A Thousand Cuts

by Thomas Mogford

  Clusters of pastel-painted fishermen’s cottages framed the path down to the sea. In the distance, Spike saw the early evening sun dapple the white frontage of the Caleta Hotel, a vast and invariably empty art deco palace favoured by couples in town for a quickie Gibraltar wedding. At its foot rose the Mamela Rock. No kids paddling around it today: the October sea was too chilly for local tastes.

  A white-stubbled, Italian-looking fisherman sat outside the Catalan Bay Social Club, eking out a tumbler of grappa. He wiped his mouth on the sleeve of his jersey. ‘Who you after?’

  ‘Davey Lavagna.’

  The man jabbed his roll-up southwards, and Spike continued along the cobbled road that ran above the harbour. Then, just past Our Lady of Dolours church, he saw the house, and an involuntary smile spread across his face. Faded pink stucco, salt-streaked turquoise shutters, roof undulating with ancient terracotta tiles. He had to ring the bell three times before a short leather-skinned man opened the door. The shutters behind him were closed, and in the darkness, Spike could just make out a pair of shrewd blue eyes. ‘Mr Lavagna?’

  The man squinted in the sunlight. ‘You Spike?’

  Spike nodded, and Old Davey held open the door with a grunt. Spike followed him into the sitting room, nose wrinkling at the pervasive stench of stock cubes. Davey lowered himself into his chair with a grimace that suggested both knees and hips were in need of medical attention, then rammed a forkful of instant noodles into his mouth. He looked Spike up and down. ‘When Rufus comes, he brings me pastries.’

  ‘Sorry.’

  Davey’s mouth twisted like a petulant old woman’s as he swept his fork back through the bowl. ‘The place is too big for me now. Since Vera passed.’

  Spike made his usual gesture of sympathy, somewhere between a shrug and a double-nod. ‘May I?’ he said, waving a hand towards the ceiling.

  ‘Vai, vai,’ Davey urged in impatient Italian as he grappled with the remote control. As Spike turned for the door, he heard Davey call after him, ‘The estate agent’s coming tomorrow.’

  The urgent tattoo of the GBC-TV evening bulletin followed Spike up the steep oak staircase. He pushed open the first door on the landing. Though it was crammed with packing cases, and the wallpaper looked like it dated from the First War, even Spike could appreciate that beneath the chaos might lie a room that befitted the title of ‘master bedroom’. The ceiling was high and the floorboards, though uneven, looked original. A rusting iron bedstead stood in one corner, and just for a moment Spike imagined himself on the beach below, warming his hands over a bonfire as the hated futon burned. He forced open the shutters and stepped out onto the balcony. The view of the sun-burnished bay was bewitching; in his mind’s eye, he pictured himself and Jessica sitting there with a glass of oloroso, watching the terns dive into the wavelets as the sun went down. The room next door was smaller, but filled with nooks and alcoves he knew Charlie would love to fill with his treasures. There was even a palm tree outside the window for him to shinny down once he’d reached his teens and wanted to sneak out to Casemates to join his friends.

  Hearing a creak behind, Spike turned from the window to see Davey Lavagna standing in the doorway, bald head shiny from the effort of the stairs. Davey pointed at the easel in the corner. ‘That’s where your father does his pictures.’ He crooked one arm, and Spike followed him as he began his slow progress back downstairs, emitting a wheeze with each step. ‘Rufus tried to flog me one the other day,’ he called over his shoulder. ‘I told him my knees might be shot, but there’s nothing wrong with my eyesight.’ He gave a throaty chuckle at his own wit, and Spike met him with a half-smile.

  ‘My daughter’s found me an apartment in Both Worlds,’ Davey confided at the front door. ‘Sheltered housing. Says it’ll be easier for me.’

  Watching how the old man moved, Spike suspected the daughter might be onto something. ‘My fiancée will have to see the place before we make a decision.’

  Davey’s grin revealed more gum than tooth. ‘Isn’t that always the way? In the end, it’s the women who hold the reins.’

  Spike shook Davey’s hand. ‘I’m starting to think you may be right, Mr Lavagna.’

