A Thousand Cuts

by Thomas Mogford

  ‘I’ve been thinking a lot about you, Spike,’ Drew cut him off. ‘Sitting here with Dad, wondering if he was going to make it through the night. And the thing is . . .’ Drew hesitated, as though searching for the most elegant way to articulate his thoughts. When he continued, it was in that measured, steely voice Spike knew he favoured when embarking upon a particularly aggressive cross-examination. ‘The thing is, Spike, I don’t think you’ll ever make a great lawyer. It’s not to do with intellect, really. You’re just too emotional. Always caught up in this burning need to do the right thing.’ He leant back against the wall again and crossed his ankles. ‘But even you must have realised what it meant for my father when you turned that diary over to the police. And I’ve been wondering if it was really worth it. Selling out a good man to save a loser like Massetti. A drunk who stalked an elderly woman. Intimidated her so much that she was afraid to leave her home.’ Drew glanced round at Spike, and the contempt in his eyes unnerved him. ‘Where did you find it, anyway? Rifling through a dead woman’s things?’

  ‘The diary was sent to me.’

  ‘By whom?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  That took Drew by surprise, and Spike could almost hear his mind running through the list of candidates who might have had the opportunity and motive to inflict such a damning blow on his father’s reputation. Not a pleasant process of elimination, Spike imagined. He cleared his throat. ‘It was evidence, Drew. I had a duty to hand it over.’

  Though it was the truth, it seemed only to anger Drew further, and the carapace which he’d carefully constructed to get himself through weeks of strain finally cracked. He grabbed Spike by the shoulders and turned him bodily to face the glass. ‘Look at him!’

  Spike took in the tubes and wires, the slackness of one side of Sir Anthony’s face.

  ‘Are you seriously telling me that man could have murdered three people?’ Drew hissed in Spike’s ear. ‘You know as well as I do this case will never make it to court. But that doesn’t matter now, because you’ve already destroyed Dad’s name. And you’ve ruined me.’

  Spike pulled away.

  ‘My father cared for you,’ Drew went on, and they both heard his voice crack. ‘He always told me there are two kinds of people in this world. Givers and takers. And you, Spike, are a taker. Who do you think got you that Government Scholarship?’

  Spike was just processing that sobering piece of information when he heard an anxious voice behind him, ‘Drew?’ He turned to see Jessica hastening towards them, and when he looked back, it was just in time to see Drew swinging a punch. He dodged to the right and Drew’s fist flashed past his face and hit the wall. As Drew careered back, nursing his bruised hand, he collided with Jessica, who stumbled back onto the linoleum.

  ‘Christ!’ Spike fell to his knees beside her, throwing Drew a furious look.

  ‘You OK, DS Navarro?’ The young police officer had reappeared, and was gripping Drew by the upper arm.

  ‘I’m fine, Jason,’ Jessica called up, as Spike helped her to her feet. Then she reached over and touched her colleague’s sleeve. ‘Really. No harm done.’

  Drew glared down at the hand on his arm, then flicked up his eyes to the young officer with such disdain that the man coloured and let him go.

  ‘Drew!’ Spike called after him as he stalked away.

  But Drew just shouldered his way through the door to the stairwell, with such force that it smashed against the wall with a gun-like crack.

  ‘You sure you’re OK, Jessie?’ the police officer asked.

  Jessica nodded, rubbing her coccyx. ‘At least I didn’t spill this.’ They all looked down at the urine sample in her hands, and the police officer gave an uncomfortable laugh.

  Outside the hospital, Spike hailed a cab. ‘Catalan Bay,’ he said to the driver.

  Jessica threw him an enquiring look, and he smiled. ‘I don’t need to be back at the office for an hour or two. There’s something I want you to see.’

  Jessica settled back into her seat, gazing out of the window at a jumbo jet banking round to land on Gibraltar’s tiny ex-military runway. ‘You did the right thing, Spike.’

  Spike pictured Sir Anthony slumped in his hospital bed; the hatred in Drew’s eyes. ‘Did I?’

  For the first time in a while, he thought Jessica looked a little unsure of herself. ‘I hope so.’

