Sign of the Cross

by Thomas Mogford

  6

  The Baroness watched approvingly as Spike positioned the photo frame on the buffet table. ‘Bravo,’ she called out, raising her glass. The other mourners fell silent. ‘To happier times,’ she said, and everyone repeated the toast.

  ‘That was thoughtful,’ came a voice.

  Spike turned to see Rachel Cassar at his shoulder. Her herringbone-check skirt emphasised her narrow waist and rounded hips. She seemed to have left her spectacles at home.

  ‘You escaped my father.’

  ‘He was the perfect gentleman.’

  Rachel declined some wine, so Spike topped up his own glass, downing it then filling it again.

  ‘Only way to get through these things,’ Rachel said uncertainly. She turned to look at the room. ‘I didn’t realise David was so close to the mighty Malaspinas.’

  ‘Teresa and he rented their apartment from them. It’s part of their palazzo.’

  ‘Not sure my landlord will come to my funeral,’ Rachel said, glancing at the Baron, who was standing in front of the photograph, resolutely ignoring an elderly man trying to catch his ear.

  ‘Did David do much work in Gozo?’

  Rachel turned. ‘I doubt it. They have their own cathedral museum. Why?’

  ‘He photographed a painting there before his death. From the chapel of St Agatha. The painting seems to have vanished.’

  ‘How do you mean “vanished”?’

  ‘It was missing from the chapel wall.’

  Rachel paused. ‘Isn’t that where a priest died?’

  Spike nodded, then finished his wine.

  ‘Photographs, you say?’

  ‘Photographs.’

  ‘Can you show them to me?’

  ‘They’re in my hotel room.’ She held his eye. ‘Our hotel room,’ he added, glancing over at his father, who was roosting alone now on his chair.

  ‘Well, if you do want me to take a look, I’ll be at home all evening.’

  The Baroness was coming towards them through the crowd. Spike felt something slipped into his jacket pocket. When he looked round, Rachel was heading for the door.

  ‘My darlink,’ the Baroness said. Her cream blouse revealed a papery sternum watermarked with veins. Her eyes sparkled with a sad beauty.

  ‘Do you have a spare key for David’s flat?’ Spike asked.

  The Baroness gave a frown. ‘No. There is only one set. Why?’

  ‘No reason.’

  ‘That was why the police needed to break in,’ she said, stepping closer. ‘Nineteenth-century ironmongery, too expensive to copy. Why, you have lost them?’

  Spike shook his head. ‘Thanks for coming. Both of you.’

  7

  Spike led Rufus along the cobbles, his father’s scrawny arm tucked beneath his own.

  ‘Well, I thought that went well,’ Rufus said.

  ‘It did, Dad.’

  Steering him into the lobby, Spike received an approving smile from the pretty female receptionist.

  ‘You know,’ Rufus said as he entered the lift, ‘not one person at the wake believed David capable of such a crime. I told them my boy was looking into it. That he’d get to the bottom of things. My kind, clever boy.’

  In the room, Rufus sat on his bed as Spike prepared his tablets. ‘Oh yes,’ he sighed as he rolled beneath the covers. ‘Fresh sheets. Wonderful. Just wonderful.’

  After tucking him in, Spike went to his own bed. The first snore arrived within moments, a sound he used to loathe, but which now he found oddly comforting.

  Switching on his phone, he expected a flurry of apologetic messages from Zahra. Just the same screensaver of the Rock. He dialled her number: voicemail.

  After lying down for a minute, he picked up his jacket and took out the business card that Rachel Cassar had slipped into his pocket.

  She is unsure if she is awake or asleep. A word keeps seeping through her mind – ‘mawlud . . . mawlud’ – sometimes in her dreams, sometimes loud and real, as though someone close by is whimpering. She feels hands grabbing her, plunging beneath her armpits, dragging her across the stone floor.

  Cold water splashes down, wetting her hair, chilling her neck and shoulders. She lets her bladder go and feels the brief warmth of relief. Her bowels slacken and more water is sloshed on, combined with a deeper voice, laughter and catcalls.

  Her armpits sting as she is hauled from the cold and placed on a mattress. Her head sinks into prickly blankets. Time passes.

