Sign of the Cross (2 page)

Stains float like clouds across his retinas. He opens his eyes and sees the jagged stump of the bottle lying on the floor beside him.

He looks up: the other half of the man’s T-shirt has been stuffed into Teresa’s mouth, the tails of her dressing gown flipped to the small of her back. Seeing the familiar, dimpled buttocks, he feels a heavy wave of sadness.

The man moves behind her, unzipping his flies. The high-pitched slapping makes Teresa scream again, muffled through her gag.

Mifsud tries to sit but his foot is still trapped. Flopping onto his back, he feels his scalp burn: shards of the bottle embedded in the skin.

He gazes round. His spectacles are spattered with blood but he can see that the man’s thin brown penis has swollen, probing outwards, able to support its own weight. The man turns back to Mifsud. ‘Last chance.’

‘The Madonna and Child,’ Mifsud says. ‘Above the desk.’

‘Not the Madonna. The Saint.’

Mifsud wants to be overwhelmed by fear, to be too disorientated to speak. But the clarity is there. Lurking beneath the surface is the clarity. ‘I don’t understand . . .’ he groans.

Dipping into his pocket, the man draws out a silver, perforated square. He rips open the foil with his teeth, then replaces the wrapper in his pocket, rolling on the condom with a single, practised hand. Teresa struggles again with her bindings as the man reaches forward to her buttocks, parting them roughly. ‘
Haqq Alla!
’ he curses in Maltese.

Teresa has swung a heel back into the man’s shin. Picking up the knife, he leans forward and grabs her damp hair. She raises her chin defiantly as he holds the blade beneath her neck. ‘Just try that again.’

Mifsud watches as the man plunges himself between Teresa’s buttocks. The ringing in his ears grows louder. Teresa turns, one hand still clutching closed her dressing gown. The pointless attempt at modesty makes Mifsud catch his breath. ‘Stop.’

The man pauses mid-thrust. Mifsud closes his eyes, waiting for the words to form, for the confession to come. A moment later, the thrusting resumes.

When Mifsud reopens his eyes, Teresa’s expression has changed. All their life together she has known when he is lying. She knows it now.

Still staring down, she starts to shake her head. As she shakes it more vigorously, the blade of the knife licks against the tautened underside of her neck. Mifsud watches in puzzlement as a small purple bubble forms beneath the skin. Teresa peers down as well, then a moment later, a great arc of blood bursts outwards to the kitchen wall.

The man leaps back, dropping the knife. ‘
Fuck
,’ he spits as the blood flows in rhythmic spurts from Teresa’s neck. He zips up his flies as a final gout slaps onto the floor. Teresa’s eyes start to glaze, but still she stares down at Mifsud, pupils boring into him.

The knife is just a yard away. Drawing his knees to his chest, Mifsud twists his foot from between his arms, feeling long-unused muscles rip across his back. Rotating on one hip, he puts his soles to the kitchen wall and pushes off like a swimmer turning. The smooth material of his dinner jacket slides easily over the tiled floor. Stretching out his fingers, he gets hold of the knife, then rolls onto his back.

Mifsud stares up at the ceiling, the flecks of glass in his skull making his head throb. Using both hands, he slides the tip of the knife down the buttons of his dress shirt, stopping when it finds the soft give of his belly.

The man appears above. Mifsud draws in a breath, then rams the knife with all his strength beneath his own ribcage. A strange, involuntary burping rises from his gullet. It feels as though he has been winded, a burning prickly heat creeping up his spine. When he can push no further, he pauses, then thrusts again. Something gives, and the knife seems to slide in more deeply. He tastes a sour, viscous fluid climbing his throat, senses the colour draining from his cheeks. Another jolt, then a gentle throbbing emptiness. When he closes his eyes, he thinks he sees Teresa’s features, painted in chiaroscuro, blending with those of St Agatha as they dip in and out of vision.

The man is busy above, undoing Teresa’s bindings, pressing the neck of the bottle into her hanging, lifeless hands. Mifsud senses his own bindings released, then the clip-clop of feet crossing the room. How can the man be leaving the flat half dressed? he wonders.

