A Thousand Cuts

by Thomas Mogford

Esteban Alejandro REYES was executed today at the Moorish Castle in Gibraltar in accordance with the sentence of death passed upon him by the Supreme Court of Gibraltar Special Court on 12 October, 1940.

  REYES pleaded “Not Guilty” to charges of treachery by acting with intent to help the enemy contrary to Regulation 23 of the Defence Regulations, 1939, as amended by paragraph 2 of the Defence (Amendment) (No. 17) Regulations, 1940 (Gibraltar). His trial took place on 9 October, 1940, before the Chief Justice of Gibraltar (His Honour Henry Percival Fawcett). REYES was represented by Mr Samuel T. Alonso.

  REYES was recruited by a Spanish agent working for the German Secret Service and tasked with committing an act of sabotage in Gibraltar. As an employee of H.M. Dockyard living in Gibraltar, he succeeded in smuggling a bomb into Gibraltar on 9 April this year and secreting it the following day aboard a vessel berthed at the Dry Docks. The explosion caused the deaths of two Royal Naval Engineers, ENGINEER COMMANDER ARTHUR URQUHART BAINES and ENGINEER LIEUTENANT HAROLD JOHN BECK. REYES himself was injured in the blast, but recovered sufficiently to attend trial. He is survived by a wife.’

  Censors, please act accordingly.

  AUTHORITY: COLONIAL OFFICE TIME: 15.25 DATE 30.10.40

  PART FOUR

  43

  Spike turned over the last document of the file, registering the twist of disgust in his gut as he stared down at the thick sheaf of A3 pages. So that was how it was done, he thought. That was how you orchestrated an execution. At Bar School in London, worthier contemporaries had spent their summer holidays working for Amnesty International or the Death Penalty Project, offering their untested services pro bono to death-row convicts incarcerated in the less evolved states of the US, or the Caribbean. But Spike had lacked both the funds and moral energy to indulge in such adventures, so it was a new experience for him now to see the relentlessness with which the apparatus of the State could collude to condemn a man to death.

  Spike was against the death penalty on principle, having encountered enough unjust verdicts in the course of his career to confirm that the justice system was far from infallible. And on the basis of this evidence, the case against Esteban Reyes was weaker than most. He would have liked to have seen the court transcripts, but even without them, the glaring anomaly was one which Reyes himself had identified – namely, why a man who had just planted a bomb would hang around waiting for it to explode. It felt as though Reyes’s conviction had been hurried through without much consideration of his actual innocence or guilt. A more hawkish lawyer might have felt that the end justified the means: that Gibraltar was at war, and under such circumstances, the Governor had needed to set an example to deter other potential saboteurs. But Spike was no hawk, and the fact that the inconsistencies in Reyes’s case had been subordinated to serve a political end troubled him deeply.

  Then there was Sir Anthony’s role in the affair. For there could be little doubt that Sir Anthony Stanford was the witness referred to in the file as ‘Laurel’. Every one of his statements had been redacted from the record to protect his identity, and Spike wondered how many favours the old man must have called in from his pals in Whitehall to achieve such anonymity. Spike could understand that urge; what was odd was how the account that Sir Anthony had given to Spike in his office had differed from that in the file. Sir Anthony had implied that the Security Service had exhorted him to befriend Raúl de Herrera, yet the official version made clear that their acquaintance had been forged long before Sir Anthony had even been recruited.

  Spike gazed through the French windows at the weed-strewn patio, thinking, as he seemed to more and more these days, of his mother. Rufus rarely spoke of her death now, but when he did, Spike would notice that certain details of his story changed over time – nuances, sometimes even facts. It was human nature, he supposed. He couldn’t blame his father for constructing a narrative which gave him comfort, and which – even if it couldn’t make sense of his wife’s suicide – at least absolved him of some responsibility. A subtle reworking of a painful story: who could claim never to have done the same? Certainly not Sir Anthony, Spike thought, pulling himself back to the matter at hand.

  In the end, what did it all matter? The events described in the file had taken place so long ago that the UK Government had allowed the documents to be declassified. Esteban Reyes had been dead for over seven decades, just a footnote in history. And the chances were he had been guilty – as the DSO had pointed out, if it wasn’t Reyes who’d planted the bomb, then who?

  Hearing a knock at the door, Spike looked up and saw Ana Lopes lurking in the doorway, looking uncharacteristically flustered. ‘I know you asked not to be disturbed, Spike. But your, ah, well, Jessica is here. She said it was important.’

