Sign of the Cross Read online

  ‘Mr Stanford-Trench?’ the magistrate said. ‘Are you in a position to join us now?’

  ‘Absolutely, Your Worship. It has recently emerged that the yacht owner, a Mr . . .’ Stanford-Trench peered down – ‘Radovic, purchased The Restless Wave through a shell company incorporated here in Gibraltar. Though Interpol are yet to trace his whereabouts, the paper trail is starting to hot up and –’

  ‘Starting to hot up?’ the magistrate interrupted. ‘You’ve had ninety days to penetrate this mystery while Mr Harrington has been languishing in prison.’

  ‘Your Worship,’ Stanford-Trench said, ‘I respectfully submit that a colleague had charge of the case at that time, and as she is now on maternity leave, it has fallen to me to –’

  ‘Enough, Mr Stanford-Trench. Sit down.’ The magistrate turned to the dock. ‘Mr Harrington?’

  Spike looked over at his client, making an upwards motion with his fingers. Harrington blinked his sunken eyes and stood.

  ‘Mr Harrington,’ the magistrate resumed, ‘I regret that you have been held without bail for so long, but the trafficking of twenty-two kilograms of cocaine is a very serious offence. I understand that you have recently retired to Sotogrande after a long and unblemished career in the City of London. What was supposed to be the start of an exciting new chapter of your life has therefore turned into something of a nightmare. The court of Gibraltar hereby drops all charges against you. The prosecution will no doubt reserve the right to revert to you at a later date for further questioning, but for now you are free to go.’

  Piers Harrington turned to Spike, who smiled back, gesturing at the door. Finally understanding, Harrington bowed at the magistrate, then exited with his custody officer.

  The clerk began calling out details from the next docket. Alongside him on the bench, Spike heard Drew Stanford-Trench give a long, slow sigh as he packed away his papers.

  2

  ‘Cheer up,’ Peter Galliano said. ‘It’s another win.’

  ‘On the facts.’

  ‘But you’re going great guns. Top earner this month at Galliano & Sanguinetti.’

  Given that there were just two of them at the firm, this was no accolade.

  ‘And a mere thirty-five years old –’

  ‘Thirty-six,’ Spike corrected.

  Galliano raised a pudgy hand to attract the attention of the waitress. They sat together at the head of a trestle table outside the All’s Well in Casemates Square, a pub named in honour of the refrain used by British soldiers at night to confirm that the gates of Gibraltar were safe. The Rock loomed above, its bone-white limestone lit up for the non-existent winter tourist. The fresh poniente wind was dropping, but it was still mid-teens, icy for Gibraltarians. As Spike flipped up the collar of his overcoat, he remembered an Italian phrase of his father’s – ‘Febbraio, febbraietto, corto e maledetto’, ‘February, little February, short and cursed’. Yes, he thought as he finished his pint, that was about the size of it.

  Midway down the table, Jessica Navarro was crouching to talk to another guest. She wore a grey pencil skirt and tight ribbed jumper. Catching Spike’s eye over the shoulder of her companion, she threw him a smile.

  ‘Vale,’ Galliano said, signalling to the waitress. ‘How many are we, Spike? Fifteen?’

  ‘Twenty-two.’

  Galliano puffed out his cheeks. ‘Waka . . . Twenty-two shots of sambuca.’

  The waitress jotted the number down.

  ‘And lots of crisps,’ Galliano called after as she returned to the bar.

  On the other side of the table, a tall blond man in a blazer and cashmere roll-neck was expertly working the guests. Spike watched him reward a comment with a raised hand, which became a high five.

  ‘M’learned friends?’

  Spike stood to his full height, then leaned down to kiss Jessica hello, catching a scent he didn’t recognise. Still seated, Galliano reached up to draw her hand into his suspiciously black goatee. ‘Get ’em in while I can,’ he said, smothering her fingers with kisses.

  As Jessica started to crouch, Spike pulled across a plastic chair. ‘Please. You’re making me feel unfit.’

  She smiled, then positioned the chair facing both of them. Her chestnut hair looked as though it had been freshly cut. As she tossed it over one shoulder, Spike caught a crimson flash of bra strap.

