The Fault

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by Kitty Sewell


  Gently she put her hand on his cheek. ‘Sebastian.’

  She felt colder still when she saw no response. Suddenly he flinched and turned to her.

  ‘Where were you?’ she said, her voice breathless.

  ‘At work,’ he said and smiled. It was not his usual unbridled smile and he didn’t move to embrace her.

  ‘Are you worried about something?’

  ‘Am I worried about something?’ he repeated slowly. For a moment she thought he was about to speak. His mouth opened, then closed. He chewed his lip and rubbed his forehead with the tips of his fingers.

  ‘Tell me, please? Let’s talk.’

  ‘What about? I’ve got nothing to say right now.’

  ‘You never told me what happened the day before yesterday.’

  His brow furrowed. ‘The day before yesterday?’

  She sighed. ‘Yes, when you stormed down to confront Montegriffo. In fact, I don’t think you’ve said a word to either me or Mimi since.’

  ‘Nothing happened.’

  ‘So what did you guys talk about? I mean, after you realised Mimi wasn’t there? Did you have it out about his stunt in Inces Hall?’

  ‘No, that’s water under the bridge.’

  ‘So, is it the works holdup? Please,’ she pleaded, ‘tell me what is bothering you.’

  ‘Only I can deal with it.’ He got out of bed and pulled on his shorts. ‘I better get to it.’

  Even when he was short of words, his love had always enveloped her like a warm cloud. She had come to take it for granted and felt acutely the chill of his withdrawal.

  Sebastian

  There was a notable absence of diggers, bulldozers, cement lorries, deliveries, assemblies or production; no hard-hatted specialists scurrying around the works site trying to be effective. Sebastian wandered aimlessly around the perimeter, kicking his feet in the dirt. Equipment and materials were stashed high and covered the storage yard. He stopped to stare at the components of a fifty-ton double-leg gantry crane which would need, somehow, to be assembled, mounted and affixed on a precarious ledge above the development site. He wasn’t genned up on the mechanics of this particular crane, but he could see that the main hoist did not have the correct capacity, an inexcusable delivery blunder which could take weeks to put right. The other tower crane stood motionless, like a giant mechanical giraffe frozen in time. It was, in due course, to be re-assembled on the barge. The barge itself was to be attached to the cliff by an articulated arm. However, when it had been connected and put to the test, the arm proved inadequate to the task. The subaquatic drill was still in house-sized crates, cluttering up the limited space. The giant steel and concrete brackets were also arriving by sea in dribs and drabs, having been manufactured on mainland Spain without the poor bastards knowing they were meant for that much-disputed Rock they thought they owned, or should own.

  In any event, the team of Princeton archaeologists and their damned study was the main cause for the delays in the commencement of the structural framework. They’d swung a further postponement from the Gibraltar government to make way for more indepth studies of the cave findings. Saunders had come over personally to attempt to convince the department that they could start construction of Phase One without encroaching on the site of the excavations, but no, there was some hold-up that no-one could quite explain to their satisfaction. The board members of SeaChange were apparently extremely unhappy. In addition to the vast sum already issued to the government of Gibraltar, just the equipment in the yard was a good fifteen million pounds, not to mention the cost of the geological and environmental studies.

  He tried to maintain his interest in these problems, but it was the horror in Montegriffo’s apartment that occupied his every waking moment. He imagined this was how it felt to be given news of a terminal illness. First shock, then denial. You pretend it can’t be true, you wake up and think it was just a dream, a nightmare. Everything seems as normal, like night follows day. Then you remember that something has happened to knock your life from its safe and predictable perch down into an abyss of madness.

  A sudden gust of wind whipped up the dust around him. He felt the grit on his teeth, and wondered what the hell he was doing there. As he headed towards the prefab office block, Jorge Azzopardi saluted him.

  ‘Ready to pack it in, Mr. Luna? Not much happening today, huh?’

  ‘Be so kind as to get me a taxi, would you, Jorge?’