  59

  The taxi turned onto Catalan Bay Road, and Spike glanced across at Jessica. What if she didn’t see what he had in the house? Or worse, if on a second viewing, it didn’t live up to its early promise? Maybe this time even he would see only its flaws: the cracks in the walls, which might or might not be structural; the black mould colonising the grout in the bathrooms.

  But as soon as Jessica caught her first glimpse of the house, he knew it was going to be all right. ‘Is it on the market?’ she asked, as he helped her out of the taxi.

  ‘It will be. But if we can come up with a sensible offer, I think Old Davey will let us have it.’

  If Jessica loved the house, its owner was equally appreciative of her charms. This time Davey Lavagna produced his toothless smile as soon as he opened the door and saw her, then Spike watched in amazement as he started scurrying about the house as fast as his old joints would allow, prising open rusted shutters and drawing Jessica’s attention to the house’s ‘original features’ with an exuberance that would have put Juan Felipe to shame.

  But it was the view from the room Spike had earmarked as their bedroom that swung it. He’d known it would. ‘Now this is something,’ Jessica said, cheeks flushed with excitement as she stood on the balcony with her hands on her hips, looking down at the waves breaking on the sand. Buoyed by her smile, Spike grabbed her hand and led her into the box room at the end of the corridor. ‘I thought we might have the nursery in here.’

  The soothing sound of the surf filtered up. ‘Yes,’ Jessica said thoughtfully, eyes drawn to a long, jagged crack in the wall. She reached up and traced a finger down it. But then she turned back to the view, and Spike was relieved to see her smile again. ‘So you’re in?’ he asked.

  ‘I’m in.’

  They found Davey dozing in his chair in front of the telly, the paper bag of pastries they’d brought him cradled on his lap. But as soon as he saw Jessica, he was back on his feet, brushing the crumbs from his cords. ‘You like it!’ he said, jabbing an accusing finger at her smiling face.

  ‘We want to make you an offer,’ Spike said.

  Davey stuck his thumbs into his waistband and beamed. ‘Well, well, well!’

  ‘Subject to survey,’ Jessica added.

  Davey turned with a frown, the Genoese merchant in him suddenly suspicious. But it would have taken a tougher man than he to deny Jessica, so he just stuck out a hand. ‘I’ll wait to hear from you, then.’

  60

  On the cab ride home they talked about the house, Jessica looking more animated than Spike had seen her in months. Making plans, thinking about what they might do to the place after they moved in. Once they’d saved a bit of money, got Charlie and the baby settled.

  ‘So you are coming home then?’ Spike ventured. He still wasn’t sure. Jessica nodded, and he had to force himself not to let out a sigh of relief. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

  ‘I know you are,’ she replied. It seemed a long time before she spoke again. ‘And I get why you felt you had to do what you did. You and Drew have this strange Butch and Sundance thing going on.’

  Spike winced. If that had ever been the case, it certainly wasn’t now.

  ‘I know you’ve always had a soft spot for Sir Anthony, so don’t think I don’t understand why you wanted to warn him that he was about to be arrested. But I shared that information with you in confidence, Spike. You were risking my career. Everything I’ve worked for all these years.’

  Spike lowered his head, accepting his punishment. The cabby cast him a look of pity in the rear-view mirror, and he averted his eyes.

  ‘You wei
ghed up what it might cost me against your loyalty to the Stanfords, and you decided that my career could take the hit. And it’s not the first time you’ve made me feel like this – as though our relationship is some kind of afterthought that can be sidelined, then picked up again, a bit bruised and battered, when you eventually remember it’s important to you.’ She sighed. ‘But I can see it must have taken a lot for you to hand over the diary, knowing how damaging it would be for Sir Anthony’s case.’

  Spike was encouraged enough to hazard another question. ‘What did the department say about disciplinary action?’

  ‘They’re attaching an official reprimand to my record. Other than that . . .’

  Spike reached over and picked up her hand. ‘I’ll do better, I promise.’

  The atmosphere lightened. Even the cab driver seemed to sense it, as he popped in the earpiece of his mobile phone and embarked on a colourful conversation with his bookie in yanito.

  ‘Did Isola say anything else about the diary?’ Spike asked.

  Jessica raised an eyebrow. ‘What is it that particularly interests you, Spike? The forensics?’

  He gave a sheepish nod. She’d always been able to read his motives better than anyone else.

