Sign of the Cross (15 page)

The main dining area was closed for the wake, tables pushed against walls to provide a buffet of wine and a cold collation. Spike caught the eye of the Mifsud family lawyer, then went to gather the beneficiaries – John, the Baron, David’s distant cousin.

A cramped rear staircase led to a box-room office. The lawyer sat at the desk as the others positioned themselves opposite. Spike closed the door and joined them.

‘Firstly,’ the lawyer said, ‘I’d like to thank Mr Sanguinetti for his most thorough execution of the wills.’ He met Spike’s eye and pouted. His dark beard was closely clipped, just a millimetre too long to be classed as stubble. ‘In the absence of children or dependants,’ he went on, ‘Dr Mifsud left his estate to his wife. Teresa Mifsud left hers to the NGO for which she had been a volunteer for the last five years. The sum remaining in their joint account has been used to pay residual liabilities and legal fees. His Lordship, Baron Malaspina, has waived any outstanding rent on the flat, which is exceedingly –’

The Baron swatted away the impending compliment.

‘Leaving just the contents of the flat to be auctioned off, proceeds to go to the Mission of St John Hospitaller, of which Mr John Petrovic here is trustee. Otherwise . . .’ The lawyer glanced up. ‘Mr Sanguinetti?’

Spike turned to the cousin. ‘If there are any small things you’d like. Mementoes.’

‘How do I get them?’ the cousin said cheerfully. His collar was too tight around his neck. Blue tattoos bruised the knuckles of his right hand.

‘There’s an estate agent coming to the flat tomorrow morning to look into renting it out,’ the Maltese lawyer said, nose crinkling in distaste. ‘I suppose you could come by then.’

The cousin bowed at the lawyer, as though used to attending court, then left.

‘Now I just need the keys to the flat,’ the lawyer said to Spike.

‘Maybe I should be there,’ Spike said. ‘Let in the estate agent myself.’

‘As you wish.’ The lawyer zipped up his calfskin pouch, then caressed his beard. ‘Now,’ he said, looking back at Spike. ‘A drink?’

5

The wake began to liven up once a few carafes of Maltese white had done the rounds. Rufus was chatting to Rachel Cassar as a coterie of local worthies paid homage to the Baron. The Maltese lawyer kept trying to catch Spike’s eye, so he pulled out his mobile and stepped onto the street.

Again, Zahra’s phone rang directly to voicemail. He left a terse message about her watch, also mentioning his departure time the next day.

A tour group had gathered outside the Baron’s palazzo, admiring a statue in a niche on its corner, an apostle with his index and middle fingers raised, forming the sign of the cross. Spike walked past them and unlocked the door to the Mifsud flat.

His reflection beamed back from the hallway mirror. Sprigs of grey coiled at his temples; in no time at all, he thought as he moved into the sitting room, he’d be Uncle David’s age.

The address book was still in the drawer; he opened it up and tore out Zahra’s entry. From the edge of the desk, David and Teresa laughed back from their honeymoon photo, prompting Spike to remember how, as a child, he’d always been perplexed by the smiling images of murder victims on the news. He picked up the photo frame and tucked it under one arm.

A noise came from behind. ‘Hello?’ he called out.

The noise came again, more subtle now. The wooden floor above, Spike assumed – Clara the maid, cleaning the palazzo while the Baron and Baroness were out. As he passed the bedroom, he looked inside. Teresa’s ball gown lay on the floor. Hadn’t that been on the bed before?

Unsettled now, Spike hurried to the front door, relieved to find the city still going about its humdrum business outside.

6

The Baroness watched approvingly as Spike positioned the photo frame on the buffet table. ‘Bravo,’ she called out, raising her glass. The other mourners fell silent. ‘To happier times,’ she said, and everyone repeated the toast.

‘That was thoughtful,’ came a voice.

Spike turned to see Rachel Cassar at his shoulder. Her herringbone-check skirt emphasised her narrow waist and rounded hips. She seemed to have left her spectacles at home.

‘You escaped my father.’

‘He was the perfect gentleman.’

Rachel declined some wine, so Spike topped up his own glass, downing it then filling it again.

‘Only way to get through these things,’ Rachel said uncertainly. She turned to look at the room. ‘I didn’t realise David was so close to the mighty Malaspinas.’

‘Teresa and he rented their apartment from them. It’s part of their palazzo.’

‘Not sure my landlord will come to my funeral,’ Rachel said, glancing at the Baron, who was standing in front of the photograph, resolutely ignoring an elderly man trying to catch his ear.

‘Did David do much work in Gozo?’

Rachel turned. ‘I doubt it. They have their own cathedral museum. Why?’

‘He photographed a painting there before his death. From the chapel of St Agatha. The painting seems to have vanished.’

‘How do you mean “vanished”?’

‘It was missing from the chapel wall.’

Rachel paused. ‘Isn’t that where a priest died?’

Spike nodded, then finished his wine.

‘Photographs, you say?’

‘Photographs.’

‘Can you show them to me?’

‘They’re in my hotel room.’ She held his eye. ‘Our hotel room,’ he added, glancing over at his father, who was roosting alone now on his chair.

‘Well, if you do want me to take a look, I’ll be at home all evening.’

The Baroness was coming towards them through the crowd. Spike felt something slipped into his jacket pocket. When he looked round, Rachel was heading for the door.

‘My darlink,’ the Baroness said. Her cream blouse revealed a papery sternum watermarked with veins. Her eyes sparkled with a sad beauty.

‘Do you have a spare key for David’s flat?’ Spike asked.