  Azzopardi did as he was bidden and together they walked up to the gate in silence. While waiting for the car to arrive, Sebastian observed the burly Gibraltarian. He’d long stopped trying to get Azzopardi to call him by his first name. It still felt wrong, Jorge was surely twenty years his senior. They’d stood there almost every day waiting for the taxi, chatting amiably, and it was the first time he’d taken proper notice of the man’s features. He had hands like shovels and his nose was flattened like a boxer’s, obviously a man who’d been in a fight or two…but hardly a killer. The irony!

  ‘Any word yet, Mr. Luna? The Chronicle has gone quiet about it. Everybody’s asking.’

  He liked the guy – salt-of-the-earth sprang to mind – but resented having to explain, even justify, every glitch and snag of what should really be a straightforward project. He reiterated his standard answer with a resigned shrug. ‘It could be a week. It could be a month. It could be six months. It could be six years.’

  Azzopardi chuckled convivially. ‘Should I take a holiday?’

  Sebastian gestured around the site with a sweep of his hand. ‘Careful, now. You don’t want to make yourself dispensable. Let’s face it, anyone wanting to get their hands on this equipment would have some difficulty removing it.’

  Azzopardi’s face fell. ‘I was just joking, Mr. Luna. Obviously it’s not theft that you need worry about. It’s malicious vandalism.’

  ‘Really? You think so?’

  The man moved from one foot to the other, and clasped his hands behind his back. ‘Not everyone thinks this project is going to improve Gibraltar.’

  ‘I’m aware of that,’ Sebastian said, then peered at him with a frown. ‘Are you referring to anyone specifically?’

  Azzopardi grimaced. ‘I read that several groups are campaigning. The International Environmental Investigation Agency…’

  ‘No, I mean locally.’

  ‘Ah… Well, the Marina Trust, for example. They have some clout. There is the Spanish element, it’s a historical thing but they are still bona-fide Gibraltarians with a voice. And then, of course, the Church. As far as they’re concerned, everything in Gib should be approved, and preferably owned, by the Catholic Church. Now I’m as good a Catholic as any, but I don’t think there’s…’

  Sebastian’s attention faltered. His thoughts snapped right back, like a tightened rubber band, to Montegriffo. Being a zealous Catholic and a staunch reactionary, Montegriffo was without doubt a powerful adversary, but of course, he was dead. There was still time to call the police, say he’d had an altercation with his neighbour and was worried. He’d knocked on his door a couple of times to try and settle their differences but the man didn’t answer the door. No…he knew he couldn’t carry it off with a straight face.

  Azzopardi’s voice swam back into his awareness. ‘No worries, Mr. Luna. The place is safe with me and the boys here, and we’re all totally behind this project. It’s the biggest thing ever to hit Gib. You are highly regarded here, you know…by some.’

  Sebastian patted him on the shoulder. If the guy only knew how misplaced was his respect. ‘It’s just a case of a short delay. No worries, my man. The place will be buzzing in no time.’

  He sat back in the taxi and sighed deeply. None of the frustrations and wranglings of the project – or what people thought of it – had any significance in the face of what he’d done. Since that fateful day (how long was it: a week? Two?), his obsession with his work had receded, to be replaced by the terrifying knowledge that when Carlo Montegriffo was discovered dead in his apartment, his own
world might collapse. An investigation into the death would surely lead back to himself. The more he’d thought about it, the more he realised his idiocy in thinking the police would be fooled by the serene scene in Montegriffo’s bedroom, Unlocking the Poet Within resting on his sunken chest. Christ! The guy had Sebastian’s knuckles imprinted on his face. Could knuckle prints be identified? He’d read somewhere that the slap-mark of an open hand can betray many characteristics of the hand itself and thus its owner. And then there were the fingerprints around the apartment that he surely had missed cleaning off. Both his own and, no doubt, Mimi’s. A clever investigator would put two and two together. Perhaps Mimi would be the suspect, or at least implicated. That must simply never happen! He’d have to confess.

