Hollow Mountain (17 page)

Once at Chambers, he searched through Galliano’s filing cabinet but found no sign of the ship’s manifest, just the stuffed Spanish wildcat gazing down from the windowsill, trapped, frozen. Talk to someone who knows about boats, Sandra Zammit had said. Well, Spike thought, checking the time, and feeling grateful for the distraction. That he could do.

Chapter Thirty-six

Though Ocean Village lay just on the other side of the peninsula to the Moorish Castle Estate, it might have been on a different continent. The development had been built to service the wealthy yachting crowd in the hope that they might berth their boats there, or use it as a stopover when sailing in and out of the Med. A sparkling new apartment plaza – in a building shaped like the Rock itself – rose at the shoreline, along with a business centre and a Gala casino where you could drink for free and lose whatever you’d earned next door. The most interesting element was the mode of land reclamation, a series of long wooden pontoons stretching into the bay, each leading to an ‘internationally themed’ restaurant or nightclub.

A tanned couple in white shorts and silver Oakley shades were carrying a box of provisions from the local yacht-supply shop. Spike stopped to let them climb down to their berth, then continued along the slatted walkway. Fat bamboo poles draped with fisherman’s rope served as banisters. The water below was lit up, revealing the snub-nosed silhouettes of grey mullet cruising the blue-green murk. ‘Leisure Island’, as the authorities dubbed it, was staggeringly tasteless in Spike’s view, but on more than one occasion, after the pubs of the Old Town had closed, he had been grateful for its late-night bars. O’Reilly’s offered cod Irish gaiety, Le Petit Café, misspelt ‘coque au vin’, The Cuban, a half-decent mojito. As far as Spike knew, Celebrities Wine Bar (‘Buy 5 Coronas Get 1 Free’) was yet to attract any of its namesakes. He wondered which of the establishments Simon Grainger had worked at.

Clohessy had chosen what was probably the pick of the bunch – Ipanema’s, a Brazilian-themed restaurant selling British beer on tap. As Spike approached, he noticed the
Trident
’s sleek inflatable tender moored in one of the berths. Perched on a bamboo bench above, a lone man sat staring out at the Straits. At first Spike thought it was the Scottish driver of the RIB, Dougie, but finding he was mistaken, he walked past him into the restaurant.

The best place to sit was outside, in an open-sided cabaña rising from the decking. Sure enough, Clohessy and the Neptune crew were there, clustered around the semicircular bar as a table was laid up behind them. Being welcomed in by this large group of capable, unflappable men felt strangely reassuring.

‘You made it,’ Clohessy called out in his nasal accent, raising an iced hi-ball tumbler. He was back in the clothes that made him comfortable, thin manmade fibres that could probably withstand any extreme of temperature. His colleagues were also in mufti, the occasional Hawaiian shirt revealing ‘characters’ within the group who had hitherto seemed dour. ‘Johnnie, fix this man a drink,’ Clohessy said, and the younger of the Scottish brothers, ever eager to please, turned a glass a violent purple with one of the jugs on the bar.

‘Walk with me,’ Clohessy said, passing Spike his drink. It was an amiable order rather than a request. He pressed a hand to Spike’s back as they moved to the edge of the decking. ‘Mike’s still aboard,’ he said, pointing with his glass in the direction of the
Trident
. ‘We begin the salvage at 6 a.m.’

Spike plucked the fluorescent cocktail umbrella from his glass and took a sip. The drink was so sweet it was hard to know what wasn’t in it.

‘I meant what I said before,’ Clohessy resumed. ‘I’ve earned a heck of a lot of money in my time, and I’ve always prided myself on making things. Useful things that last. But I’ve put my soul into Neptune. There’s beauty hidden on the seabed, and we need it up here, enriching our culture, safeguarding our history. Injecting much-needed capital into the economy.’ Into your bank account, Spike thought. ‘We’ve had ten good years at Neptune, but technology keeps moving on. We had to float the business last year. Raise more investment. My ass is on the line with the shareholders. I owe a ton of alimony to my ex-wife. If you hadn’t pulled this off . . .’ He turned to survey his employees; Jardine was there now, raising a glass. ‘Well, I could have been pushed out of the company I founded. It’s happened before.’ He looked back at Spike. ‘You’re one hell of an advocate, Sanguinetti.’

‘How much do you know about ships’ bells?’

