Hollow Mountain

by Thomas Mogford

  ‘I’m taking the crew out later in Ocean Village,’ Clohessy went on. ‘You’ll join us.’

  ‘I’m afraid I’m busy. But thank you.’

  ‘Six p.m. at Ipanema’s.’

  ‘Sorry,’ Spike said, but Clohessy wasn’t listening now, taking out his phone to answer another call.

  Spike turned and set off down Main Street, vaguely aware of Jardine still watching him from the gatepost. Spike wanted to knock the slim-eyed smile off his face. A moment later he heard his name. He ignored it but the call came again, ‘Spike?’

  Drew Stanford-Trench held a beaded Coke can, bought from the café by the Law Courts. He caught Spike up. ‘Jesus, Spike! Didn’t you hear me?’ A look of concern clouded his clever freckled face. No lawyer with such a fair complexion should ever have moved to the Rock, Spike thought, however calamitous their degree result.

  ‘What’s with the doomed expression?’ Stanford-Trench said.

  ‘Not feeling so good today, Drew.’

  ‘Beaten by a man with a weapons-grade hangover,’ Stanford-Trench chuckled, shaking his head. ‘Fancy some lunch? Settle the stomach?’

  ‘I think I’ll just go home.’

  ‘I can walk with you as far as the Cathedral?’

  Spike glanced down the street. The Sephardis were gone, replaced by day-trippers heading for the cable car, wafting programme sheets against their faces in a vain attempt to cool down.

  ‘Actually, I’d rather you didn’t.’

  Stanford-Trench took a step back. ‘OK.’

  ‘It’s just not a good time.’

  He nodded, then laid a hand on Spike’s arm. ‘You know you can always talk to me, Spike. Whatever’s wrong, I guarantee I’ve seen worse.’

  Spike nodded back. No mention had been made of the shoddy trick Spike had pulled in court, pre-empting his opponent’s argument. He squeezed Stanford-Trench’s shoulder gratefully, then turned off Main Street into the less crowded alleys above.

  His phone was ringing. He swallowed drily, expecting to see Enrico Sanguinetti’s number on the screen. Instead, Jessica Navarro’s face smiled back. He knew that if he didn’t answer she’d hunt him down, turn up unannounced at his house. Gibraltar suddenly felt oppressively small.

  ‘Hey,’ Jessica said. The silence made it clear that the onus was on Spike to speak. ‘You OK?’ he offered eventually.

  ‘We need to talk.’

  ‘Fire away.’

  ‘Face to face.’

  Spike looked to his left. Something had moved at the periphery of his vision – just a man on a scooter with two fishing rods on his shoulders. ‘I’m sorry, Jess. I can’t at the moment.’ He felt her hurt reverberate down the line. ‘Listen. You’re . . .’

  ‘What?’ she said, anger ignited.

  He felt his voice start to shake. He raised his head, seeing an arm cut out against the blue sky as a hand reached from a top-floor window to adjust a satellite dish on the roof. ‘You’re the best person I know, Jess. But right now, I really need you to leave me alone.’

  Phone clenched in his fist, Spike turned onto Cannon Lane, waiting for the next message from Enrico Sanguinetti, or for a stranger to appear at the next corner. High above the Old Town, the Rock stared down impassively.

  Chapter Thirty-four

  Rufus stood hunched in the kitchen, still in his mauve dressing gown, peering into the fridge as though lunch might mysteriously appear. On the table behind him lay the Chronicle’s cryptic crossword. An editorial connecting Alfred Benady’s death to Peter Galliano’s hit-and-run dominated the opposite page: ‘Call for Speed Cameras on Gib’s Steep Backstreets’, the headline screamed.

  ‘Don’t you ever get dressed?’ Spike said, more sharply than he’d intended.

  Rufus turned from the fridge, appraising the tension in his son’s face. His dressing gown gaped, revealing a frail pigeon chest – combined with his height, a classic symptom of Marfan syndrome, the doctors had said, amazed that no one had picked it up before. Under his armpit ran the lurid scar where a tube had been inserted last year to drain his lungs. ‘Woman ­trouble?’ he asked as he closed the fridge with his long, spindly fingers.

  ‘I’m sorry?’

