Hollow Mountain

by Thomas Mogford

  The ferry hit reverse as it neared the jetty, its route narrowed by sleek rows of yachts. Their prows all faced to sea, as though trying to escape but held by an irresistible force. Money, Spike thought, seeing a diminutive oligarch steer a willowy blonde towards a waterfront table.

  ‘Portofino, signore e signori,’ came the ferry’s announcement. Then, with a hint of reverence in the tone, the more languid repetition, ‘Por-to-fin-o.’

  Chapter Four

  Spike checked the time. The next ferry along the Gulf of Paradise was in an hour. He’d already visited the restaurants and bars in Portofino’s small but perfectly formed piazzetta. There was one place left to try, a pastel-pink palace basking high on the hillside which might have been home to some local principe, but for the subtle and tasteful signage he’d seen dotted around the town.

  Spike turned up a set of smooth terracotta steps. The creepers on the sidewalls were tamed and sculpted, errant suckers nipped off. Aged plant pots exuded a sweet scent of honeysuckle and jasmine, while chirping cicadas blended with the drowsy hum of bumblebees, one of which Spike watched disappear into a borehole so perfectly circular it suggested a gardener had been asked to neaten it up with a chisel.

  The steps led to a pathway that emerged onto a canopy-shaded terrace. On the level below was a swimming pool, an infinity lip spilling over the harbour where the ferry had docked. Sunloungers lined it, expensively emaciated women eyeing each other competitively as oblivious men in Vilebrequin trunks ogled their smartphones.

  The maître d’ was restraining a rebellious tablecloth. He straightened up as Spike approached. ‘Good afternoon, signore.’

  Spike heard the church bell in the village fall silent on the twelfth chime. ‘Perhaps you can help me. I’m looking for . . .’

  ‘Reception? Please follow me.’

  There existed a level of luxury, Spike thought as he looked down at his scruffy espadrilles and faded blue shorts, when haughtiness reverted to good manners. Another garden staircase, then the maître d’ signalled a doorway beneath a jutting Juliet balcony. ‘Signore,’ he exhaled, disappearing to the level below before Spike could even open his wallet.

  As soon as Spike raised a foot to the first step, a doorman materialised between the hanging fronds of wisteria. He was dark and compact with startling cornflower-blue eyes. He held open the door, and Spike caught sight of his nametag as he passed. ‘Enrico Sanguinetti’.

  ‘Good surname,’ Spike said.

  The doorman gave a puzzled smile as Spike passed him the tip he’d intended for the maître d’.

  Reception was small for such a grand hotel. A tanned redhead sat behind the mahogany desk, green eyes expertly outlined with kohl and showcased by a pair of designer horn-rimmed spectacles. It took her about five seconds to size Spike up, then, ‘How may I help you, sir?’

  ‘I’m not sure you can,’ Spike replied, leaning in conspiratorially. At the concierge’s desk, a bearded man glanced over from behind a computer screen.

  ‘I met a girl in town last night,’ Spike went on, offering the receptionist an embarrassed smile. ‘I think she may be staying here.’ He took out Zahra’s photograph and placed it on the desk. The edges looked suspiciously dog-eared on the stained hardwood.

  The receptionist drum-rolled two long, red fingernails. ‘Don’t think I’ve seen her. Michele?’

  The concierge came over, shook his head almost imperceptibly, then returned to his monitor. A young couple in immaculate tennis whites entered. The receptionist had unhooked their key before they’d even had a chance to ask for it.

  ‘How about a Mr Žigon?’ Spike said. ‘Has he checked in recently?’

  The cat-like eyes flicked upwards. ‘I’m afraid we cannot give out information about our guests. I’m sure you understand, signore. But if you’d like to see a brochure . . .’ She reached below and placed a glossy white wallet on the desk. The stars encircling the words ‘Hotel Splendido’ were of embossed gold.

  Spike tried a charming grin. ‘Or a Mr Radovic?’ he asked, remembering an alias Žigon was once thought to have used. The receptionist still had a hand on the brochure, ready to return it to the shelf. As she picked it up, one of her blood-red nails snapped on the desk. She raised the fingertip to her mouth, then handed Spike back the photograph, all traces of playfulness gone. ‘Good luck finding your lady friend, sir.’