  Jessica appeared in the doorway. From the set of her mouth, Spike could tell that something was wrong. He got to his feet. ‘What is it?’

  Jessica waited for Ana to retreat. ‘They found the body of an elderly woman. In Rosia Bay.’

  It took a few seconds for the implication of Jessica’s words to sink in. Then Spike cleared his throat, trying to repress the lump in it. ‘Have you told Sofia?’

  ‘She’s in Cadiz; I didn’t want to worry her until we knew for sure.’ Jessica dug her fist into the small of her back and grimaced. ‘Do you think I could have a glass of water?’

  Spike helped her into the leather armchair and reached for the decanter. At least he’d refreshed it since Sir Anthony’s visit.

  ‘I told Isola I’d identify the body.’ Jessica drained her glass. ‘It seemed the least I could do.’ She stared down at her fingers as they plucked at a loose thread in the taut white cotton of her top.

  Spike refilled her glass, then kissed the top of her head. ‘I’ll go.’ As he pulled closed the door, he realised that neither of them had mentioned Marcela’s name.

  44

  There were three of them inside the tent – four if you counted the person in the black body bag at their feet. The heat was dizzying, but it was the smell that made Spike’s stomach keel, the sweet, rotten reek of decay. It seemed the young police photographer felt the same, his face ashen as he scrolled through images on his iPad.

  ‘Who found the body?’ Spike asked.

  ‘There were two kids out crabbing,’ Isola began. It sounded like the first line of a joke. In the confined space of the tent, Spike smelt the lunch on the detective’s breath, and automatically reared back. ‘One of them spotted a foot sticking out beneath the jetty,’ Isola continued. ‘The body must have drifted in. The bay was calm overnight, so the crabs had a field day.’

  The photographer staggered just a little, and for a moment Spike thought he might be about to faint. He took hold of the young man’s forearm and steered him towards the front of the tent. ‘Why don’t you get some air?’

  Isola looked with contempt as his more artistic colleague lurched outside onto the crumbling jetty of Rosia Bay. Then he turned back to Spike. ‘You ready?’ he asked, his dark brown eyes sliding over Spike’s face, as though weighing up whether Jessica Navarro’s chosen mate was up to the task. Probably not, Spike concluded, aware of the sweat sheeting down his back. But he nodded anyway, and Isola fixed a white elasticated mask over his nose and mouth and dropped to one knee.

  As the black plastic began to part, Spike made out the pale crown of a head covered in ice-white hair. Then that heavily lined forehead, and a pair of startled, carefully plucked eyebrows. It’s her, he wanted to say, but it was too soon, he knew it was too soon. The zip continued on its journey, and Spike closed his eyes rather than have to stare into Marcela’s empty pink sockets.

  ‘The crabs go for the softest parts first, I’m afraid,’ Isola said. ‘Heri hof.’

  Spike frowned – how could things get any worse? – but then he opened his eyes to see Marcela’s protruding yellow teeth, the damage done to her lips and gums, and turned away. ‘It’s her.’

  Isola looked up, and Spike formed his hand into a C-shape and pinched his cheeks. ‘The go
ld fillings. Marcela had one on each side of her mouth.’

  Isola zipped the body bag closed and got to his feet. ‘Tenkiù, compa.’ He stood for a moment next to Spike in the sweat box of the tent. Through the rear flap, Spike could see a massive liner cruising towards Ocean Village, three thousand new souls venturing in for their first and most likely only experience of Gib. Fish ’n’ chips at Casemates, quick trip to see the monkeys, a few jars on Main Street. In and out in a couple of hours.

  ‘Did you know her well?’ Isola asked abruptly.

  ‘Not really,’ Spike replied, wondering if that was a lie. ‘My family used to eat at her restaurant when I was a boy.’

  ‘No husband, at least. No kids. That’s something.’

  ‘Marcela had family. Friends. She’ll be missed.’

  Isola shrugged, then held out a hand. Spike shook it. ‘That’s it, then?’ he asked.

  ‘That’s it.’

  45

  Spike found Jessica talking on her phone outside New Mole House, biting the little fingernail of her left hand. When she saw Spike approach, she gave a small smile and wound up her conversation, ‘OK. Well, let’s just wait and see. We’ll know more after the post-mortem.’ She hung up, then turned away from Spike to pick up her bag from the steps. As she straightened up, he put his hands on her shoulders and she leant back against him.

