Sign of the Cross (12 page)

A face stared upwards. Two red, emptied holes were all that remained of the eyes.

Spike scrambled backwards, elbows scraping the limestone, to find Zahra still standing on the cliff edge. As he got to his feet, he saw a man moving behind her.

‘
What?
’ Zahra said impatiently.

Spike brushed the dust from his clothes. The taxi driver was walking towards them.

‘Not good,’ Spike said. ‘Not good at all.’

6

‘Fancy a coffee?’ Azzopardi said.

‘No thank you.’

After calling a drinks order into the lobby, Azzopardi came back into the interview room. He wore the same navy Armani suit as in the Depot, though newly pressed. ‘The head of the Gozo police,’ he murmured, shaking his head as he sat down opposite Spike at the table. ‘The smallest incident and he calls me.’ He leaned in conspiratorially. ‘I heard a phrase the other day – “If he fell into a bucket of tits, he’d come up sucking his own thumb.” ’ Azzopardi smiled; Spike didn’t smile back.

‘So let’s go over this again,’ Azzopardi said, clicking on the tape recorder. ‘You read in your uncle’s diary that he had a meeting scheduled with Father de Maro. You and your friend are curious, and decide to keep the appointment, wondering if perhaps he’d been using the Father as a confessor for his marital problems. Then you find the priest’s body stuck halfway down a cliff face.’

‘That’s about it.’

‘How did you know the body was there?’

‘I saw gulls circling.’

‘So you peered down.’

‘Correct.’

‘The taxi driver, Mr Fenech – he says he saw you climbing back up. As though you might have pushed the priest off yourself.’

‘Why don’t you examine the chapel door, Mr Azzopardi? Someone broke in.’

‘You?’

Spike spoke quietly, trying to curb his frustration. ‘The priest’s eyes had been pecked out. Herring gulls may be fast workers, but they’re not that hungry. You’ve already seen our ferry tickets; we’d only been in Gozo an hour.’ He glanced up at the wall clock. ‘Make that six now.’

Azzopardi’s sleeve lifted as he clicked off the tape, revealing his striped friendship bracelet, souvenir of some music festival or backpacking trip. ‘My Mobile Squad ran a check on you after you left the Depot,’ he said. ‘Law school in London, paid for by the Gibraltar government. Recipient of a Denning Scholarship, yet still you end up back in Gibraltar working for some no-name local firm.’ He smiled. ‘Nothing interesting until last summer, when you hit the headlines with a case in Morocco. What was it the press called you – the Devil’s Advocate? Five people dead?’

‘I protect my clients, Mr Azzopardi. Sometimes people don’t like it.’

‘A client who’s currently languishing in a Moroccan jail.’

‘I completed my brief. Mr Hassan now has new defence counsel.’

Azzopardi stood and moved to Spike’s side of the table. ‘Listen,’ he said, ‘I know this is tough for you and your family. But sometimes when you stare too hard at something, you start to see things that aren’t there.’

‘I’m pretty sure the priest’s body was there.’

Azzopardi clicked the machine back on. ‘Tell me about the girl.’

‘We met last year in Morocco. I helped her secure a visa for Gibraltar. She wanted to move somewhere bigger so I found her a job in Malta with my aunt.’

‘She’s lucky to have her own personal counsel.’

‘I doubt she would agree.’

‘She’s a migrant, right?’

‘A court interpreter. Working for a wage, same as you. The only difference is her father didn’t get her the job.’

Azzopardi stared down coldly. For the first time, his youthfulness took on a menacing quality, like a child plucking the wings from an insect. ‘Get that Moroccan back in here,’ he said. ‘And don’t make any plans to leave Valletta.’

Spike was already on his way to the door.

7

A blue stained-glass lamp protruded from the portico of Victoria Police Station. For a country so proud of independence, Malta seemed to have difficulty throwing off its British roots. At least Gibraltar admitted its colonial status . . . Spike sat down on the steps beneath, mobile phone in hand. ‘Room 201,’ he said once the receptionist had picked up. Twelve more rings, then, ‘Hello?’