  55

  The sun was setting as Spike walked back through Catalan Bay. The grizzled fisherman was gone, the only evidence of his presence an empty tumbler and an ashtray brimming with the twisted stubs of his roll-ups. Spike sat for a while at his table with a bottle of beer, watching the sun bleed down into the horizon, staring out at the unbroken Mediterranean. The view from this side of the Rock was infinitely superior, he’d decided – no rusting oil tankers or Commercial Dockyard to mar the composition, the only sounds the unhurried roll of the waves and the scream of the gulls as they waited for the fishing boats to return with their spoils.

  Thinking of that house, picturing the balcony where Rufus might settle into his dotage trying and failing to capture the Mamela Rock, where they could finally give Charlie a real home, Spike knew he had to have it. This might be the grand gesture, he thought, the thing that brought them all back together. Maybe it was just the Peroni, or the sunset, but he decided to let the last bus rumble by and walk home.

  When Spike finally got back to Chicardo’s Passage, the house was sleeping, and he wasn’t sorry. He opened a bottle of Rioja, trying to make up his mind whether to try Jessica again. Maybe if he told her about the house in Catalan Bay, it might make a difference. He took out his phone, draining his glass to give him courage, then heard a knock at the door and felt his heart lift. The lightness of touch suggested that whoever it was knew a child would be in bed at this hour.

  But as he threw open the door, his smile fell. The man standing on his porch was bearded, his face so lean and tanned it took Spike a few moments to recognise him. Then Christopher Massetti gave one of his shy, lopsided smiles. ‘I know it’s late . . .’

  It was late. And a wiser and more sober lawyer would probably have told his fugitive client to get the hell off his doorstep and turn himself into the police. But Spike wasn’t that lawyer. And he wasn’t that sober. So he just held open the door and beckoned Massetti in.

  The two men stood together in the kitchen, looking at each other in awkward silence. Beneath the unforgiving glare of the naked ceiling bulb, Spike realised that what he’d taken for a winter tan was actually a jaundice so severe that even the whites of Massetti’s eyes had taken on a yellowish tinge. Aware that he was staring, he turned to the sink and waited for the lukewarm water to run cold. Then he passed Massetti a glass and sat down.

  ‘I shouldn’t have run,’ Massetti said. ‘I know that now.’

  Spike raised one eyebrow: he’d never known the man to be so forthcoming. ‘Where have you been, Christopher? The police still have a warrant out for your arrest.’

  ‘At a campsite in Ronda. They know me a bit. We used to stay there when I was a boy.’

  Massetti took a breath, and Spike blenched at the crackling noise that emerged from deep inside his chest. ‘You know the police have arrested someone else in connection with Dr Capurro’s murder?’ Of course Massetti did. There was no other reason he would have come back.

  Sure enough, the old man gave another of his ponderous nods.

  ‘But you still need to go to the police. I could come with you, if you like?’ Spike suddenly questioned if he was sober enough for another encounter with DI Isola. Probably, after a few espressos.

  ‘I turned myself in as soon as I crossed the border,’ Massetti replied. He scratched at his grey-flecked beard, and Spike saw a hospital tag looped around his wrist. ‘They brought a lawyer in when they told me that they’d dropped the charges. She said the police have got hold of some new evidence in Esteban’s case. Documents they think might exonerate him. She even thought I could bring a case for miscarriage of justice on my father’s behalf.’

  Spike wondered what might be motivating the RGP to be so helpful. In his experience, altruism wasn’t high on their list of priorities – unlike a strong desire
to minimise liability. ‘I could help you find someone in London to fight the case? A QC with an expertise in Human Rights.’

  ‘Maybe.’ Massetti fingered the tag around his wrist. ‘The doc says my liver’s not so good. They’ve put me on the transplant list, but . . .’ Massetti didn’t finish his sentence, just hauled himself up from his chair. They walked together into the hallway. ‘Your missus in bed then?’ he asked.

  ‘Asleep,’ Spike replied. It was probably true. ‘Good luck, Christopher.’

  Massetti offered Spike his hand, then looked him in the eye. ‘You were kind to me, Mr Sanguinetti. I won’t forget that.’

  Spike watched him walk away down the dark street. As he closed the door, he heard the chime of a new text message. He took out his phone and smiled. It was what he’d been waiting for. Sender: Jessica Navarro.