  ‘The only prints on the diary were yours and Marcela’s. You didn’t receive the package until Tuesday, four days after Marcela was killed, so we were all working on the assumption that it was sent to you after she died. But it turns out that half the postal service were off celebrating Yom Kippur that week, so there was a backlog. It could have been posted on the Friday, but not delivered for several days.’

  Spike rubbed his chin. He needed a shave. ‘So Marcela could have sent it herself?’

  ‘It’s possible.’

  ‘But why to me?’

  Jessica shrugged. ‘Maybe she was scared. She was sure Sir Anthony had killed Eloise Capurro, and was convinced he would come after her next. So she sent her diary to the one person she trusted. Her old friend, Spike Sanguinetti.’ Jessica gave a roll of the eyes. ‘God knows why.’

  Spike accepted the insult without complaint. The driver chose that moment to overtake a construction lorry, narrowly missing a delivery truck coming the other way. Jessica glared at him, and he brought his telephone conversation to an abrupt end.

  ‘You don’t really think Sir Anthony could have done it?’ Spike lowered his voice. ‘Killed three people. At his age. In his condition.’

  Jessica pulled a face that told him she thought it unlikely. ‘Though . . .’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sir Anthony’s not the only person who might have wanted to keep the contents of that diary under wraps.’

  Spike compiled a mental list of the members of the Mil Cortes and ticked them off one by one. ‘Tito Peralta? He died twenty years ago.’

  Jessica gave an impatient tut. ‘Drew, Spike. You saw how he was at the hospital. How fiercely he would protect his father’s reputation.’

  Spike wanted to laugh and tell her not to be ridiculous, but then he remembered the venom in Drew’s tone as he’d accused Spike of ruining his career; the ferocity of the punch he’d swung. ‘Or his own,’ he murmured.

  The taxi turned onto Winston Churchill Avenue. ‘I can walk from here,’ Spike said. ‘Chicardo’s Passage,’ he called to the driver as he got out. ‘Make sure she gets home safely.’ He slapped a hand on the car roof and watched them drive away, relieved to see Jessica turn and offer him a smile through the rear window.

  61

  Spike felt the wind rising at his back as he walked past the marina on his way to the office. He paused for a moment to enjoy the melodic tinkle of the masts. Then, just as he was about to turn towards Main Street, he saw a familiar figure kneeling on the quayside, scrubbing down the side of a small fishing boat.

  Christopher Massetti glanced up as Spike stepped over the low rope barrier. With that beard and his faded submariner jacket, he looked strangely at home in this setting, like a seasoned trawlerman preparing for the new season. He wiped his palms on his jeans, then offered Spike a hand. He’d lost more weight, Spike noted, but his grip was as firm as it always had been.

  ‘You like the look of her?’ Massetti gestured at the vessel.

  Spike gave an unconvincing nod. What he knew about boats could be written on the back of a Royal Gibraltar postal stamp.

  Massetti chuckled. ‘I can’t say I know much about sailing myself these days.’ He hoisted one boot onto the gunwale. ‘Mark christened her Rebecca. She’s still registered in his name. Not been taken out since he died.’

  Judging by the frayed fender ropes and the hull coated in barnacles and algae, Spike doubted she ever would be again. The stern was covered by a grey, guano-spattered tarpaulin, and as to what lay inside the wheelhouse, the glass was so encrusted with salt that it was anyone’s guess.

  ‘It wasn’t always plain sailing between Mark and me, if you’ll forgive the pun,’ Massetti went on. ‘I wasn’t an easy man to get along with, and I wasn’t his child. I suppose this is my way of making it up to him.’

  And of keeping your mind off the booze, Spike imagined.

  ‘Perhaps I’ll take her out one day. All being well.’ Massetti’s grey eyes glinted.

  ‘I hope it works out for you, Christopher.’

  Massetti nudged the tub of filthy water with his boot. ‘I’d better get on. It’ll take more than a bit of spit and polish to get the Rebecca seaworthy, but once I’m done with her, at least she’ll be clean.’

  Spike nodded, remembering the order that Massetti had imposed upon the humble contents of his apartment. The man had a near-obsessive need for cleanliness. Something Spike could have benefited from in certain areas of his life, he knew. Especially his office. And Peter’s . . . Suddenly a dark thought struck him, and it must have been obvious from his expression, as Massetti knitted his brows and tilted his head.