The Baroness gave a frown. ‘No. There is only one set. Why?’

‘No reason.’

‘That was why the police needed to break in,’ she said, stepping closer. ‘Nineteenth-century ironmongery, too expensive to copy. Why, you have lost them?’

Spike shook his head. ‘Thanks for coming. Both of you.’

7

Spike led Rufus along the cobbles, his father’s scrawny arm tucked beneath his own.

‘Well, I thought that went well,’ Rufus said.

‘It did, Dad.’

Steering him into the lobby, Spike received an approving smile from the pretty female receptionist.

‘You know,’ Rufus said as he entered the lift, ‘not one person at the wake believed David capable of such a crime. I told them my boy was looking into it. That he’d get to the bottom of things. My kind, clever boy.’

In the room, Rufus sat on his bed as Spike prepared his tablets. ‘Oh yes,’ he sighed as he rolled beneath the covers. ‘Fresh sheets. Wonderful. Just wonderful.’

After tucking him in, Spike went to his own bed. The first snore arrived within moments, a sound he used to loathe, but which now he found oddly comforting.

Switching on his phone, he expected a flurry of apologetic messages from Zahra. Just the same screensaver of the Rock. He dialled her number: voicemail.

After lying down for a minute, he picked up his jacket and took out the business card that Rachel Cassar had slipped into his pocket.

She is unsure if she is awake or asleep. A word keeps seeping through her mind – ‘
mawlud
. . .
mawlud
’ – sometimes in her dreams, sometimes loud and real, as though someone close by is whimpering. She feels hands grabbing her, plunging beneath her armpits, dragging her across the stone floor.

Cold water splashes down, wetting her hair, chilling her neck and shoulders. She lets her bladder go and feels the brief warmth of relief. Her bowels slacken and more water is sloshed on, combined with a deeper voice, laughter and catcalls.

Her armpits sting as she is hauled from the cold and placed on a mattress. Her head sinks into prickly blankets. Time passes.

She gives a moan. Spike is with her; she can feel his strong fingers working between her thighs. She sighs, pressing her face down into the bed, ignoring the scratch of the blankets on her cheeks as she pushes back against him. His hands are on her spine now, grabbing her breasts. Too rough . . . she tries to turn but he is holding her down. The hacking clearance of a throat, a spatter of saliva between her buttocks . . . A pain sears her insides; he is hurting her, so she cries out, then starts to reach behind, feeling not Spike’s muscled leg but a flaccid thigh, moist and hairy, as the laughter comes again, and now she struggles properly, but more hands are on her, shoving her onto the bed as the heat burns back and forth, until she screams, and a hand covers her mouth, a needle biting into her thigh, face slumping, tears spilling from her eyes, the stinking blankets too coarse to absorb them.

Arms shift her again.

‘
Mawlud
,’ she hears. ‘
Mawlud
.’

Something is slipped into her mouth. Her saliva softens it and she tastes the sweet paste of a biscuit. A bottle is raised to her mouth, water sluiced inside. She gulps hard, then slumps back onto her side, that word creeping into her dreams again, embroidering her nightmares.

She half opens her eyes. She is naked, sitting against a gate, legs out, a stinging pain in her rectum which pulsates in time with her heartbeat. The back of her head is propped between two metal bars; as she turns, she sees another woman beside her, dressed in a hospital gown, head lolling, long black hair lank and greasy. The woman grasps at her chest, where two dark rings of fluid stain the material of her gown. ‘
Mawlud
,’ she mewls to herself in Arabic.
My baby
.

Chapter Seven

1

Spike found the address two streets down from the Museum of Fine Arts. A rusty silver Skoda was parked outside. He held down the intercom, poised to walk away as a croaky voice answered: ‘Hello?’ She sounded half asleep.

‘Rachel?’

‘Yes?’

‘It’s Spike.’

There was a pause. ‘I’m on the second floor.’

The latch snapped and Spike began his ascent up a narrow flight of stairs. Dirty panes revealed another inner courtyard. Sofa cushions rotted on the ground below, spewing foam – Valletta crumbling behind its grand facade. He knocked on her door.

‘Just a minute.’

Glancing up the stairwell, he saw a small cat’s head with pointy tortoiseshell ears peering down. Footsteps echoed; the door part opened to reveal Rachel Cassar. She wore tartan pyjamas and a ribbed fisherman’s jumper.

Spike held out the sleeve of photographs like a bouquet.

‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘Come in.’

The sitting room had a kitchenette along the left-hand side and the inevitable Maltese balcony at the end.

‘Coffee?’ Rachel said.

‘Anything stronger?’

She frowned through her black-rimmed specs. ‘Some
bajtra
?’

‘Coffee, then.’

‘Or vodka? I think there’s some vodka in the freezer. A vodka and Kinnie?’

‘Great. Thanks.’

Spike turned and scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Zahra would have liked this flat, he thought bitterly. On one wall hung a set of modernist prints: cutlery, plates, fruit bowl, brutal in their simplicity. ‘Sometimes I get a bit tired of the baroque,’ Rachel said as she passed Spike a tumbler. The TV was paused mid-romcom; she found the remote and switched it off. The balcony’s net curtains swirled as she curled herself into a well-worn leather armchair.

‘Thanks for coming today,’ Spike said, choosing the sofa.

‘A pleasure. Always an honour to see the Baron.’

‘I get the impression you don’t like him much.’

‘I wouldn’t go that far . . .’ She reached over and plucked an ashtray from the sofa arm; Spike hadn’t realised she smoked. ‘I’m just a bit dubious about the Knights of Malta.’