Sign of the Cross (23 page)

‘But
you
picked those photographs up, don’t you see?
After
David died. So he didn’t have them with him. He must have been painting his copy from the original. And now
I
can’t find it . . .’

After watching her scrabble through another crate, Spike turned and went to the kitchen, digging into the cardboard box he’d brought back from David’s studio and carrying his half-finished copy into the sitting room. As soon as Rachel saw it, she swept Teresa’s charity leaflets off the table. ‘On there,’ she ordered. ‘No. There.’

Spike laid out the taut oval stretcher, feeling the last flickers of attraction extinguish. ‘The heightened colours,’ Rachel said with a gasp. ‘It’s as though David were painting a clean copy. To return to the chapel. To buy himself time . . .’ She caressed the air above the canvas. Pencil lines showed where Mifsud had made his own preliminary sketches.

‘How did David find out about the painting?’

Her hand stopped above the brightly bleeding torso of St Agatha. ‘He spent a year going in and out of the Notarial Archives while working for me. He could have spotted an old inventory. A suggestion that the Gozo painting was misattributed.’

‘Who’s the original supposed to be by?’

‘Some local nonentity called Lorenzo da Gozo. Worth, I don’t know, seven hundred euros? As opposed to seventy
million
.’ She glanced up. ‘Are you sure this was the only painting left in the studio?’

‘It was a broom cupboard, Rachel. I could barely squeeze in there myself.’

‘Then David must have hidden the original. Put it in storage . . .’

‘Or taken a snap on his camera phone and used that to make the copy.’

Rachel grabbed the stretcher and marched into the hallway. Spike heard her laptop case slip from her shoulder as she tried to open the door; when he came out to assist, she turned, pressed her lips to his, then exited into the early evening.

4

Spike remained in the doorway, staring out at the street. When he turned back to the flat, he caught sight of his reflection in the hallway mirror, three dark days of beard covering his cheeks.

He poured himself another slug of rum, then sat down at the kitchen table, pondering the bizarre nature of Rachel’s visit. The light was fading at the window, another day slipping away. Hold tight, Azzopardi had said, but how would that help Zahra?

Azzopardi picked up at once. ‘Are you still in Valletta?’

‘Of course.’

‘I’m sending some people to see you.’

‘Have you found her?’

‘No, but there’ve been developments.’

‘You’ve arrested Salib?’

‘Not yet. But forensics have made some interesting discoveries.’ It sounded as though he were getting into a car.

‘Such as?’

‘The prints from the warehouse. There’s a match with the chapel in Gozo. We lifted one from the inside of the door.’

Spike said nothing.

‘There’s more. The spermicide found in the post-mortem on your aunt’s body. It was the same as was used by Dinah’s assailant.’

‘An unusual kind?’

‘From a particular brand of condom. I’m sending a team to the Mifsud flat to dust for prints. Can you go there and let them in?’

‘I’m here now.’

‘You’re
what
?’

‘I’m staying at the flat; you told me the case was closed, remember?’

Azzopardi cursed in Maltese. ‘Well, don’t touch anything. They’ll be with you in fifteen minutes.’

Spike hung up. So Salib had been in Gozo . . . Looking for the painting, presumably – maybe he’d even murdered the priest to get hold of it. First you traffic women, then images of women – there was always a profit to be made from beauty. But could a man like Salib really have identified a misattributed Caravaggio? Mifsud must have spoken to someone about his discovery, let something slip, then word had filtered down to the underworld. Had Salib broken into the flat? Raped Teresa in order to find out the location of the painting . . .

Spike’s phone was ringing.

‘Spike?’

‘Rachel? I can barely hear you.’

‘Are you following me?’

‘No. Why?’

The line went dead. Spike called her back: straight to voicemail. He started composing a text, then stopped and ran out into the night.

