and light coloured chinos were not his usual style. Sullivan wasn’t entirely convinced that it was working for the professor.
‘Don’t look so surprised,’ Laytham replied. ‘My work does bring me to these parts, you know.’
‘Sorry, I was miles away.’ Sullivan excused herself. ‘Got a lot to catch up on.’
‘So I hear. Pity you can’t make tonight. You chaps do enjoy burning the midnight oil, don’t you? Mind you, there has to come a time when ‘all work and no play...’ Well, you know the rest. How about tomorrow?’
‘Er, well,’ Sullivan replied, now getting uncharacteristically flustered. ‘If I can get away...’
‘Excellent! Why don’t you drop by the hospital when you’re finished? That way, I can continue working in the unfortunate circumstance of you having to cancel again,’ he chuckled. ‘See you when I see you.’
‘Uh, sure,’ Sullivan replied, as Laytham headed off. Shaking her head with disbelief, she rose from her chair. Laytham was a nice man, she thought, but somehow she couldn’t quite see herself ever dating a last chance trendy. In fact, she couldn’t really see herself dating anyone at all. Relationships had always been a torturous source of anxiety for her. She had always preferred her own company and had become increasingly resigned to the fact that it was just as well she did.
Her thoughts were broken by Broderick returning from lunch. He was eating a chocolate muffin. Sullivan raised an eyebrow.
‘Stops me reaching for a cigarette’ Broderick announced with his mouth full. ‘Confectionary. The default position of the non-smoking stressed out professional.’
‘I’ve given up both.’ Sullivan smiled grimly.
‘Congratulations. You’ll no doubt live a long life.’
‘I doubt it,’ Sullivan replied. ‘It’ll just seem longer.’
Their double act was suddenly interrupted by a breathless Calbot striding into the room with a printed email in his hand.
‘Guv. Gerald Gregson, only child, aged ten at the time of his mother’s murder. Orphaned by his father’s subsequent suicide. Only family were the Brooks’, it seems.’
‘How close?’ Broderick asked.
‘Cousins. Very distant ones at that. They inherited the house and moved out from the U.K. They adopted Gerald and then packed him off to school in the UK.’
‘How very of the time.’ Broderick mused.
‘Not a happy bunny it seems. He was expelled from a succession of boarding schools during his teens. All claiming difficulties with him. Left school at sixteen and effectively vanished off the radar. The Brooks’ apparently never saw him again. There’s no record of Gregson ever returning to Gibraltar, and the Brooks’ never visited England.’
‘So if her message in the dust was a plea to help him, where did it come from? Guilt?’
‘Maybe,’ replied Sullivan.
‘And if he was Mrs Brooks’ house guest, then he’s been visiting Gibraltar under another name.’
‘Do you think there’s any chance he’ll still be here, guv?’
‘Unlikely. Still, we need to find him if we can.’
‘With no physical description and no known name for him, that’s going to be fun’ Calbot observed.
‘You said you could do it when you wrote in Calbot.’ Broderick teased. ‘ Meanwhile, I’ll go and kick some arse over at the Glee Club.’
Broderick’s exterior disdain for the forensic department in reality hid a deep respect for their work. He knew that good forensics was mostly responsible for all successful convictions in murder cases. Advances in forensic techniques and the wonders of DNA tracing had revolutionised detection during the last decade. At times he
