Sign of the Cross Read online

  for Jack and Molly

  For beauty is but the beginning of terror.

  We can barely endure it

  and are awed

  when it declines to destroy us.

  Every angel is terrifying

  Rilke, Duino Elegies

  Contents

  Map

  Foreword

  Part One

  Chapter One

  Part Two

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Part Three

  Chapter Twelve

  A Note on the Author

  By the Same Author

  Shadow of the Rock

  Foreword

  The woman’s eyes are raised heavenwards. Her arms hang by her sides; her dress is pulled down to her waist. Deltas of blood criss-cross her pale stomach. Two neat, flat circles on her chest reveal where the breasts have been sliced from her body.

  ‘David?’

  Mifsud pulls his gaze away from the statue. The dark, empty streets of Valletta stretch ahead. ‘Sorry, my love. You were saying?’

  ‘Just that I’ve reached the point when I’ve –’

  ‘Had enough,’ Mifsud completes, taking his wife’s hand, which slots neatly into his.

  Teresa Mifsud’s high heels echo on the flagstones. Her once black hair is a silvery grey. For years she dyed it, but now Mifsud has grown accustomed to its natural colour. Tonight she wears it tied into a chignon, revealing almost Slavic cheekbones and dark, thoughtful eyes.

  Mifsud stops, cups a hand behind his wife’s head and leans in to kiss her. The vintage claret from dinner is still seeping through his veins.

  ‘What’s got into you tonight?’ Teresa asks, face brightening for the first time that evening.

  ‘It’ll be all right; trust me.’ Mifsud smiles, then glances back at the statue, his eyes drawn by the marble halo carved around St Agatha’s head. Teresa gently pulls him on. The street lamps create distant pools of yellow in the darkness.

  ‘The Baron was in his element tonight,’ Teresa says.

  ‘All part of his ceremonial duties.’

  ‘I think he was showing off to you. He was staring at us as we left.’

  The proximity of Freedom Square to the bus terminus yields up the usual group of stragglers. Mifsud releases Teresa’s hand, and she walks towards a tall, elegant woman in brown robes and a headscarf. The woman holds a baby strapped to her front in a sarong. Teresa leans in to kiss her hello, then steps back to peer at the baby’s face. ‘What’s his name?’

  ‘Saif.’

  ‘David,’ Teresa calls over, ‘this is Dinah. And this sleepy little angel is Saif.’

  The woman bows her long neck at Mifsud, who nods back. He hears a discreet ‘tut’ as a smartly dressed Maltese couple hurry by.

  ‘David?’

  Mifsud looks round. ‘Goodbye, mister,’ the woman calls out.

  ‘One of yours?’ Mifsud asks as they walk away.

  ‘Used to be. They’re moving her to the family camp now she’s had the baby.’

  ‘Libyan?’

  ‘Somali.’

  The city starts to empty out again on the other side of the piazza. They pass the shell of the Valletta Royal Opera House, bombed by the Luftwaffe, still not rebuilt. Mifsud finds Teresa’s hand again, and she returns the pressure.

  Turning onto Triq Sant’Orsla, Mifsud sees the windows of the Baron’s palazzo still dark. They walk beneath his covered, overhanging balcony, then stop outside their own front door. The three locks are a legacy of the Baron’s overcautious forebears: this flat once served as staff quarters. Mifsud follows his wife inside, then deadbolts the door behind them.

  Placing the keys in the dish on the hallway table, Mifsud imagines Teresa next door, freeing her hair, pulling the sleek satin of her dress over her head. ‘Nightcap, darling?’ he calls through.

  ‘Yes, please,’ he hears as the shower starts to drip.

  His features reflect back from the oval-shaped mirror above the mantelpiece, the tanned skin rendered darker now by the salt-and-pepper of his beard. Beneath his hooked nose – a touch of the Ottoman pirate, as Teresa likes to say – his lips twitch up at the corners. He is smiling; he cannot help it. He moves into the sitting room, passing the collection of baroque oils without a glance before entering the kitchen.

  Lemon in the fridge, rum in the cupboard; spectacles on, Mifsud draws a carving knife from the block, running the blade up and down the metal sharpener, then clipping off the warty nubs of the lemon and quartering one half. The remaining half he wraps in cling film, replacing it in the fridge, wondering if they will retain these parsimonious habits once everything has changed. Probably not, he thinks, smile broadening further.

