She drew out one of Peter’s strong arms and checked the cannula affixed to the back of his hand. Written on the band was ‘GALLIANO, PETER HORATIO; GHA 97739; 23-MAY-1959’. Spike smiled. He’d forgotten about Peter’s middle name: Somerset and Horatio, they were quite the pair.
‘Handover’s at 8 p.m.,’ the nurse said. ‘You can stay till then.’
He nodded as she left, then scanned the empty bays, wondering who’d lain there recently, if anyone mourned them now. Finally he forced himself to look round. Beneath a heavily bandaged brow, Galliano’s left eye was still grotesquely swollen, the bruise around it a yellowy-brown. The stubble merging into his goatee suggested the nursing staff had decided that a full beard would require less work. Spike noted with a little pleasure that the double chin had reduced. It’s an ill wind, as Galliano might have joked.
‘Hello, Peter.’ Spike’s voice sounded foolish. He glanced round, seeing the lights flicker then go out in the corridor behind. When he turned back, he focused on Galliano’s good eye, its dark and rather beautiful lashes splayed below a trembling lid. ‘I’ve been working on your cases, Peter . . .’ He pressed on, telling him about the meeting he’d lined up with the CEO of Neptune Marine. He was about to mention the visit from the Grainger widow when he stopped. ‘Listen, Peter,’ he said, leaning in. ‘I think it may be my fault you’re in here.’ He turned again, hearing a rapid squeak of rubber on linoleum. A long shadow spread across the doorway; he waited for the nurse to appear, but the shadow withdrew. Galliano’s chest rose and fell in a slow mechanical rhythm. In the twilight, the rows of empty white beds took on an eerie hue.
Suddenly the footsteps returned, hurried and loud, as though someone were sprinting past the door, trying not to be seen. ‘Hola?’ Spike called out, but no one replied. ‘Hang on a sec, Pete,’ he said, realising this was the first time he’d spoken naturally.
The nurses’ station was empty. Handover already? What was it she’d said earlier? ‘He’s a popular man today.’ Who else could have been visiting? Peter’s sister had three young children, so she tended to come in the mornings while they were at school. The nurse wouldn’t have been on shift then anyway. A clatter came from ahead as Spike moved down the corridor. Just around the corner was an amenity room – locked – and a patients’ bathroom. He eased down the handle of the Gents and went inside.
The dying halogen bulb created an uncomfortable strobe on the ceiling. The door to the shower room hung open, cloudy water pooling on the coarse green plastic, smooth bars and handles fitted to assist the infirm. Alongside stood a toilet cubicle. The red-crescent dial read ‘OCCUPIED’.
Spike crouched down, but found no feet beneath the frame. Feeling his pulse quicken, he straightened up and put a hand to the door. The clasp was engaged: pressing an ear to the plywood, he made out the tremor of controlled breathing and the slow, careful creak of a window being pulled open.
He slammed his shoulder against the door – ‘Who’s there?’ – before a response came, ‘Lo siento, lo siento . . .’ The dial rolled to ‘Vacant’, and Spike stepped back as a timid head peered round. A yellow-skinned youth in a hospital gown, standing on the lavatory seat, drip stand in one fist, fag-end quaking in the other.
Spike offered the boy a hand to help him down. ‘Those things will kill you,’ he said as the boy hurried away, drip stand rattling on the floor. I must be going mad, Spike thought to himself as he walked back to the ward, finding the nurse sitting at Galliano’s bedside, scribbling onto his chart. ‘Thought you’d gone home,’ she said, lowering her biro. ‘Listen, a few of us are going for a drink later in Casemates. If you’re at a loose end . . .’
The idea of getting blitzed gave Spike’s heart a momentary lift, until he imagined what it would be like to spend an evening surrounded by medics. ‘Sorry. Got some work to do.’
The nurse gave a teasing frown. ‘All work and no play . . .’ she chided as she plumped the pillows. Spike looked again at Galliano’s inert face. ‘Thanks all the same,’ he said as he walked away.
