The tax books were up on the shelf; open on Spike’s desk were Blackstone’s Criminal Statutes and a copy of the Immigration, Asylum and Refugee Act, the latter coffee-stained with scrutiny.
After switching off the music, and enjoying a brief but necessary burst of the ceiling fan, Spike put on his suit jacket and stuck his head into the adjacent office. ‘Making any sense?’
Galliano looked up. He’d trimmed his goatee into a pointy, Lenin-style prong. A pudgy arm was bent protectively around the documents on his desk. ‘I’ll let you have a butcher’s once I’m done.’
Loose sheets of paper littered the floor; billowing from his picture rail was a large white dress shirt. ‘See you at the party later?’ Spike said.
‘En plan nice.’
Spike strolled up Main Street towards the Moorish Castle. Two police vans were parked outside; he buzzed himself in and approached the front desk.
‘You can’t seem to keep away these days,’ Alan Gaggero said, looking up from his crossword.
‘Got a secret crush on you, Alan.’
‘I’ll ask Ida to take you down. I-da! Long queues today at the border, they tell me.’
‘That’s the Spanish for you, Alan. Slopis and chiteros all.’
The stout form of Ida Milby-Low materialised to escort Spike past the scanner and into the dank, lower reaches of the castle.
Chapter 79
Spike stood beneath the CCTV camera and planted a flake of tissue on the lens. He stepped away from the wall just as the door opened. ‘Quarter of an hour do you?’ asked Ida.
‘Better make it half.’
‘Vale vishi.’
The moment the bolt closed, Spike pulled the detainee towards him. They kissed for a full minute, each holding the other close. Spike heard Arabic words rustle in his ear like palm fronds in the levanter.
‘What does that mean?’ he asked as he sat down at the table.
‘I’ll give you a full demonstration once I’m out of here,’ Zahra replied.
Spike bent down to remove a stack of papers from his briefcase. ‘The good news is we’ve been able to fast-track your application,’ he said. ‘The hearing’s set for Wednesday. I just need you to initial this.’
Zahra took the pen then signed.
‘Aren’t you going to read it first?’
‘I trust you.’
Spike reached over and turned the page. ‘We’re going for “Asylum from Persecution”. Given the latest events in Tangiers, I can’t see there being a problem.’
Zahra initialled the other document, then sat back, slim arms folded across her kaftan. Her face was drawn but her eyes were bright. ‘Tell me,’ she said.
She knew the first part already. After the unexpected screening at the El Minzah Hotel, all foreign investors had withdrawn from the Dunetech deal. In an investigation led personally by the governor of Tangiers, the hangar at the Dunetech site had been dug up and the concrete-embalmed body of Ibrahim al-Mahmoud discovered. Nadeer Ziyad had been arrested on suspicion of murder and his alibi for the night of the death of Esperanza Castillo re-examined – he had indeed been in Rabat, yet flight records revealed he had returned by helicopter and could therefore have been back in Tangiers by late afternoon. Solomon Hassan had since been released, all charges dropped.
‘Now they’re reinvestigating Abdallah’s death too,’ Spike said. ‘Basically, whatever the Moroccan authorities can throw at Nadeer, they will. A modern-day Icarus, my father keeps saying. Anything to keep soaring higher.’
‘He’s a coward and a murderer. And Ángel Castillo?’
Spike reached for his briefcase and took out a Moroccan newspaper. ‘Jumped off his roof last week. Landed on a shack made of shopping trolleys.’
‘And you think this will help my application?’
‘Nadeer still has a lot of influence in Morocco. Two Bedouins dead. Not safe for you to go back.’
Zahra shut her eyes. ‘They buried my father yesterday. In the sacred place. I spoke to Othman on the phone.’
The sound of that name caused Spike’s tongue to throb. He put the documents back in his briefcase.
‘How about the other man?’ Zahra said.
‘What other man?’
‘In the swimming pool.’
‘Oh, him,’ Spike said. ‘Inspector Eldrassi concluded he must have accidentally brushed against the heliopod, received an electric shock, and ended up pushing it and himself into the water. Funny that, as it was almost impossible to tip over.’
Zahra gave Spike an ironic look. ‘How about the gun?’
‘Oddly enough, that didn’t seem to come up.’