  The kettle clicks off, steam curling from its spout. Mifsud takes out two china mugs, one decorated with a monkey and a ‘Gibraltar Rocks!’ logo, a long-ago present from his late sister. He spoons a measure of brown sugar into each, then follows up with a generous slosh of rum. Checking the shower is still flowing, he raises the bottle to his lips, reasoning that they are celebrating, in a sense. A creaking comes from behind: just their ancient boiler, straining away. Humming to himself, Mifsud hammers the stopper back in the bottle, then hears the noise again. He turns his head. A man is crouching by the side of the kitchen table. Mifsud stops humming.

  The man straightens up, takes three paces across the floor and picks up the carving knife. From the bathroom, the dripping of the shower falls silent.

  Mifsud closes his eyes. This is not possible, he thinks. How did he get in? When Mifsud opens his eyes, the man is holding a fingertip to his lips. Over his hands he wears white surgical gloves.

  Teresa lets out a scream as she appears in the doorway. Her turban towel unravels in slow motion. Her hair is dark with water, comb grooves still visible.

  Mifsud stands with his back to the kitchen wall. Through misted spectacles he watches as the man beckons to Teresa with the knife. She turns to Mifsud; he nods, and she crosses the floor, tightening the belt of her blue towelling dressing gown as she moves.

  The intruder stares at her appraisingly. He wears an oil-stained white T-shirt, blue canvas trousers and flip-flops. A pink, incongruously feminine mouth sits in a powerful jaw. He points the tip of the knife at Teresa’s abdomen. ‘The cord,’ he whispers, with a lingering roll of the ‘r’.

  Teresa glares at the man with such contempt that Mifsud wonders for a moment if they have met before. Even now, he thinks, the woman cannot hold her temper. Slowly she draws the cord from its eyes, then thrusts it towards him.

  Folding the material over the blade, the man flicks upward. ‘You,’ he says to Mifsud. ‘Arms out.’

  Mifsud’s hands hang protectively by his groin. He raises them up, aware of his tired old heart thumping as the soft towelling nooses his wrists.

  ‘Sit down. Feet in front.’

  Mifsud slides slowly down the wall, pushing out his legs as the man crouches before him, black brogues still beautifully polished for dinner. As the man binds his ankles, Mifsud wonders if he should kick out – Teresa could grab the knife, they might . . .

  ‘Please,’ Teresa whispers. ‘We have jewellery. A little money . . .’ She flinches as the man springs to his feet. In one swift, fluid motion, he draws his T-shirt up over his head. The muscles on his stomach are grotesquely defined, reminding Mifsud of Renaissance crucifixion scenes. Where was that altarpiece they saw in Sicily last year? Agrigento?

  Mifsud snaps back to attention: the man is slicing his
T-shirt in two. A wishbone of muscle contracts on each flank as he works the knife. ‘Over there,’ he says to Teresa. ‘More to the side. Stretch across. Further . . .’

  Teresa leans over the kitchen table, and the man squats by her head, using a strip of T-shirt to tie her wrists to the table leg. He has a tattoo on his back, Mifsud sees, rippling from his shoulder blades to the base of his spine. A black, eight-pointed Maltese cross.

  The man swivels to Mifsud. ‘Where is it?’

  Mifsud catches a herbal reek on the man’s breath. He glances at Teresa, who is lying with her cheek on her outstretched arms. She stares back, a soft arc of pale breast visible within the opening of her dressing gown.

  ‘Where’s the painting?’ the man says.

  ‘Painting?’ Mifsud echoes. ‘Take all of them, anything at all . . .’ He is speaking quickly, voice nasal and flat.

  The man raises the knife to Mifsud’s neck. ‘The valuable one.’

  For the first time Mifsud hears uncertainty in the man’s voice. The cool metal chills his throat. ‘Next door,’ he gasps. ‘Above the desk.’

  Lowering the blade, the man reaches for Mifsud’s foot and yanks it upwards, wedging it between his bound wrists. Then he steps bare-chested into the sitting room.