  ‘Was that Sofia?’ Spike asked.

  Jessica nodded.

  ‘How did she take it?’

  ‘She didn’t say much. I expect it’ll be a while before it sinks in.’ She twisted her head round to look at him. ‘She asked about the body. Was it very bad?’

  Spike thought of Marcela’s mutilated lips, of the foetid smell in the tent. Something of what he felt must have shown on his face as Jessica reached up and squeezed his hand. ‘Come on. I’ll shout you a coffee. Compliments of the RGP.’ Then she pulled away and he followed her into reception.

  The same slow-moving desk sergeant was on duty, immersed in a book of Sudoku. ‘Any rooms free, Winston?’ Jessica called over. The man raised three plump fingers and buzzed them through.

  Spike waited in the interview room while Jessica got the drinks. He was pleasantly surprised when she handed him a cappuccino in a porcelain cup, complete with dusting of chocolate. ‘Isola keeps a Gaggia in his office’ – she managed a wink – ‘but I know where he hides the key.’ Then she sat down and pulled her iPad out of her bag. ‘I want to show you something.’

  Her face was serious again, so he drew up a chair while she busied herself with the screen, eyes narrowed in concentration. ‘Need some help?’ he teased, but she didn’t smile back.

  ‘Just give me a minute, would you?’ She swiped one finger across the screen and a file opened to reveal a dark still of camera footage. Spike sat forward. ‘Is that Governor’s Street?’

  Jessica nodded. ‘On the night of the fire.’

  He pulled the screen towards him. ‘You found the camera?’

  ‘Installed above Eloise’s porch.’ Her fingertip hovered over the ‘play’ button, then she looked up, directly into Spike’s eyes. ‘This is just between us, right?’

  ‘Of course.’

  She held his gaze, then hit play. The footage was grainy, but in the glow of a street lamp, Spike saw the first floor of a row of terraced houses. As they watched, the top of a man’s head came into view. The face was impossible to make out clearly.

  ‘The camera was installed too high,’ Jessica said.

  So that was why Drew hadn’t submitted any CCTV footage as evidence at trial, Spike thought. He watched as the front door opened, and the man stepped inside the house. ‘Eloise let Massetti in?’

  Jessica held out a hand, demanding patience, so Spike tipped back on the legs of his chair, trying to make sense of it all. Eloise had been terrified of Massetti: anyone could see that from the way she’d looked at him in the courtroom. What possible reason could she have had for allowing him into her house?

  Jessica touched a button on the screen, and Spike righted his chair, watching the time code fast-forward, one minute, two . . . Then she hit play and they saw the front door open and the man re-emerge. The doorstep added an extra six inches to the man’s height, so his head was now in shot, face angled away from the lens. Then suddenly he turned to the camera, and Spike prepared himself to see Christopher Massetti captured on screen, fleeing the scene of his crime. But then Jessica pressed pause, and Spike saw that it wasn’t Massetti at all. ‘Jesus,’ he said.

  A lock of Sir Anthony Stanford’s grey hair had fallen over his forehead, but there was no doubting it was him.

  ‘Now watch this,’ Jessica said. She hit fast-forward again, and Sir Anthony vanished from shot. Moments later, the houses opposite began to blur as the smoke overwhelmed the lens. Then the footage shook, and went blank.

  Jessica closed the iPad, and Spike rubbed his eyes. Surely Sir Anthony couldn’t have done this thing. There must be some alternative explanation, some other reason for him to have been at the Capurro house. But if so, why hadn’t he come forward of his own volition? Spike twisted his fingers through his hair. Eloise had been locked into her bedroom, Jessica had said. Spike imagined the panic, the fear she must have felt as the fire took hold, and thought that he couldn’t conceive of a worse way to die. But then he remembered Marcela’s body, and wondered if she would agree. ‘So Massetti didn’t start the fire.’

  Jessica shook her head. ‘He must have panicked when you saw him. Assumed he’d get the blame.’

  ‘He was right,’ Spike said, realising how little it had taken for him to have been persuaded of his client’s guilt. He looked back at the screen, seeing the panic in Sir Anthony’s eyes, the smear of soot on his face. ‘Have you questioned Anthony yet?’

