Chapter Thirty-one
As soon as Spike closed his bedroom door, he emailed his cousin, Sandra Zammit, at the Garrison Library to ask what she knew about the Flos Sanctus Montis. If the bell had really come from a famous ship, perhaps it could be worth something after all. It was a Sunday, he realised as he hit send, but at least she would get the message on Monday morning.
Composing himself, he took out his skeleton argument for the Neptune case. The print danced in tune with the throbbing of his head. So much for Calpol. He found three aspirin in his bathroom, gulped them down and took a shower.
Downstairs, Rufus was singing along to an aria from Turandot. Spike sat back down at his desk, almost refreshed. He stared at the drawer, then pulled it open and found the sheaf of his mother’s letters inside. He knew it wouldn’t improve his mood, but somehow he couldn’t help it.
‘My dearest J – Yesterday we caught the ferry to the Île de Ré. I could see R watching me, pointing out the beaches, the strange paddy fields where they harvest the sea salt. He is so desperate to see me smile, to remind me of the fun we had here on our honeymoon. But I just can’t do it. Because my mind is lost to you, my love. You are always in my thoughts . . .’
‘Focus, for fuck’s sake,’ Spike cursed, putting the letter away. Slowly, his mind began to flesh out the bullet points into sentences and paragraphs. It was important for a barrister not to write everything down, Peter always said, or he could sound stilted. Know what you’re going to say, not how you’re going to say it. Half an hour passed, and Spike felt himself turning back into a lawyer who’d been out the night before, rather than a drunkard masquerading as a lawyer. Outside, he heard the Church of the Sacred Heart chime eleven. He eyed the desk drawer again, then reached for his mobile and lay back on his bed.
His phone was still off from when he’d silenced it in Amy’s flat. Two new texts, the first with an Italian title – ‘Ecco l’uomo’, Here is the man – and a photograph attached. Sender: Enrico Sanguinetti. Spike smiled as he clicked on the file. The picture took a while to download; when it finally did, it appeared to have been shot surreptitiously from waist-height, as the lens was angled upwards. It showed a man walking along what looked like a hotel corridor. Only his upper half was captured, but the quality was good, well worth the 100 euros Spike had promised. The man looked about fifty, pale and craggy, with a pointed chin and intelligent brown eyes, one of which had a slight droop. His nose was strong, his hair dark, maybe a tad too dark for his age, cut short around the ears. He wore a thin leather jacket, casual against the opulent red carpet and expensive wallpaper of the hotel. His left arm was hooked proprietorially around a woman’s elbow, someone a little taller than him, judging by the upwards slant. Spike scrolled to the right. A slender forearm was visible, bronzed, fine-boned, the wrist adorned by three chunky silver bangles, linked together like a Russian wedding ring. Spike knew the arm belonged to Zahra before he’d even zoomed in. And there it was, the thin white scar on the back of her hand, a mark he’d once put to his lips as she’d told him of its unexciting provenance. He zoomed back out: Žigon’s lazy eye was clear and cold, peering downwards, perhaps to where the camera lay. She’s mine, it seemed say, and there’s nothing you can do about it.
‘Well, that’s it, then,’ Spike muttered.
He closed the attachment, then remembered the second text. Another photograph. Would this one show her face? He clicked on the icon, finding himself humming ‘Row, row, row your boat’ as the picture downloaded. Then he saw its contents and dropped his phone.
Enrico’s yellow front teeth protruded rodent-like above his lower lip. His red doorman’s hat lay on the floor by his left ear, newspaper spread out beneath. The collar of his shirt was undone, and above his thick chest hair, Spike made out a wide dark gash, at least five inches long, running from one side of his neck to the other, the cartilaginous white of a windpipe gleaming through the bloody mush. Spike’s eyes were drawn to the left, protesting at the terrible thing curled up inside Enrico’s hat. A long grey root, pale speckles on the bloodstained skin. Now Spike realised why Enrico’s front teeth had been so visible. His tongue had been cut out.
Spike’s eyes began to ache. He sensed the blood draining from his cheeks, rushing to his organs. He could tell he was going to be sick, but couldn’t seem to move. A third text arrived; he heard the double-beep, then saw his fingertip jab down clumsily at the key.
‘You were warned. We are watching you and your family. Do not tell anybody. If you alert the police we will know. Someone will come for your phone.’
