For Ali Mogford
Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam,
Like wrecks of a dissolving dream.
Percy Bysshe Shelley, Hellas
Contents
Map
Prologue
PART ONE
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
PART TWO
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-one
Chapter Twenty-two
Chapter Twenty-three
Chapter Twenty-four
Chapter Twenty-five
Chapter Twenty-six
Chapter Twenty-seven
Chapter Twenty-eight
Chapter Twenty-nine
Chapter Thirty
Chapter Thirty-one
Chapter Thirty-two
Chapter Thirty-three
Chapter Thirty-four
Chapter Thirty-five
Chapter Thirty-six
Chapter Thirty-seven
Chapter Thirty-eight
Chapter Thirty-nine
Chapter Forty
Chapter Forty-one
Chapter Forty-two
Chapter Forty-three
Chapter Forty-four
Chapter Forty-five
Chapter Forty-six
Chapter Forty-seven
Chapter Forty-eight
Chapter Forty-nine
Chapter Fifty
Chapter Fifty-one
Chapter Fifty-two
Chapter Fifty-three
Chapter Fifty-four
Chapter Fifty-five
Chapter Fifty-six
Chapter Fifty-seven
Chapter Fifty-eight
PART THREE
Chapter Fifty-nine
Chapter Sixty
Chapter Sixty-one
Chapter Sixty-two
Chapter Sixty-three
Note on the Author
Also available by Thomas Mogford
Prologue
The late-morning sun beats down on the child’s blonde head as she stares out from the Rock. Fourteen hundred feet below lies the Strait of Gibraltar, tankers and liners scarring its gleaming surface. Mountains break the haze on the far side of the water – Africa? Europe? The girl isn’t sure. She remembers her parents arguing when the cruise ship docked, her father insisting that Gibraltar was an island, her mother that it was attached to Spain. In the distance, a queue of glinting Matchbox cars waits to drive away onto dry land. Mama was right, then.
The little girl walks on, scuffed red Mary-Janes kicking up the dust. Shielding the path from the sheer drop down the Rock is a crumbling stone wall, which bulges out into a small, curved enclosure. A group of grey-furred monkeys is huddled inside, grunting and swaying like a single multi-limbed beast.
The girl glances round: her parents are still fussing over the baby, slumped mewling as usual in its carry sling. She looks back. One of the monkeys has escaped the throng and leapt onto the parapet wall. It gives a hiss, exposing dirty yellow fangs.
The tour guide strides over, tanned and weather-beaten, king of his tiny domain. ‘Come away from the edge,’ he barks, ‘and don’t feed the apes, it’s against the law.’
But the child is pointing into the enclosure, where the noise has died down, the squabble mysteriously resolved. They watch in silence as, one by one, the monkeys jump onto the parapet, before clambering down the limestone crags out of sight. The largest remains behind, thick-necked, squatting, its head lowered.
The guide recognises the pack leader, a powerful matriarch who usually shuns the tourists. Beneath her front legs lies a heavy tubular object. As the monkey raises the trophy to her mouth, the man feels his heartbeat quicken. He pulls off his sunglasses, frowning in disbelief as he registers the dangling white strands, the matted wrist hairs, the scattering of sweetcorn-like globules around a protruding nub of bone.
The monkey edges her lips along the tube, as though playing some primitive instrument. Her mouth recoils from a shining metal band, a man’s wedding ring, the tour guide realises. Taking a step backwards, he feels a sudden pressure as the little girl clamps herself to his side, sweat-soaked T-shirt muffling her scream.
The monkey’s pink-skinned face stretches into an unsettling facsimile of a smile. Then she grabs the severed human arm and vaults away down the Rock.
PART ONE
Genoa
Chapter One
Spike Sanguinetti sat at the deserted café, half-watching the tour groups gather along the esplanade. The main draw appeared to be the aquarium, a vast rectangular building projecting into the bay. Odd to pay to see captive fish with the Mediterranean lapping at your feet.