A small frown wrinkled Clohessy’s tanned brow. ‘What do you mean?’

‘A friend has come across one and I’m keen to find out more.’

‘Jamie?’ Clohessy called to the bar.

His timid public schoolboy emerged from the throng. ‘Mr Sanguinetti has some technical questions. Answer them, would you?’ He patted Spike again on the back. ‘I’m gonna chase up the food. Sometimes you Brits don’t put enough spice on the chicken wings.’

Jamie lingered at Spike’s shoulder. His cocktail umbrella was still in place; he took a sip, canopy pressing against his weak goatee.

‘I was asking Mort about ships’ bells.’

Jamie wiped his mouth, immediately surer of his ground. ‘They’re like gold dust for us, Mr Sanguinetti. Provide the best identifier of a shipwreck.’

‘I see,’ Spike said, though he didn’t.

‘A bell is an essential form of communication on a ship – you ring the bell every half-hour, and the watch of a sailor lasts eight bells. You’ve heard the phrase, Knock seven bells out of someone? Well, eight bells means the end of a shift, so seven bells is almost – but not quite – finished.’ Jamie cast an uneasy look at Spike, perhaps realising he was straying off the point. ‘In the old days, when a ship got into trouble, she would throw her cannons and ballast overboard, or cut her anchors. But the bell stayed put.’ He took in Spike’s vacant look and opted for a more binary explanation. ‘Basically, Mr Sanguinetti, if a ship goes down, the bell goes with her. And the best bit? Not only do bells have the date they were cast engraved on them, they usually show the name of the vessel as well.’

‘Have you heard of a ship called . . .’

Spike felt a prod in the back and turned to see Jardine standing behind him in a pressed pink shirt and chinos. The strength of the jab had suggested someone younger. ‘In case you were wondering, there’s not a drop of alcohol in that,’ he said, pointing at Spike’s glass. ‘Mort’s Law. He’s a Presbyterian, you know.’ Jamie took the opportunity to scurry back to the safety of the crowd as Jardine lit another of his ubiquitous cigarettes. Benson and Hedges, Spike noticed, remembering someone else who had smoked that brand. ‘How well did you know my mother?’ he asked, then immediately regretted it.

Jardine exhaled aromatically, then leaned in. ‘Questions like that need the right kind of lubricant.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Why don’t I pop down to the boatie supply shop? Then we can have a proper chinwag.’

Spike watched him walk stiffly away down the wooden pier, noting his breadth of shoulder, trying to imagine what a woman might have seen in him twenty years ago.

‘Food’s up,’ Clohessy called out.

An enormous tray of dangerous-looking chicken wings had been placed in the middle of the round table. Spike looked for Jamie, but it was Dougie who appeared at his elbow. ‘Seat of honour, pal,’ he said in his Scottish brogue, pulling out a chair.

Clohessy reappeared. As soon as he sat down, everyone followed. Licking his thin lips, Clohessy reached over and grabbed a fistful of wings. Spike wondered idly if he’d be throwing them up later.

‘Hear you caned it in court today,’ Dougie said, words fighting their way through his thick Glaswegian accent.

‘We had a fair case,’ Spike replied, glancing across the table to see Anders the Swede drawing a chicken wing through his white teeth, mouth smeared with sauce.

Clohessy began sketching something on the back of a napkin; he passed it to Stevo, the South African engineer, who nodded, then added something to the diagram.

‘Mort?’ Spike said.

Clohessy turned. There were eight neat little bones lying on his plate and a mild look of disgust on his face.

‘I had another question.’

‘Did Jamie not . . .’

‘He did, but I wanted to ask you. Have you ever heard of a ship called the
Flos Sanctus Montis
?’

Clohessy’s face reddened as the spice hit him. He raised his napkin to his island of brown hair. ‘I don’t think so.’

‘The Holy Flower of the Mountain?’

Quiet fell around the table.

‘What makes you ask?’

Spike watched Clohessy’s small eyes assessing him from behind their spectacles. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘Doesn’t matter.’

The tray of chicken wings was almost empty. Spike had eaten nothing. Clohessy pushed his chair back, then whispered something to Stevo and left the restaurant. The waitress reappeared with a fresh jug of punch. Dougie gave her a lascivious wink, then slid what looked like a silver hipflask from the pocket of his shorts.