  Slumped on one side, Mifsud stares up at his wife. ‘I love you,’ she mouths, lips doing their best to smile. On the countertop above, steam still rises from the kettle. Mifsud tries to reach towards the knife block but his ankle is jammed between his wrists. Sweat blurs his eyes; he uses his forearm to feel in his trousers for his phone. His fingers are free; he manoeuvres them to his pocket . . .

  ‘David,’ Teresa hisses, and Mifsud looks round again. She shakes her head, and he nods back, spectacles slipping down his nose.

  The next sound Mifsud hears is the rapid click-clack of flip-flops on the terracotta floor. Something in their rhythm quickens his heart still further. There is a clang as the knife is slammed down on the draining board. Picking up the bottle of rum, the man rears above. For a moment Mifsud thinks he is going to drink, but then he brings the bottle crashing down on the crown of Mifsud’s head.

  A wailing reverberates in Mifsud’s ears. Wetness embraces his scalp. Somewhere Teresa is screaming. Surely the Baron or his wife will hear? Call the police? Then Mifsud remembers they are still at the dinner.

  Stains float like clouds across his retinas. He opens his eyes and sees the jagged stump of the bottle lying on the floor beside him.

  He looks up: the other half of the man’s T-shirt has been stuffed into Teresa’s mouth, the tails of her dressing gown flipped to the small of her back. Seeing the familiar, dimpled buttocks, he feels a heavy wave of sadness.

  The man moves behind her, unzipping his flies. The high-pitched slapping makes Teresa scream again, muffled through her gag.

  Mifsud tries to sit but his foot is still trapped. Flopping onto his back, he feels his scalp burn: shards of the bottle embedded in the skin.

  He gazes round. His spectacles are spattered with blood but he can see that the man’s thin brown penis has swollen, probing outwards, able to support its own weight. The man turns back to Mifsud. ‘Last chance.’

  ‘The Madonna and Child,’ Mifsud says. ‘Above the desk.’

  ‘Not the Madonna. The Saint.’

  Mifsud wants to be overwhelmed by fear, to be too disorientated to speak. But the clarity is there. Lurking beneath the surface is the clarity. ‘I don’t understand . . .’ he groans.

  Dipping into his pocket, the man draws out a silver, perforated square. He rips open the foil with his teeth, then replaces the wrapper in his pocket, rolling on the condom with a single, practised hand. Teresa struggles again with her bindings as the man reaches forward to her buttocks, parting them roughly. ‘Haqq Alla!’ he curses in Maltese.

  Teresa has swung a heel back into the man’s shin. Picking up the knife, he leans forward and grabs her damp hair. She raises her chin defiantly as he holds the blade beneath her neck. ‘Just try that again.’

  Mifsud watches as the man plunges himself between Teresa’s buttocks. The ringing in his ears grows louder. Teresa turns, one hand still clutching closed her dressing gown. The pointless attempt at modesty makes Mifsud catch his breath. ‘Stop.’

  The man pauses mid-thrust. Mifsud closes his eyes, waiting for the words to form, for the confession to come. A moment later, the thrusting resumes.

  When Mifsud reopens his eyes, Teresa’s expression has changed. All their life together she has known when he is lying. She knows it now.

  Still staring down, she starts to shake her head. As she shakes it more vigorously, the blade of the knife licks against the tautened underside of her neck. Mifsud watches in puzzlement as a small purple bubble forms beneath the skin. Teresa peers down as well, then a moment later, a great arc of blood bursts outwards to the kitchen wall.

  The man leaps back, dropping the knife. ‘Fuck,’ he spits as the blood flows in rhythmic spurts from Teresa’s neck. He zips up his flies as a final gout slaps onto the floor. Teresa’s eyes start to glaze, but still she stares down at Mifsud, pupils boring into him.

  The knife is just a yard away. Drawing his knees to his chest, Mifsud twists his foot from between his arms, feeling long-unused muscles rip across his back. Rotating on one hip, he puts his soles to the kitchen wall and pushes off like a swimmer turning. The smooth material of his dinner jacket slides easily over the tiled floor. Stretching out his fingers, he gets hold of the knife, then rolls onto his back.

  Mifsud stares up at the ceiling, the flecks of glass in his skull making his head throb. Using both hands, he slides the tip of the knife down the buttons of his dress shirt, stopping when it finds the soft give of his belly.

