‘Yes, guv. Sullivan’s not answering her mobile.’
‘Right. Organise a search of the hospital and its grounds. Did you get Laytham’s home address?’
‘Sir,’ Calbot replied, handing Broderick the sheet of paper.
‘Right, that’s where I’ll be.’
Broderick opened his car door and got in. Neither he nor Calbot had noticed the dark green Peugeot estate drive past them a few moments before. If they had, they might have recognised its driver and discovered the unconsious body, wrapped in hospital bed linen and covered in a tarpaulin sheet, that lay in the back of the innocuous looking vehicle.
Five minutes later Broderick had driven past the Victoria Sports Stadium and turned right onto Devil’s Tower Road. The address Calbot had given him was an apartment on the east side of The Rock at Catalan Bay. His police radio crackled and buzzed feverishly as Broderick managed to escape the heavier traffic and put his foot down.
‘DC Calbot reports search underway at the hospital, sir,’ Sergeant Aldarino said over the radio.
‘Tell Calbot to join me at Laytham’s house straight away. Oh, and bring back up.’
‘Yes sir,’ came the response.
18
Consciousness started to return to Sullivan in small waves as she was carried up the stairs and placed on a large four poster in a bedroom. She was aware of someone thrusting open the French windows, allowing the warm breeze to flutter the net curtains. She knew she should be afraid, fearful, but she was not. Her head swam with images from her childhood. Her mother and father on a beach on holiday - smiling and laughing. Her pet dog, Bruce, running along a country lane. A Christmas tree, heavy with lights and glitter. All benign. No threat at all.
A sliding noise and a short click preceded Dave Brubeck’s Take Five starting to play. The music filled the room as Sullivan once again slipped into unconciousness.
‘Hey, what’s going on?’ the neighbour called out to Broderick, in response to the vast number of flashing blue lights and assembled police officers gathered outside the exclusive apartment building overlooking the bay.
Broderick, who had been knocking on the door of apartment number seven, turned to answer.
‘Police. I’m looking for Professor Laytham. He lives here, I believe.’
The elderly man looked concerned. ‘Yes, that’s right. Gerry’s okay, isn’t he?’
Broderick peered through Laytham’s window; the apartment looked to be deserted.
‘Is he in, do you know?’
‘Haven’t seen him. Works at the hospital.’
Something was niggling away at the back of Broderick’s mind.‘I know.’
‘He keeps pretty irregular hours,’ the man continued. ‘Mind you, he’s been spending quite a bit of time up at his cousin’s place.’
Broderick spun round to face the man. ‘And where is that?’.
The man looked slightly startled at the brisk response and stuttered as he answered. ‘The Captain’s House, Up on...’
Broderick interrupted. ‘Yes. I know exactly where that is.’
‘His cousin’s quite elderly and lives on her own. He’s been looking after her a fair bit.’
Broderick had been about to try and gain entry to the apartment, but now suddenly realised what had been nagging him.‘Wait. Did you say Gerry?’
‘That’s right, yes.’
A daze of realization filled the Chief Inspector’s features as he mentally began piecing things together.
‘Gerry Laytham. Gerald Gregson!’ Broderick announced.
‘Has Gerry done something wrong?’ the neighbour asked. But Broderick was already waving the other police officers away as he ran to his car.
Sullivan awoke. She had no idea how long she had been under since last she was conscious. The music was still playing, but a different, slower jazz number now filled her awakening senses. She immediately felt less calm and more than a little disoriented. Across the room she could see the back of a man standing by the windows. He seemed to be inspecting a large knife, which glistened in the light of the late afternoon sun. The man turned to reveal himself. Professor Gerald Laytham smiled across at her.
‘Ah, welcome back, Detective Sergeant,’ Laytham said softly. ‘Or may I call you Tamara?’
Sullivan could not speak. Her throat was parched and her heart was pounding.
‘Don’t rush,’ Laytham advised as he walked towards her. He reached for a glass of water from the bedside table and brought it to her lips. Sullivan drank. At last she mustered speech.
‘What do you want?’ she asked.
‘Right now I’ll settle for you changing into the clothing I’ve arranged on the bed for you, Tamara.’ He nodded to the scarlet silk nightdress and dressing gown spread neatly beside her.
‘Why are you doing this?’ Sullivan murmured.
‘Just do as you’re told and change into the clothes. Or believe me, I will kill you where you lie.’ He raised the knife a little. ‘Forgive me for not averting my eyes, Tamara.’
Sullivan pulled herself up to the side of the bed.
‘Look, I really think...’
‘Do it!’ came the ordered response. Laytham’s normally warm, avuncular tone had been replaced by something coldly detached and menacing.
Sullivan recognized the tone. She had interviewed psychopaths in the line of duty and Laytham was clearly in a place where reasoned argument would never reach him.
Moving slowly around the side of the bed, Sullivan looked down at the silk nightdress. As she struggled to control her breathing, she slowly began to unbutton her blouse.
Across the room, Laytham poured himself a large glass of single malt scotch from a bottle on the dressing table. He then turned to watch Sullivan as she disrobed. Sullivan felt his cold intrusive stare upon her as she delicately pulled the nightdress over naked shoulders and slipped on the silk slippers that had been laid out on the floor by the bed. Somehow she had to escape. She glanced towards the bedroom door.
‘Oh, I really wouldn’t contemplate it if I were you, Tamara,’ Laytham said, raising his glass. ‘To your very good health.’ He took a sip of his drink and swallowed. He now moved closer, but stopped a few feet from Sullivan and looked up at a large picture hanging upon the wall. It was a full length portrait of an extremely glamorous woman in a scarlet dress. ‘That’s my mother, you know. They kept that picture hidden away up in the attic.
‘She’s...’ Sullivan tried to speak.
‘Beautiful? Indeed she was Tamara. Indeed she was.’ Laytham mused, his eyes gazing upwards at the picture in an almost trance- like state.
‘Does she remind you of anyone?’he asked.
Sullivan looked once again at the striking portrait hanging above them. The subject of the picture gazed down at them with an imperious look. Her long dark, curling hair tumbled over her shoulders. Her eyes were bright and her lips scarlet and full. She looked every inch a Hollywood movie star. A woman used to getting her own way. But the artist had also managed to capture something else about his subject. There was the slight look of the trapped about her. A wild animal caged.
‘No.’ Sullivan shook her head. ‘I don’t recognize her.’
‘Then you should look in the mirror more often, Tamara. The moment I saw you I felt I had gone back in time. You look just like her.’ Laytham smiled as though this gave him some comfort.
Sullivan looked again, but could not see any real resemblance at all. But it was enough that Laytham had and did. Whatever his warped mind was seeing, she knew it would be best not to disagree with him.
‘Ah, yes’ she responded. ‘ I can see something, now you mention it.’