Spike slumped off the bed and crawled to the bathroom. Rolling onto his side, he laid his cheek to the cold tiles, concentrating on his breathing, waiting for the nausea to ease. Then a new panic started to fill his belly as he realised that he’d been lying there for five minutes and no noise had come from downstairs. He lurched out onto the landing and sprinted down the stairs, damp soles skidding through the bead curtain and into the kitchen. ‘Dad!’
A note lay on the kitchen table: ‘Gone to get the papers.’ Chest still heaving, Spike steadied himself on the chair back. Slowly, numbly, he started to realise how far he had strayed out of his depth. His mind ranged through the people he might go to for help: Galliano, Zahra, Jessica . . . He almost laughed. If you alert the police we will know. The last warning he’d ignored. And now Peter lay comatose in hospital. Enrico was dead, tortured then killed. Who would be next? Zahra? Rufus? Maybe Spike could leave Gibraltar – cross the border to Spain and catch a train north. Impossible. They wanted the phone. It was the photograph of Žigon they were after. If Spike ran away, then someone else could get hurt.
Outside, the church bell began to toll. In less than twenty-two hours, Spike realised, he would be standing before a judge in court.
I sit down reluctantly on the red section of the Union-Jack-painted kerb, reading a tourist map, browsing the local ads – ‘Rock Tours by Taxi: Visit Gib with the People who Know’; ‘Dolphin World – THE best dolphin safaris, come and find us at Ocean Village’; ‘World War II Tunnels – See where thousands of people lived and worked deep inside the Rock – Walk through History!’ There is movement inside the door of the tower block; I get to my feet to see a fat man shuffling down the internal stairs. He checks his pigeonhole, then switches on a handheld fan and minces out onto the street.
I sit back down. Interspersed with the parochial ads are notices for private banks, law firms, hedge funds. I wonder if the seaside facade the colony affects is a deliberate cover for financial impropriety. Not that there’s much high finance happening in this part of town, I think, as I glance around the estate, which seems to have been built on top of a castle, no doubt a fine old Spanish fortress pulled down by the British.
More footsteps. This one looks different. Pretty, young, doe-eyed. Out of place. She pulls a handful of letters from her pigeonhole, and I creep closer: Flat 7B, the sign on the wooden box says. Bingo.
‘Charlie?’ I hear the woman call up the stairs. ‘Hurry up.’
She exits to the forecourt. A few moments later, a small boy appears, face set with concentration as he runs unsteadily to catch her up.
The child complicates matters. But complicated does not mean impossible. I wait until they are out of sight, then start up the stairs towards the seventh floor.
Chapter Thirty-two
‘It seems to me,’ said Judge Bossano, ‘that this morning’s hearing can be considered in two parts. The first is relatively simple, and I shall pronounce on it now in the same way that the Receiver of Wreck would have done.’
Bossano peered down from his bench. On this of all days, Spike found himself before the most belligerent judge in Gibraltar. He found his eyes inching down from Bossano’s face to the stiff winged collar around his neck, prompting a sickening image of the jagged cartilage of Enrico Sanguinetti’s throat to flicker through his mind. The picture must have been a fake, Spike told himself again. Fabricated to stop him digging deeper. That was all that had happened
. Nothing to worry about.
Bossano was glaring at him now, wig skewed, massive ego demanding the court’s full attention. ‘The Claimant posits that the Gloucester was engaged on military business when she sank,’ he resumed. ‘The Ministry of Defence therefore has clear title to the cargo of lead. I believe that the MoD has already reached an agreement with Neptune Marine to that effect, which is not under dispute from the Crown?’ Bossano glanced at Drew Stanford-Trench, the barrister representing the interests of Customs and Excise.
‘No dispute, my Lord,’ Stanford-Trench said, eyeing Spike as he knocked a document wallet off his desk.
‘Where the real complexity lies,’ the judge went on, ‘is with the discovery of the unlisted cargo of silver bullion. Mr Sanguinetti – perhaps you might elucidate this for the Court?’
Bossano topped up his glass with sparkling mineral water, then sat back in his red leather chair, broad forearms spread across the bench. Like Spike, he’d come up through the Mags, and appeared to be relishing the more generous appointment of the Supreme Court.