He ordered a cappuccino, provoking a snort of disapproval from the waiter – in Genoa, it seemed, no one drank milky coffee after breakfast. He requested a slab of focaccia, just to irk the man further, then turned back to the esplanade, watching the tourist queues lengthen as cocksure youths on Vespas cruised the coast road behind, like sharks circling for prey.
The coffee was slapped down, brown liquid catching in its saucer. Spike took in the logo on the side of the cup – Janus, the Roman god of new beginnings, one face turned to the future, the other to the past. He’d seen countless images of the city’s mythical founder since arriving in Genoa last month, emblazoned on flags, boats, gateways, the symbolism like a quiet taunt to a man so unable to contemplate his future; so stubbornly drawn to the past. In the distance, a church bell started to toll. Midday had finally arrived.
Spike ate the last of his focaccia, savouring the sea-salt flakes embedded in its crust, then heard a hollow metallic rattle – security blinds rolling down as the merchants of the Porto Antico closed up shop for lunch. Downing his coffee, he rose reluctantly to his feet and set off along the waterfront.
Just past the aquarium was the Museum of Seafaring, a reminder that the industry which historically had enriched Genoa was also the means for so many of its residents to escape. Spike passed Renzo Piano’s futuristic white crane, eyes moving to the happy tourists hoisted in its glass lift, snapping photos of the bay. Turning his back on them, he walked beneath an ugly concrete overpass towards a line of palazzos set back from the harbour.
Narrow passageways knifed between grand, faded facades. He slipped inside one, passing a sweating shopkeeper hurrying back towards the light. The twisting alleys – caruggi, they were called – led deep into the medieval rump of the port, the buildings on either side eight stories high, washing lines strung between them, what light there was struggling through an arrow-slit of blue. On the corner of a locked-up florist, Spike saw the street name he’d been looking for: Vico Paganini.
The girls were standing in their usual spot. There was nothing particularly outrageous about their appearance – perhaps the stonewash jeans were a little tight, the leather boots an odd choice for this time of year. What was strange was that they did not seem to be going anywhere.
Hearing Spike’s footsteps, both girls turned. One looked Bulgarian – not dark enough: Romanian, maybe – the other North African. The Romanian glanced at the building above, then mustered a smile and made her move. ‘Vuoi venir’ sopra?’
‘Ho una domanda . . .’ Spike began, but the girl’s blank face suggested an en
tirely pragmatic command of Italian. ‘English?’ he tried, and she nodded uneasily.
Moving to one side, Spike reached into his pocket and drew out the photograph. ‘I’m looking for this woman. Have you seen her?’
The Romanian’s smile died, and suddenly Spike could see the puffiness around her eyes, the feverish sheen on her forehead. Her friend approached, slim arms folded tightly across her tank top, and they both stared down at the picture. A scraping came from above: Spike looked up and saw a familiar two-faced symbol surmounting the window. Janus, Genoa . . .
‘Please, mister,’ the North African girl said, shaking her head, ‘we . . .’ She broke off as the door opened and a bullet-headed Genoese strode out – diamond ear-stud, unbuttoned denim shirt suggesting a profound commitment to the gym. The girls were already back at their stations.
‘You talk, you pay,’ the Genoese snapped. He lurched at Spike, gesturing at the picture in his hand. Crisp, leather-soled footsteps echoed behind as a suited man appeared. The pimp threw a nod at the Romanian, who made an awkward sashay towards the new prospect. Quickly, Spike flipped over the photograph. At the café he’d written four letters on the back: ‘MDMA’. As the pimp read them, his stance relaxed. ‘Five minute,’ he smirked, walking back into the house.
Spike turned again to the North African. ‘Her name is Zahra. She comes from Morocco. Like you, maybe?’
The girl glanced nervously over her bare shoulder. A circuit board of white and pink scars crisscrossed the inside of her arm; acne speckled her cheeks, poorly camouflaged by a layer of greasy foundation. Fifteen years old, or sixteen . . . Spike felt the anger he’d packed so diligently away testing its restraints. Forcing it down, he slipped the photo into the girl’s slender hand. ‘Or Žigon?’ he asked gently. ‘Have you heard of a man called Žigon?’
