Sign of the Cross (8 page)

‘What kind of work was he doing for you?’

‘We have a reserve collection at the National Museum of Fine Arts.’ She nodded as he offered her a handkerchief. ‘Minor and damaged works. David was cataloguing them.’

‘And he’d finished?’

She dabbed at the corners of her eyes, then passed the handkerchief back. ‘Three months ago. The meeting was to iron out any final issues. Then he was going to retire.’

‘How did he feel about that?’

‘I’m not sure . . . I suppose I thought he might return to his roots.’

‘Meaning?’

‘Well . . . you know he trained as an artist. He was quite talented actually – particularly his still lifes in oil. When he was in his thirties, I believe he put on an exhibition in Valletta. Sadly very few paintings sold. They were too old-fashioned; the wrong register. So he leapt completely to the other extreme. Pursued an academic route at the University of Malta. But that was David . . . Of course, you must know all this already.’

‘Not really.’

Rachel gave him a look.

‘We weren’t close.’

‘I see. Well, he threw himself into the art world as much as Malta allows – curating the odd exhibition, writing articles in the local magazines. We used him at the museum whenever we could. He was extremely knowledgeable.’

‘Did he seem depressed to you?’

‘I don’t know if depressed is the word . . . Dispirited, maybe. There was always a sense that the work was beneath him. Which it was, in a sense. Though recently . . .’

‘What?’

Spike saw her roll her eyes to the right, remembering. ‘Well, I wasn’t
that
surprised when he didn’t turn up for the meeting. He’d seemed a bit distracted lately. As though he had something else on his mind.’

‘Something other than the work he was doing for you?’

‘Yes. He’d seemed . . . excited, almost.’

‘About what?’

She shrugged, scarf slipping again. This time she let it lie. ‘At our last meeting in the museum he had a bit of a spring in his step. Normally he was quite formal. But when he arrived that time, he kissed me on both cheeks. Then as he left, he kind of . . .’ She smiled, flushing slightly. ‘Well . . . he was nearly as tall as you. He practically picked me up.’

‘Do you think he was on something?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Antidepressants.’

‘I’m not a doctor, Mr Sanguinetti.’

‘What about Teresa? Were they happy?’

Rachel frowned. ‘We never spoke about his personal life.’

‘But when you saw them together they . . .’

‘Seemed fine.’ She paused. ‘But who knows what really goes on in a relationship.’

Spike glanced automatically at her left hand: no wedding ring. She followed his eyes. ‘I’d better get back,’ she said, standing.

‘Thanks for taking the time to talk to me.’

‘A pleasure. It’s been on my mind. So, do you want me to make out the cheque to you?’

‘Leave it to Teresa’s charity.’

Spike thought he caught a flash of disapproval. They shook hands; now it was Rachel whose eyes dipped to Spike’s fingers.

‘One more thing,’ Spike called out.

She stopped, hand on hip.

‘When David was cataloguing the reserve collection, what sort of work did it involve?’

Her face fell a little. ‘Provenance, first and foremost. Visits to the archives. Fact-checking, really.’

‘Photographs?’

‘That’s always the starting point.’ She half turned away.

‘Had he taken all the photographs he needed?’

‘Yes, and we’d set them into the catalogue. Why?’

‘No reason. Goodbye.’

Spike set off back to the street, opening up his uncle’s diary as he walked and tearing out the receipt for the print shop. Whatever these photographs were, they didn’t relate to work David had been doing for Rachel Cassar.

7

The Omertà Photographic Centre lay midway down a dingy triq on the western fringe of Valletta. The shops on either side were boarded up: even UNESCO World Heritage Sites had their run-down neighbourhoods. A small copper bell above the door tinkled as Spike pushed through a veil of multicoloured ribbons. He handed the print slip to an obese man with a beard, who rolled reluctantly off his stool to go to the back of the shop.

A few moments later, the man returned with a thick sleeve of photographs. ‘Two hundred and eighty-three euros,’ he said flatly.

Spike looked up in surprise. ‘Christ! How much was my last set?’

‘What was the name again?’

‘Dr David Mifsud.’

As the man bent to his computer screen, Spike peered inside the pack of photos. The first few were blurred black-and-white smudges. Mifsud may have been an artist but he was no photographer.

‘No previous jobs on record,’ the man said.

‘How about for the National Museum of Fine Arts?’

The man sighed and returned to the screen. ‘Nothing.’

Spike paid up and left. The sun had dipped behind a cloud: there was better light at the end of the triq, so he walked along the cobblestones, emerging at the edge of the St James Ditch. He looked down over the protective wall and saw what looked like a dried riverbed fifty feet below: bin bags, cacti clumps, an open-topped skip where some builders appeared to have been repairing the foundations.

Facing outwards, Spike laid the sleeve of photos on top of the wall. More of the same black-and-white smears, each with a date in the corner, 16 January, two weeks before Mifsud’s death. He flipped through further: he’d just spent the thick end of three hundred euros on some out-of-focus prints.

As he turned over the next photo, he stopped. This time the image was clearer. It showed an oval-shaped painting, still in its frame: in the centre stood a dark-skinned woman, her brown hair tied in a loose knot at her nape, her arms above her head, her wrists shackled to a ringbolt on what looked like a cell wall. Her dress had been pulled down, dangling by her waist. Alongside her stood a man in leather breeches, a pair of bolt cutters in his hands.

