Hollow Mountain

by Thomas Mogford

  ‘El caballero me pidió que los quite,’ the waiter lisps. The gentleman asked me to remove them.

  ‘Bullshit,’ Hernán replies. ‘I adore French bread.’

  The waiter replaces the plate and ramekin with a distinct look of triumph. Oily little fag. I consider leaving, but instead peruse the menu as Hernán sates himself on stale baguette. The usual cultural mishmash: the only local dish is marinated octopus. A couple of years ago you’d have had that as a tapa, no need to order, let alone pay. Oh Madrid – must you cede to this recession as well? Still, I admit as the food arrives, the meat is nicely marinated, tender and sweet. I eat heartily, watching Hernán nibble at a corner of his Wiener schnitzel. These things are sent to test us.

  We preamble: Hernán’s fat wife and her fitness club in Villa de Vallecas, his charmless twin children. He asks about me, and patiently listens as I tell him of the books I have recently revisited – the complete works of San Juan de la Cruz, some Calderón de la Barca. Why does a man with a photographic memory need to reread, Hernán asks, and I give him the same reply as always, that familiar delights taste the sweetest of all. He laughs, then pauses, and I know that we are finally getting down to business.

  A glance over one shoulder, then a dip into his record bag (a gift from his wife: I don’t need to ask) and out comes the photograph, placed equidistant between my knife and fork.

  ‘Impresionante,’ I reply. It is impressive . . . He leaves the image in place long enough for me to commit it to memory, then returns it to his bag.

  ‘Who’s the buyer?’ I ask casually.

  ‘The usual collector.’

  ‘And that’s the only piece?’

  ‘There may be others. We’ll have to see.’

  ‘When?’

  ‘That’s not clear yet. For now, we just need you to watch and wait.’

  ‘Watch and wait?’ I repeat in disgust.

  But Hernán is onto dessert now, something called a ‘bread and butter pudding’, a species of brown turd in a caramel nest. His eyes flick to the frayed cotton of my shirt sleeve. ‘It’s been a while since your last job,’ he says, nut-brown eyes glinting with amusement as he scrapes the dish with his spoon. ‘Are you sure you’re still up to it?’

  I stare back, astonished.

  ‘Of course, the other issue is where you have to go.’

  ‘Abroad?’

  ‘In a sense.’

  Hernán signals to our waiter friend for the bill.

  ‘Portugal?’ I ask as Hernán takes out his money clip. He smiles but shakes his head.

  I shoot the waiter a meaningful glance, then follow Hernán outside. As we stand together in the sledgehammer heat of the Plaza Mayor, sunglasses on, Hernán presses a piece of paper into my hand. On it is written one word: ‘Gibraltar’.

  PART TWO

  Gibraltar

  Chapter Eight

  Spike Sanguinetti sat idle at his desk, distracted by the sounds drifting in from the backstreets of Gibraltar. Empties smashing into a wheelie bin as the Royal Calpe pub prepared for a new day. The distant buzz of a scooter as some foolhardy soul took on the steep alleyways of the Upper Town. The chatter of locals passing the time before the humidity grew too intense and they retreated indoors.

  He looked down at the row of grey lever-arch files stacked up on his desk, half-expecting to hear the usual noises filter in from next door – Peter Galliano on the phone, laughing so hard Spike would assume he was catching up with a friend, before a throwaway line revealed he was talking to a client. The plod of his handmade size-thirteens as he made his way across the parquet to the drinks cabinet, followed by the plaintive call, ‘Tell me it’s noon somewhere’. The mock death-rattle as his ancient computer refused yet again to do what it was supposed to.

  Taking a breath, Spike forced himself to pull open the first of the files. Peter’s caseload comprised the usual mix of paperwork and court appearances – the legal profession in Gibraltar was fused, so both barrister and solicitor work were available. Of the various cases his business partner had been working on, six could be parked for now, as the trial dates weren’t scheduled until next year. Of the remaining eight, one stood out, not just in terms of urgency, but because of the money at stake. Neptune Marine, Inc. . . . Spike gazed again through the French windows, wondering where he’d heard that name before. Cacti seedlings were inching between the paving stones of the patio, their progress untroubled in Spike’s absence. Peter never had been much of a gardener . . . He shook his head and pushed deeper into the documentation, reams of paper annotated in Peter’s cryptic script. Neptune, it emerged, was a marine salvage company which had recently discovered a shipwreck two and a half nautical miles off the coast of Gibraltar. Keen to raise the sunken cargo, the firm had instructed Galliano to lodge an application with Gibraltar’s Receiver of Wreck. So far so straightforward, except . . . Why had the receiver passed the application to the courts instead of handling it directly? And how could a cargo of lead be worth . . . Spike reread the figures. Had Peter misplaced a zero? Four million pounds? He scanned through the rest of the correspondence for the contact details of the client, one Morton D. Clohessy – CEO. Had to be American. Clohessy’s mobile rang to voicemail so Spike left an urgent message.