  Who might have seen him enter and exit Montegriffo’s apartment, who might have overheard their confrontation, if not the fatal one, the previous encounter they’d had in Irish Town? Eva had seen him go downstairs to confront Carlo, Eva had asked questions; she suspected something was wrong. Eva was his love and his partner, but would she lie on his behalf? She – and probably others – knew of the ‘friendship’ between Mimi and the ex-priest. No self-respecting man would allow his sister to be seduced by a man old enough to be her father. The trail would lead back to the outraged brother, and with forensic science as it was he would surely be convicted of murder. Not first degree perhaps, since it was hardly premeditated…though how could anyone ascertain that? Montegriffo was a respected resident, and Sebastian a controversial outsider who invited misgivings and conflict. Just ‘assisting the police with their inquiries’ would draw such attention and animosity that he would have to leave Gibraltar if ever he was free to go. He would lose the project, and his reputation in the engineering world would be permanently damaged. But what worried him more was how Eva and Mimi would take this bombshell. Mimi would never forgive him for killing her boyfriend, and Eva would hardly want to stick around with a man capable of such violent outbursts, seeing that she’d gone to such lengths to get away from one. She would leave him, and love would disappear from his life as quickly as it had entered it.

  All through the last week he’d lain awake beside her in that single bed. How could he make love to her with the graphic scene in the apartment beneath them etched on his inner eye? Come to think of it, she herself seemed distant, worried; almost as though she’d guessed his crime. Her body jerked in sleep and her long legs kicked viciously. Hour after long hour, while they lay there spoon fashion, his eyes had been open and he went over his movements again and again. Consumed by anxiety and exhaustion, he was sure Eva would soon read murder on his face. She kept asking if he was okay and commenting on how loose his shorts had become around his waist. He wondered why he didn’t just tell her everything. Wasn’t that what trusting, loving partners did? If she’d have married him when he proposed to her in Dubai, perhaps he’d be more likely to open his heart to her. If they were man and wife, she’d stand by him through anything, but her rejection had put a small wedge in his trust. Anyway, he’d long ago given up confiding in people. Dad had laughed at his childhood upsets and blamed his creative imagination, even accusing him of making things up, of out-and-out lying. Having grown so used to being guarded and secretive about his inner self, it had become a habit difficult to break.

  The driver could not take him further than the Garrison Library. A car had broken down in the middle of the Town Range so he got out to walk the rest of the way. The sun was shining relentlessly and the heat amongst the old buildings was stifling. As he walked up Library Steps his head pulsated with an irregular echoing sound, deafening, like bells in a church tower. He tasted blood on his lip.

  Walking through the passage towards his own building he slowed his steps. He stopped and stood in front of the entrance, rooted to the pavement. Something within him absolutely rejected the walk up those stairs, past the door behind which his victim lay decomposing in the summer heat. He realised that he could not face living one more day, spending one more sleepless night, with the rotting corpse a mere couple of metres below.

  Checking his watch, it said 6.05. He turned abruptly and fairly jogged down the passageways, ramps and steps onto Main Street. He walked quickly through the throng of visitors, ducking between shoppers, street performers and young mothers with pushchairs. The rental agency was in the main square almost directly opposite the cathedral. He found it open still and dashed in to see Mr. Stagnetto at the front desk, briefcase in hand, apparently on his way home.

  ‘Thank God I caught you,’ Sebastian said.

  ‘Mr. Luna!’ the man exclaimed with insincere delight. Visits from existing tenants could only mean complaints. ‘Everything all right with the accommodation, I trust?’

  ‘Actually…that’s why I’ve come. All’s well but there is a problem I can’t fathom, much as I have investigated.’

  Stagnetto glanced at his watch. ‘Yes? What’s wrong?’

  ‘It’s a smell.’ He felt like an idiot and a fraud, but this was the only strategy he could think of. ‘I think I’ve ascertained that it comes from the apartment below. I’ve knocked on the door a number of times but it seems the occupant is away, I assume he might have gone on holiday or something.’