  Chapter Five

  As soon as Spike stepped outside, the doorman reappeared. ‘Sur-name,’ he said. ‘Vuol dire cognome, no?’

  Spike took out his wallet and handed him a business card. ‘Ha!’ the doorman exclaimed in delight. ‘You are Sanguinetti also. “Somerset J.” . . .’ he read uncertainly from the business card. ‘Barrister-at-law . . . Gibraltar?’

  ‘Gibraltar’s full of Genoese . . .’ Spike broke off. ‘Is English OK? Se no, parlo un po’ di . . .’

  Enrico Sanguinetti tutted. ‘English always good.’ He glanced back at reception. ‘Come, Sangui mio,’ he said, signalling to the fronds of wisteria through which he had first appeared. To the side of the building lay an alcove. ‘Sigaretta?’ he asked, picking up a soft pack of Merits from beneath a plastic chair.

  Spike considered the question, then shook his head and sat down.

  ‘So Gibraltar is infestato with Sanguinetti,’ Enrico said, lighting up. ‘When your family go?’

  ‘Late 1700s. A Genoese merchant called Gustavo.’

  ‘Gustavo Sanguinetti,’ Enrico echoed with rhythmical pleasure.

  ‘He was more of a pirate than a merchant – used to run a cargo ship armed with hidden cannons. He would sail up to foreign boats, offer to trade, then rob them blind and sell the goods in town.’

  Enrico laughed, then took off his red-peaked cap and laid it on the metal table in front of him. ‘I think I like this Gustavo.’

  ‘Napoleon didn’t. He had to flee to Gibraltar when the French arrived.’

  ‘For me, family is . . .’ He rubbed the liveried material of his trousers.

  ‘Draper? Tailor?’

  ‘Sì. Tailor. Many generation ago.’

  ‘That must be why you look so smart.’

  ‘And why you do not.’ Enrico exhaled pensively, perhaps mulling the past glories of Sanguinetti tailors in Genoa. His dark, thinning hair gleamed with oil. He lit a fresh cigarette.

  ‘How are you with faces?’ Spike asked, taking out Zahra’s photograph. There was no recognition from Enrico beyond a long slow whistle of admiration. ‘Tua ragazza?’ he said.

  ‘She’s with another man now.’

  ‘Uh-oh.’

  ‘Called Žigon. Or maybe Radovic.’

  ‘Two names?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Not good.’

  ‘No. Apparently he’s well-known on the Riviera.’

  ‘I only start here three months. Before I am at Cipriani, you know?’

  Spike heard the sudden blast of a ferry’s horn. ‘Keep the card,’ he said, standing. ‘Maybe you could call me if you see the girl. Or a man with two names.’

  Enrico beckoned him back and took out his mobile. The screen blinked to life. ‘Is my baby,’ he said, pointing at a coffee-skinned toddler with a broad smile. ‘Her mamma and me . . .’ He gave a sad grimace, revealing nicotine-yellowed teeth. ‘When I have money, I go back to Mestre and help with her life.’

  ‘Sounds a noble plan.’

  Enrico refused Spike’s tip, then stuck out an arm. ‘We are family, uh?’

  ‘Family.’

  They shook hands warmly, and Spike headed back down to the port.

  Chapter Six

  Back on the ferry, Spike flicked through a leaflet advertising a ‘Most Historical Tour of Christopher Columbus’. Apparently his family had come from the hills above the coast, before moving to Genoa where the young Christopher had learnt to sail. Spike seemed to recall that it was Genoa’s refusal to support Columbus’s plan to head west which had forced him to seek sponsorship from the Spanish. No qualms about profiting from him now, h
e thought, screwing up the leaflet and dropping it into the bin.

  Standing by the gunwale, he felt his phone vibrate. Number unknown. As always, he debated whether to take the call – five buzzes, six – then hit the green button just in time. ‘Yes?’

  The silence was of a crackly distant sort. He was about to hang up when he heard her gentle voice. ‘Hello, Spike.’

  The ferry seemed to list, and he put a hand out to the railing to steady himself. The calloused black metal was hot to the touch.

  ‘It’s me, Spike,’ the voice continued. ‘Zahra.’

  Spike moved his hand to his head, fingers twining through his dark hair. ‘Zahra?’ he repeated dully. ‘Are you OK?’ He needed to hear her speak again.