‘Absolutely, my Lord,’ Spike replied, rising carefully to his feet. In the row behind, he sensed the keen gaze of Clohessy and Jardine trained upon him. ‘My client, Neptune Marine, is one of the foremost maritime salvage companies in the world. Having identified a potential wreck site in Gibraltarian territorial waters, they fulfilled the Duties of Finder as set out in the Merchant Shipping Act of 1894, then began their deepwater investigations, only to come unexpectedly upon a safe on the seabed containing more than a thousand bars of unmarked silver. Rather than act unscrupulously, Neptune immediately informed the Receiver of Wreck, who asked the Court to pronounce on the matter of ownership. As Neptune had instructed my colleague, Peter Galliano, who was sadly taken ill last month’ – Bossano gave a sober nod; he and Peter were friends, it was a shameless namedrop, but one Peter would have appreciated – ‘it has fallen to me to step in on his behalf. Whilst awaiting the hearing date, my client placed advertisements in both Lloyd’s List and Ukrainian Pravda asking for any heirs to the silver to declare themselves. As his Lordship can now see from Document B, no credible heir has emerged.’ The judge moistened his lower lip in concentration as he examined the sheet, and Spike found himself staring at the pink tip of his tongue . . .
‘Mr Sanguinetti?’
He looked back at his papers, struggling to locate his train of thought. His horsehair wig itched at his temples and his black gown felt unbearably hot and heavy. Behind, he heard someone hiss something in a Canadian accent. He needed to pull himself together . . . ‘The fact is, my Lord,’ Spike said, abandoning his notes, ‘that the silver bars in question were being illegally smuggled. I can therefore surmise what my learned friend here will try and argue.’ Stanford-Trench’s handsome face took on an amused expression – he was a far more dangerous opponent now that he’d fallen in love and given up the drink.
‘He will tell you,’ Spike continued, ‘that under section 241 (1) of the MSA, Customs and Excise enjoys the same right to confiscate the silver today as had they intercepted the ship back in 1853.’
‘Let’s leave Mr Stanford-Trench to make his own submissions, shall we?’
‘Very well. Can I therefore ask the Court to turn to Document D?’
Bossano flicked through the bundle Spike had submitted.
‘On page 32, you will see that the principle of “treasure trove” has been an integral part of English common law since the time of Edward the Confessor. If treasure has been deliberately concealed with intent to retrieve, then it belongs automatically to the Crown. However, if treasure is lost or abandoned, then whoever finds it enjoys the right to keep it.’
Bossano nodded as he scanned the case law.
‘We would argue that in this case, as the silver has been lost, rather than deliberately concealed, the principle of “treasure trove” applies.’
The judge began scribbling down notes. ‘And this is not just any finder we are talking about,’ Spike went on. ‘Neptune Marine has dedicated over a year of resources to this project. To say nothing of enormous financial expenditure. Each day spent in possession of the wreck site costs them over £35,000. Not only have they been moored now in the Straits for more than three weeks, but they have faced continual harassment from the Guardia Civil, who claim incorrectly that their ship is trespassing in Spanish waters. Meanwhile, the firm’s value on the Toronto Stock Exchange has been falling. Such risks as those undertaken by my client in today’s economic climate should be rewarded. It speaks volumes that the MoD in Gibraltar is not pressing a claim on the silver. After all, the costs and hazards are borne by Neptune Marine alone.’ Spike looked back to Drew Stanford-Trench, but opposing counsel had his head down now, diligently preparing his response.
‘In conclusion,’ Spike said, ‘my client’s claim on the silver has support both in law, under the “treasure trove” principle, and in equity, given the investment they have made. Hard work,’ he added, addressing the courtroom, ‘deserves its reward.’ He sat back down, feeling his head start to swim. ‘Mr Sanguinetti?’ he heard as if through water.
He hauled himself back up. ‘My Lord?’
‘What thought has been given to storage?’
‘Storage?’
‘Given the high value of the lead, and particularly the silver, the Court needs to be assured that a secure storage facility has been identified. You can’t just lock this sort of thing up in a garage.’
Spike felt a tug at his gown. ‘One moment, my Lord,’ he said, turning to find Jardine’s outstretched arm clutching a scrap of paper. Some kind of diagram and a scrawled note. The lines began to blur. ‘I must beg the Court’s indulgence while I confer with my client on this point.’
