She reached for his chest. He felt his groin stir again as she stroked the corrugated muscles of his stomach. ‘You remember our first night in the desert?’ she said.
‘In the cave?’
‘I wanted to be with you then.’ She drew a fingertip up the dark line of hair that grew above his navel.
‘I’ve missed you,’ Spike said.
Zahra’s mouth turned down a little. ‘You don’t have to say that.’
He edged closer to her across the mattress. ‘Will you give me another chance?’
She smiled, then pulled him towards her.
13
Spike walked along the harbourfront, swinging a paper bag of pastries in one hand. The fishing boats – luzzi, Zahra had called them – creaked in the morning breeze. Stopping beside the jetty, he watched a fisherman and his son sorting their night-time catch into polystyrene trays. Though fresh, the fish were twisted, rigor mortis having set in as they’d suffocated in the nets. One still clung to life – a red mullet – and flipped in the tray, small mouth gaping, single yellow eye staring upwards. The father turned to Spike, a cigarette clenched between his front teeth. He gave Spike a wink, then looked away.
On the hillside behind rose the striped chimney stacks of what looked like a power station. Perhaps that was why this fishing village remained relatively undeveloped. ‘Morning,’ the receptionist said with a smile as Spike entered the hotel.
Spike smiled back, then bounded up the stairs to their first-floor room. Zahra was still asleep, one arm tossed on the pillow above her head like a swooning actress. Her small, tanned breasts were almost visible above the line of the sheets.
Spike closed the door carefully, but she stirred. He caught the stale but fragrant smell of lazy mornings of old.
‘I brought us some breakfast,’ Spike said, moving to the table beneath the window. Using the paper bag as a plate, he laid out four freshly baked rolls. ‘It’s gorgeous out there. Feels like spring.’
Zahra stretched out both arms. ‘Breakfast in bed with Spike Sanguinetti,’ she said sleepily.
‘The fishermen are coming in. Looks like they’re setting up some kind of market. We could have a walk round; I saw one guy with what looked like a moray eel.’
Zahra sat up, blinking, as though only now aware of where she was. She yawned, showing rows of sharp white teeth. Glancing at her wrist, she realised it was bare. ‘What time is it?’
‘About a quarter to eight.’
She stared ahead, then shot up, a lithe dark streak as she searched for her clothes.
‘What?’ Spike laughed. He caught a crinkle of tanned stomach as she bent down to pick up her knickers.
‘Naik,’ Zahra cursed in Arabic.
‘Can I help?’
‘I’m late.’
‘What for?’
‘The Citizenship Office opens at eight. The queues will be huge.’
‘Are you working?’
‘My visa’s about to expire,’ she said as she pulled her dress over her head.
Spike stared down at the rolls on the table, feeling his appetite ebb. ‘What a coincidence.’
Zahra stopped dressing, one hand steadying herself on the bedside table. ‘What did you say?’
‘Nothing.’
She walked over.
‘I thought you were in a hurry.’
‘I want you to repeat what you just said.’
‘Well . . . we’ve slept together in three different countries now, Zahra. Every time, the event has been closely followed by a request to help you apply for a visa.’
She glared down. For the first time, she looked her thirty-five years. ‘I never asked you to help me get to Europe. You offered, I accepted, but I never asked.’
‘There’s no need to shout.’
She swore again in Arabic, then gathered her belongings. ‘What you just said is very hurtful,’ she said, coming back. ‘Do you understand that?’ As she turned for the door, her foot collided with the empty bottle of bajtra, sending it spinning towards the wall. Spike felt words forming in his mind, but ignored them. The door slammed.
A moment later, he went to the window, waiting for her to emerge outside. A minute passed, then he picked up the empty bottle, catching a medicinal whiff as he placed it on the bedside table. The sheets were still indented with her shape. He touched them and felt a trace of warmth.
From the street below came the sound of a door opening. When Spike returned to the window, she was gone.