  56

  Spike whistled to himself as he made one last check of the papers for the Brusati conveyance, sticking index tabs beside the execution clauses his client would have to sign the next time he saw fit to visit Gibraltar. The delay had now been so prolonged that the seller was starting to get jumpy. Spike had already had his lawyer on the phone twice that week. On the most recent occasion, she’d threatened to renegotiate the sale price, so Spike had called Brusati and found him sipping negronis on his superyacht off Sotogrande. He’d laughed off Spike’s concerns and told him to hold his nerve – he’d send the seller a case of Venetian spumante to take the edge off his indignation.

  Slipping the Brusati file back into his cabinet, Spike’s eye fell on the document that Ana Lopes had left on his desk earlier that day, and he felt his good mood evaporate. It was a printout of the web page for Kazan Kredit Bank. The bank’s name was the only script in English, the rest an indecipherable Cyrillic.

  ‘Is this it?’ Spike had asked Ana, looking up at her as she tapped a ballpoint pen against her lower teeth.

  ‘Afraid my Russian’s a bit rusty, Spike,’ Ana had replied. ‘I hadn’t realised it was part of the job description.’ Then she’d lifted her hip from the side of his desk and picked her way between the piles of redline documents heaped on the floor as elegantly as a tight pencil skirt and a pair of red-soled stilettos would allow.

  Spike got to his feet and walked into Peter’s office before he could change his mind. Peter made him wait, as he usually did, so he just stood there with crossed arms as he watched his business partner sign off documents with his Mont Blanc. Finally, with one last ornate flourish, Peter sat back.

  ‘You do know about CDD, right, Peter? AML? KYC?’

  ‘So many acronyms! This early in the morning, Spike? Whatever’s got into you?’ Peter was enjoying this, Spike could tell. Not for the first time, he felt an overwhelming urge to smack the infuriating look off his partner’s face, but instead he plucked a leather-bound Law Society tome from Peter’s shelf and dropped it onto the desk, where it fell with a satisfying slap. ‘We may not be Slaughter & May, Peter. But we’re not some bucket shop. There are rules we have to follow. Anti-money-laundering directives. Know Your Client regulations. I made you go on courses, for Christ’s sake! You might not have sat through them, but even you must realise that we can’t accept client funds from a financial institution like this.’

  Peter sat back, lazily massaging his round belly with one hand, entirely unmoved. ‘Bonanza are a global business, Spike. They have substantial holdings in Russia. I imagine they have any number of local accounts.’

  A small fly was buzzing around Spike’s ear; he swatted it and it fell stunned onto Peter’s mock Persian carpet. ‘Do you even know if it’s an authorised institution? We’re talking about millions of euros, Peter. From a dodgy Russian bank.’

  ‘It was a charitable donation,’ Peter retorted as he swivelled his chair round to squint at his computer screen. With one click of his mouse, the printer started to spit out paper. ‘Maybe I should have looked into it a little more, but it’s immaterial now. Siri called earlier to say that Bonanza have withdrawn the donation. They can’t afford to be associated with the Stanford scandal.’ Peter reached into the printer tray and passed Spike a printout. The 3.5 million euros had already left the private client account.

  ‘Happy now?’ Peter said, holding out his hand for the sheet. ‘And for the record, Spike’ – he snatched it back – ‘I don’t appreciate you skulking about behind my back like some two-bit Perry Mason. If you have concerns about me or my ethics, then at least have the balls to come and talk to me about them. We’re meant to be partners, after all.’ He reached for his packet of cigarettes; finding it empty he crushed it in one fist and glowered up at Spike. ‘Close the door on your way out.’

  57

  The altercation with Peter had made Spike late, so he was forced to jog to the hospital, and his face was shiny with sweat as he caught his first glimpse of Jessica through the sliding doors, rocking on the heels of her small orange trainers. Her dark hair was pulled back into a ponytail and her fringe had been cut straight across her forehead. Maybe it was just that it had been four days since he’d seen her last, but he thought that she’d never looked more lovely.

  She turned to face him, and though she smiled, the chill in her eyes told him he’d not been forgiven. But Jessica could be generous in victory, so she offered him her cheek and let him kiss the cool skin. ‘I missed you,’ he whispered in her ear.