  He turned to the other case files: a conveyance for a Ukrainian tax exile buying a penthouse in Ocean Village; a fire on a boat – the insurance company alleging arson; a father changing his will after a falling-out with his daughter . . . As he familiarised himself with the documents, he stopped, hearing a strange rustling coming from next door. After one more paragraph, he threw down his fountain pen in defeat and walked into Peter Galliano’s office.

  The room looked as it always did; the only thing missing was Peter. All but virgin law books on the shelves, a terrible water­colour of a villa Peter owned in Corfu askew on the wall, a stuffed and mangy Spanish wildcat peering down from the windowsill. The rustling came again, quiet and slightly alarming. As Spike moved past Peter’s desk, his footfall sent a vibration up to the mouse-pad, causing the computer screen to shimmer back to life, frozen on a still from an online casino advert. He turned it off manually, hearing a deep sigh of relief from within.

  A week’s worth of takeaway wrappers filled the bin. That was a rat he’d heard, probably, claws scratching away. He bent down to pull out the pungent liner, feeling a deadweight at the base. Nose closed to the aroma of stale falafel, he drew out an empty bottle of Wood’s Navy Rum. Not Peter’s usual tipple: 57 per cent proof, Spike read grimly, aware that his period of extended leave must have put his partner under even more stress than usual.

  The noise began again, and Spike realised that it was coming from outside, something sharp and metallic scraping against the brickwork. He returned to the hallway, ready to throw open the doors, when the buzzer rang. His finger hovered over the button. Then he depressed it and allowed whoever it was to enter.

  Chapter Nine

  The woman and small boy stepped tentatively into the office hallway. The child clutched a dinky car in one hand; turning to the wall, he ran its wheels up and down the faded paintwork. ‘Aliska, Charlie,’ the mother hissed in yanito, the dialect spoken by native Gibraltarians, ‘not indoors.’ She lifted her eyes slowly to Spike’s, her smooth white neck emanating a scent of overblown roses.

  ‘How can I help you?’ Spike said, self-consciously uncrossing his arms.

  ‘I’m here to see . . .’ The woman hesitated, as though trying to remember. ‘Peter Galliano.’

  Hearing his partner’s name aloud was like a small blow to the chest. ‘Peter is . . .’. Spike pushed back his thick dark hair with a hand. ‘He’s unwell.’

  The boy ran the toy along the wall again, then glanced slyly at his mother, mindful of her warning, testing her tolerance. Spike signalled to his office door, and she clasped her son’s hand and led him inside, Spike following, nostrils protesting at the trail of cheap perfume. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Take a seat.’

  The woman bru
shed a hand beneath her pencil skirt then lowered herself into the leather armchair. She was pale and petite and wore a dark fringe swept to one side. The gap between the sides of her thighs and the chair’s arms seemed to scream Galliano’s absence. As if sensing a lack, she scooped up her son and placed him on her lap, where he entertained himself by running the dinky car over his mother’s knee. Spike shut his laptop so that he and the woman could make eye contact across the desk. ‘It’s about my husband,’ she said.

  The child made a soft revving sound at the back of his throat. Spike was about to reply that he was not that kind of lawyer when the woman broke in, ‘You do know who he is?’

  Spike smiled. ‘I don’t even know who you are, Mrs?. . .’

  ‘Grainger. My husband is . . . was . . . Simon Grainger.’ She seemed to be expecting a reaction. Having failed to elicit one, she glanced down at her son, then looked at Spike guardedly with eyes as dark as her hair. ‘His corpse was discovered on the Rock last month. By the Barbary macaques.’