5

The lion was rearing on its back legs, its fur a fluorescent yellow, its jaws crowded with papier-mâché teeth. Dancers in grass skirts clapped and stamped to the beat of a hidden boom box whining about the mighty jungle. Following behind was a unicorn, its horn coiled with silver foil. Men and women dressed as playing cards whirled around it, grim-faced, the rectangular cardboard stuck to their backs a burden restricting their movement.

Spike started crossing the street, but the next float was passing, a seagull with ink-spot eyes, its neck straddled by baby-oiled women with diaphanous wings sprouting from their shoulders. A group of men in glittery wigs bustled by, each clasping a toddler’s hand, one of whom carried a streamer she kept trying to blow as her father dragged her along.

Spike heard a voice – ‘Happy Carnival!’ – and turned to see the Mifsud family lawyer chewing on a toffee apple, flanked by an effete man in a phallic Venetian mask. He gave them a nod, then pushed between the floats.

A girl dressed as a mermaid was taking a cigarette break on the other side of the road. She threw Spike a smile as he cast about for familiar street signs, seeing only the incomprehensible ‘Triq San Patrizju’. Triq or treat . . . Picking up speed, he tried to visualise the city grid in his mind, instinctively veering east until finally he saw the Museum of Fine Arts. A few moments later he was outside Rachel’s flat.

The lights were on upstairs, the Skoda parked outside. ‘Rachel?’ he called up to her balcony, but the music drowned out his voice. He depressed her buzzer, then the others, waiting until an elderly voice spoke back.

‘Delivery,’ he said, and the catch clicked.

A ribbon of light glowed beneath the door to Rachel’s flat. Sticking out of the frame was a metal lock. Beneath, a chunk of wood had been chiselled away. ‘Hello?’ he called as he pushed open the door.

Books littered the floorboards and shards of glass glinted: the picture frames had been smashed, the modernist prints slashed with a knife, flapping in the breeze billowing in from the open balcony windows.

‘Rachel?’

As he passed the sofa, he saw her wallet and car keys still on the table. A glow emanated from the bedroom door. He eased it open.

Rachel lay half naked on the bed. Her arms rested by her hips, two semicircles of red blotting the mattress on either side of her torso. Protruding from between her ribs was a kitchen knife, the blade driven midway down. In the light from the courtyard, the hilt cast the shape of a crucifix on her pale stomach.

Spike rocked on his heels, then forced himself towards the bed. Her eyes were closed save for a crescent of white; automatically his fingers moved to grasp the knife, but he pulled them away when he saw her chest rise and fall.

He took out his phone, noting vacantly that a text had come in: Drew Stanford-Trench. He killed it and tried to think of an ambulance number. Nothing came to mind, so he tried Azzopardi.

‘Why aren’t you at the flat?’ Azzopardi said.

‘I need an ambulance.’

‘What?’

‘A woman’s been stabbed at – Christ, where the fuck am I . . .?’ He took out his wallet and read the address from Rachel’s business card. ‘Have you got that?’

‘Yes, but –’

Spike spun round, hairs erect on the back of his neck. A sound had come from the sitting room. He slipped the phone in his pocket and crept towards the door.

Cheers carried up from Carnival. Through the net curtains, Spike made out a silhouette moving on the balcony.

A thump from below, followed by a distant yell of pain; Spike clawed the curtains from his face and stepped outside. Hands on railings, he looked down. A man was crouching on the roof of the Skoda. Beyond him on the road lay the oval shape of a painting.

Salib glanced up, then rolled off the car to the pavement below. Spike hoisted a foot onto the balcony railings, ready to jump down after. He stopped: a cry had just come from inside the flat. Salib looked up again and smiled, then limped away down the street, canvas stretcher tucked under one arm. The cry came again, faint and plaintive; Spike re-entered the sitting room in time to hear the rev of a motorbike on the street below.

Rachel’s eyes were open. She lay rigid, staring upwards. Spike took hold of her hand. The diameter of the bloodstain behind her had increased. ‘Tell them,’ she murmured.

Spike squeezed her hand. ‘Shh.’