A smack, heard rather than felt, as Mifsud widens his eyes. It seems as though he is staring up through a muslin shroud.

‘All your family,’ he hears above. ‘One by one unless you tell me now.’

Mifsud feels himself slipping towards unconsciousness.

‘Where is it?
Where?
’

Mifsud breathes in. The movement racks his chest so much that he knows he will not repeat the motion. As he exhales for the last time, a single word passes his lips.

Then nothing.

Part One

Gibraltar

Chapter One

1

Spike Sanguinetti watched as the stipendiary magistrate slid on his spectacles and frowned at the document. It was not a good sign. Above the magistrate’s bald head, the lion and the unicorn continued their tussle for the royal coat of arms. ‘And where are the co-defendants in this matter?’ he asked.

‘It is our understanding that the DNA evidence relating to the co-defendants has still not been processed,’ Spike replied. ‘Given that my client has already been on remand for over three months, we moved to hold the hearing at the first available opportunity.’

‘And what is the Crown’s position on this?’

Spike glanced over at Drew Stanford-Trench, who was still shuffling through his court bundle, handsome face pale and blotchy. In the afternoon light slanting through the courtroom’s high windows, Spike saw fine blond hairs growing from his ear like mould. ‘The prosecution would simply reiterate the reasons for remand in the first place,’ Stanford-Trench said. ‘Until the owner of the yacht has been traced, the defendant cannot safely be given bail.’

‘Safely?’

‘Reasonably.’ A drip of alcoholic sweat fell from Stanford-Trench’s nose, forming a damp corona on the top sheet of his papers. Winter hours in court: air conditioning not yet on.

‘Your Worship,’ Spike said, taking over, ‘in view of the length of time that has passed since the preliminary hearing, might it not be sensible to sum up the agreed facts of the case?’

The magistrate took off his spectacles and sat back; Stanford-Trench shot Spike a grateful glance.

Spike continued. ‘On 6 November last year, the defendant, Mr Harrington, registered with an online company seeking volunteers to crew a yacht between the Caribbean and Montenegro. Having been allocated the position of first mate on
The Restless Wave
, Mr Harrington flew to St Martin in the expectation of an enjoyable holiday during which he might improve his sailing skills. He had not met the other crew members; they had not met each other. The yacht was subjected to a routine search on departure from St Martin; on bunkering in Gibraltar, however, a sniffer dog alerted our customs officers, who uncovered a small fibreglass compartment hidden in the hold. Inside lay eighteen slabs of uncut cocaine. My client has always denied any knowledge of the drugs, and feels, not to put too fine a point on it, that he and the other crew members have been set up.’

Spike looked over at the dock. Three months in Her Majesty’s Prison, Gibraltar, had done a good job of bleeding out the rich yachtsman’s tan with which Piers Harrington had arrived on the Rock. His hair remained sun-bleached only at the tips, which now spilled over his ears. His long grey face stared ahead, hollow-eyed.

‘No connection,’ Spike went on, looking back at the magistrate, ‘has ever been found between Mr Harrington and the owner of the yacht, a man about whom little is known other than the fact that he is a Serbian national. My client’s lengthy stay in prison has apparently been necessitated by the painstaking work performed by forensics in London, who have sought to determine if Mr Harrington’s DNA could be connected to the drugs or the secret compartment. As Your Worship can now see from the report, no such DNA link has been established. We request, therefore, not that Mr Harrington be granted bail, but that all charges against him be dropped.’

‘Mr Stanford-Trench?’ the magistrate said. ‘Are you in a position to join us now?’

‘Absolutely, Your Worship. It has recently emerged that the yacht owner, a Mr . . .’ Stanford-Trench peered down – ‘Radovic, purchased
The Restless Wave
through a shell company incorporated here in Gibraltar. Though Interpol are yet to trace his whereabouts, the paper trail is starting to hot up and –’

‘Starting to hot up?’ the magistrate interrupted. ‘You’ve had ninety days to penetrate this mystery while Mr Harrington has been languishing in prison.’

