Sign of the Cross (21 page)

‘How did Dinah die?’ Spike said.

Azzopardi closed his jotter. ‘She ran out into the road last night. Half naked, jacked up on something strong. The bus driver didn’t see her in time. The case wouldn’t normally have made it to the Mobile Squad, except . . .’

‘Except what?’ Spike asked, dreading the answer.

‘The pathologist found evidence of serious sexual assault – bruising and tears around the anus and vagina.’

‘Any DNA?’

‘Her rapist or rapists used condoms.’

They sat for a moment in silence.

‘I assume we’re looking at people trafficking here,’ Spike said.

‘What makes you say that?’

‘A vulnerable woman. Drugged. Raped . . .’

Azzopardi made a series of soft clicking noises with his tongue. ‘I’d have to think long and hard about that. The normal trafficking scenario involves girls being blackmailed or tricked into travelling overseas. They’re sold on to a network of pimps and forced into off-street prostitution – saunas, massage parlours, that kind of thing. It’s organised crime, Spike. Not something we get much of in Malta.’

‘You don’t run into a road half naked unless you’re trying to escape someone or something. Was her baby with her?’

‘Still unaccounted for.’

‘And the bus hit her in Marsa, right?’ Spike said.

‘Just outside. On the road above the harbour.’

‘Then we need to start looking there.’

Azzopardi gave a nod, then turned on the engine.

7

Though his eyes still hurt, Spike was starting to feel almost human as he passed once again beneath the City Gate. The police artist had not been without talent, and Azzopardi had already circulated an e-fit of Salib among the regional police stations of Malta and Gozo. He’d also sent one of his team to St Julian’s to pick up John Petrovic for questioning. In the minds of the police, Zahra’s disappearance was now linked to a murder investigation. And that meant that for the first time since arriving in Malta, Spike had some help.

Spike checked the time: 6 p.m. Valletta ought to be deserted by now but Republic Street was thick with people. A distant sound of drums and pipes came from up ahead; he skirted the edge of the crowd and saw a formation of schoolboys in the middle of St George’s Square. One line wore red tunics with a white cross on the front; they carried shields and wooden broadswords, beaming delightedly beneath their silver-painted helmets. The opposite line wore yellow turbans with rolled-up hems; their swords were curved, identifying them as Ottoman Turks. A bizarre Carnival re-enactment of the Great Siege, Spike decided as he turned onto Triq Sant’Orsla.

The South American music seller was doing a decent trade, having relocated his stall to the street corner. He gave Spike a nod as he passed.

His phone was ringing; he stopped beside a red British pillar box.

‘We’ve found a possible safe house,’ Azzopardi said. ‘Want to tag along? We might need you to identify Salib.’

Spike put out an arm to the pillar box, suddenly light-headed again. ‘Pick me up outside the cathedral.’

8

It was dark when the Transit van stopped on the road above the sea wall. Spike, Azzopardi and five members of his Mobile Squad got out, setting off down the steps which zigzagged down the inside of the wall. Spike’s flak jacket felt too tight across his chest; as he started to tug down the zip, one of Azzopardi’s colleagues spun round, putting a finger to his mouth.

They reached the marina at the bottom of the steps. Bobbing on the jetties was a ragbag of boats: trawlers, sailing boats, dinghies. Though they lacked the gaudy colours of the fishing boats of Marsaxlokk, Spike could still see their Eyes of Osiris glowing eerily in the moonlight, as slanted and delicate in shape as Zahra’s.

A concrete walkway stretched ahead, sloping up from the foul-smelling water to a row of warehouses and storage areas sunk into the fortified wall behind. Spike passed the first and peered inside. A barred gate protected a deep, cavernous space: he made out the muzzle of what looked like a dragon, casting a macabre shadow on the ground below. Carnival floats, Azzopardi had said: a boy who’d been resurrecting one for this year’s event had heard disturbing noises from a neighbouring warehouse, and made a report of possible squatters.

Azzopardi pinned himself to the wall between the last two warehouses. His colleagues did the same, and Spike followed, feeling the unsteadiness return to his legs as he thought again of Dinah lying on the slab. When he leaned forward, he saw Azzopardi motion to his nearest colleague. The man held a pair of bolt cutters, which Azzopardi took, clamping the jaws around the padlock and snapping them shut. A moment later, he and his men were ripping the iron gates apart.

A light had been turned on inside, a single naked bulb illuminating the space. As Spike passed between the gates, he was hit by a smell of raw sewage. Ranged on either edge of the warehouse were a series of camp beds; Azzopardi was crouching beside one, pulling back the blanket. Spike saw a small head appear. As Azzopardi placed his fingers on the figure’s neck, the blanket fell away, revealing a naked girl lying on her front. From her scrawny, half-grown shape, Spike knew it was not Zahra. Her dark brown shoulder blades jutted; the skin on her arms was dotted with trackmarks. Azzopardi turned her chin; some kind of discharge oozed from her mouth. She gave a cough, and Azzopardi shouted, ‘
Ambulanza
,’ to one of his colleagues, who ran outside, radio in hand.

Spike picked up the blanket and laid it over the girl, feeling his stomach turn as she shrank from his touch. The adjacent bed was empty. In front, another member of the Mobile Squad was crouching by a young West African, who lashed out with her arms as he tried to calm her.

Spike’s eyes began to adjust, and he counted over twenty beds, four occupied by girls in varying states of distress. He walked down the central aisle, seeing a child’s paddling pool half filled in one corner, a drain clogged with faeces, a fridge-freezer with a kettle on top.

