Hollow Mountain (6 page)

‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ Jessica said.

Spike ignored her and took a gulp of his beer.

‘So what’s up?’ she asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘Summoned by Spike Sanguinetti for an evening drink?’ She raised her dark, neatly curved eyebrows. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’

Spike did his best at a smile, and she softened her tone: ‘I’m worried about you, Spike. I haven’t seen you like this in years.’

The oblique reference to the death of his mother provoked the usual feelings of exasperation. Then he recognised the real concern on Jessica’s face, and checked himself. ‘It’s Peter, right?’ she said, her tanned, heart-shaped face tilted to one side. A kink ran through her chestnut hair where it had been folded beneath her police hat. ‘He could still wake up,’ she added, and Spike gave a nod, aware that he could leave it at that. But he didn’t. ‘I don’t think it was an accident, Jess.’

She sat back. ‘Go on.’

‘When I was in Genoa . . .’ He watched Jessica’s eyelashes flutter skywards in irritation. ‘I told you I spoke to Zahra?’

‘How could I forget.’

‘Well, the man who took her. Žigon. He’s not some small-time pimp. He’s a serious player, the head of an organised crime syndicate. According to Interpol, he took out most of his rivals in the Balkans in a single night. Threw grenades through their windows. Six men – and their families – dead.’

Jessica nodded. ‘I know all this. Drugs, people trafficking, prostitution. Said to run his operation out of the Italian Riviera.’

‘Zahra warned me, Jess. Told me if I didn’t back off, Žigon would hurt someone close to me.’

‘Like your Dad?’

‘Exactly.’

‘Who’s fine.’

‘Or Peter. Who’s not.’

Jessica took a sip of her drink, wincing at the flat, litre-bottle tonic.

‘I’m pretty sure what happened to Peter is my fault,’ Spike went on. ‘Žigon sending me a message. A warning.’

‘Why on
earth
would he do that?’

‘As a punishment for getting too close to him. For trying to track down Zahra.’

Jessica carefully set down her glass. ‘Let me get this straight, Spike. This Žigon, or whatever his name is, thinks you’re on the verge of uncovering his real identity. So he sends someone to Gibraltar to run down your business partner.’

Spike nodded.

‘While you’re still in Italy.’

‘Yes.’

‘Presumably just a few miles away from where he lives.’

‘Zahra says that’s how he works.’

‘Zahra says . . .’ she mimicked, then downed her drink and forgot her scruples. ‘Let’s go through this step by step. Firstly, Peter Galliano’s accident was just that – an accident. We’ve had the lab results back from his blood sample. He was drunk, Spike.
Cagana
. Blotto.’

Spike thought of the empty bottle of rum in Galliano’s bin.

‘There was low cloud on the Rock that day. The driver might not have even known what he’d done. Might have thought he hit the kerb, or an ape. We don’t know.’

‘But you haven’t found the driver.’

‘Without CCTV, hit-and-runs take time to solve. The point is, Spike . . . this was not the work of a professional hit man. It was random and it was messy.’

He waited for her to continue.

‘Secondly, this is Zahra we’re talking about. I only met her a few times, but I can tell you this – she’s the kind of woman who always lands on her feet. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that she doesn’t want you to look for her. When she first met you, she was a Bedouin refugee. No money, no papers. She would have done anything for an EU passport. You got her into Gib, then Malta. Now she’s made it to Italy, to mainland Europe, the promised land. She’s probably been given a new identity and doesn’t want to be reminded of the old one. She’s a born survivor, Spike. And she doesn’t need you any more.’

‘She was abducted, Jess.’

Jessica sighed. ‘You don’t know that.’

‘I was there. In Malta. I know what happened.’

‘Do you?’ Her hand moved to his wrist, but he twisted it off. ‘No one knows for certain that she was kidnapped. Did she say his name when you spoke to her? Did she ever use the word “Žigon”?’

Spike tried to remember.

‘Listen, Spike. I’ve known you all my life. And ever since you met this girl things keep going wrong for you. Look at what you’re doing. Listen to what you’re saying. You’re a commercial lawyer, not some vigilante trying to track down a homicidal crime lord.’ Jessica paused, then spoke more gently. ‘Your annoyingly beautiful ex-girlfriend has cut you off, and your business partner has had a terrible accident, but that’s all there is to it. You’ve got to pull yourself together. Forget about Zahra and think of the future.’ Her eyes were gleaming now. ‘Don’t you think I’m shaken up about Peter too? I’m doing everything I can to find out who was driving that car. There’s a paint sample with forensics in London. We’re getting the story out to Spain, OK?’