‘Your Worship,’ Stanford-Trench said, ‘I respectfully submit that a colleague had charge of the case at that time, and as she is now on maternity leave, it has fallen to me to –’

‘Enough, Mr Stanford-Trench. Sit down.’ The magistrate turned to the dock. ‘Mr Harrington?’

Spike looked over at his client, making an upwards motion with his fingers. Harrington blinked his sunken eyes and stood.

‘Mr Harrington,’ the magistrate resumed, ‘I regret that you have been held without bail for so long, but the trafficking of twenty-two kilograms of cocaine is a very serious offence. I understand that you have recently retired to Sotogrande after a long and unblemished career in the City of London. What was supposed to be the start of an exciting new chapter of your life has therefore turned into something of a nightmare. The court of Gibraltar hereby drops all charges against you. The prosecution will no doubt reserve the right to revert to you at a later date for further questioning, but for now you are free to go.’

Piers Harrington turned to Spike, who smiled back, gesturing at the door. Finally understanding, Harrington bowed at the magistrate, then exited with his custody officer.

The clerk began calling out details from the next docket. Alongside him on the bench, Spike heard Drew Stanford-Trench give a long, slow sigh as he packed away his papers.

2

‘Cheer up,’ Peter Galliano said. ‘It’s another win.’

‘On the facts.’

‘But you’re going great guns. Top earner this month at Galliano & Sanguinetti.’

Given that there were just two of them at the firm, this was no accolade.

‘And a mere thirty-five years old –’

‘Thirty-six,’ Spike corrected.

Galliano raised a pudgy hand to attract the attention of the waitress. They sat together at the head of a trestle table outside the All’s Well in Casemates Square, a pub named in honour of the refrain used by British soldiers at night to confirm that the gates of Gibraltar were safe. The Rock loomed above, its bone-white limestone lit up for the non-existent winter tourist. The fresh poniente wind was dropping, but it was still mid-teens, icy for Gibraltarians. As Spike flipped up the collar of his overcoat, he remembered an Italian phrase of his father’s – ‘
Febbraio, febbraietto, corto e maledetto
’, ‘February, little February, short and cursed’. Yes, he thought as he finished his pint, that was about the size of it.

Midway down the table, Jessica Navarro was crouching to talk to another guest. She wore a grey pencil skirt and tight ribbed jumper. Catching Spike’s eye over the shoulder of her companion, she threw him a smile.

‘
Vale
,’ Galliano said, signalling to the waitress. ‘How many are we, Spike? Fifteen?’

‘Twenty-two.’

Galliano puffed out his cheeks. ‘
Waka
. . . Twenty-two shots of sambuca.’

The waitress jotted the number down.

‘And lots of crisps,’ Galliano called after as she returned to the bar.

On the other side of the table, a tall blond man in a blazer and cashmere roll-neck was expertly working the guests. Spike watched him reward a comment with a raised hand, which became a high five.

‘M’learned friends?’

Spike stood to his full height, then leaned down to kiss Jessica hello, catching a scent he didn’t recognise. Still seated, Galliano reached up to draw her hand into his suspiciously black goatee. ‘Get ’em in while I can,’ he said, smothering her fingers with kisses.

As Jessica started to crouch, Spike pulled across a plastic chair. ‘Please. You’re making me feel unfit.’

She smiled, then positioned the chair facing both of them. Her chestnut hair looked as though it had been freshly cut. As she tossed it over one shoulder, Spike caught a crimson flash of bra strap.

‘
Muncho chachi
,’ he said, slipping into
yanito
, the patois used by native Gibraltarians.

‘What, this old thing?’ Jessica replied, arching an eyebrow.

‘May I?’ Spike indicated her left hand, and they both leaned in to admire the chunky octagonal diamond on its thin platinum band. Spike thought of his mother’s engagement ring, buried somewhere in the chaos of Rufus’s bedroom. About a tenth of the size, a cluster of yellow diamonds in a daisy setting. ‘The biggest rock on the Rock,’ he said. ‘So . . . up for a late one?’