  ‘A smell?’ Mr. Stagnetto looked weary. ‘What kind of smell?’

  ‘I think it might be the large cat belonging to the occupant. It might inadvertently have been shut inside and…you know…perished.’

  ‘Good God! What a thought! It’s Carlo Montegriffo, isn’t it?’ Stagnetto rubbed his chin. ‘Well, I guess I could come by tomorrow, but really, if he’s away somewhere, I’m afraid I don’t quite know what I could do about it. He’s no client of ours.’

  ‘But we are your clients, Mr. Stagnetto, and something must be done, today preferably. It’s a health hazard and the smell is intolerable.’ Sebastian hoped he sounded convincing enough.

  ‘Quite! Perhaps someone in the cathedral offices will have the key to his apartment. I’ll pop across the road and ask.’

  ‘I’ll be at home…expecting you,’ Sebastian said.

  On his way back, forcing himself past Montegriffo’s door, he flicked the letterbox open and stuck his nose in. He was almost relieved to find that the odour of death was definitely there, though still not overpowering. Then again, the corpse was far inside the apartment, the building was cool enough, shaded by others, and Montegriffo’s place was insulated from the heat of the sun by the floor above.

  Sebastian mounted the stairs and let himself into his own apartment. Neither Eva nor Mimi was at home, thank God. He searched around for the black cat, on the roof terrace, in the Eucalyptus, in the stairwell and then outside in the passageway. It would not do to have the damned kitty show up when Stagnetto arrived. That might just make him turn around and leave. But what the hell would he do with the thing if he caught it, that is, if it allowed itself to be caught? But the problem of the cat’s disposal did not present itself. The wretched animal was nowhere to be seen.

  He waited for the rental agent, pacing back and forth across the kitchen. Stagnetto would have obtained a key and hopefully felt justified in using it. They’d go down together and knock on the door. The smell was sure to assail them when they got into the apartment, and they’d find the body. They’d call the police and the medical/legal process would be set in motion and in due course determine his future and his fate. At least the wait would be over.

  He’d heard nothing, he’d seen nothing. His relationship with Carlo Montegriffo was ‘cordial’ although he was not very happy with him entertaining his sister; then again his sister was almost legally an adult and Mr. Montegriffo was a decent enough sort. Too bad really, poor man. He’d had a definite pallor to him and was very thin. He’d seen the man bent over once in the stairwell, trying to catch his breath and looking like death itself. No – for Christ’s sake, he mustn’t overdo it.

  No matter how much he rehearsed his patter, nothing sounded natural. But then again, there was nothing natural about
discovering a dead neighbour. There was every reason to appear unsettled by it all; it was no small thing.

  He opened the door and almost jumped back with alarm. The rental agent was accompanied by a policeman, a regular English bobby, traditional helmet and all. Sebastian realised his face must have been a picture of guilt but he quickly recovered his composure.

  ‘This is PC Malcolm Garcia,’ said Mr. Stagnetto. ‘Try as I might, nobody seems to have a key for Mr. Montegriffo’s apartment, so I thought it was wise to bring a…eh, a second opinion on the legality of acting on this. We can’t just go breaking down doors, now, can we?’ He laughed uneasily and glanced at the bobby. ‘Anyway, I don’t think it’ll be necessary. We stopped outside Mr. Montegriffo’s door, and to be perfectly frank, neither of us could get a whiff of the smell you’re complaining about.’

  They made their way down the stairs. Stagnetto rang the bell insistently then banged on the door with the flat of his hand. Not a sound from the interior. The policeman bent down on one knee and peered through the flap. He sniffed audibly, then he stood. He was an exceptionally tall man in his midthirties and looked like he didn’t suffer fools gladly. He peered down at Sebastian as though trying to ascertain if the complainant was one of those neurotic fusspots he was loath to deal with.

 

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