  She gave no indication of having heard, just lowered herself into the plastic seat, clasping her maternity notes to her chest. Spike joined her in the adjacent chair and they sat together in silence. To an outside observer they must have looked like just another unhappy couple, Spike thought miserably, still divided as to whether they should have kept the baby.

  ‘How’s Charlie?’ Jessica asked without looking up.

  ‘Good,’ Spike lied, realising that he’d barely seen the boy all week. ‘Missing you, I think.’

  ‘And your dad?’

  ‘The same.’

  Jessica nodded, eyes still trained on her feet.

  ‘How are you feeling?’ Spike asked.

  ‘I haven’t felt a kick in a while.’ She looked into his eyes for the first time, and he could see that she was worried. ‘I wanted to get it checked out.’

  ‘Miss Jessica Navarro?’

  They both started at the sound of the nurse’s brisk voice. The usual midwife was waiting for them in the examination room, a fifty-something Sheffield expat who Spike found reassuring, but Jessica had never warmed to.

  ‘And how are we today?’ the midwife asked.

  The ‘we’, Spike knew, was a courtesy. He was almost completely ignored during these appointments, which was fine by him.

  ‘Not too bad.’ Jessica eased herself onto the bed. ‘I haven’t felt much movement since yesterday.’

  ‘Let’s have a look then. Shall we?’

  Spike braced himself as the midwife hoisted up Jessica’s cotton dress and switched on the Doppler. No matter how many times they did this, there was always a moment while the midwife searched for the baby’s heartbeat when Spike held his breath. He wondered if all fathers were afflicted with this anxiety, or if he felt it so keenly because his sister Juliet had been stillborn. But then there it was, Ker-dum, ker-dum, ker-dum, like distant horse hooves pounding the turf. Jessica’s face relaxed; she even managed a small grin.

  ‘When’s your due date?’ the midwife asked, manipulating Jessica’s belly roughly with her thumbs.

  ‘A week on Thursday,’ Jessica gasped.

  ‘Sounds about right.’ The midwife reached into a mirror-fronted cupboard behind her and passed Jessica a specimen cup. ‘Now if you could give us a quick sample, and . . .’ She broke off to update Jessica’s notes. As was often the case with her profession, the second half of the condition was left hanging.

  ‘And yes, Dad,’ the midwife resumed, addressing Spike for the first time as he helped Jessica up, ‘Baby is fine.’ She threw Jessica a wink. ‘These men. All they think about is Baby. Bet he’ll be wanting a boy,
eh?’

  58

  As Spike paced outside the hospital lavatories, waiting for Jessica to emerge, a door down the corridor opened and a young police officer Spike vaguely recognised stepped out, chequered hat under one arm. If he spotted Spike, he didn’t let on, just averted his eyes and continued towards the lifts.

  Curiosity piqued, Spike peered through the glass panel into the private room. The patient lying in the bed was old and looked very ill. Though the man’s face was grey and covered by an oxygen mask, Spike knew him at once. It was Sir Anthony Stanford. And slumped in a chair by the bed, head in hands, sat his son.

  Spike knocked gently, and when Drew looked up, Spike saw that his eyes were swollen and pink. Drew squeezed his father’s hand, then got to his feet and made his way to the door. Outside, he leant back against the corridor wall next to Spike. In his faded green polo shirt, hands shoved deep into the pockets of his chinos, he suddenly looked very young. Maybe all sons did when their fathers were gravely ill.

  Spike placed a hand on his friend’s arm and felt him flinch. Drew pulled away and rubbed the skin below his lower lip with the knuckle of his index finger. ‘They think it was a massive stroke. Dad’s been under a lot of pressure, of course. They’ve had him under police guard.’ Drew’s eyes roved around the corridor for the young police constable, and he gave a tight little smile. ‘Most of the time.’

  ‘I’m so sorry, Drew.’

  ‘Are you, Spike?’ Drew turned. ‘Are you really?’ He let out a mirthless laugh, and it was then Spike realised that he knew everything.

  ‘I can see you’re angry, Drew. But if you’d just let me explain . . .’