  ‘You have to stop looking for me, Spike.’ Her voice sounded strange, but maybe he just hadn’t remembered it right. What was it she’d just said? You need to stop looking for me? Suddenly it felt as though the decking was sinking beneath his feet. He thought he should sit down, then realised he already was. Forcing himself to take a breath, he found some words. ‘I know it must be hard for you to talk, Zahra. Just tell me where you . . .’

  The crackling stopped, and for a moment Spike thought she’d hung up. ‘Hello?’ he said, panicking. ‘Hello?’

  ‘There’s no one listening, Spike. I can speak freely. I just don’t want you to look for me any more.’

  He glanced round, hoping that it was all a joke, that she might be there on the other side of the deck, laughing, waiting for him, arms wide. But all he saw was a teenaged girl on the opposite bench, eyeing him curiously. At her feet, a black Italian mountain dog lay panting thirstily at the sea.

  ‘You have to forget about me, Spike,’ Zahra said.

  The boat lurched again, and Spike fought the nausea creeping from his stomach into his throat. ‘What are you talking about?’

  ‘Please – just go home.’ A pause: ‘I’ve seen what he can do, Spike. If you don’t stop looking for me, it won’t be you he comes after. It’ll be the people close to you. Do you understand?’

  ‘You’re saying he’ll hurt you if I don’t leave you alone?’

  Zahra laughed. A strange sound. ‘He would never hurt me. Never.’

  Spike felt the drumbeat of blood in his ears. He could sense that the next few seconds were vital. That he didn’t have much time. ‘Please, Zahra. Just tell me where . . .’

  The line went dead. Spike scrolled through his call list, hitting dial on ‘Unknown Number’, once, twice, three times, knowing it was futile. The teenager was frowning at him now, and he realised that he was slumped on the bench seat, brow slicked with sweat, breathing heavily through his nose. His fist was clenched to his chest, and when he unfurled it he saw four crescent-shaped welts where his nails had dug into the skin of his palm.

  As he pulled himself up, a memory of the hotel receptionist in Portofino flashed into his mind, her blood-red talon snapping at the mention of Žigon’s alias. Then he was on his feet, running across the deck to the ferry’s open-sided wheelhouse. ‘Quando torniamo a Portofino?’ he shouted in.

  The captain plucked a roll-up from his mouth. ‘What?’ he replied in English.

  ‘When does the ferry go back to Portofino?’

  ‘Is other boat.’

  ‘But when?’

  The captain jabbed behind with a thumb, then took a leisurely drag. ‘Soon, signore. Soon.’

  Swearing under his breath, Spike returned to the balustrade. The ferry was closing in on Rapallo, its pace so sluggish it felt as though they were travelling backwards. He clutched at the railings, rocking back and forth, his movements tracked by the wet, melancholy eyes of the mountain dog.

  Chapter Seven

  A line of white Mercedes cabs was parked above the harbour, drivers slouching against passenger doors. Spike jogged up the steps towards them. ‘Portofino,’ he called out. ‘How much?’

  One driver stepped away from his taxi, shaking his head. ‘Not possible, signore.’

  Spike reached for his wallet.

  ‘No road to Portofino,’ the driver shouted close to Spike’s face, causing him to recoil from his espresso breath. ‘Only boat.’ He confirmed this with one of the innumerable Italian hand gestures of which Spike was starting to tire. ‘Exclusive,’ he added proudly.

  ‘How about the train?’

  ‘Only to Santa Margherita. Es-clu-si-vo!’

  Spike found himself squaring up to the man, rising to the full extent of his six-foot-three frame, then realised the pointlessness of the confrontation and turned back to the harbour. The ferry he’d just disembarked was already en route for the next stopover. In the ticket hut, the timetable showed that the next boat to Portofino didn’t leave for another two hours.

  There was a café next to the hut. Spike walked to the bar, feeling the amused gaze of the taxi drivers upon him. ‘Doppia grappa, per favore,’ he said to the waitress.

  Sitting down at a plastic table, he felt the queasiness pool again in his belly. So Zahra was alive. He’d thought about this moment so many times but had never imagined it would be like this. It just didn’t make sense . . . She’d called him, but only to ask him to leave her alone. She’d told him her abductor was dangerous, yet insisted she was safe. He raised the grappa to his lips. What if she genuinely didn’t want to be found? If she was so ashamed of what had happened to her that she never wanted to see him again?