  ‘Sorry, I’ve got to go.’ Spike turned his back on the marina and walked quickly away. He couldn’t believe he’d been so blind.

  62

  ‘Where’s Peter?’

  Ana Lopes plucked the bud of one headphone from her ear. ‘Gone to Jury’s. So I expect that’s him for the day.’ Her smile was affectionate rather than cruel, Spike thought. ‘What do you need?’ she asked.

  ‘Don’t worry, I can get it myself,’ Spike called back.

  As usual, Peter’s office smelt of Creed cologne and stale cigarette smoke. A new case of Rioja had arrived, the pinewood box already covered in ashtrays crammed with Silk Cut butts. For some reason, Spike had always half-expected to find one white tip rouged with lipstick, but it had never happened.

  He pulled open a desk drawer. The bank statement was just where Peter had left it. He scribbled down the transaction code and returned to the secretarial bay. ‘Find out where these monies were sent when they left the client account, would you?’

  Ana frowned as Spike gave her the Post-it note, but before she could protest, he’d already closed his office door. The MI5 file was still heaped on his desk, testament to all the time he’d wasted over the last few months, to how much he’d allowed himself to be distracted from what had been going on right under his nose. His phone rang almost immediately. ‘En pala?’ he said, slipping into yanito, as he seemed to more and more these days in times of stress.

  ‘Peter transferred the money to a Hambros account here in Gibraltar.’ Ana paused. ‘It’s a legitimate account, Spike. In Ms Baxter’s name on behalf of Bonanza Gaming.’

  Spike set down the receiver. Well, that was it then. Feeling a sudden surge of rage, he swept the MI5 file off his desk, watching as the crinkled, wine-stained pages fanned out across the carpet. Then he took hold of the two bank statements, placed them side by side and sat for a moment, trying to clear his mind. To impose some order.

  In August this year, the Galliano & Sanguinetti private client account had taken receipt of a BACS payment of 3.5 million euros from a Russian bank. The money had been intended for transfer to the Liberal
Party coffers as a one-off donation, and in due course would have been reported to the Electoral Commission, and its provenance vetted. But then the Stanford scandal had hit, and Bonanza had cancelled the donation and presumably asked for their money back. But Peter hadn’t returned the money to Kazan Kredit Bank. It had been wired to Bonanza’s Hambros account in Gibraltar. And because the provenance was now Galliano & Sanguinetti, a trusted law firm known to Hambros, there was nothing in the transfer to concern the bank’s Compliance Department. And there you had it – 3.5 million euros of freshly laundered money.

  Spike propped his elbows on the desk and massaged his temples. It was the oldest trick in the book. He wasn’t sure what upset him more: that Peter had done this thing, or that he’d considered Spike too distracted to notice.

  The one part Spike couldn’t get his head around was the Stanford scandal. Ostensibly, it had been Sir Anthony’s arrest which had made Bonanza retract their campaign contribution, yet that had surely been an unforeseeable event. Had Peter planned to find some other excuse for Bonanza to pull the money? Or had he just used Sir Anthony’s misfortune opportunistically? The latter possibility was the more galling, suggesting as it did that Peter had come up with the scheme himself and presented it to Siri Baxter. Spike still couldn’t believe that of his partner, despite all the evidence to the contrary. The Peter he knew was egocentric, capricious and greedy. But he wasn’t malicious, and he certainly wasn’t stupid. Peter must have been blackmailed into it. Perhaps Siri Baxter had something over him. Spike was just pondering what that might be when he heard a rap at the door.

  ‘I’m off,’ Ana Lopes said. She turned to go, then changed her mind and stood there for a moment, as if lost for words. Very un-Ana-like. ‘I don’t know what’s going on between you and Peter,’ she continued. ‘I like working here, and I like Peter, even if he can sail a bit close to the wind. But if there’s something shady going on – with one of your clients, say – I just want you to know that I can’t be involved.’ She fixed him with her clever green eyes, and for the first time in their acquaintance Spike thought she looked vulnerable. ‘I’m thirty-three next month, you see. I’ve already started over once in my life, and it wasn’t easy. So I can’t do it again.’ With that, she quietly shut the door.