Robert Daws - The Rock

Sullivan was now drawing on all her reserves. She knew she had to do everything in her power not to upset Laytham. One false move and he might lose it and lash out. Staying calm and engaging him in conversation offered her the best chance of gaining time and achieving escape.

She now watched as Laytham moved slowly across the room towards her. As he reached the back of the chaise, he reached out to touch her hair. If the knife had not been held inches away from Sullivan’s throat, she might have taken her chances there and then. Although Laytham was a big man, Sullivan had deduced that she stood as good a chance as any of tackling him successfully. She guessed that Laytham had figured this out also and was taking no chances.

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!’