Chapter Twelve
The broad, new-build avenues of the Europort ceded again to the dark labyrinth of the Old Town. Spike thought back to Genoa, to the caruggi of the Porto Antico: at least it had been light in there. As he entered Bombhouse Lane, he felt the moist levanter breeze blow on the nape of his neck, ruffling his hair like a clammy hand. Ahead rose the facade of the Cathedral of St Mary the Crowned, the pavement outside it wide and uneven. Beneath the ground lay hundreds of corpses, mostly Genoese émigrés who’d paid to be buried close to the Cathedral at a time when the graveyards were full and the Rock under siege. Spike had always dismissed them as superstitious fools, but now as he remembered a favoured line of his father’s – By night an atheist half believes in God – he didn’t feel quite so sure.
He glanced back down Main Street: in the half-light, the wrought-iron balconies and blue wooden shutters took on the air of a Riviera fishing village. The Genoese again – always the largest immigrant population in Gib – making their mark. Spike found his mind turning once more to Zahra. Would it have made a difference if he’d stayed in Italy a few days longer? He might have been just yards away from her, yet he’d jumped at the first chance to abandon his search and slunk back home.
Wiping the perspiration from his brow, he walked through the open doors of the Royal Calpe pub. Casey, the barmaid – crop-haired, peroxide blonde – glanced round from the muted TV. If Spike had hoped for a smile to lift his spirits he was to be disappointed.
‘What’ll it be?’ Casey snapped.
‘Pint of London Pride, please. And a vodka and tonic.’
She fixed the drinks, then snatched Spike’s ten-pound note and turned back to a subtitled omnibus of Coronation Street.
Shaking his head, Spike moved deeper inside the pub. Though the decor remained resolutely 1970s British – fruit machines, cask ales, Sunday carvery, diamond-patterned glass above the bar – the real change had come in the clientele. Where once had sat tables of brawling squaddies, now just the occasional soldier or sailor perched alone, texting on a break from a training exercise. The former hordes of British expats – Tesco bags of Marmite and Heinz Baked Beans at their feet – had diminished to the odd leather-faced couple waiting for the frontier queues to ease before driving home to Marbs. Defence cuts, property crises . . . The one group still out in force were the locals. No longer mere tourist-industry workers, they now wore a uniform of power suits and silk blouses, rictus grins affixed as they explained to moon-faced Russians or anxious Italians exactly why their money would be safe on the Rock. Financial services had come to Gibraltar, and the natives – once in the employ of the British garrison – had adapted.
Spike’s eye was caught by a lawyer from a rival firm, something of a high-flyer, people said. She was sitting with her back to a wall adorned by a series of hunting prints, a nod to the pub’s name, The Royal Calpe, a Victorian foxhunt which had exploited a brief good period of Anglo-Spanish relations to secure permission to ride with hounds over the border. The lawyer was using the hunt to open a discussion on the political idiosyncrasies of Gibraltar, but seemed to be struggling with the etymology of ‘Calpe’. ‘It’s a reference to the fact that the Rock has a hollow centre,’ she said in her lilting Gibraltarian English. ‘“Mons Calpe” – “Hollow Mountain”. It’s Greek, I think. Or Latin . . .’
A few years ago, Spike might have taken the opportunity to join her and reveal that the word was actually Phoenician. Now he just sat back in his chair and drank his beer.
‘Sorry I’m late.’
Spike looked up to find Jessica Navarro standing by his table. As usual, he’d forgotten how pretty she was: even in her white jeans and man’s grey V-neck, the eyes of other drinkers were pulled towards her. Slung over her slim shoulder was a gym bag that he knew would contain her police uniform. She glanced down at his empty pint glass, then over at the vodka and tonic. ‘Onto the chasers now?’
‘It’s for you.’
‘I’ll do it . . .’ He half-stood, but she was in no mood for indulging his old-fashioned chivalry and was already at the bar, where she drew a warmer greeting from Casey. By the time she returned, dropping her change into the British Red Cross collection box, Spike had stashed his empty glass on the shelf behind the table where the day’s English papers lay half-read and abandoned.
‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ Jessica said.
Spike ignored her and took a gulp of his beer.
‘So what’s up?’ she asked.
‘How do you mean?’
‘Summoned by Spike Sanguinetti for an evening drink?’ She raised her dark, neatly curved eyebrows. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’
Spike did his best at a smile, and she softened her tone: ‘I’m worried about you, Spike. I haven’t seen you like this in years.’