  ‘You’ve been in a foul mood for days,’ he went on. ‘Cherchez la femme . . .’ He sat down, mulling a clue. ‘Don’t know how to keep ’em happy, I s’pose.’

  ‘And you’d know all about that,’ Spike murmured.

  Rufus peered up over his half-moons, and Spike took in the hearing aid built into their frame, feeling irritation tighten his jaw.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ Rufus said.

  As Spike gazed at his father’s blithe face, he realised that ever since Rufus’s diagnosis he’d been reluctant to speak plainly, afraid of upsetting him. Of making things worse. ‘Who’s “J”?’

  ‘Jay who?’

  ‘The letter “J”. Comes after I, as a rule. He was mentioned a great deal in those airmail letters you dug out of the attic. From Mum. Someone she cared for quite a lot, it would seem.’

  There was a pause, then Rufus said quietly, ‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent.’

  ‘Is that a clue or a reply?’

  Rufus set his pen down on the table.

  ‘You might kid yourself that you were a good husband, Dad. But not only did your wife kill herself, it seems that she was having an affair right under your nose.’

  Suddenly Rufus slammed down his palms, a gesture Spike knew had wrought terror in the hearts of thousands of adolescent pupils. Dragging himself to his feet, he lurched towards his son, right arm raised. He had never hit Spike during his childhood, but then again, he’d never had the chance – Spike had always been halfway up the stairs before the shouting had even started. Lifting a hand into the air, Spike caught Rufus’s thin wrist, feeling his anger dissipate as he watched the pain flash across his father’s face. Shame and weariness filling the void, Spike sat down on one of the old wooden chairs and pulled one out for Rufus. ‘Come on, Dad. Let’s have something to eat.’

  Chapter Thirty-five

  ‘Whereof one cannot speak, thereof one must be silent’ . . . Typical of Rufus to hide behind somebody else’s line. Spike sat down on his bed and took out his phone. Clicking open the text message, he forced himself to reread it: 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.

  So Zahra had been right. Why had he doubted her? She’d been nothing but straight with him for as long as he’d known her. And what if by ignoring her warning he had put her in greater danger? From now on, he would just do as he was told. Hand over the phone and hope for the best. He couldn’t allow anyone else to be put at risk.

  Feeling the dizziness start to return, he opened his email, trying to ignore the reams of work-related messages that were starting to clog up his inbox. Tomorrow he was meant to be meeting Peter Galliano’s sister to discuss his ‘future’. An ill-chosen word: the discussion would focus on whether or not the doctors should let him die. Finding little comfort in the fact that there were still some people worse off than himself, he scrolled through the rest of his messages, stopping when he found one from Sandra Zammit at the Garrison Library entitled ‘Flos Sanctus Montis’.

  ‘Hi Cuz,’ it began. Spike smiled despite himself at Sandra’s writing style – more akin to that of a teenager than a 62-year-old. Perhaps a reaction to spending too long around antique books. ‘U R 2nd person wanting info on this. All we have is copy of original manifest. Booked out at mo but I will let u no when its back. Sandra.’

  Spike immediately called the Garrison Library, picturing the Bakelite telephone pealing away unattended in the back room. The library had been founded in 1793 to provide reading material for officers during lengthy Spanish sieges, and sometimes it felt like it had barely advanced since then.

  ‘Garrison Library, 418?’ came a hesitant voice.

  ‘Sandra. It’s Spike.’

&nbs
p; ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Spike Sanguinetti. Your cousin.’

  ‘How lovely. You got my message then?’

  ‘I did. And I was wondering – who booked out the manifest?’

  ‘I’m afraid I can’t say. Data protection.’

  ‘Oh come on, Sandra?. . .’

  Spike heard gentle breathing, then the receiver laid down and the hum of a radio behind. ‘Just because it’s you, Spike,’ Sandra resumed. ‘It’s out to a . . . Peter Galliano.’

  Spike felt a sudden rush of confusion. ‘Really? When?’

  ‘Three weeks ago.’

  Around the time of the hit-and-run, Spike thought.

  ‘I remember him coming in. Nice man – big smile. Told me it was do with a case he was working on. Isn’t he connected to you in some way?’

  ‘We work together. Do you have another copy of the manifest?’

  ‘Just the one. I was amazed we had it at all. Something to do with a controversy over whether she sank or not.’

  ‘Is there anything else about the ship?’