The pub door burst open, admitting the stubbled Romani Spike had seen in Irish Town. He carried a laundry bag, which he swung onto the bar, revealing a selection of handmade bangles. Casey picked one up admiringly, batting her false eyelashes.

‘Spike?’

He looked back. ‘A woman came to see me this morning. With a little boy. Her name was Grainger.’

‘As in Simon Grainger?’

‘You know her?’

‘Hard not to. She was on the front page of the
Chronicle
for three days. Her husband killed himself, right?’

‘Not according to her. And she’s not too happy with the outcome of your investigation.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘She says the police closed the case with indecent haste.’

‘Not our problem.’

‘Why?’

‘Redcaps.’

‘What do they have to do with it?’

‘The body landed just inside the base on the Rock. That makes it a military matter.’

‘Even though Simon Grainger was a civilian?’

‘Them’s the rules, Spike. Thought you’d know that, Scholarship Boy.’

Spike half-smiled. ‘Odd place to kill yourself, though, isn’t it?’

‘There’s a flat bit of land above. Handy spot if you fancy ending it all. As long as you don’t mind the gulls pecking out your eyes and the apes playing with your shattered limbs.’

Spike watched Jessica’s cheeks colour as she remembered that the topic of suicide was not one Spike cared for. Then she shrugged and gave a conciliatory smile. ‘Tell you what. I’ll talk to the Chief Constable. They’re lazy sods, the Redcaps. I’ll see if they’ve cut any corners.’ She reached behind for a menu. ‘Now I need to eat something; it’s been a long day.’ Her lips pouted as she scanned the options – Calpe burger, egg and chips . . . ‘It’s good to see you watching out for the little people, though. That was why you went into law in the first place, wasn’t it? To help out the underdog?’

Spike nodded, but as he walked back to the bar, he realised that he couldn’t actually remember.

Chapter Thirteen

Spike turned into Chicardo’s Passage, feeling the sweat from the climb sting the skin of his brow, suddenly aware that if Galliano ever did regain consciousness, Gibraltar had to be one of the worst places on Earth to find yourself confined to a wheelchair. The rows of dilapidated terraced houses stood just a few feet apart, the washing lines strung between them so short that only single items could be hung. Ahead, dangling against the night sky, Spike recognised a pair of his father’s fraying brown cords.

He passed the house of his neighbours, Keith and Maeve Montegriffo, glancing as usual at the budgerigar in a metal cage wired to their first-floor balcony. The lights in his own kitchen were still on, he saw with a sigh, as he took out a gleaming Chubb key and pushed it into the newly fitted lock.

Any hopes that Rufus had left the lights on accidentally were dashed as Spike entered the hallway. ‘An intruder perchance?’ boomed his sardonic voice from the kitchen. ‘Are we to be murdered in our beds?’

Spike placed his briefcase on the bottom stair. It was tempting to continue up, but instead he pushed heroically through the bead curtain.

Rufus Sanguinetti was sprawled in a wooden chair at the head of the table, a cafetière beside him, the plunger hopelessly skewed. He still insisted on brewing Nescafé inside Spike’s Christmas present. A mug lay at his elbow, a copy of the
Gibraltar Chronicle
open in front of him. ‘“Asterisk betrayal”,’ Rufus called out. ‘Six – comma – five.’

‘You’re up late, Dad.’

Without bothering to look up from his crossword, Rufus extended a long arm towards a tea crate beneath the dresser. It hadn’t been there this morning. ‘Found it by the immersion heater. Wants sorting.’

‘You shouldn’t be up in the attic by yourself.’

‘Murderers up there, are there? Should we put a stronger chain on the door? Drill a spy hole?’

Rufus lifted his large, leonine head and appraised Spike, caressing the side of his Roman nose with a tapering finger. ‘You haven’t been in the pub, have you?’

‘Working late.’