A heavy steel clank cut the air.
‘Two more days,’ Spike said, making a ‘V’ for victory. ‘Just two more.’
Chapter 80
Spike, Rufus and General Ironside walked side by side beneath Southport Gate, where the faded coat of arms of Charles V of Spain still showed on the pink stucco. Rufus’s short-sleeved shirt revealed scrawny, liver-spotted wrists. A canvas tote bag was hooked over one shoulder, which he had refused to let Spike carry.
Spike encouraged General Ironside’s lead away from a lamp post. As they passed the entrance to the Trafalgar Cemetery, Spike glanced in at the neat gravestones, thinking of the disordered chanting of the Marshan. A Coke can had been jammed on one of the spikes of the metal railings, like some dire medieval warning to soft-drink fans.
‘And you think Margo Hassan will be there?’ Rufus said.
‘She wouldn’t miss it.’
‘Good-oh,’ said Rufus, brushing back his mane of silver hair, ‘there’s one waiting.’
They crossed the forecourt to the ticket hut. Spike took out a ten-pound note but the pretty salesgirl shook her head. ‘You with the Hassan party?’
‘That’s right.’
‘All taken care of. Pish pine.’
Rufus batted away Spike’s hand as he tried to help him into the cable car. By degrees, Rufus rocked himself inside before lowering himself painfully down onto the furthest bench. Spike gathered the General in his arms and climbed in too. The cogs began to crunch as the car soared into the void.
Spike stared out. The unadorned facade of the Great Synagogue appeared to the right, the first to be built on the Iberian peninsula after Spain had expelled the Sephardic Jews in the fifteenth century. A Hindu temple stood alongside, while on the far left rose the mosque and minaret of Europa Point, with the Catholic and Anglican cathedrals emerging slowly into view in front.
‘Had a letter from Malta this morning,’ Rufus said.
Spike looked round. Rufus’s narrow, sockless ankles were exposed where his trousers had ridden up. ‘From your uncle and aunt. They want us to come over in May.’
‘Why the sudden olive branch?’
‘It would have been your mother’s sixtieth birthday.’ Rufus turned and gazed out as another no-frills jumbo banked round to land on Gib’s tiny, aircraft-carrier-sized runway.
‘Want to go?’ Spike said.
Rufus jutted a non-committal lip.
‘We could stop off at Genoa. Make a holiday of it.’
‘Maybe, son. Maybe.’
Spike craned his neck as they passed beneath the final pylon. The Upper Rock was closed to tourists at this hour but the cable-car terrace was swarming with people. ‘Looks like he’s hired out the whole place.’
‘Man of means,’ Rufus said, reaching down to tickle General Ironside’s ribs.
Chapter 81
As soon as they were up the steps, Rufus tottered away towards Margo Hassan, who broke off a conversation to kiss him hello. Over by the bar, Peter Galliano was puffing on a Silk Cut Ultra as he relayed a lengthy anecdote to two bearded men wearing yarmulkes.
A Spanish waitress passed with a tray of tumblers; Spike took two. ‘Told you we’d have that drink,’ he said as he gave one to Jessica Navarro.
‘It doesn’t count if it’s free.’
They stepped out of the bar area onto the rear terra
ce, a semicircular platform protruding from the flank of the Rock. The sun was setting, pinking up the water that surrounded on three sides, Mediterranean to the east, Atlantic to the west, Straits interlinking. Ahead, the thin sandy isthmus that connected Gibraltar to Spain pointed at La Línea like an accusation. In contrast to the marshy flatlands of the campo beyond, the Rock rose as dramatically and mysteriously as a sphinx.
‘I hear she’s very beautiful,’ Jessica said.
‘Who’s that?’
‘Oh, don’t be coy with me, Spike Sanguinetti. Just your type, too. Ripe for the rescuing.’ Above her white capri pants, Jessica wore a silver satin top that reminded Spike of Regina Solness. Her chestnut hair was loose from its bun, thick and glossy. ‘Know what they’re calling you at the station now?’
‘Surprise me.’
‘The Devil’s Advocate.’
‘Bit harsh.’
‘One week in Tangiers and everyone ends up dead.’
Spike switched his empty glass for a full one from a passing tray.