  ‘Muncho chachi,’ he said, slipping into yanito, the patois used by native Gibraltarians.

  ‘What, this old thing?’ Jessica replied, arching an eyebrow.

  ‘May I?’ Spike indicated her left hand, and they both leaned in to admire the chunky octagonal diamond on its thin platinum band. Spike thought of his mother’s engagement ring, buried somewhere in the chaos of Rufus’s bedroom. About a tenth of the size, a cluster of yellow diamonds in a daisy setting. ‘The biggest rock on the Rock,’ he said. ‘So . . . up for a late one?’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘Hamish has to fly to Switzerland tomorrow morning.’

  ‘All OK?’

  ‘Just a few meetings . . . Speak of the devil.’

  Hamish Ferguson appeared alongside Spike. His well-tamed blond curls gave him the air of a young Roman warrior heading out for battle. The proud disdainful face left little doubt as to the probable result of the campaign. ‘Heard a heck of a lot about you,’ he said, crisp English accent bearing no trace of his alleged Glaswegian roots.

  ‘Congratulations.’

  The handshake was delivered with a well-honed burst of pain. ‘When you know, you know.’

  ‘You remember Peter Galliano?’ Jessica said.

  Galliano smoothed down his goatee with a hand. ‘You’re a hedgie, right?’

  ‘For my sins.’

  ‘Grab a pew and I’ll tell you why your fund’s with the wrong law firm.’

  ‘Peter . . .’ Spike said.

  ‘No, it’s OK,’ Hamish replied, touching Spike’s shoulder benevolently. He glanced – almost imperceptibly – at his Rolex then sat down beside Galliano.

  Spike retook his seat. He was used to seeing Jessica in police uniform. Tonight she wore lipstick, smoky eyeliner; he thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. ‘It’s just such great –’

  ‘OK, Spike, you’ve done your bit.’ She moved her chair closer. ‘Another victory, they tell me.’

  ‘A monkey would have won.’

  ‘That’s not what I heard.’

  ‘I didn’t think newly promoted detectives paid attention to small fry in the magistrates’ court.’

  The waitress interrupted with a tray of shots. ‘Whoa!’ Hamish boomed, eyeing his colleagues at the end of the table.

  ‘They come with one proviso,’ Galliano said. ‘That you let me take you out to lunch to explain what Galliano & Sanguinetti can do for you and your team at Charon Partners.’

  ‘What? Oh, right. Sure.’ Grabbing eight shots in his large hands, Hamish set off up the table. Jessica smiled over at Galliano – ‘You shouldn’t have’– then stood to help the waitress distribute the rest.

  ‘Arsehole,’ Galliano muttered. He kept his eyes on Jessica as she laughed with another guest. ‘Apparently he’s being headhunted for some fund in Zug.’

  ‘Will he take the job?’

  ‘You mean, will she follow?’ Galliano held Spike’s eye, then mock-slapped his own forehead. ‘Bezims,’ he cursed. ‘The crisps.’ He began the slow process of shunting his chair backwards.

  ‘I’ll go,’ Spike said, standing.

  3

  The other tables outside the All’s Well were empty, punters driven away either by the engagement party, or by the fact that it was a Tuesday night in February. Inside, even the karaoke machine was off. A few solitary drinkers sat cradling pints of bitter.

  The waitress was smoking behind the bar. ‘Three packs of salt and vinegar,’ Spike said.

  ‘Sorry. The box is down in the storeroom.’

  ‘Harampai,’ Spike replied, ‘finish your cigarette first.’ He turned and scanned the muted sports channel o
n the pub TV. Some kind of junior tennis tournament – players looked about twelve. His ear was caught by a curious, softly spoken accent. Alone at a corner table, a figure sat hunched over a mobile phone.

  Spike moved closer. The man was listening intently; a moment later he launched into a fluent reply, speaking in a strange Slavonic language, vowels issuing from the back of his throat.

  Moving to one side, Spike made out the sweaty face of Piers Harrington. His sun-bleached hair had been tidied up at the barber’s. His eyes shone hard and uneasy in his gaunt face.