Spike gave his father’s shoulder an awkward squeeze, then filled a glass from the tap. Cringing at the tepid minerality of Gibraltar’s new desalination plant, he found his eyes ranging over the contents of the crate. Photographs, diaries, letters – Rufus’s compulsion to indulge in nostalgia was becoming a concern. Spike reached inside for a pack of blue airmail letters, recognising with a jolt of sadness his mother’s handwriting, with its earnest mix of capitals and underlinings.

‘Now come along,’ Rufus said, returning to the newspaper. ‘Final clue, fourteen down . . .’

Spike stared across at him, taking in the white hair flowing over his shoulders like an ageing prophet’s. Ever since the death of his wife, Rufus had insisted on being his own barber. His strong forehead was furrowed with concentration above his spectacles, fitted with a hearing aid now, kept at an incredibly high sensitivity. Thin, pale forearms protruded from his short-sleeved shirt, draped over the table like vegetable stalks forced in the dark. In one corner lay a dog basket full of newspapers, the crossword of each indented with hard-pressed biro answers.

‘Double-cross,’ Spike said.

Rufus narrowed his eyes behind his half-moons as Spike held out a hand: ‘Sorry?’

Reluctantly the chewed biro was released. In the blank space to the side of the page, Spike marked out a cross, then scored another over the top at an angle. An asterisk was formed. ‘Double-cross,’ Spike repeated, failing to keep the amazement from his voice. Normally he was more of a quick crossword man.

‘No need to shout,’ Rufus said, adjusting his hearing aid as he filled in the answer. ‘There. Boy’s a genius. Always said so.’ He shunted his chair back, then tossed the newspaper into the dog basket. Both father and son stared down for a moment. It had been empty of its occupant for four months now. ‘Come on, Dad. Let’s get you upstairs.’

With painful slowness, Rufus clambered to his feet. His condition was worsening, but as long as he could still make the climb to bed on his own, Spike felt there was hope. As he followed his father out of the kitchen, he scooped up the slim pack of age-softened letters from the top of the crate and slipped them into his inside pocket. With Jessica’s assurances fresh in his mind, he left the door on the latch for the first time in weeks, then fell in behind Rufus on the stairs.

Chapter Fourteen

A patch of damp rot decorated the wall above Spike’s bed, a brown and taupe mosaic he’d loved to stare at as a boy, searching it for exotic shapes like a cloud-spotter. Pulling off his suit jacket, he sat down at his childhood desk, still defaced by the compass scratches and pen marks of his schooldays.
A girl who always lands on her feet
. . . Was that really the Zahra he knew? Could she simply have left Malta for her own reasons? Met someone else? Someone who had helped her get into Italy?

Disgusted at how easy it was to find the worst in people, particularly if it suited you, Spike opened his briefcase and took out his papers. Top of the pile was the list of questions he’d compiled for Morton Clohessy, CEO of Neptune Marine. Spike made a few notes, then reached across for the window, creaking up the rotten sash and seeing the terracotta rooftops of the Old Town undulating below, the Straits beyond, ships’ lights flashing along the lanes of traffic as they ferried their cargoes from Atlantic to Mediterranean, Mediterranean to Atlantic.

He put down his pen and picked up the sheaf of letters from the bed. Something had been niggling at him, he realised as he leafed through the bundle: the top envelope was addressed in his mother’s hand, yet she was also the recipient – Mrs Rufus Sanguinetti, 12 Chicardo’s Passage, Gibraltar. Too long ago for postcodes. The stamp looked French; he worked the envelope from its cotton binding, finding it carefully opened with a knife, then checked the date: May 23rd 1977. Spike had been three. ‘
Dear J
,’ the letter began. Could you invade a dead person’s privacy? Probably, Spike thought, but read on anyway.

‘
Last week we arrived in La Rochelle. The Bay of Biscay is as clean and beautiful as I remember, but the town is clogged with tourist cafés and discotheques
. . .’ Spike had no memory of La Rochelle; the family holidays he recalled had always been in Portugal, on the beaches of the central Algarve. ‘
I suppose that I have changed as well. Whereas before I would have wanted to explore, to ask questions, now I find it hard to make myself leave the hotel terrace, sitting here smoking these horrible French cigarettes while R and S busy themselves around me. S in particular brings such joy. He’s such a carefree, open little boy, gazing up at me with his bright blue eyes. Burnt brown already by the sun, just like I used to be. Whenever I watch him, I can’t help but smile. Yet my heart is full of you, my J, my love
. . .’