  ‘How funny! That’s exactly what your colleague asked. The answer was no.’

  ‘Do you know where I can find more information?’

  ‘You could check the law library.’

  ‘I already have.’

  ‘Or the “internet” maybe?’ She said the word as if he might not have heard of it and she’d only recently added it to her vocabulary.

  ‘There’s nothing there.’

  ‘Then you’ll just have to find someone who knows about boats. Listen, Spike, you should pop by some time. Our dragon tree is coming into bloom.’

  Spike fought an urge to join his cousin in the library’s shady back garden and get quietly smashed on G&Ts.

  ‘Or ask your Pa. Expect he could use the company.’

  ‘I’ll mention it. Thanks, Sandra.’

  His finger moved towards Amy Grainger’s number, then he dismissed the idea, remembering Charlie’s earnest face peering up at him. Instead he went downstairs, catching sight of his silent father’s back. Still seated at the table – brooding no doubt.

  Once at Chambers, he searched through Galliano’s filing cabinet but found no sign of the ship’s manifest, just the stuffed Spanish wildcat gazing down from the windowsill, trapped, frozen. Talk to someone who knows about boats, Sandra Zammit had said. Well, Spike thought, checking the time, and feeling grateful for the distraction. That he could do.

  Chapter Thirty-six

  Though Ocean Village lay just on the other side of the peninsula to the Moorish Castle Estate, it might have been on a different continent. The development had been built to service the wealthy yachting crowd in the hope that they might berth their boats there, or use it as a stopover when sailing in and out of the Med. A sparkling new apartment plaza – in a building shaped like the Rock itself – rose at the shoreline, along with a business centre and a Gala casino where you could drink for free and lose whatever you’d earned next door. The most interesting element was the mode of land reclamation, a series of long wooden pontoons stretching into the bay, each leading to an ‘internationally themed’ restaurant or nightclub.

  A tanned couple in white shorts and silver Oakley shades were carrying a box of provisions from the local yacht-supply shop. Spike stopped to let them climb down to their berth, then continued along the slatted walkway. Fat bamboo poles draped with fisherman’s rope served as banisters. The water below was lit up, revealing the snub-nosed silhouettes of grey mullet cruising the blue-green murk. ‘Leisure Island’, as the authorities dubbed it, was staggeringly tasteless in Spike’s view, but on more than one occasion, after the pubs of the Old Town had closed, he had been grateful for its late-night bars. O’Reilly’s offered cod Irish gaiety, Le Petit Café, misspelt ‘coque au vin’, The Cuban, a half-decent mojito. As far as Spike knew, Celebrities Wine Bar (‘Buy 5 Coronas Get 1 Free’) was yet to attract any of its namesakes. He wondered which of the establishments Simon Grainger had worked at.

  Clohessy had chosen what was probably the pick of the bunch – Ipanema’s, a Brazilian-themed restaurant selling British beer on tap. As Spike approached, he noticed the Trident’s sleek inflatable tender moored in one of the berths. Perched on a bamboo bench above, a lone man sat staring out at the Straits. At first Spike thought it was the Scottish driver of the RIB, Dougie, but finding he was mistaken, he walked past him into the restaurant.

  The best place to sit was outside, in an open-sided cabaña rising from the decking. Sure enough, Clohessy and the Neptune crew were there, clustered around the semicircular bar as a table was laid up behind them. Being welcomed in by this large group of capable, unflappable men felt strangely reassuring.

  ‘You made it,’ Clohessy called out in his nasal accent, raising an iced hi-ball tumbler. He was back in the clothes that made him comfortable, thin manmade fibres that could probably withstand any extreme of temperature. His colleagues were also in mufti, the occasional Hawaiian shirt revealing ‘characters’ within the group who had hitherto seemed dour. ‘Johnnie, fix this man a drink,’ Clohessy said, and the younger of the Scottish brothers, ever eager to please, turned a glass a violent purple with one of the jugs on the bar.

  ‘Walk with me,’ Clohessy said, passing Spike his drink. It was an amiable order rather than a request. He pressed a hand to Spike’s back as they moved to the edge of the decking. ‘Mike’s still aboard,’ he said, pointing with his glass in the direction of the Trident. ‘We begin the salvage at 6 a.m.’