A murmur came from behind as a middle-aged couple appeared, two Asians wrestling with a tourist map. They took in the scene, then vanished back the way they had come.
‘Z-I-G-O-N?’ Spike spelled out.
A bitter smile caught the girl’s lips, too old for her face. ‘She is pretty.’
‘Yes.’
‘Pretty ones do not stay in Genoa.’ She moved away, perhaps hearing something Spike had not.
‘Where do they go, signorina?’
‘Follow the money,’ the girl laughed, spine straightening.
Spike spoke more urgently now – ‘I don’t understand’ – as the Genoese reappeared, tapping at his breast pocket. ‘Where?’ Spike hissed. He barely caught the girl’s reply, a single word so softly spoken it seemed to float out of the alley and away to sea. ‘Paradiso . . .’
Spike turned back to the pimp. ‘Changed my mind,’ he said, taking out a grimy ten-euro note. ‘Sorry to waste your time.’ The man plucked at the money between Spike’s thumb and forefinger. Spike held onto it for a moment, then released his grip and walked back towards the waterfront.
Chapter Two
Spike flipped out the light. The guest-house window gave onto the north side of Genoa’s cathedral, its black-and-white marble lit up like a humbug to tempt the tourists. He lay back on the metal-framed single bed, leather bag packed and tucked beneath, bill already settled.
As soon as he closed his eyes, Zahra’s face appeared. It always seemed to start the same way. An autumn afternoon not long after he’d brought her to Gibraltar, a time heightened by the relief they’d both felt at escaping Morocco and its bad memories. Zahra had abandoned her headscarf by then, and her black hair lay in glossy waves on her shoulders. Spike had shown her round the Alameda Gardens, pointing out the bronze sculpture of Molly Bloom, who in the fictional world of Ulysses had grown up in Gibraltar. Zahra hadn’t heard of Joyce, but she’d liked how Molly had raised her chin defiantly at the Rock, as if challenging its hulking majesty. A few sentences were etched into the plinth beneath the sculpture, which Zahra had read aloud in her low voice, one thumb hooked beneath the waistband of newly purchased jeans: ‘. . . and the sea the sea crimson sometimes like fire and the glorious sunsets and the figtrees . . . I was a Flower of the mountain . . . walking down the Alameda on an officers arm . . .’
They’d caught the cable car up to the Apes’ Den. As they climbed higher, Zahra had pressed her face to the window, watching the limestone crags fall away beneath her. Her breath had condensed on the perspex, and they’d seen an image appear in the mist, a child’s finger-drawing of a man and a woman encased in a heart. ‘You see,’ she’d said, ‘I can show you things too.’ Spike had known what her smile meant, what she’d wanted him to say, but had pretended not to. She’d looked away, face fallen. Spike hadn’t realised it at the time, but something had been lost that day. A month later Zahra had left Gibraltar for Malta. And six months after that she’d disappeared.
Sinking further into sleep, Spike found himself back on the Rock, standing alone on the concrete platform, waiting for the cable car to approach. As it hove into view, he saw Zahra sitting inside, staring up at him, panic in her dark eyes. The car gave a judder as it slotted into the docking station, the wire that held it in place springing loose. As Spike leapt forward, trying to force the doors apart, Zahra turned away, staring down at the drop below as the car lurched. ‘Take my hand,’ he shouted, and she reached up through the gap he’d wedged between the doors. He grabbed her wrist, but the skin felt cold, and when she looked up, he saw that the face no longer belonged to Zahra, but to the young woman he’d identified in a Maltese mortuary – lips blue, hair clotted with blood, murdered baby at her breast.
The cable car fell away, and Spike watched it crash in slow motion down the Rock, leaving her dangling from his hand as he stumbled closer to the edge. She was slipping, and he registered her look of surprise as she felt the onset of weightlessness just before he let her go. Her scream rose, then faded, as she fell . . .