14
Spike stood hunched in the bath, the tepid shower drizzle barely wetting his hair. As he dressed, he saw that Zahra had left her watch behind. He picked it up, feeling its weight, checking the reverse for an engraving from John the American. Every blessing, perhaps. Nothing but a fine dark wrist-hair caught in the strap. After slipping the watch into his pocket, he threw the bread rolls in the bin and left the room.
Downstairs at the desk, he handed over the key and removed his wallet.
‘Your friend took care of it,’ the receptionist said.
It wasn’t a fish market outside but stalls flogging tourist trinkets – miniature Maltese crosses, a stand of enamel key rings with Eyes of Osiris on the fobs. Spike followed the signs to the bus stop, thinking of the work he had to do this morning: an appointment with the Mifsud family accountant, a meeting with the local lawyer. A moment later, he stopped, heart pumping, as though someone had spiked his drink. ‘You stupid charavaca,’ he said aloud to himself in yanito.
Her phone rang straight through to voicemail. There was a delay before the beep. ‘Zahra,’ he said. ‘I’m an idiot. A total idiot. Will you call me back? Please . . . I’m sorry.’
He continued to the bus stop, then remembered he’d forgotten to mention her watch.
The man stares down as the girl takes her seat in the back garden of the bar. She looks uneasy, then glances over at a family of three at a corner table – kid blowing Coke bubbles through a straw – and seems to relax.
Still watching from above, the man moves closer to the window. That black Arabic hair, cut short to look European. The frumpy cardigan to conceal the clinging summer dress. Funny how you can always tell, the man thinks with a grin, however much they try and hide it. Just a glimpse from a distance – the curve of a hip, the angle of a shoulder.
The girl draws up her sleeve and gazes down at her wrist. As if surprised to find it bare, she reaches into her handbag and takes out her phone, staring at the screen so intently that she doesn’t seem to register the family leaving the garden, nor the scrape of the bar’s back door being bolted behind her.
Chapter Six
1
The pall-bearers lowered the first coffin into the tomb. There was a clack as the brass runners hit the stone base, then they slid out the ropes and moved to the next coffin, pausing briefly to catch their breath.
Spike peered down. At the edge of the tomb, he could see the shadows of the urns containing the remains of his Maltese grandparents. He’d just paid a substantial amount to have their coffins cremated; the ashes had now been sealed into vessels the size of a jam jar. As in the rest of Malta, space in family tombs was at such a premium that the luxury of a coffin could only be enjoyed until the next generation arrived.
The priest continued his routine in Latin, bowing his head as he spoke, ‘dolor’ being the only word Spike could make out, in keeping with the name of the cemetery itself, the Addolorata, Our Lady of the Sorrows. The priest’s tone was perfunctory, reminding Spike of Assistant Commissioner Azzopardi’s comments on the Church’s view of suicides.
The Baron was standing with his hands behind his back, a few strands of faded hair fluttering in the breeze blowing in off the rocky hills beyond. The Baroness loomed above him, silk handkerchief dabbing at rouged cheeks, Rufus beside her, as thin and desiccated as the stone crosses that adorned some of the grander tombs behind. A few old friends, the family lawyer and a distant cousin completed the Mifsud mourners.
The priest switched t
o English. ‘Ashes to ashes,’ he said, bending down for some soil, ‘dust to dust . . .’
Spike scanned the rest of the graveyard. Tapering cypresses cast a dappled light on the pathways. Headless stone angels stood vigil. To the rear of the semicircle, looking away as Spike met his eye, was John Petrovic, all combed blond hair and preppy sports jacket, like a sophomore on his way to a varsity game.
There was a thud as the priest threw a wad of dirt down into the tomb. A nod to the mourners and a small step backwards invited them to do the same. Spike saw the Baroness staring at him; realising he was the closest blood relative, he gathered up a handful of dust, seeping it through his closed fist into Rufus’s palm like sand from an hourglass. Rufus tossed it outwards; they all watched in silence as it blew back towards him in the breeze.
A crunch of high heels on gravel broke the spell. Spike turned to see a woman in dark glasses striding up the path. For a few seconds he thought it was Zahra, but as the woman came closer, his sense of relief faded. He managed a half-smile, and Rachel Cassar nodded back.