  Spike plucked the fluorescent cocktail umbrella from his glass and took a sip. The drink was so sweet it was hard to know what wasn’t in it.

  ‘I meant what I said before,’ Clohessy resumed. ‘I’ve earned a heck of a lot of money in my time, and I’ve always prided myself on making things. Useful things that last. But I’ve put my soul into Neptune. There’s beauty hidden on the seabed, and we need it up here, enriching our culture, safeguarding our history. Injecting much-needed capital into the economy.’ Into your bank account, Spike thought. ‘We’ve had ten good years at Neptune, but technology keeps moving on. We had to float the business last year. Raise more investment. My ass is on the line with the shareholders. I owe a ton of alimony to my ex-wife. If you hadn’t pulled this off . . .’ He turned to survey his employees; Jardine was there now, raising a glass. ‘Well, I could have been pushed out of the company I founded. It’s happened before.’ He looked back at Spike. ‘You’re one hell of an advocate, Sanguinetti.’

  ‘How much do you know about ships’ bells?’

  A small frown wrinkled Clohessy’s tanned brow. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘A friend has come across one and I’m keen to find out more.’

  ‘Jamie?’ Clohessy called to the bar.

  His timid public schoolboy emerged from the throng. ‘Mr Sanguinetti has some technical questions. Answer them, would you?’ He patted Spike again on the back. ‘I’m gonna chase up the food. Sometimes you Brits don’t put enough spice on the chicken wings.’

  Jamie lingered at Spike’s shoulder. His cocktail umbrella was still in place; he took a sip, canopy pressing against his weak goatee.

  ‘I was asking Mort about ships’ bells.’

  Jamie wiped his mouth, immediately surer of his ground. ‘They’re like gold dust for us, Mr Sanguinetti. Provide the best identifier of a shipwreck.’

  ‘I see,’ Spike said, though he didn’t.

  ‘A bell is an essential form of communication on a ship – you ring the bell every half-hour, and the watch of a sailor lasts eight bells. You’ve heard the phrase, Knock seven bells out of someone? Well, eight bells means the end of a shift, so seven bells is almost – but not quite – finished.’ Jamie cast an uneasy look at Spike, perhaps realising he was straying off the point. ‘In the old days, when a ship got into trouble, she would throw her cannons and ballast overboard, or cut her anchors. But the bell stayed put.’ He took in Spike’s vacant look and opted for a more binary explanation. ‘Basically, Mr San
guinetti, if a ship goes down, the bell goes with her. And the best bit? Not only do bells have the date they were cast engraved on them, they usually show the name of the vessel as well.’

  ‘Have you heard of a ship called . . .’

  Spike felt a prod in the back and turned to see Jardine standing behind him in a pressed pink shirt and chinos. The strength of the jab had suggested someone younger. ‘In case you were wondering, there’s not a drop of alcohol in that,’ he said, pointing at Spike’s glass. ‘Mort’s Law. He’s a Presbyterian, you know.’ Jamie took the opportunity to scurry back to the safety of the crowd as Jardine lit another of his ubiquitous cigarettes. Benson and Hedges, Spike noticed, remembering someone else who had smoked that brand. ‘How well did you know my mother?’ he asked, then immediately regretted it.

  Jardine exhaled aromatically, then leaned in. ‘Questions like that need the right kind of lubricant.’ He smiled indulgently. ‘Why don’t I pop down to the boatie supply shop? Then we can have a proper chinwag.’

  Spike watched him walk stiffly away down the wooden pier, noting his breadth of shoulder, trying to imagine what a woman might have seen in him twenty years ago.

  ‘Food’s up,’ Clohessy called out.

  An enormous tray of dangerous-looking chicken wings had been placed in the middle of the round table. Spike looked for Jamie, but it was Dougie who appeared at his elbow. ‘Seat of honour, pal,’ he said in his Scottish brogue, pulling out a chair.

  Clohessy reappeared. As soon as he sat down, everyone followed. Licking his thin lips, Clohessy reached over and grabbed a fistful of wings. Spike wondered idly if he’d be throwing them up later.

  ‘Hear you caned it in court today,’ Dougie said, words fighting their way through his thick Glaswegian accent.

  ‘We had a fair case,’ Spike replied, glancing across the table to see Anders the Swede drawing a chicken wing through his white teeth, mouth smeared with sauce.