Spike snapped open his eyes, feeling his heart shift as the scream dissolved into laughter, drunken shouts of revelry carrying up from the cathedral square. He ripped back the sheets, body filmed in sweat. More laughter drifted up, killing the last possibility of sleep. Then he flicked the light back on, reached into his bag and took out his map of the Italian Riviera.
Chapter Three
The next morning, Spike sat at the back of a creaking ferry, watching the creamy wake trail behind into the Mediterranean. The Alpine peaks above the coastline were topped with forts, a railway line ruled aggressively into the hillside beneath. The boat had already stopped at three of the fishing villages along the Gulf of Paradise – Nervi, Recco and San Fruttuoso – where Spike had shown Zahra’s photograph at various cafés and hotels, arousing the usual mixture of indifference, pity and suspicion. He stared at it now, smoothing it against his palm, still disturbed by last night’s dream. He’d rescued the picture from a barman in Tangiers, just hours before meeting Zahra for the first time. Her shiny black hair was drawn back, her expression suggesting she had not volunteered to be photographed. One eye was covered by a loose lock of hair, and the other . . . The dark brown iris, the delicate almond shape, an innocence her glare failed to mask.
He felt his throat thicken as he remembered the last time he’d seen her alive – slamming the door of a hotel room in Malta. He’d let her go, assuming that she would call once she’d calmed down, like she always did. That they could talk it over, start again. But she had vanished. And this time it was his fault.
Zahra had always had a talent for trouble, he thought. When they’d first met in a shanty town in Morocco, he’d had to push her out of the path of a jeep. She’d been asking the wrong questions, demanding answers like she always did. He’d felt compelled to help her, the man who never liked to get involved. He still didn’t really understand why. In the end, they’d made it back over the Straits to Gibraltar – but not before people had got hurt.
They’d had a real chance there to make it work, he felt now. She’d charmed his father, and he’d thought he saw her face soften, the wariness ease in her eyes. Spike had screwe
d that up too, of course, but their reconciliation in Malta a few months later had been all the sweeter for it. They were both a little older, perhaps even ready to commit. Maybe that was why Spike had chosen to pick an argument with her on their last morning together.
Stupid charavacca, he cursed to himself as he slipped her photograph carefully back into his wallet. Zahra’s disappearance had now been linked to the people-smuggling ring Spike had helped to break in Malta. It had initially seemed to be a local affair – African migrants scraping together the cash to get to Italy. Yet when Spike and the Maltese police had visited a warehouse outside Valletta . . . His stomach knotted as he recalled the scene. Drugged women chained to camp beds, starved, raped. The body of a dead Somali baby stashed in a freezer. That time, it had been Spike who encouraged Zahra to ask questions in the refugee camps where she worked, unwittingly bringing her to the attention of the man behind it. An individual known in criminal circles only as Žigon.
Spike wished he had a face to put to that strange, sibilant name. Žigon was thought to run the largest prostitution and drug racket in the Mediterranean, and was wanted by Interpol and the police forces of several European countries, yet no one knew his real identity, nor even what he looked like. He was believed to be Slovenian, and had last been seen in Genoa. But then the trail ran cold.
Spike turned back to the coastline, seeing terraced fields rising above the vines and olive trees, cypresses jutting into a picture-perfect sky. It was beautiful, he knew, and felt strangely guilty. He rubbed his stubbled cheeks. The beard he’d allowed to grow since arriving in Italy was long enough now not to itch, and to reveal unexpected patches of grey in the black. His nose remained crooked from the beating he’d received in Malta, when he’d first heard Žigon’s name mentioned in connection with Zahra’s disappearance. How far had his quest advanced since then? He was saved from considering this depressing question further as the ferry slowed, and he pulled himself to his feet.
The village they were now approaching was the most bijou Spike had seen so far. Within a sheltered inlet, a harbour was enclosed on three sides by soft, ochre-hued houses. A yellow clock tower rose above, powder-puffed by palm trees and acacia fronds. The green interlocking knuckles of the Italian Alps concertinaed in the distance.
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