‘Dad?’

‘Son! How are you?’

‘Fine . . .’ Spike said, ill at ease at his father’s good spirits. ‘But I’m not going to be back till late.’

‘What are you up to?’

‘With an old friend. We’re checking out Gozo.’

‘Good for you. Take your mind off things.’

‘You OK?’

‘Been out and about with the Baron. We’ve booked a venue for the wake, fabulous little bistro in Valletta, rabbit a speciality.’

‘What is it with rabbit here?’

‘It’s the national dish. The knights banned the locals from hunting. Eating rabbit was a sign of rebellion.’ Rufus paused to take a bite of something himself. ‘You know, I think we may have misjudged the Baron. He’s been most helpful.’

‘He does seem to have been genuinely fond of Uncle David.’

‘Lord alone knows why. Anyway, you enjoy yourself. Don’t worry about me.’

Spike hung up, watching the city’s high street rumble sleepily by. Gozitans seemed to refer to their capital as ‘Rabat’, preferring the old Arabic name to the more colonial ‘Victoria’. Yet more identity confusion . . . He made a second call.

‘M’learned friend.’

‘Hi, Jess. How are you?’

‘Fine, though I seem to be seeing more of your dog than my fiancé. How’s Malta?’

‘Bit grim.’

‘When are you back?’

‘The funerals are tomorrow. We’ll be home the following afternoon.’

‘Relieved to hear it.’

‘Why?’

‘Hamish has landed a new job. Heard of Caledonian Capital?’

‘No.’

‘Nor had I. But apparently it’s tremendously exciting. He has to relocate to London so we’ve moved the wedding forward.’

‘London?’

‘I’ve been looking into a transfer to the Met.’

Spike grimaced. ‘Sounds tremendously exciting.’

‘Ha ha. Anyway, we’re following in the footsteps of John and Yoko. And Sean Connery.’

‘The Gibraltar quickie marriage? Don’t forget Mark Thatcher.’

‘I’ve been trying to. We’d love to have you as a witness.’

‘It’d be an honour.’

‘
Tenkiu
, Spike.’

He glanced round: Zahra was coming down the steps of the police station. ‘Got to go,’ he said.

‘Someone more interesting?’

‘I’ll call you back.’

He got to his feet as Zahra shook her head wearily. ‘They’re typing up my statement. Did you have to give fingerprints?’

‘And a DNA swab.’

‘Christ.’

Spike turned to see a motorbike cruising along the road. The driver wore a black helmet. It slowed by the police station, then revved away.

8

The ferry to Malta was empty save for a few melancholy lorry drivers staring into space. Zahra took a table on the lower deck as Spike paced the gunwale outside, profiting from a brief inclination to make phone calls.

Galliano was at the office; he confirmed that the cocaine-smuggling case was as good as dead. At least Harrington had paid all fees and expenses. ‘Unlike that Hamish fellow. He hasn’t even returned my calls. The pipeline’s looking a bit thin, Spike.’

‘I’ll be back at work next week.’

‘I’ve heard that one before.’

Next came Drew Stanford-Trench. The background hum made Spike yearn for a moment to be home in Gib. ‘Spikey . . .’ Stanford-Trench began, before remembering the nature of Spike’s trip and retreating to a quieter corner of whichever pub he was in. They talked for a while about the drug-smuggling case, able to speak freely now that the trial had collapsed.

‘So you really think Harrington was talking Serbian?’ Stanford-Trench said.

‘Sounded like it.’

‘I didn’t think he had it in him; he seemed so . . . dull.’

‘And were you close to tracking down the owner of
The Restless Wave
?’

‘Ish. I subscribed to a website called Yachtfinder which listed the name of the holding company for the boat. The address given was a PO box in Belgrade. The surname Radovic had been taken from a stolen passport. Then the trail went cold.’

‘Well, whoever Radovic is, I’ll bet you he’s had dealings with Harrington’s asset management company.’