‘Lunchtime draws ever closer, Mr Sanguinetti,’ Bossano said. ‘Let’s hear from Mr Stanford-Trench.’
Drew Stanford-Trench stood up with a confident smile. ‘My Lord, as we have just heard from opposing counsel, for which many thanks, under section 241 (1) of the Merchant Shipping Act?. . .’
Clohessy and Jardine were huddled together as Spike shunted his chair round. ‘We talked about this,’ Clohessy whispered.
‘It’s a map of the Stay Behind Cave,’ Jardine said. Spike caught a whiff of booze in the air; he hoped it was coming from Jardine. ‘Tell me you’ve heard of it?’
Every Gibraltarian had. In the Second World War, the Allies had been so convinced Hitler would invade Gibraltar that they had created a secret fortified bunker in the Rock, fitted out for ten men to ‘stay behind’ and send back crucial intelligence if Gib was captured. A team had even been selected to man it, trained in endurance techniques by a survivor of Scott’s Antarctic expedition. But Hitler had attacked Russia instead, and the bunker had been consigned to history.
‘The MoD is letting Neptune store the lead there,’ Jardine said. ‘There’s bags of room for the silver.’
‘We talked about this,’ Clohessy repeated.
‘Maybe to Peter, not to me,’ Spike snapped, causing Stanford-Trench to break off from his monologue. Just let this be over, Spike willed, more grateful then ever for the courts’ Summer Hours. ‘How many days do you need?’ he asked.
‘Two to bring up the cargo,’ Clohessy said, ‘so long as the weather holds. Another day to pack it up. Then we fly it all to Vancouver by private jet. Four in total, at the most.’
‘What’s your insurer’s position?’
‘Zurich’s over the fucking moon,’ Clohessy hissed. ‘The cave’s the most secure place on the Rock.’
Spike moved his chair round to find Stanford-Trench elegantly bringing his submission to a close.
‘Mr Sanguinetti?’ Bossano said, emptying his bottle of water.
Spike explained to the judge about the bunker, then watched him bang his papers on the bench like a gavel. ‘Thank you. The Court will now relay its verdict.’
Chapter Thirty-three
Spike stepped out of the portico into the punishing midday heat. He thought
that he’d tarried long enough in the changing rooms for everyone connected to the case to have left. Not so: Hugh Jardine was standing in the shade of one of the giant date palms laid out when the Law Courts had been built in the 1830s. He turned away from the court notice board, narrow grey eyes protected by an elderly pair of Wayfarers. In his cream suit he had the louche look of a James Bond actor put out to pasture, then called unexpectedly back into service.
‘I hadn’t realised they tried the Mary Celeste case here,’ he called out. ‘You’d have solved that one, wouldn’t you, Somerset?’ He smiled and lit a cigarette.
There was something of Rufus’s leanness about Jardine, Spike thought, though none of his intelligence. Spike managed a perfunctory nod, then continued down the gravel path towards the street.
Flitting between the garden’s wrought-iron gates was Mort Clohessy, mobile phone clamped to ear, jawbone bulging, two fingers wrenching loose his Hermès tie. He looked as uncomfortable in a suit as Jardine had looked at home – a Tour de France winner forced into black tie for an awards dinner.
‘I don’t gave two shits what it costs,’ he barked, ‘I want it chartered and parked on the runway for as long it takes. I’ll call a board meeting if I have to.’ He saw Spike and beckoned him over. ‘Too damned right,’ he concluded to the unfortunate at the end of the line.
Slipping the phone into his suit pocket, Clohessy pulled off his tinted glasses. Then he held out his arms and croaked with as much warmth as he could muster, ‘You just saved my company, bud.’
Clohessy’s sinewy arms felt like leather straps around Spike’s back. He drew out of the embrace earlier than might have been considered friendly.
‘Mr Sanguinetti doesn’t look too happy about it,’ Jardine called over, tapping his ash into a bed of orchids.
‘Shut the fuck up, Hugh,’ Clohessy said, teeth bared in a smile. ‘You kicked ass, Sanguinetti.’
‘Just doing my job,’ Spike replied. Someone jostled him from behind and he leapt to one side in alarm. A family of Sephardis late for Synagogue, the father with an ‘Arsenal Football Club’ logo embroidered onto his skull cap.
Hollow Mountain Page 11