The oblique reference to the death of his mother provoked the usual feelings of exasperation. Then he recognised the real concern on Jessica’s face, and checked himself. ‘It’s Peter, right?’ she said, her tanned, heart-shaped face tilted to one side. A kink ran through her chestnut hair where it had been folded beneath her police hat. ‘He could still wake up,’ she added, and Spike gave a nod, aware that he could leave it at that. But he didn’t. ‘I don’t think it was an accident, Jess.’
She sat back. ‘Go on.’
‘When I was in Genoa . . .’ He watched Jessica’s eyelashes flutter skywards in irritation. ‘I told you I spoke to Zahra?’
‘How could I forget.’
‘Well, the man who took her. Žigon. He’s not some small-time pimp. He’s a serious player, the head of an organised crime syndicate. According to Interpol, he took out most of his rivals in the Balkans in a single night. Threw grenades through their windows. Six men – and their families – dead.’
Jessica nodded. ‘I know all this. Drugs, people trafficking, prostitution. Said to run his operation out of the Italian Riviera.’
‘Zahra warned me, Jess. Told me if I didn’t back off, Žigon would hurt someone close to me.’
‘Like your Dad?’
‘Exactly.’
‘Who’s fine.’
‘Or Peter. Who’s not.’
Jessica took a sip of her drink, wincing at the flat, litre-bottle tonic.
‘I’m pretty sure what happened to Peter is my fault,’ Spike went on. ‘Žigon sending me a message. A warning.’
‘Why on earth would he do that?’
‘As a punishment for getting too close to him. For trying to track down Zahra.’
Jessica carefully set down her glass. ‘Let me get this straight, Spike. This Žigon, or whatever his name is, thinks you’re on the verge of uncovering his real identity. So he sends someone to Gibraltar to run down your business partner.’
Spike nodded.
‘While you’re still in Italy.’
‘Yes.’
‘Presumably just a few miles away from where he lives.’
‘Zahra says that’s how he works.’
‘Zahra says . . .’ she mimicked, then downed her drink and forgot her scruples. ‘Let’s go through this step by step. Firstly, Peter Galliano’s accident was just that – an accident. We’ve had the lab results back from his blood sample. He was drunk, Spike. Cagana. Blotto.’
Spike thought of the empty bottle of rum in Galliano’s bin.
‘There was low cloud on the Rock that day. The driver might not have even known what he’d done. Might have thought he hit the kerb, or an ape. We don’t know.’
‘But you haven’t found the driver.’
‘Without CCTV, hit-and-runs take time to solve. The point is, Spike . . . this was not the work of a professional hit man. It was random and it was messy.’
He waited for her to continue.
‘Secondly, this is Zahra we’re talking about. I only met her a few times, but I can tell you this – she’s the kind of woman who always lands on her feet. It doesn’t surprise me in the least that she doesn’t want you to look for her. When she first met you, she was a Bedouin refugee. No money, no papers. She would have done anything for an EU passport. You got her into Gib, then Malta. Now she’s made it to Italy, to mainland Europe, the promised land. She’s probably been given a new identity and doesn’t want to be reminded of the old one. She’s a born survivor, Spike. And she doesn’t need you any more.’
‘She was abducted, Jess.’
Jessica sighed. ‘You don’t know that.’
‘I was there. In Malta. I know what happened.’
‘Do you?’ Her hand moved to his wrist, but he twisted it off. ‘No one knows for certain that she was kidnapped. Did she say his name when you spoke to her? Did she ever use the word “Žigon”?’
Spike tried to remember.
‘Listen, Spike. I’ve known you all my life. And ever since you met this girl things keep going wrong for you. Look at what you’re doing. Listen to what you’re saying. You’re a commercial lawyer, not some vigilante trying to track down a homicidal crime lord.’ Jessica paused, then spoke more gently. ‘Your annoyingly beautiful ex-girlfriend has cut you off, and your business partner has had a terrible accident, but that’s all there is to it. You’ve got to pull yourself together. Forget about Zahra and think of the future.’ Her eyes were gleaming now. ‘Don’t you think I’m shaken up about Peter too? I’m doing everything I can to find out who was driving that car. There’s a paint sample with forensics in London. We’re getting the story out to Spain, OK?’