Spike heard a noise behind. He turned and saw Jardine standing on the pier, holding up a brown paper bag and knocking two plastic cups against it. Behind, outside the casino, the uplights had come on, red, white and blue bulbs illuminating a row of imported pine and olive trees.

‘Excuse me,’ Spike said to Dougie, but he was too busy eyeing up the waitress to listen.

Chapter Thirty-seven

Flashing Spike one of his laconic smiles, Hugh Jardine gestured at the bamboo bench behind the restaurant. Spike sat down beside him, and for a moment they both stared out in silence at the Bay of Gibraltar. The levanter was getting up again, charging the Straits with a swell. In the night sky, a small plane was banking round to land on the Rock’s tiny single runway. Spike wondered if it was the private jet Clohessy had chartered.

Jardine reached for the paper bag. ‘Time for a proper drop,’ he said, rubbing his hands together like a housefly. ‘You were asking me about your mother, weren’t you?’ he added as he expertly worked out the cork. ‘Well, son, you don’t need me to tell you that she was the most beautiful woman on the Rock . . .’

In the half-light, Spike heard rather than saw the sound of viscous liquid poured into glasses. ‘Did you have an affair with her?’

The pouring stopped abruptly as Jardine spat out his bark of a laugh. ‘Whatever gave you that idea?’ Above the bay, the jet made its final approach. ‘Well, she was certainly wasted on her husband,’ Jardine continued, taking a sip of his drink as he fixed Spike with his laughing eyes.

Spike put the cup to his lips. The tepid liquor burned his throat as it made its way downwards, tasting much as he would have imagined neat methanol might. As he glanced down at the bottle beneath the bench, he caught sight of the label: Wood’s Navy Rum. He started to pull himself to his feet, but Jardine reached out and grabbed his wrist.

‘Not just yet, eh, son?’

Spike tried to wrench his arm away, then felt Jardine’s middle finger digging into the top of his hand like a vice. ‘Know how I came to be in Gibraltar?’ he said.

Spike suppressed a cry of pain as the pressure increased. With his free hand, Jardine hoisted up the tail of his pink shirt. A purple, bubbling scar ran up the length of one flank. ‘Darwin Hill, 1982, 2 Para,’ he said. ‘I couldn’t fight any more so they sent me here.’

Spike tried to move his arm back, hoping to find the space to swing a punch, but now Jardine was pressing his thumb up into Spike’s palm. An extraordinary pain ran through his hand like an electrical current, and he reared back in agony.

‘No one in Westminster gives a toss about the locals on this godforsaken Rock,’ Jardine said. ‘It’s about the Empire, and what’s owed to us. Gib’s a trinket and we’ll keep it for as long as we want.’ He released Spike’s hand with a smile. ‘Stop rooting about, that’s my advice, young man. Stick to what you’re best at – paperwork.’ He picked up Spike’s glass, sank the remainder then tossed the empty cup into the water. ‘Thought this would be too strong a meat for you,’ he said. ‘Pretty boy. Just like your mother.’

Spike watched Jardine push his way back into the heaving restaurant. Then he turned and walked away down the pontoon.

I return armed with the proper tools – knife, credit card, something a bit special I’ve kept concealed in the secret compartment in the car. I have a quick listen at the door, then insert the blade beneath the latch, tilting it upwards as I slip the credit card inside. ‘God Bless Our Home’ pleads the tile by the bell-push. Indeed, I think to myself as I ease the door open.

On the self-assembled coffee table, a jigsaw lies half-completed, the Rock of Gibraltar sliced into cardboard chunks. My foot slides on a children’s book. I kick it under the sofa and move into the bedroom.

Twisted, unmade sheets . . . I rifle through the chest of drawers and find the underwear: practical knickers, mainly. A couple of cheap lacy numbers. I try the drawer above and find what I’m looking for. The stocking stretches between my gloved hands with a taut denier gleam. Adequate – but I know I can do better.

As I move through the sitting room, I am unable to prevent myself from finishing the jigsaw, slotting piece after piece into place until the Rock glares back at me. The photographer has even caught a pall of low cloud on its peak. It’s getting dark outside, I suddenly realise. More time has elapsed than I thought. I check the sideboard beneath the record player, then open all the storage units in the hall. My fingers hesitate over a shelf of unusual items. Artefacts, one might call them. Surprising in such an apartment.