‘Prison looks like it’s done him good,’ Jessica said, gesturing across the terrace to where Solomon Hassan was working the crowd, clean-shaven in an oxford shirt, pressed chinos and navy docksider shoes. His pouchy cheeks had been levelled off and he seemed taller somehow, shoulders back, barrel chest out. Comb grooves remained in the slicked, dark hair and his little round spectacles had been replaced by designer tortoiseshell frames.
‘You scrub up pretty well yourself,’ Spike said. ‘Your hair looks good down.’
Jessica gave a grimace. ‘Please, Spike.’
Feeling a tap on the shoulder, Spike turned to see Margo Hassan, head bowed, palms out. ‘What you’ve done,’ she said, voice quaking, ‘it’s beyond . . . just beyond . . .’
Jessica mouthed ‘I’ll leave you to it’ and headed back inside to the bar. Mrs Hassan thrust out both arms, drawing Spike into the same low-cut green top she’d worn in his office. Her perfume was excessive.
‘He’ll reward you, of course,’ she said as she reached up to dab her lipstick from Spike’s face. ‘He told me so himself.’
‘He’s already paid my fees and expenses.’
‘I mean personally. He’ll be a rich man soon.’
‘Will he?’
‘Well, someone has to resurrect Dunetech. It’s a good company. Millions of lives to be saved.’
‘I think Solomon may be some way down the pecking order.’
Mrs Hassan looked askance. ‘My Solly? I wouldn’t be so sure.’
Inside, Rufus was sitting by the picture window, watercolour pad on lap, General Ironside dozing beneath his chair. He beckoned to Margo Hassan, who squeezed Spike’s hand before walking over.
On the far side of the terrace, Solomon was listening to the chat of a rival lawyer. He lowered his gaze as Jessica passed him, clamping his eyes onto the tight fit of her trousers, scanning from her bare calves to her neat behind. Seeing Spike watching, he returned to his conversation.
Spike felt his face grow hot as he sipped his drink. From the corner of his eye he saw Solomon coming over. ‘My friend and saviour,’ Solomon said, arms cruciform, mineral water in hand.
‘I hear you’re off back to Tangiers,’ Spike said.
Solomon lowered his hands. He had two skin-coloured plasters around the thumbnails. ‘Be a shame for a few bad apples to spoil the barrel.’
‘Thought you’d have had enough of that place.’
‘Got a meeting with the governor. See what we can salvage from the wreckage.’
‘No catamaran till Friday.’
‘I chartered a Sunseeker. Wanted to return in more style than I left.’
‘Leaving tonight?’
‘At nine. But feel free to stay on. The bar’s open late.’
Spike felt the blood start to thump in his ears like a drum.
‘You OK, picha?’ Solomon said. ‘You look a little flushed.’
‘Must be the punch.’
‘Tequila sunrise,’ Solomon corrected. ‘Seemed . . . appropriate.’ He raised a hand to his ear in a ‘call me’ gesture as a suit left the party.
‘What’s Interzone Holdings?’
Solomon’s bull neck swivelled Spike’s way.
‘How much is it worth to you? Thirty million? Forty?’
Solomon’s new spectacles were of a clearer glass, the large empty pupils behind them reminding Spike of something he couldn’t quite place. ‘Let’s imagine a scenario,’ Spike said quietly. ‘A young man in a hurry is promised a chunk of a company that’s about to become very valuable. A girl is threatening to reveal something that will compromise that value. The girl is stubborn and won’t be persuaded. A man like that might take . . . desperate measures.’
Solomon shrugged. ‘That man is Nadeer Ziyad.’
‘What if Nadeer were just mopping up your mess?’ Spike hissed. ‘If Nadeer committed his crime years ago, then was forced to keep yours hidden from investors when you lashed out at Esperanza?’
Solomon stared back blankly until his face selected a smile. He threw a heavy arm over Spike’s shoulder, exposing a dark oval of perspiration on his shirt. ‘I know your games by now, Mr Sanguinetti,’ he grinned. ‘They’re what make you such a formidable advocate.’
Disco music started in the bar. More tequila sunrises circulated. Spike freed himself from Solomon’s grip and took out his mobile phone. ‘There’s still an hour till your boat goes,’ he said. ‘Let’s get some air.’