  ‘Isola’s petitioning Judge Bossano right now for a warrant to search Dragon Trees.’ Jessica’s phone rang, and she rolled away her chair to answer it. ‘Vale . . . OK, I’ll let them know. Yes, I’ll be around for a while. See you later.’ As she hung up and turned to Spike, he saw that her cheeks were flushed, her chestnut eyes glistening, and though he knew she had a right to be pleased with her work, he couldn’t help but find her exhilaration a little distasteful. ‘They got the warrant, then?’

  ‘Six a.m. tomorrow.’

  Spike pictured Sir Anthony jolted from sleep as the heavy fists banged on the door. ‘Do you really think it’s necessary, Jess?’ They both heard the censure in his voice. ‘Anthony’s a bit frail for a dawn raid, isn’t he?’

  ‘He didn’t look too frail in that video,’ Jessica retorted. Her phone rang again. She looked at the caller ID, then back up at Spike. ‘I’ve still got a few things to sort out. Maybe I should just see you at home.’

  Spike got to his feet. ‘Don’t stay too long.’

  Jessica didn’t reply. She’d already picked up her phone. ‘Detective Sergeant Navarro . . .’

  Spike closed the door quietly behind him and walked away.

  46

  The Cathedral clock was tolling eight as Spike rounded the corner into Gunner’s Lane. There seemed little point in hurrying home: Jessica would probably be at the station for hours, Charlie would be in bed, and Spike was in no mood to deal with his father. The Old Town was emptying out, as it always did at this hour, its citizens dissipating into the steep-rising labyrinth of streets that had formed itself piecemeal over the centuries. Camp followers, the Spanish still called them – tailors, fishermen, vintners, pimps; men and women who’d moved here to provide what the Garrison had needed. Genoese, in the main, though the town they’d built resembled something from North Africa – crumbling stucco facades, narrow twisting gulleys, shutters that couldn’t open without striking the buildings on the other side.

  Passing what was left of Governor’s Street, Spike saw a Liberal Party poster wire-tied to the scaffolding. ‘DST – The ONLY Candidate’. DST . . . Christ: Drew even had his own acronym now. Today’s Chronicle had identified Drew as an early front-runner for the premiership.
Spike wondered how the pollsters would react when news broke that his father had been arrested on suspicion of murder. He knew what Jessica would say – that Drew had hitched his wagon to his father’s star, and must live with the consequences if that star happened to implode. But Jessica had always had strong views about people like the Stanfords. He couldn’t blame her, he supposed. She’d grown up sharing a bedroom with her brother, Nuno, on the wrong side of the Varyl Begg Estate. She and Spike had never discussed why she hadn’t gone to university, but he knew that money had always been tight, and that she still sent a part of her salary home to her mother. Her father had now made himself a new family to disappoint in Marbella, and Jessica had had no one to smooth her passage through life. Maybe that was why she had scant respect for those who did – though she’d always professed to like Drew.

  Spike knew he ought to be pleased for her. Most officers in her position would be starting maternity leave unsure of their future prospects. But Jessica would head off knowing that she’d just made a breakthrough in one of the biggest investigations the RGP had faced in years. It would give her confidence a much needed boost, and for that he was grateful.

  But he still couldn’t shake from his conscience the thought of Sir Anthony clad in his pyjamas, watching his beloved Dragon Trees being torn apart. Spike had always had faith in Jessica’s judgment, but in this case, what if she were wrong? He’d seen her eyes light up when she’d shown him the CCTV footage, knowing that she’d just found the crucial piece of evidence that would lead the police to Sir Anthony – a man so revered in Gib that only incontrovertible proof of guilt would suffice. So maybe, in this instance, Jessica’s judgment wasn’t infallible. Maybe it was clouded by a little ambition of her own.

  On the corner of Cornwall’s Parade, Spike pulled out his phone and stared at it, mind suddenly flooding with memories of all those occasions over the years when the Stanford family had come to his aid. How a few weeks after Spike’s mother’s funeral, Sir Anthony had persuaded Rufus to let him accompany them on a trip to Provence, where he’d offered Spike his first taste of champagne, and had looked away when he’d found him smoking on the balcony with Drew. How he’d given Spike a brisk talking-to just before his A levels – told him to buck up his ideas, not to let his mother dictate his future as she’d done his past. How he’d introduced Spike to the senior partner at Ruggles & Mistry when he’d been forced to return to Gib to look after Rufus – put in a good word, as he always did. So before he could change his mind, Spike scrolled through his contacts and hit dial.