The pub door burst open, admitting the stubbled Romani Spike had seen in Irish Town. He carried a laundry bag, which he swung onto the bar, revealing a selection of handmade bangles. Casey picked one up admiringly, batting her false eyelashes.
‘Spike?’
He looked back. ‘A woman came to see me this morning. With a little boy. Her name was Grainger.’
‘As in Simon Grainger?’
‘You know her?’
‘Hard not to. She was on the front page of the Chronicle for three days. Her husband killed himself, right?’
‘Not according to her. And she’s not too happy with the outcome of your investigation.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘She says the police closed the case with indecent haste.’
‘Not our problem.’
‘Why?’
‘Redcaps.’
‘What do they have to do with it?’
‘The body landed just inside the base on the Rock. That makes it a military matter.’
‘Even though Simon Grainger was a civilian?’
‘Them’s the rules, Spike. Thought you’d know that, Scholarship Boy.’
Spike half-smiled. ‘Odd place to kill yourself, though, isn’t it?’
‘There’s a flat bit of land above. Handy spot if you fancy ending it all. As long as you don’t mind the gulls pecking out your eyes and the apes playing with your shattered limbs.’
Spike watched Jessica’s cheeks colour as she remembered that the topic of suicide was not one Spike cared for. Then she shrugged and gave a conciliatory smile. ‘Tell you what. I’ll talk to the Chief Constable. They’re lazy sods, the Redcaps. I’ll see if they’ve cut any corners.’ She reached behind for a menu. ‘Now I need to eat something; it’s been a long day.’ Her lips pouted as she scanned the options – Calpe burger, egg and chips . . . ‘It’s good to see you watching out for the little people, though. That was why you went into law in the first place, wasn’t it? To help out the underdog?’
Spike nodded, but as he walked back to the bar, he realised that he couldn’t actually remember.
Chapter Thirteen
Spike turned into Chicardo’s Passage, feeling the sweat from the climb sting the skin of his brow, suddenly aware that if Galliano ever did regain consciousness, Gibraltar had to be one of the worst places on Earth to find yourself confined to a wheelchair. The rows of dilapidated terraced houses stood just a few feet apart, the washing lines st
rung between them so short that only single items could be hung. Ahead, dangling against the night sky, Spike recognised a pair of his father’s fraying brown cords.
He passed the house of his neighbours, Keith and Maeve Montegriffo, glancing as usual at the budgerigar in a metal cage wired to their first-floor balcony. The lights in his own kitchen were still on, he saw with a sigh, as he took out a gleaming Chubb key and pushed it into the newly fitted lock.
Any hopes that Rufus had left the lights on accidentally were dashed as Spike entered the hallway. ‘An intruder perchance?’ boomed his sardonic voice from the kitchen. ‘Are we to be murdered in our beds?’
Spike placed his briefcase on the bottom stair. It was tempting to continue up, but instead he pushed heroically through the bead curtain.
Rufus Sanguinetti was sprawled in a wooden chair at the head of the table, a cafetière beside him, the plunger hopelessly skewed. He still insisted on brewing Nescafé inside Spike’s Christmas present. A mug lay at his elbow, a copy of the Gibraltar Chronicle open in front of him. ‘“Asterisk betrayal”,’ Rufus called out. ‘Six – comma – five.’
‘You’re up late, Dad.’
Without bothering to look up from his crossword, Rufus extended a long arm towards a tea crate beneath the dresser. It hadn’t been there this morning. ‘Found it by the immersion heater. Wants sorting.’
‘You shouldn’t be up in the attic by yourself.’
‘Murderers up there, are there? Should we put a stronger chain on the door? Drill a spy hole?’
Rufus lifted his large, leonine head and appraised Spike, caressing the side of his Roman nose with a tapering finger. ‘You haven’t been in the pub, have you?’
‘Working late.’
Spike gave his father’s shoulder an awkward squeeze, then filled a glass from the tap. Cringing at the tepid minerality of Gibraltar’s new desalination plant, he found his eyes ranging over the contents of the crate. Photographs, diaries, letters – Rufus’s compulsion to indulge in nostalgia was becoming a concern. Spike reached inside for a pack of blue airmail letters, recognising with a jolt of sadness his mother’s handwriting, with its earnest mix of capitals and underlinings.
Hollow Mountain Page 4
