Robert Daws - The Rock

Becoming more and more exasperated, she finally opted to turn left. More double-doors followed by more corridors. Suddenly she heard an unfamiliar sound. A distinct creak. She turned to the see what was behind her. Nothing. Walking forward a few steps she became acutely aware of a second pair of footsteps, but where? Why was she feeling so disorientated? Why in a busy hospital was it so deserted down there? She heard the footsteps again. Were they in front of her? Behind her?

She picked up her pace and headed through the next set of double-doors. No corridor – this was a large room. An old operating theatre perhaps? It was poorly lit and ominously cold. She turned to leave, but the room was suddenly thrust into darkness.

‘Okay... who’s there?’ She called out, her voice tightening. ‘If this is some sort of joke...’

Sullivan barely had time to register the noise behind her, as an arm grabbed her around the neck and a surgical pad was placed over her mouth and nose. Her momentary struggle was followed by a descent into further darkness and deep unconsiousness.

Calbot and Broderick had reached the lower ground floor and were making their way to pathology. A way down the corridor ahead, a porter pushed a trolley across a corridor junction and on through double doors to the side. Broderick’s first thought was that it might be Green, but although they could not see a face, the momentary glimpse of the porter showed him to have a considerably larger frame than that of their suspect. The policemen continued on their way, assuming the body on the covered trolley to be on its way to the mortuary,

‘Another one bites the dust,’ Calbot remarked.

‘Yeah, they have a habit of doing that in hospitals,’ Broderick replied.

On reaching the Pathology Cutting Room, both officers could see that nobody was at work there. Moving on to Laytham’s office, Broderick opened the door to find nobody home there either. Laytham’s desk was immaculately laid. Everything in its place – pens, notepad, spare pipe and desk clock – arranged in the perfect order becoming of a surgeon. What Broderick did see however, was a written note lying abandoned on the floor infront of the professor’s desk. Reaching down to pick it up, Broderick easily read the message and the name of its author.

‘What the hell’s this?’ Broderick asked, turning to Calbot.

‘You tell me, guv.’ Calbot replied.

‘It’s appears to be a note to Laytham from Sullivan.’

‘Ah...yes...right,’ Calbot muttered.

Broderick stared at his detective constable.

‘Do you have any idea what this is about, Calbot?’ He demanded.

‘Well, not really. Only that she, er, said she was going to see him. Tell him she couldn’t meet him tonight.’

‘Meet him? Meet Laytham? How long’s this been going on?’ Broderick asked, incredulous.

‘It hasn’t been going on , guv. She’s been trying to shake him off. He’s a bit of a letch on the side.’ Calbot was cut off by the sound of his mobile phone ringing. ‘Shit.’

‘What?’ Questioned Broderick.

‘Shouldn’t be on in here. It’s a hospital – could interfere with the patients’ machines and stuff.’

‘Jesus, Calbot. We’re in the pathology department! It’ll take more than your crappy ringtone to upset the bodies lying around down here.’

‘Yeah, good point,’ Calbot replied as he answered the call. ‘Calbot. Yeah... right... what’s it called again? Okay, thanks.’

Ending the call, he turned once more to Broderick.

‘That was Kemp, guv. They’ve sourced the tobacco. Dutch brand called Dollsberg. Not available in shops over here, you have to order it online.’

‘Dollsberg?’ Broderick interrupted.

‘That’s what he said...’

‘Dear God.’ Broderick stood still, momentarily stunned.

‘What, guv?’

Broderick quickly moved to Laytham’s desk and picked something up from beside the telephone. It was a large colourfully designed pouch of tobacco.

‘Dollsberg, Calbot! That’s the brand of tobacco Laytham smokes!’

‘That’s a coincidence, guv,’ Calbot replied blandly.

‘Is it, Calbot? Is it really?’

Broderick’s eyes now darted about the room. They settled on a door which obviously led to a large cupboard. Broderick was at the door in a moment, turning the door handle. It was locked. Taking out his pocket knife, Broderick crouched and picked the lock.

‘Where did you learn to do that?’ Calbot asked.

‘Zumba class,’ replied Broderick. The lock gave. ‘Ah-ha, got it.’

The cupboard door opened to reveal a plethora of bound files and folders. A black hold-all caught Broderick’s eye and he leaned in to open the zip. Reaching inside, his hand met a large coil of climbing rope. Both he and Calbot recognized it on sight.

‘Jesus, guv-’ Calbot exclaimed. ‘ I just don’t bloody well believe this.’

Broderick moved to the cupboard door. Hanging from a hook was a scarf and a blue quilted jacket. He swiftly checked the sleeves of the jacket, before turning to show Calbot what he had found.

‘Look! There’s a tear.’

‘Guv, will you tell me what’s going on?’

‘The coat, Calbot! It’s Laytham’s! It’s torn on the sleeve. Laytham is a pipe smoker – his brand of choice is Dollsberg. We have particles of that tobacco at the scene of both Bryant and Ferra’s deaths. The rope in that hold-all looks pretty bloody familiar to me as well, and if you check the photos of the professor’s mountaineering expeditions on his wall through there, it seems he knows how to bloody use it.’

‘Wait, are you saying...?’

‘On the morning of Bryant’s death, Laytham turned up with a plaster on his forehead, remember? Said he’d slipped in the bath.’

‘Yes!’ Calbot said, realisation slowly dawning on him. ‘Or cut his head on a nail running from Bryant’s apartment, perhaps?’

‘He was also wearing this jacket.’

‘Jesus.’

‘Not only that. That smell of disinfectant present at both scenes... it was driving me crazy, remember? I know now why it was so familiar. Stick your head in Laytham’s Cutting Room and you’ll recognize it too.”

‘But why? Why would Laytham want to...’ Calbot stammered.

‘I don’t know, but we need to find out fast’ Another thought suddenly hit Broderick.

‘And where the bloody hell’s Sullivan?’

The sun beating down on Broderick’s head in the hospital car park did nothing to alleviate the many stressful thoughts that were racing through his mind.

‘Laytham’s only been on the Rock eight or nine months, Calbot. I want to know where he was before. I want to know everything about him, and I need to know now. Understood?’

‘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.