  Spike was touched by her ability to switch to a childproof register. He wondered if he’d made a hasty assumption based on the strength of her scent and the quality of her best skirt. He imagined his father, shaking his head, We are all snobs to some degree, son . . .

  ‘I’ve been on sabbatical,’ Spike replied, seeing the woman’s cheeks bloom in embarrassment. ‘I’m afraid I haven’t kept up with the local news.’

  The boy strained at his mother’s grasp, then rolled off her lap and padded towards the French windows. They both watched in silence as he reached a fingertip to the glass, instinctively drawn to his own reflection. Spike cleared his throat, suddenly weary. ‘What exactly did you want from Peter, Mrs Grainger?’

  ‘Some help,’ she said abruptly. ‘The police claim my husband committed suicide. They’ve already closed the case.’

  ‘And you feel . . .’

  ‘Simon wouldn’t . . .’ Her voice came out in a whisper. ‘He wouldn’t have done that.’

  ‘How can you be sure?’

  Pink leaked like fuchsia ink into the skin of her neck. She pursed her lips, showing the first sign of a pucker, suggesting how she might look in ten years’ time. Not too bad, Spike had to admit. ‘Because of Charlie,’ she said. ‘Simon would never have abandoned his son.’

  Spike noted that she didn’t include herself in the reasons her husband might have had to stay alive. ‘Did he leave a note?’

  She threw him a scornful look. ‘Of course not.’ Then a pause: ‘Listen, all I want is for someone to take a fresh look at what happened. I hoped your partner might find something that could make the police reopen the case.’

  Just as Spike was about to reply, the boy turned away from the window. He had the same colouring and delicate features as his mother. His hands hung by his sides, toy car tightly grasped in one, chipped silver bonnet emerging.

  The desk phone rang; Spike hit a button, but Galliano’s mellifluous baritone was already rising from the machine, ‘Congratulations on reaching the law office of Galliano & Sanguinetti . . .’ An American voice followed: ‘You’d better change up that message, sir . . .’ Spike grabbed the receiver and gestured to Mrs Grainger, who beckoned to her son, then bent down to reaffix the velcro on one shoe.

  ‘Thanks for coming back to me, Mr Clohessy,’ Spike said, before switching the conversation to availability. In under a minute he’d secured an arrangement for them to meet the following day at Ocean Village Marina. As he hung up, Spike watched Mrs Grainger moisten a tissue on the tip of her tongue and dab it on her son’s forehead. The boy had been leaning against the French windows. The panes were coated in dust.

  ‘Look, I’ll see what I can do, Mrs Grainger,’ Spike said, conscious that a moment earlier he’d been about to give a different answer. ‘I’ve got some contacts in the police. Let me ask around.’

  The woman gave a shy smile. Her son looked up at her and then smiled too. She reached for her handbag.

  ‘There’ll be no charge for the preliminary enquiries,’ Spike said. ‘One thing, though,’ he added as he held open the door. ‘Why did you want to instruct Peter?’

  Mrs Grainger turned. Her teeth were like porcelain, almost good enough to pass muster in Hollywood. ‘I found his business card among my husband’s papers.’

  ‘I hadn’t realised they’d met.’

  ‘Nor had I. Goodbye, Mr Sanguinetti.’

  The door closed. At Spike’s ankles lay the rubbish bag from Peter Galliano’s office, the bottle of rum bulging like prey in a snake’s belly. When he opened the door to sling the bag outside, the Graingers were already gone.

  Chapter Ten

  The sun sank behind the Rock, the shopkeepers on Main Street finishing up for the day, crates of duty-free booze and fags sold, full-booted cars rejoining the long, hot frontier queues to Spain. In the Old Town behind, barbers and beauticians were opening for business, the locals celebrating the slight cooling of the August air with a swift French manicure or short back and sides.

  Spike turned onto Irish Town, a street that took its name from the prostitutes who’d once used it as a shopfloor. ‘I’ve never told my parents I’m a lawyer,’ Galliano used to quip to clients. ‘They still think I play piano in a brothel’. These days the street was full of shipping firms and accountants. Two long-established pubs gave it some life; as Spike passed the first – The Three Owls – he glanced in and saw a heavy-set man in a leather jacket staring back at him from the bar. The man was dark, Romani almost, with a prominent brow and thick stubble. He held Spike’s eye unflinchingly, causing his breath to quicken and an unfamiliar panic to flutter in his chest.