  She gives a moan. Spike is with her; she can feel his strong fingers working between her thighs. She sighs, pressing her face down into the bed, ignoring the scratch of the blankets on her cheeks as she pushes back against him. His hands are on her spine now, grabbing her breasts. Too rough . . . she tries to turn but he is holding her down. The hacking clearance of a throat, a spatter of saliva between her buttocks . . . A pain sears her insides; he is hurting her, so she cries out, then starts to reach behind, feeling not Spike’s muscled leg but a flaccid thigh, moist and hairy, as the laughter comes again, and now she struggles properly, but more hands are on her, shoving her onto the bed as the heat burns back and forth, until she screams, and a hand covers her mouth, a needle biting into her thigh, face slumping, tears spilling from her eyes, the stinking blankets too coarse to absorb them.

  Arms shift her again.

  ‘Mawlud,’ she hears. ‘Mawlud.’

  Something is slipped into her mouth. Her saliva softens it and she tastes the sweet paste of a biscuit. A bottle is raised to her mouth, water sluiced inside. She gulps hard, then slumps back onto her side, that word creeping into her dreams again, embroidering her nightmares.

  She half opens her eyes. She is naked, sitting against a gate, legs out, a stinging pain in her rectum which pulsates in time with her heartbeat. The back of her head is propped between two metal bars; as she turns, she sees another woman beside her, dressed in a hospital gown, head lolling, long black hair lank and greasy. The woman grasps at her chest, where two dark rings of fluid stain the material of her gown. ‘Mawlud,’ she mewls to herself in Arabic. My baby.

  Chapter Seven

  1

  Spike found the address two streets down from the Museum of Fine Arts. A rusty silver Skoda was parked outside. He held down the intercom, poised to walk away as a croaky voice answered: ‘Hello?’ She sounded half asleep.

  ‘Rachel?’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘It’s Spike.’

  There was a pause. ‘I’m on the second floor.’

  The latch snapped and Spike began his ascent up a narrow flight of stairs. Dirty panes revealed another inner courtyard. Sofa cushions rotted on the ground below, spewing foam – Valletta crumbling behind its grand facade. He knocked on her door.

  ‘Just a minute.’

  Glancing up the stairwell, he saw a small cat’s head with pointy tortoiseshell ears peering down. Footsteps echoed; the door part opened to reveal Rachel Cassar. She wore tartan pyjamas and a ribbed fisherman’s jumper.

  Spike held out the sleeve of photographs like a bouquet.

  ‘Of course,’ she smiled. ‘Come in.’

  The sitting room had a kitchenette along the left-hand side and the inevitable Maltese balcony at the end.

  ‘Coffee?’ Rachel said.

  ‘Anything stronger?’

  She frowned through her black-rimmed specs. ‘Some bajtra?’

  ‘Coffee, then.’

  ‘Or vodka? I think there’s some vodka in the freezer. A vodka and Kinnie?’

  ‘Great. Thanks.’

  Spike turned and scanned the floor-to-ceiling bookcases. Zahra would have liked this flat, he thought bitterly. On one wall hung a set of modernist prints: cutlery, plates, fruit bowl, brutal in their simplicity. ‘Sometimes I get a bit tired of the baroque,’ Rachel said as she passed Spike a tumbler. The TV was paused mid-romcom; she found the remote and switched it off. The balcony’s net curtains swirled as she curled herself into a well-worn leather armchair.

  ‘Thanks for co
ming today,’ Spike said, choosing the sofa.

  ‘A pleasure. Always an honour to see the Baron.’

  ‘I get the impression you don’t like him much.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far . . .’ She reached over and plucked an ashtray from the sofa arm; Spike hadn’t realised she smoked. ‘I’m just a bit dubious about the Knights of Malta.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Grand Masters, secret handshakes: they’re no better than Freemasons. Especially when it comes to nepotism.’

  ‘Michael was always very kind to my uncle and aunt.’

  ‘Maybe I’m just an embittered commoner. But I still don’t have much time for Baron Malaspina.’ She tapped out a B&H and lit it. ‘Three years ago,’ she said, ‘we were looking for sponsorship for a Mattia Preti exhibition at the museum. The Baron’s famously well connected, so I put in a call. He said he’d help on one condition. That an external curator was brought in. When I asked why, he told me the native Maltese worked best when guided by outsiders. Apparently history demonstrates that we’ve always needed strong foreign leadership to thrive. He even gave a list: Phoenicians, Carthaginians, Romans, Arabs, Normans, Knights, Brits. I told him we were more comfortable using local talent, and we never heard from him again.’ She inhaled, then smiled; Spike thought she should do it more. ‘I enjoyed talking to your father. He knows a lot about art.’