More shouts; Spike glanced round, then continued into the darkest recess of the warehouse. The rear wall had two arched metal gates in the brickwork, ropes coiled around the bars, as though animals had been tethered there. He pressed his face to the grilles and saw rolls of rotting orange fishing nets behind.

He looked back round. One of the Mobile Squad was leaning a palm against the side of the kettle, testing for heat in the same way Azzopardi had felt for the girl’s pulse. He lowered his hand then opened the fridge door. A light winked on inside.

Spike saw a frown form on the man’s brow. One hand held the fridge door, while the other moved to his chest. He was crossing himself.

Spike stepped behind the man and stared into the fridge. The baby boy was wedged side-on in the ice compartment. His tiny body was swaddled in oilskin rags, but the face was visible, eyes wide, staring out as if in surprise. The frosted commas of his eyebrows contrasted with the darker skin of his cheeks. The irises seemed to have leaked into the whites, discolouring their surfaces, which had ruptured in the freezing cold, crystallising as though dusted with brown sugar.

The policeman bent over and retched. Spike reached forward and closed the fridge door.

9

Sitting on the concrete dock on the other side of the police cordon, Spike saw onlookers peering down, drawn by the silent, rotating lights of the water ambulance which was now moored in the marina.

In the flashing lights, he made out the sides of the boats on the nearest jetty. Most seemed to be pleasure vessels, but one looked more industrial, with a broader, deeper hull:
Calypso Lines
. The second jetty was illuminated by police floodlights: just one large boat,
Falcon Freight
. Spike typed both names into his mobile phone, then saw Azzopardi coming towards him over the walkway.

Azzopardi nodded at the boats. ‘Don’t worry. We’ll be searching them one by one.’ He ducked beneath the cordon and handed Spike a paper cup.

The water ambulance gave a brief, solitary wail, as Spike put the cup to his mouth and sucked out the tepid coffee. He hoped it had not been made with water from the kettle in the warehouse.

‘My father’s on his way,’ Azzopardi said. Spike saw an officer on the other side of the cordon raise an eyebrow at a colleague, then turn his back.

‘Are the girls going to be OK?’ Spike asked.

‘We don’t know.’

Two female paramedics emerged from the warehouse. The black Ziploc bag on the stretcher between them was flat save for a small, raised bump in the middle. Spike felt his throat thicken as the ambulance engine started, propeller blades churning the oily water.

‘Do you want me to find you a lift back to town?’ Azzopardi said.

‘I’d appreciate it.’

‘We’re going to keep this out of the press. No call to upset the tourists during Carnival. But we’ll be looking for her, Spike. All leave is cancelled. Coastguards, traffic units. Everyone’s mobilised.’

Spike watched Azzopardi duck again beneath the cordon, then walk away along the line of warehouses. His mobile was ringing: Rachel Cassar. He cut her off, then stared out in silence at the dark Mediterranean sea.

The ground is rocking. Only when the ground is still can she think. The others seem to suffer too, as she hears a small scared groan in the darkness. ‘
Belesh
,’ she calls out in Arabic.
It will stop
.

Her prediction is right. The floor steadies and the breathing around her grows regular. Following her nightly ritual, she closes her eyes, forcing the images into her mind like slides into a projector.

Her father, cross-armed outside their front door, orange sand dunes rising behind, grinning lopsidedly as the tail of his blue turban flutters in the desert wind. Then the only photograph she ever saw of her mother, sitting on a kilim carpet, kneading the wheat flour and water, younger then than she herself is now, bright eyes gazing up, puzzled as to why anyone would wish to point a camera at her. Then later, in Tangiers, the daughter of the shopkeeper who would throw her arms around her neck, squeezing so tightly that she could hardly breathe, showing off her finger paintings, hugging her close. How gentle Spike’s eyes look even when his voice is rough, how she would teach him to trust again, to love. She imagines them sitting together on a balcony, looking out over the Strait of Gibraltar, at the waves changing direction as the currents shift, white horses rearing in the blue, seabirds soaring, Africa in the background, steadying somehow, she reading, he watching her read, she kneading bread, he with his arms crossed, standing outside the house they would eventually buy, a little girl squeezing her neck, their little girl, with his gentle eyes as she smiles upwards, wondering why anyone would choose now of all moments to take a photograph . . .

Tears spill. Her mind blurs as the ground starts to rock again. Footsteps above, men climbing aboard . . .

Spike won’t give up, she tells herself. He will come for her. He won’t give up.

Chapter Ten

1

Spike opened his eyes. At first he thought he was back in the Baron’s palazzo, then he saw light seeping in through the plywood window. The Mifsud flat: he’d crashed out fully clothed on his uncle and aunt’s bed.

He stared up at the ceiling as a creak came from above: the Baron and Baroness, starting a new day. His head ached; realising how thirsty he was, he rolled out of bed and checked the cupboards in the kitchen. Two untouched bottles of rum; he took one down, unscrewed the cap and poured out three fingers. The burn on his tongue reignited the taste of petrol, but he swallowed it down, then filled the glass from the tap and drank greedily. The next cupboard was lined with tinned food. He grabbed some tuna and tomatoes, opened the fridge, then stopped. The sight of the ice compartment made his stomach lurch. Appetite gone, he returned to the bedroom.

One voicemail from Galliano; he ignored it and punched in the number for Drew Stanford-Trench.

‘Welcome back, pal.’

‘I’m still in Malta.’

‘How come?’

‘It’s the new Ibiza. Listen, Drew, can you do me a favour?’

‘You name it.’

‘That Internet site you subscribed to. For the Harrington case.’