‘Tell them I found it.’

‘Lie still. I won’t leave you.’

‘My discovery,’ she repeated, eyes burning and insistent.

‘I’ll tell them,’ Spike said. ‘I promise.’

Her face relaxed as her hand fell limp in his grasp.

He stayed by her side until the first squall of an ambulance siren overwhelmed the music of Carnival. Then he grabbed her car keys and ran down into the street.

6

Spike hadn’t driven a car since failing his test while at law school in London. With the ambulance lights still flashing in his rear-view mirror, he twisted the ignition and steered Rachel’s Skoda unsteadily onto the road. He indicated right, and all at once the street began to fall away, dipping into a tunnel and emerging on the road beneath Valletta’s city walls. A bus honked aggressively as it drew up behind; realising he was still in first, Spike forced the gearstick into fourth. The Skoda gave a crunch, then started to pick up speed.

His phone was ringing; he fumbled in his pocket, adjusting the wheel to avoid veering off the road into the harbour.

‘What the fuck?’ Azzopardi said.

‘Is Rachel alive?’

‘She’s with paramedics. They don’t know if she’ll regain consciousness. She’s Maltese, Spike. What the
fuck
?’

‘Salib was at the flat when I arrived.’

‘Where is he now?’

‘On a motorbike. Heading south.’

‘Where are
you
now?’

Another blast of a horn; Spike realised he was in second not fourth.

‘Where’s he going, Spike?’

‘I think back to the marina.’

‘He’d never go back there. The police are all over it.’ There was a pause. ‘You’re not following him, are you?’

‘I’m trying to.’

‘Pull out, Spike. You’re out of your depth.’

The road disappeared into another tunnel. When it re-emerged, the connection had broken. Spike tossed the phone onto the passenger seat. He was skirting the far side of the St James Ditch, edging towards Floriana. Carnival revellers bustled ahead: he hung a right and continued past a football stadium.

At least the road signs were in English and Maltese. Seeing one for Marsa, he steered towards it. It was then that he remembered Drew Stanford-Trench’s text. Eyes flitting from phone screen to windscreen, he pulled up the message. It took a moment to download:
Calypso Lines registered to a Desmond Zammit. 3 yrs ago 1 of its fleet stopped in southern Med for overloading. Carob wood from Libya. No entry on Falcon Freight. Do u have name right?

Seeing another sign for Marsa, Spike swung into the exit, cutting up a pickup coming the opposite way, a painted fibreglass tiger strapped to its back. A moment later the Skoda was speeding along the road which followed the top of the Marsa sea wall.

7

Spike walked silently past the warehouses, searching for a sign of the motorbike. Nothing but the shadows of ships’ masts, twitching on the concrete like giants’ fingers.

He found himself outside the safe house. Blue-and-white cordons criss-crossed the gate; two heavy new padlocks closed the hasp. So much for a police presence. Probably all at Carnival with their kids.

He turned back to the marina. Motor launches, skiffs, yachts . . . He stopped by the boat marked
Falcon Freight
. Rust flaked from its broad hull; diesel stains dripped from the fuel cap. Glancing over one shoulder, he moved towards the balustrade and hoisted himself aboard.

The deck was covered in slimy planks; Spike crept along the left-hand gunwale, one hand trailing the railings surrounding it. Peering in at the roofed wheelhouse, he made out an old-fashioned wooden tiller, cracked glass on the dials. Azzopardi had been right on one front – this marina really was a junkyard.

The foredeck was wider and higher than the aft. Sunk into the centre was a wooden compartment, open-topped, about the size of a builders’ skip, presumably where the fishermen would empty their catch. A wooden mast rose behind: Spike put a hand to it as he edged around the perimeter of the compartment. A dark shape was propped against the side wall of the wheelhouse. A black, low-slung motorbike.

A sudden sputtering came from the rear of the boat. The decking gave a shiver as a rumble issued from beneath Spike’s feet. The engine had been switched on.