  A low rectangular mirror hung behind the bar. For a moment Spike failed to recognise the angry, bearded man in its reflection. He looked away, feeling frustration flare through him as he signalled to the barmaid, who brought over the entire bottle, insisting on full payment before refilling his glass.

  His phone was vibrating. He knocked over the grappa as he scrabbled to answer it, sticky clear liquid oozing onto his bag. ‘Zahra?’

  ‘Qué?’

  His tongue felt clumsy and furred with liqueur. ‘Oh,’ he said, identifying the voice of his friend, Detective Sergeant Jessica Navarro, ‘it’s you.’

  ‘Yes,’ Jessica replied impatiently, ‘it’s me. Can you talk? It’s important.’

  ‘Not really. Why? What is it?’ There was a pause as he wiped his hand on the thigh of his shorts.

  ‘I’m standing outside your Chambers.’

  Spike struggled to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘And?’

  ‘It’s Peter. Peter Galliano.’

  ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Somebody’s hit him, Spike. With a car. A passerby found him covered in blood.’

  Spike rose to his feet, picturing the tight Gibraltar backstreet, a St John Ambulance blocking the way, blue lights rotating as they hoisted Peter aboard . . . ‘When?’ he said.

  ‘About an hour ago.’

  ‘And he’s OK?’

  Jessica paused. ‘From what the paramedics say, it’s touch and go.’

  The barmaid came over with a cloth, and Spike stepped away to let her clean the table. ‘But he’ll recover?’

  ‘It’s pretty bad, Spike.’

  Out in the bay, the Portofino ferry began its approach. ‘Well, keep me informed,’ Spike said, nodding at the waitress and picking up his bag. From the other end of the line came a swish of uniformed legs as Jessica walked to a quieter place. ‘Keep you informed?’ she hissed. ‘This is Peter we’re talking about. Peter Galliano. Your business partner. Your friend.’

  Spike took a first step down to the jetty. ‘I know. But I can’t leave Genoa right now.’

  ‘You’re joking.’

  ‘I’ve just heard from Zahra, Jess. She’s alive.’

  There was an intake of breath before Jessica spoke. He prepared himself for a tone he knew well. ‘Spike. Your best friend is probably going to die tonight. And you want to stay in Italy on some wild goose chase which . . .’

  Spike could hear Jessica talking, but her words faded into the background as he remembered Zahra’s warning: It won’t be you he comes after. It’ll be the people close to you. He interrupted her, feeli
ng adrenalin starting to heighten his fear. ‘When did this happen?’

  ‘About an hour ago, I told you.’

  He checked the time: three hours since he’d spoken to Zahra. ‘Any eyewitnesses?’

  ‘Not yet.’

  ‘CCTV?’

  ‘It’s possible. Nothing so far.’

  Spike paused. ‘Will you do me a favour, Jess?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Look in on my father.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘To . . . tell him about Peter’s accident. It’d be better coming from you. In person.’

  ‘If you want. But . . .’

  ‘I’ll be back as soon as I can.’ She was still talking as Spike killed the call and ran back to the taxi rank.

  ‘Genoa,’ he said to the new driver at the front of the queue. ‘Christopher Columbus Airport.’

  So I go and meet Hernán in one of those fashionable restaurants just off the Plaza Mayor. You know the sort: blending, as they would put it, an ultra-modern decor with an historic location. Fucking shithole, basically. I’m shown to a table by the door, always a sign they value your custom, and some bread is dumped on the cloth, a couple of stiff roundels of baguette. The plate is deliberately asymmetrical, a sort of contorted china rhombus. Beside it lies a ramekin of yellow oil – cut-price Italian crap, no doubt. I tell the waiter to remove both, then start rearranging the cutlery so that my knife and fork are perfectly aligned. Once I’m done, I look up and see Hernán standing there, grinning like a cat. ‘Thought you’d like this place,’ he says in his peasant Castilian accent. As usual, his presence has an immediate effect on the servant classes, and the waiter wafts back, tray held high in one limp hand. His bleached blond hair is thin and spiky; a steel bolt pierces his right eyebrow. Right ear, right queer, as they used to say in the Force.