  ‘He knows a lot about a lot of things. Former English teacher. Bluffing is a job requirement.’

  ‘Is he . . .’

  ‘It’s called Marfan syndrome. A disorder of the connective tissue. Your joints and muscles are too loose. There’s a danger you’ll literally fall apart.’

  ‘Has he always had it?’

  ‘It was only diagnosed recently. Sometimes the symptoms don’t manifest themselves till late in life.’

  Spike sensed Rachel eyeing his long, lean limbs. ‘Is it hereditary?’

  ‘It can be.’ He drank some vodka and Kinnie; the bitter-sweet local soft drink was one he’d be avoiding in future.

  ‘Sorry,’ Rachel laughed. ‘I don’t think I’ve made one of those before. I’m not much of a drinker.’

  ‘No wonder you got on with my dad.’

  There was a pause. ‘Can I see the photographs?’ She came and sat beside him on the sofa, giving off a scent of freshly spritzed perfume: sugary as candyfloss, surprising somehow. He opened the sleeve and passed her the first one.

  ‘A pretty average St Agatha,’ she said, frowning downwards. ‘Some evidence of overpainting. Needs a damn good clean.’ She looked up. ‘It’s definitely Gozitan?’

  ‘From a clifftop chapel. Why would it have interested my uncle?’

  ‘Maybe he was overseeing the cleaning process – even the lowliest church needs to maintain its artwork.’

  ‘But why photograph this one?’

  Rachel looked down again. ‘Malta’s full of paintings like this. Do you know the story?’

  ‘I know she’s your patron saint,’ Spike said, aware he was quoting a taxi driver.

  ‘One of our patron saints,’ Rachel corrected. ‘There’s also St Paul and St Publius. Then there’s the fact that during World War II, the German and Italian siege was broken on the day of the Assumption. So we like to think Mary looks out for us too.’

  ‘Another miracle.’

  ‘Another?’

  ‘The bomb that never went off.’

  Rachel gave a snort. ‘You probably don’t know the whole story. Later, when they opened up the bomb, they found a note inside: “Greetings from Plzen???.” It had been made in the Skoda factory, and the Czech workers had been filling the munitions with sand instead of explosives.’

  ‘Is that why you drive a Skoda?’

  ‘As a reminder that human intervention is more reliable than divine?’ Rachel’s face opened into another smile, then she straightened her spectacles on her nose. ‘Back to St Agatha. She was a noblewoman from third-century Sicily. A famous beauty. The Roman governor took a shine to her. She fled across the water to Malta, but he dragged her back and locked her in a brothel. He tried to seduce her but failed. So he maimed her. Guess which type of cancer she’s the patron saint of?’

  ‘Are you serious?’

  ‘Not how I’d want a double mastectomy, but there you have it.’

  Spike took another hit of perfume as Rachel pulled off her jumper. Underneath she wore a ribbed white T-shirt. No bra, he noted like a schoolboy before turning back to the photos. ‘These ones are a bit blurred . . .’

  Rachel edged closer, then took the whole pile. ‘They look like infrared images. Were there more?’

  ‘Yes, but I lost them.’

  ‘Lost them?’

  ‘Someone tried to shove me into the St James Ditch. A few fell down.’

  She gave a puzzled glance, then continued sifting. ‘They’re expensive. You need to rent equipment, pay development costs . . .’

  ‘This I know,’ Spike muttered.

  ‘Why didn’t you go down and pick them up?’

  ‘You try climbing down there. Anyway, they’re gone now.’

  She didn’t seem to be listening. ‘Why would David Mifsud have wasted IR images on some workaday painting from Gozo?’ she murmured out loud.

  ‘You tell me . . . Rachel?’

  She looked back up. ‘IR is normally used by an expert looking for something beneath the paint. The camera flash gives off infrared radiation – if there are traces of carbon beneath the paint, a particular type of film will pick it up. You get to see pencil lines, preliminary sketches. Or a palimpsest – one image on top of another.’

  ‘A bit like Malta.’