Spike tilted the photo to the light. The woman’s left breast had been cut off, blood streaming down her midriff. The jaws of the cutters were clasped around her right breast, ready to slice again.

So lost was Spike in grim fascination – the jailer’s business-like expression, the woman’s semi-conscious face – that he didn’t hear the sound of a motorbike pulling up behind him.

8

As Spike turned over the next photograph, he felt something smash into the small of his back. His groin collided with the low wall in front. He managed to sweep most of the photographs behind him, but a few slipped over the edge, fluttering down into the void.

Hands pressed to the top of the wall, he tried to push himself backwards, but the weight on his spine was too great. His heels began to rise from the ground; now his head was leaning out over the wall. He twisted his neck, glimpsing something shiny at the periphery of his vision. The pressure increased; his chest was now protruding over the edge, just his toes on the ground. ‘Wait,’ he gasped.

‘Go home, foreigner,’ came a whispered voice.

Spike caught a sweet smell on the man’s breath. ‘OK,’ he said, as the photographs still zigzagged downwards, finally landing in the builders’ skip, ‘OK, OK . . .’

The force reduced, and for the first time Spike felt pain where his palms had been digging into the top of the wall. As soon as his heels touched the ground, he swung an arm backwards, swivelling with his hip for maximum impact. His elbow hit something hard. He clutched it to his chest, stumbling away from the wall.

The man was walking casually back to his motorbike. He wore blue canvas trousers and a white T-shirt. Over his head was a black helmet. As he hoisted a leg over the bike, Spike caught sight of a strong, grizzled jaw.

The man smiled, then slid down his visor and drove away. As soon as he was gone, Spike bent down and gathered the remaining photographs.

The boy adjusts the vice, then steps away from the head. The entire four-foot length of the unicorn’s horn is now coated in a transparent gum; the boy attaches a line of silver ribbon to the base, then begins winding it up around the papier-mâché cone, trying to keep the spiral even as he moves steadily upwards to the point.

His mind turns again to this evening’s plans: meeting Luisa Camilleri in Paceville. What if she prefers Anthony to him? He knows Anthony will not hesitate.

Still circling the head, the boy passes by the warehouse wall. A low, bestial grunting vibrates through the brickwork. The boy stops, then continues his work, arms rising higher as he walks.

He stops again. The animal sounds have returned, followed by a distant high-pitched wail, like a child’s scream. The boy feels his heart start to beat; dropping the silver thread, he goes to the doorway and pushes it open.

It is dark outside; he is meeting Luisa in less than an hour. A breeze is blowing through the masts of the boats ahead, creating a soft wail; as the boy turns back to the warehouse, he sees shadows cast by the finished Carnival floats: the flame of a dragon, the jaws of a lion. In the centre, the huge head of the unicorn still sits in its vice, decapitated, ribbon dripping from its horn like silver blood.

Quelling his unease, the boy flicks off the lights and steps outside, pulling the door behind him. His hand shakes as he fumbles for the padlock.

He strides away along the concrete. Another squall of wind rattles the ships’ rigging; a few yards on, he slows, chiding himself for behaving like an infant, wondering what Luisa would think if she could see him now. By the time he is climbing the steps back up to the road, he has forgotten the noises, his thoughts already on the rich possibilities of the night ahead.

Chapter Four

1

‘So I thought why spare the horses?’ Rufus said. ‘Mercedes hearse. Three-car cortège. Hundred white lilies. You only get one send-off, after all.’

As they approached Triq Sant’Orsla, Spike’s eye was caught by a statue adorning the street corner. A bare-chested woman staring up at the sky, both breasts missing.

‘No doubt the estate will cover it, but in the meantime, I wondered if . . . son?’

Feeling a touch on his elbow, Spike started a little, then turned to his father. Long white hair pushed back from his brow, Rufus wore his best dark suit, lightened by a mauve Gibraltar Heritage Committee tie, an institution of which he was chairman.

Spike exhaled, then pointed to the statue. ‘Do you know who that represents, Dad?’

‘Whom what represents?’ Rufus said, fumbling in his pocket for his bifocals.

‘Never mind. You were saying?’

They continued along the cobbles. Spike still hadn’t told his father about the attack by the St James Ditch. Hadn’t told anyone, in fact. A case of mistaken identity, he repeated dubiously to himself as he reached into the pocket of his jeans and checked his phone. Still no reply from Zahra.

‘. . . of course the big question is the venue for the wake. While I think the Phoenicia
would
be nice, it’s not exactly –’

‘Dad?’

Rufus was standing outside the Mifsud flat. Realising his mistake, he turned and joined Spike by the entrance to Palazzo Malaspina. A Maltese flag dangled from the oak-framed door, a George Cross on its left-hand side beside the phrase,
For Gallantry
.

Rufus shook his head in disapproval, then reached for the pomegranate knocker.

2

The Malaspina maid was surprisingly young and attractive, squeezed into a hi-vis anorak as though interrupted en route for a bike ride. She pointed apathetically at the dark curving staircase which dominated the hallway. Rufus went first, gripping the mahogany banister with long, splayed fingers. Spike followed behind.

Rufus took it one step at a time. He refused to walk with a cane despite the doctors’ insistence that the ligaments in his legs could give way at any point. A fall Spike could catch: it was the possibility that Rufus’s aorta might split in two that worried him. The democratic nature of Marfan syndrome: all connective tissue equally at risk.