  ‘Harampai,’ an old woman called out, ‘you watch where you’re going.’ Spike started in shock, then put a hand to the woman’s frail shoulder, steering her in the right direction. As she clattered away her shopping cart, he heard her mutter, ‘Sanguinetti,’ a threat perhaps that she might see fit to inform his father that he’d just been seen stumbling outside a pub. Inside the bar, the Romani was ordering a pint and flirting with the waitress. Spike shook his head, then turned up a set of stone steps leading to Line Wall Road.

  A bus was waiting at the stop above, filling with passengers, most of whom shook the driver’s hand as they got on, no money exchanged. One perk of life in Gibraltar: residents rode for free. A distant cousin waved at Spike as the bus rumbled off, heading for Both Worlds, the retirement village on the eastern side of the Rock.

  Crossing Line Wall Road, Spike breathed in the warm sea air, trying to ease the paranoia that had dogged him since his return from Genoa. First Peter. Who would be next? And what would happen to Zahra, abandoned somewhere on the Gulf of Paradise?

  To his left, a pair of enormous black cannons were ranged on the pavement, captured from the Russians during the Crimean War and awarded by the British to Gibraltar in recognition of her loyal service. Line Wall Road had once marked the end of the Rock, a two-mile stretch of protruding bastions, the Straits sloshing at their base. Since then, so much land had been reclaimed from the sea that the cannons were now aiming at the Morrisons mega-mart. Not a bad target, Spike thought, remembering the local shops that they’d put out of business.

  No more military distractions: the glass and steel facade of St Bernard’s Hospital loomed ahead. Spike took a final gulp of sea air, then stepped inside.

  Chapter Eleven

  The original hospital had been housed in a damp ex-military facility midway up the Rock. When the opportunity had come to relocate it, the planners must have been carried away by the possibilities of cheap reclaimed land, as the current site was vast, all glass-roofed corridors and empty, echoey wards. The only time capacity was likely to be reached, Spike thought as he passed a cobwebbed bust of Queen Elizabeth, was if there were a terrorist attack on the Rock. Perhaps that was what the authorities had had in mind.

  The lifts were out of order, so Spike continued down a corridor of floor-to-ceiling windows giving onto a rear courtyard, where a wooden ben
ch stood beside an oil drum teeming with fag butts. ‘No Loitering’, read a sign on the wall. Next came the Rehabilitation Unit, sponsored by Lionel Sacramento, owner of a chain of cigarette shops on the Rock, a man so wealthy he was rumoured to manage his money through his own hedge fund in London. Once past the mortuary – and its bank of drinks machines for the living – Spike had reached his destination, the ICU.

  A nurse with standard-issue cheerful smile and dark ponytail glanced up from the desk. Spike caught a glimpse of the ‘Facebook’ logo before she minimised the screen. ‘Indamai!’ she exclaimed in yanito. ‘Your friend’s a popular man today.’

  ‘Not too late, am I?’

  The nurse consulted her watch. ‘Last visit is at 7.45 p.m. You’re OK.’

  She stood up and led Spike past the desk, smoothing her blue uniform over well-covered haunches. Clumsy acrylics of ships decorated the walls, each sponsored by a local company. An over-pressed air-conditioning unit hummed hoarsely.

  The ward had eight beds, seven of them empty. In one corner, beside a window overlooking the smokers’ courtyard, lay Peter Galliano. At least he would appreciate the view, reasoned Spike – Peter was a sixty-a-day man, after all.

  ‘Well, come on,’ the nurse cajoled.

  Spike picked up a plastic chair from an empty bay. ‘How is he today?’ he asked, putting off the moment when he would have to look at Galliano’s face.

  ‘There’s been no deterioration.’

  ‘What do the doctors say?’

  ‘He’s been under for ten days. With a head trauma of this severity, I think we’d like to see him wake up quite soon.’

  The whirr of Galliano’s iron lung seemed to confirm this discouraging prognosis. The nurse tucked the sheets beneath his gowned body, running her hands down the heavy backs of his thighs. ‘I was watching you the other day,’ she said, bending in a way that Spike might have found provocative, had he been interested in picking up any signs. ‘You should talk to him, you know. Not just sit there in silence. No one’s sure yet how much they can understand.’