  ‘Sorry?’

  ‘Arabs, Normans, Knights . . .’

  She stared at him blankly, as though baffled to find him capable of analogy.

  ‘I don’t see any pencil lines there,’ Spike said, looking back at the photos, which Rachel continued to shuffle through like a conjuror.

  ‘The flash isn’t powerful enough to capture an entire painting. You need to get in close to the paintwork; focus on one part at a time. Then you can slot the images together like a jigsaw.’

  ‘Can we try that now?’

  ‘Not if you’ve lost some of the photos. There’s a computer program back at the museum. I could scan the photos in, fit them together. I’m there from lunchtime tomorrow. Any good?’

  ‘Afraid not. We’re flying home to Gib.’

  ‘Jib?’

  ‘Gibraltar.’

  ‘Can I hang on to them? Give you a call?’

  ‘You’re a saint.’

  ‘Please; anything but that.’ She fixed him pointedly through her glasses. ‘Fancy a top-up?’

  He turned, looking out at the bookshelves, thinking again of Zahra. She hadn’t even turned up for the funerals. One petty argument and she’d chosen to overlook all the kindness David and Teresa had shown her. Unbelievable . . . ‘Why not?’ he said, holding out his glass.

  ‘So what was that about the St James Ditch?’ Rachel asked as she mixed his drink.

  ‘I seem to have upset someone local.’

  ‘That happens a lot, does it?’ she said as she returned to the sofa, ‘in Gib?’

  ‘You’d be surprised. The Spanish hate us. British squaddies are always spoiling for a fight. It’s a violent place to grow up.’

  ‘So you’re just a street thug?’

  ‘Of the vilest sort.’

  Rachel’s lips parted, glittering with a gloss which seemed to have been mysteriously applied. ‘Then I’ll have to keep my eye on you,’ she said, shifting closer on the sofa. ‘Cheers, Spike Sanguinetti.’

  ‘Cheers.’

  2

  Hair unkempt, still wearing his suit, Spike paced through Valletta, sensing glances from the early-morning office workers who were now streaming into the city. Waiting outside the flat was a furniture remover, a stack of flattened boxes propped against the facade. ‘Late night, was it?’ he said, glancing at his watch. ‘The estate agent’s a
lready left.’

  Spike let him into the flat. ‘Anything I’ve marked with a red sticker goes for auction. The unmarked stuff you can chuck away.’ Spike licked his lips, then put a hand to his mouth, seeing a smear of glittery gloss come away on his fingers. ‘The Madonna and Child up there is thought to be a Baglione. Be careful with it.’

  He turned for the door, but the remover called after him. Though a short man, he had the tough, wiry frame of a jockey. He dipped into his overalls and held out an envelope. ‘The estate agent wanted you to have this.’

  Inside were two latchkeys, both labelled with an address in Valletta. ‘What is it?’

  ‘They’re for a property. By the Italian Auberge.’

  ‘What kind of property?’

  ‘Fucked if I know, mate,’ the remover said as he turned to a depiction of the Ascension and wrenched it roughly from the wall.

  3

  The Italian Auberge now housed the Ministry of Tourism. Head throbbing, Spike found the address down an alley to its side. The bell pushes suggested the building was being used by local professionals supplementing their income through private tutoring. ‘Dr David Vasallo, BSc, MA,’ said one, ‘One-on-One Classes, All Sciences to A Level’.

  Spike unlocked the door to number 16. The room was unfurnished save for a Van Gogh-style wicker chair and a cheap wooden easel. Though the easel was facing away, Spike could already see that the stretcher upon it was oval-shaped.

  He edged towards it past a crate of tubes, brushes and solvents. The painting was unfinished – half the canvas still blank – but Spike recognised its subject matter. So Mifsud had been making a copy of the Gozo ‘St Agatha’. Not a very good copy – colours too bright, faces clumsily rendered – but at least Spike now had an explanation for the photographs. The impetuous young man who had laid down his brush in a fit of pique had decided to resume painting after his retirement. Why he’d started with this unexceptional version of St Agatha was unclear, but there it was – Uncle David returning to his first love.

  Spike put the easel, stretcher and crate inside a cardboard box. Maybe they would do as a memento for the distant cousin. The chair could wait for the next tenant, he thought to himself as he locked up.