  Spike turned back to the bar, where the waitress stubbed out her cigarette and rose to her feet. ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘A glass of champagne for the man in the corner.’

  The waitress peered around Spike’s shoulder; Harrington was still talking, the bony fingers of one hand clasped over his head, like a spider feeding off his skull.

  ‘Tell him Spike Sanguinetti is impressed by his command of Serbian.’

  ‘Impressed by his command of Serbian,’ the waitress repeated uncertainly.

  He gave her a twenty-pound note. ‘That’s too much,’ she called after, but he was already out on the terrace.

  Hamish Ferguson’s booming laugh cut through the February air. On the other side of Casemates, the unsteady figure of Drew Stanford-Trench was shepherding two girls through the entrance to the Tunnel nightclub. Spike turned away and walked in the direction of the Old Town.

  4

  The shops on Main Street were locked up for the night. Spike stared through the security grilles at the tawdry, duty-free displays. This city: once a proud impenetrable fortress, now cravenly begging for custom. A green cleaning truck was inching down the cobbles, flanked by two boiler-suited Moroccans furiously hosing down the gutters. Spike felt a fine salty mist on his face as he passed.

  Defend your client, Galliano liked to say. Defend your client and let the law take care of itself.

  Spike wiped his forehead and continued towards John Mackintosh Square, where Old Man Gaggero was on his nightly walk, fag in one hand, blue bag of excrement in the other, waiting as his dog marked its territory in fitful spurts over the parliament building. He gave Spike his usual wave; Spike nodded back, then turned up the steps to the Old Town.

  The familiar maze of ramps and alleyways unwound before him. As he came into Chicardo’s Passage, he took out his keys, seeing the same cracked azulejos around the lintel, the same window boxes of dying oleanders – a horticultural hospice surviving purely on his father’s palliative applications of Baby Bio.

  Inside, General Ironside raised his head from his basket. His grey muzzle bobbed, as though he couldn’t quite fathom why his joints wouldn’t spring him to his feet. Spike crouched down, stroking the wiry hair behind his ears. The General’s stumpy Jack Russell tail managed a wag before his head began to droop again.

  In the kitchen, Rufus’s watercolour set still lay on the table, alongside the foil remnants of another M&S steak-and-kidney pudding. Spike swept the latter into the bin, then pushed through the bead curtain and up the creaking staircase.

  He stooped his six-foot-three frame down to stare into the bathroom mirror, a constant since his schooldays, unlike the reflection within it. Two faint bracket lines were visible now between Spike’s nose and mouth, like a warning that some time soon smiling would exist only in parentheses. He pushed back his dark hair. At least his eyes were unchanged: bright blue irises in a tanned, angular face. Such kind eyes, people always said. Blue eyes in a Scandinavian were chilly; worn by a dark-skinned Gibraltarian and a warm heart was the assumption.

  Stretching out on his childhood bed, his mind drifted back to the events of last year. Once again, he’d ignored the basic lesson. Trust no one. However innocent, however needy. No one.

  His phone was vibrating. He picked it up from the bedside table, anticipating Jessica’s name on the screen. Number withheld. ‘Yes?’

  ‘Spike?’

  The familiar, husky tones made Spike sit up.

  ‘I wasn’t sure if I should call,’ said Zahra.

  ‘Are you OK?’

  ‘As well as can be expected. How are you?’

  ‘You know. Another day in paradise. Why do you ask?’

  ‘I just wanted to say . . . I’m sorry.’

  ‘Sorry for what?’

  Zahra paused. ‘You mean you haven’t heard?’

  ‘Heard what?’

  ‘Naik,’ Zahra cursed in Arabic, and it was then that Spike knew something had happened to his uncle and aunt.

  The woman stands on the concrete dock, staring out at the marina. Boats creak in the breeze; in the starlight, she makes out the strange eyes painted on their flanks, winking as they dip in and out of the oily water.

  She wonders which boat will be hers. Moored on the furthest jetty is a trawler, more stable than the wooden skiff which brought her here to Malta, which they had to bail out using plastic tubs. Yes . . . she hopes it will be that one.