Spike pushed through the crowd, sensing Jessica and Galliano’s enquiring stares. Solomon remained behind, dead-eyed, an amused smile still playing on his lips.
Chapter 82
Spike walked away from the cable-car station up the footpath that ran along the top of the Rock. The ground above was screened off by the barbed-wire fence of an MI6 listening post, one of the last remaining British military installations – a giant golf ball on a tee, rows of satellite dishes, a barred roadway leading down to a secret network of caves and tunnels inside the Rock.
A musty, damp-dog smell came from up ahead. Three grey apes were lounging in the dust, circles of bluebottles orbiting their heads. Fruit and vegetables were provided in the Apes’ Den, but they were always greedy for that extra stolen snack. Spike made a lunge at them with his arms; they consented to hop lazily onto a limestone outcrop.
At the point where the music from the party had dulled to a distant throb, Spike stopped on the path. A crumbling stone platform extended outwards, with a low parapet wall protecting from the drop down the Rock, part of the eighteenth-century fortifications built to provide flanking fire on besieging Spanish troops. A thousand feet below looped the coast road; Spike recognised the spot where his mother’s Sunbeam Alpine had smashed over the cliffs all those years ago. A herring gull displayed its broad, off-white wingspan in the nothingness. Beyond, the last rays of the sun bloodstained the Straits.
A noise came from behind: Spike spun round to see Solomon Hassan striding up the path. The apes watched on from their crag. The limestone of the Rock glowed a soft red.
‘You intrigue me, compa,’ Solomon called out as he joined Spike on the platform. His smile remained in place but moisture beaded his upper lip.
Spike still had his phone in his hand; he held it out and snapped a photo, hearing the camera give its ersatz click. As he checked the picture, he realised what Solomon’s empty pupils reminded him of – the stained, wooden masks hanging on the walls of Ángel Castillo’s house. He swivelled the screen to Solomon, now just a foot away. ‘Look at yourself.’
Solomon tilted his head. Shoulder muscles rippled his sweaty shirt.
‘That fat, feeble face.’
Solomon frowned, then turned to glance out to sea. Spike followed his gaze to where a sleek Sunseeker motor yacht was heading for Marina Bay, cruising effortlessly over the hidden currents.
‘At the party just now,’ Spike said, still holding out the photo, ‘I remembered something Jessica Navarro told me. That you had a smell
about you. One of life’s fall guys. A born loser.’
Solomon looked back at his own image, then took a step forward, forcing Spike closer to the parapet. ‘And suddenly it made sense,’ Spike said, edging away from a gap in the wall. ‘Nadeer hung you out to dry, didn’t he? He asked you to get close to Esperanza, to persuade her not to tell the police about the Bedouin’s murder. So you befriended her. Slept with her. But still she wouldn’t budge. So back you went to Nadeer, explained the situation until he sweetened the deal, set up Interzone Holdings, a slice of the action if you could shut her up for good. You knew Dunetech had the police in their pocket – all you needed to do was pluck up the courage, buy a knife, then choose a discreet location. But Nadeer double-crossed you.’
Solomon looked above the handset into Spike’s face, his irises swallowed up by pupils as dark and deep as tunnels. ‘Nadeer behaved exactly as I thought he would,’ he said. ‘As did you, my friend.’
It was Spike’s turn to frown. ‘I don’t follow.’
‘Of course not, Spike. Because you’re always one step ahead.’
Spike edged further along the wall. ‘You mean you knew the police would come after you?’
‘I suspected they might.’
‘Then why risk killing her? I don’t . . .’
Spike watched Solomon turn and glance up at the satellite dishes which crowned the peak of the Rock.
‘You always knew about the videotape,’ Spike said.
‘Who do you think paid that fat fuck his hush money?’
‘You were drip-feeding me information . . . just enough to help me to find the tape.’
‘I knew you’d get there eventually. You never could resist a damsel in distress.’
‘And once the tape was found,’ Spike went on, ‘you knew it was inevitable that the crime you committed would be pinned on Nadeer.’
‘Or Castillo. Let’s not forget he was in the video too. Joint enterprise murder, if my legal research is up to scratch.’
‘Leaving you in full control of Dunetech.’
Solomon’s thick lips formed a smirk.
Shadow of the Rock (Spike Sanguinetti) Page 20