‘Maybe, Spike. Anyway, remember that English girl I met?’

‘It’s hard to keep up.’

‘The one I took to the Tunnel. She’s coming back to Gib next month. And guess what? She’s bringing a friend.’

Spike heard Stanford-Trench call out, ‘Same again . . . actually, with a top,’ then resume: ‘I’ve just seen a photo. Long legs, dark hair, in need of a bit of rescuing. Right up your
strasse
, I’d say.’

Spike ended the call and went back inside.

9

Zahra raised her dark glassy eyes. ‘Sorry. It’s just . . . finding the body. Brought back a few memories.’

‘I’ll get you a drink.’

The ferry bar wasn’t serving alcohol so Spike zigzagged back with two cups of tea.

‘Thank you,’ Zahra said as she pulled off the plastic lid. She blew on her drink, eyes on the misty perspex windows of the ferry. ‘You know what some of the migrants do?’ she said. ‘Before they get picked up?’

‘What?’

‘Throw away their ID. Passports, papers. Dump their whole lives into the sea.’

Spike waited. Experience had taught him that it was wiser to let her talk it out.

‘It means they can tell Maltese immigration they’re from any country that suits. If Burkina Faso is at peace, they can say they’re from Ivory Coast, which is at war. You follow me?’

Spike raised the weeping eyelet to his mouth.

‘Of course, sometimes it’s too obvious. A Somali has a certain look. Long neck, copper skin. But generally it works.’

‘Sounds sensible.’

‘Some of the names we get: Zinédine. Pelé. That’s boys for you. The detail the women like to change is their age. A hell of a lot of eighteen-year-old girls wash up on Malta.’ She raised the cup to her mouth, then put it down without drinking. ‘Except Dinah. I found the records of her visa application. Dinah Kassim, thirty-four years old. Her little boy is called Saif. He’ll be four weeks old now.’

‘What about the father?’

‘Not on the scene.’

‘What’s your point?’

‘Dinah’s visa application was turned down. She and her son were due to be repatriated to Somalia next week.’

‘So they found another way to get to Italy.’

‘I spoke to her friends again. They’ve heard nothing. No texts, no calls.’

‘She’s keeping her head down.’

‘But she was always on her phone. Loved sending picture messages of Saif. The light of her life, she called him. Her reason for living.’

‘Maybe she ditched her phone on the crossing.’ Spike glanced across at the grey-green Mediterranean, wondering how Odysseus had felt when finally escaping this island. ‘What was that drink you mentioned? With the prickly pears?’

‘
Bajtra
.’

‘Yes. We should get us some of that.’

10

Spike and Zahra sat at a table for two on the waterfront. A railing divided the restaurant from the coast road, along which the occasional fish delivery truck trundled, followed by bicycles or courting couples arm in arm. Beyond lay Marsaxlokk Harbour –
Marsa-shlock
, Zahra had pronounced it – a horseshoe-shaped inlet where a flotilla of fishing boats bobbed in the evening breeze. The boats’ yellow-and-turquoise hulls were as garish as Malta’s buses once had been. Painted on the side of each was an eye, almond-shaped like Zahra’s, with a black pupil and open lashes on either side. Whatever the type of boat, the eye seemed to be the same size, giving them a spookily living quality, as though they all belonged to the same species at different stages of growth. Eyes of Osiris, Zahra had called them, introduced to Malta in Phoenician times to ward off evil spirits.

A fisherman on the nearest jetty rattled up his anchor chain in advance of an evening sortie. With his thick neck and swollen chest, he resembled one of the protesters Spike had seen outside the charity office. Spike looked away, then saw the owner watching them from inside the restaurant; the only other customers had left half an hour ago.

‘Time for those prickly pears?’ Spike said.

‘It’s more a
digestif
,’ Zahra replied, easing a grey flake of fresh tuna onto her fork.

Spike was reminded that there were certain pleasures to dining alone. You could eat quickly, enjoy your prickly-pear juice whenever you –

‘What do you want out of life?’ Zahra suddenly said.