  She checks the pocket of her robes for the rolled-up notes. She feels guilty about not telling her friends, but there was only one place left on the boat, and she needs to get away from the Idiot, from the one who was too selfish to put Saif before himself. The woman smiles at the thought of him still stuck here in the camp. She will text her friends soon enough. Maybe she will find a way for them to follow her over the water.

  The movement wakes Saif. The woman eases out her left breast and feels the familiar tingle as he latches firmly on.

  Above her the stars pulse in the sky. She remembers how bright they looked in the desert, each one a sun, the Idiot had told her as they lay together.

  Saif gives a whimper. She knows him by now; loosening her sarong, she transfers him to her other breast, clasping his chubby backside with both hands. The rhythmic sucking resumes.

  ‘My little boy,’ she whispers, peering down. ‘Bright star of my life.’

  How quickly he grows – stealing the weight from her, her friends say. No matter, she will need to be lean for the work. Restaurants the size of marketplaces. She will have to fetch and carry, look after the customers, maybe one will catch her eye, the loveliest girl in Berbera, that’s what they used to say.

  Her shoulders start to ache, so she adjusts her grip. She thinks again of the footballer she saw on the TV. His skin darker than hers, but speaking Italian like a native son. She imagines Saif taking care of her, gently correcting her language with a confident smile, moving into a big house with a family of his own.

  The boats creak in a fresh burst of breeze. A smell of faeces reaches her nose. The men’s camp is just round the corner: typical of them to create such a stench. The moon seems higher in the sky. How long has she been here? she wonders. Is she in the right place? But the instructions were clear and she rarely makes mistakes when she has time to think things through.

  She glances over her shoulder. The warehouses set into the wall behind have bars on the gates; inside, she makes out the fibreglass silhouettes of tigers’ muzzles, dragons’ snouts – models for the Carnival, the man had said. She is in the right place.

  Though there is no one else on the dock, she still holds her breath to listen for movement. She thinks again of home, of how she used to wake at night before her brothers snuck back in – before they’d even parted the curtains she would be lying there, eyes closed, pretending not to hear as they clambered into bed, reeking of maize beer. She has that same premonition now, but perhaps it is just Saif, whose feeding always starts to slow as sleep begins to –

  The woman’s neck jerks back. She feels a muscular arm loop around her shoulders, pulling her backwards. She wants to lash out, but her hands are still supporting Saif. Drawing in a breath to scream, she feels something soft pressed against her mouth and nose.

  Sweet antiseptic vapours seep through her nostrils. Her head begins to swim; as she gathers Saif closer, fatigue starts to overwhelm her. The stars turn to yellow streaks in the sky. When she breathes in again, her eyelids flicker.

/>   Her muscles feel tired and heavy. A voice in her head says, Keep holding on, Keep your arms up, but she is powerless to obey as her body starts to relax. Her arms droop. The sharp clamp of gums on her breast wakes her just long enough to feel Saif rolling down her front, followed by the heavy, hollow thump of his head on the concrete.

  Part Two

  Malta

  Chapter Two

  1

  Spike checked the map, then walked left into Triq ir-Repubblika. He didn’t know Valletta well – his last visit had been with his mother – but it was still hard to get lost in Europe’s smallest capital. The Knights of St John had founded their city on an uninhabited limestone promontory, laying out the streets in a grid. The height of the buildings, and their rigid geometry, sometimes put him in mind of a sixteenth-century precursor to Manhattan.

  Dusk was falling, the people streaming for the exits. A quirk of Valletta: the capital of Malta, yet few locals actually lived here, drawn by the cheaper developments of Sliema and St Julian’s. The older families still had their palazzos; otherwise, the permanent inhabitants of Valletta tended to be those who loved the baroque architecture too much to leave. Like his uncle and aunt, Spike thought grimly, a sinking feeling returning to his stomach.

  Two attractive, dark-haired women in trouser suits strode ahead, each carrying pink-ribboned legal briefs: with its tax breaks and online gaming firms, Malta had almost as high a proportion of lawyers as Gibraltar.