Once the priest had said a final prayer, the pall-bearers coiled up their ropes and moved away. Spike stared at the lid of the tomb lying on the path. Freshly carved was the short and unsentimental inscription Rufus had chosen:
DAVID MIFSUD, AGED 63,
TERESA MIFSUD, AGED 66.
RIP.
2
Three black Mercedes estates waited in the cemetery car park. Rufus held open a door, ushering the Baron and Baroness into the cool leather-seated interior.
‘I’m sorry I was late.’
Spike turned at the sound of a female voice. The chief curator averted her eyes, sensing his disappointment. ‘My bus broke down.’
‘I thought they were meant to work these days.’
Rachel shrugged. ‘I ought to have driven.’
Rufus was gesturing impatiently at the car door. ‘Son?’
‘We’re going to the wake now,’ Spike said to Rachel. ‘Light refreshments at Rubino’s. You’ll join us?’
‘I don’t want to intrude.’
‘You wouldn’t.’ He looked beyond her to the car park. The only other vehicle was a red Chevrolet jeep. Above its rear bumper was a Christian fish sticker, a tiny crucifix signifying the eye.
‘There’s space for you with us,’ Spike said.
‘Are you sure?’
‘Dad, this is Rachel Cassar. Used to work with Uncle David.’
Once Rufus had managed to focus, a leer took over, a new development with pretty women that Spike found particularly alarming.
‘In you come, Rebecca.’
‘But what will you –’
‘I’ll catch you up,’ Spike said, turning and setting off towards the jeep.
3
‘Stick of gum?’
Spike shook his head. Through the jeep windscreen he made out the pall-bearers working another coffin from a hearse.
‘Naked come we into the world, and naked go we also out,’ John declared.
Spike thought he recognised the model of coffin from the brochure he and Rufus had perused. ‘Or clad in mock pine veneer.’
‘Say what?’
The hearse crept away, post-partum, and John turned on the engine. A snatch of heavy metal burst from the sound system; he reached forward and switched it off. ‘Sorry,’ he muttered as he eased the jeep into automatic.
They pulled onto a roundabout, the engine giving off a throaty, expensive hum. For a charity worker, John seemed to be operating with a hefty disposable income. In the passenger window, Spike saw a sticker advertising a local bar. He deciphered the Gothic lettering backwards: PASHA.
‘It was a nice service,’ John said as he wove through the traffic. ‘The Baron spoke well. I’ve met him before, you know. He visited the charity office once.’ John blew a tiny bubble with his gum, which burst like a blister.
‘I was surprised not to see Zahra there,’ Spike said.
‘You and me both.’
‘Any idea where she might be?’
‘Haven’t heard from her in . . . maybe a couple of days.’ John chewed vigorously, quarterback’s jaw pumping. Bags hung beneath his eyes; Spike saw dots of blood dried into the fresh razorburn on his neck.
‘Hasn’t she been teaching at the camps?’
He slotted on a pair of black Wayfarers. ‘When she came back from Gozo she seemed a bit upset. I thought she could handle some time off.’
Spike felt in his suit pocket for her watch. ‘I’m flying home tomorrow.’
‘Shame. You’ll miss Carnival.’
‘I wondered if you might –’
The radio exploded to life with what sounded like a traffic update in Maltese. John listened, then hung a sudden left, following the road that circumvented Valletta beneath its sea walls.
Spike returned the watch to his pocket. ‘Have you got Zahra’s home address?’
‘You have her mobile, don’t you?’
They plunged into a tunnel through the base of the city walls. To the right, Spike saw what looked like a row of empty warehouses.
‘Yes, but I can’t seem to reach her.’
John smiled apologetically. ‘I can’t just give out an employee’s address, buddy. Data protection, you know?’
Spike felt his stomach lurch as they cleared the limestone kink in the middle of Valletta’s promontory. A moment later they mounted a narrow pavement, then came to a halt.