  The man appears above. Mifsud draws in a breath, then rams the knife with all his strength beneath his own ribcage. A strange, involuntary burping rises from his gullet. It feels as though he has been winded, a burning prickly heat creeping up his spine. When he can push no further, he pauses, then thrusts again. Something gives, and the knife seems to slide in more deeply. He tastes a sour, viscous fluid climbing his throat, senses the colour draining from his cheeks. Another jolt, then a gentle throbbing emptiness. When he closes his eyes, he thinks he sees Teresa’s features, painted in chiaroscuro, blending with those of St Agatha as they dip in and out of vision.

  The man is busy above, undoing Teresa’s bindings, pressing the neck of the bottle into her hanging, lifeless hands. Mifsud senses his own bindings released, then the clip-clop of feet crossing the room. How can the man be leaving the flat half dressed? he wonders.

  A smack, heard rather than felt, as Mifsud widens his eyes. It seems as though he is staring up through a muslin shroud.

  ‘All your family,’ he hears above. ‘One by one unless you tell me now.’

  Mifsud feels himself slipping towards unconsciousness.

  ‘Where is it? Where?’

  Mifsud breathes in. The movement racks his chest so much that he knows he will not repeat the motion. As he exhales for the last time, a single word passes his lips.

  Then nothing.

  Part One

  Gibraltar

  Chapter One

  1

  Spike Sanguinetti watched as the stipendiary magistrate slid on his spectacles and frowned at the document. It was not a good sign. Above the magistrate’s bald head, the lion and the unicorn continued their tussle for the royal coat of arms. ‘And where are the co-defendants in this matter?’ he asked.

  ‘It is our understanding that the DNA evidence relating to the co-defendants has still not been processed,’ Spike replied. ‘Given that my client has already been on remand for over three months, we moved to hold the hearing at the first available opportunity.’

  ‘And what is the Crown’s position on this?’

  Spike glanced over at Drew Stanford-Trench, who was still shuffling through his court bundle, handsome face pale and blotchy. In the afternoon light slanting through the courtroom’
s high windows, Spike saw fine blond hairs growing from his ear like mould. ‘The prosecution would simply reiterate the reasons for remand in the first place,’ Stanford-Trench said. ‘Until the owner of the yacht has been traced, the defendant cannot safely be given bail.’

  ‘Safely?’

  ‘Reasonably.’ A drip of alcoholic sweat fell from Stanford-Trench’s nose, forming a damp corona on the top sheet of his papers. Winter hours in court: air conditioning not yet on.

  ‘Your Worship,’ Spike said, taking over, ‘in view of the length of time that has passed since the preliminary hearing, might it not be sensible to sum up the agreed facts of the case?’

  The magistrate took off his spectacles and sat back; Stanford-Trench shot Spike a grateful glance.

  Spike continued. ‘On 6 November last year, the defendant, Mr Harrington, registered with an online company seeking volunteers to crew a yacht between the Caribbean and Montenegro. Having been allocated the position of first mate on The Restless Wave, Mr Harrington flew to St Martin in the expectation of an enjoyable holiday during which he might improve his sailing skills. He had not met the other crew members; they had not met each other. The yacht was subjected to a routine search on departure from St Martin; on bunkering in Gibraltar, however, a sniffer dog alerted our customs officers, who uncovered a small fibreglass compartment hidden in the hold. Inside lay eighteen slabs of uncut cocaine. My client has always denied any knowledge of the drugs, and feels, not to put too fine a point on it, that he and the other crew members have been set up.’

  Spike looked over at the dock. Three months in Her Majesty’s Prison, Gibraltar, had done a good job of bleeding out the rich yachtsman’s tan with which Piers Harrington had arrived on the Rock. His hair remained sun-bleached only at the tips, which now spilled over his ears. His long grey face stared ahead, hollow-eyed.

  ‘No connection,’ Spike went on, looking back at the magistrate, ‘has ever been found between Mr Harrington and the owner of the yacht, a man about whom little is known other than the fact that he is a Serbian national. My client’s lengthy stay in prison has apparently been necessitated by the painstaking work performed by forensics in London, who have sought to determine if Mr Harrington’s DNA could be connected to the drugs or the secret compartment. As Your Worship can now see from the report, no such DNA link has been established. We request, therefore, not that Mr Harrington be granted bail, but that all charges against him be dropped.’