Behind, the cortège of Mercedes was drawing up. ‘When you’ve been in Malta as long as me,’ John said, checking his blond fringe in the rear-view mirror, ‘you learn the short cuts.’
Judging by his response to the traffic report, he’d also picked up more of the local language than he liked to let on. Spike squeezed through the gap between the car door and the wall, then joined the line of mourners waiting to go in for the wake.
4
The grey-haired restaurant owner was assiduous in his attentions to the Baron and Baroness. Framed black-and-white photos on the walls showed other of Malta’s illustrious patrons who’d been similarly seduced.
The main dining area was closed for the wake, tables pushed against walls to provide a buffet of wine and a cold collation. Spike caught the eye of the Mifsud family lawyer, then went to gather the beneficiaries – John, the Baron, David’s distant cousin.
A cramped rear staircase led to a box-room office. The lawyer sat at the desk as the others positioned themselves opposite. Spike closed the door and joined them.
‘Firstly,’ the lawyer said, ‘I’d like to thank Mr Sanguinetti for his most thorough execution of the wills.’ He met Spike’s eye and pouted. His dark beard was closely clipped, just a millimetre too long to be classed as stubble. ‘In the absence of children or dependants,’ he went on, ‘Dr Mifsud left his estate to his wife. Teresa Mifsud left hers to the NGO for which she had been a volunteer for the last five years. The sum remaining in their joint account has been used to pay residual liabilities and legal fees. His Lordship, Baron Malaspina, has waived any outstanding rent on the flat, which is exceedingly –’
The Baron swatted away the impending compliment.
‘Leaving just the contents of the flat to be auctioned off, proceeds to go to the Mission of St John Hospitaller, of which Mr John Petrovic here is trustee. Otherwise . . .’ The lawyer glanced up. ‘Mr Sanguinetti?’
Spike turned to the cousin. ‘If there are any small things you’d like. Mementoes.’
‘How do I get them?’ the cousin said cheerfully. His collar was too tight around his neck. Blue tattoos bruised the knuckles of his right hand.
‘There’s an estate agent coming to the flat tomorrow morning to look into renting it out,’ the Maltese lawyer said, nose crinkling in distaste. ‘I suppose you could come by then.’
The cousin bowed at the lawyer, as though used to attending court, then left.
‘Now I just need the keys to the flat,’ the lawyer said to Spike.
‘Maybe I should be there,’ Spik
e said. ‘Let in the estate agent myself.’
‘As you wish.’ The lawyer zipped up his calfskin pouch, then caressed his beard. ‘Now,’ he said, looking back at Spike. ‘A drink?’
5
The wake began to liven up once a few carafes of Maltese white had done the rounds. Rufus was chatting to Rachel Cassar as a coterie of local worthies paid homage to the Baron. The Maltese lawyer kept trying to catch Spike’s eye, so he pulled out his mobile and stepped onto the street.
Again, Zahra’s phone rang directly to voicemail. He left a terse message about her watch, also mentioning his departure time the next day.
A tour group had gathered outside the Baron’s palazzo, admiring a statue in a niche on its corner, an apostle with his index and middle fingers raised, forming the sign of the cross. Spike walked past them and unlocked the door to the Mifsud flat.
His reflection beamed back from the hallway mirror. Sprigs of grey coiled at his temples; in no time at all, he thought as he moved into the sitting room, he’d be Uncle David’s age.
The address book was still in the drawer; he opened it up and tore out Zahra’s entry. From the edge of the desk, David and Teresa laughed back from their honeymoon photo, prompting Spike to remember how, as a child, he’d always been perplexed by the smiling images of murder victims on the news. He picked up the photo frame and tucked it under one arm.
A noise came from behind. ‘Hello?’ he called out.
The noise came again, more subtle now. The wooden floor above, Spike assumed – Clara the maid, cleaning the palazzo while the Baron and Baroness were out. As he passed the bedroom, he looked inside. Teresa’s ball gown lay on the floor. Hadn’t that been on the bed before?
Unsettled now, Spike hurried to the front door, relieved to find the city still going about its humdrum business outside.
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