4
Spike dropped off the box and keys at the flat, then headed through the City Gate towards Floriana. It took a few minutes to locate Zahra’s address, a humble set of rooms above a grocer’s. She wasn’t answering her buzzer, so he went into the shop below and negotiated an extortionate rate for the purchase of a single envelope and biro.
He sealed her watch inside, then scribbled a message on the back, mentioning only the time of his flight and his mobile number in case she had misplaced it.
Back at the hotel, Rufus was still in bed. ‘Been with your old friend again?’ he said archly as he slid a skin-clad bone from between the sheets.
‘Something like that.’
They caught a taxi to the airport. An hour later, Spike stepped out of the boarding queue and phoned Rachel. Perhaps she was still sleeping off last night: straight to voicemail. With a craven sense of relief, he left her a message, filling her in on Mifsud’s rented art studio, and the fact that he’d been copying the Gozo painting. Back in the queue, he felt his phone vibrate. A Maltese number; he ducked aside to answer. ‘Rachel?’
‘Spike?’
‘Yes.’
‘This is Chen.’
‘Who?’
‘I have envelope. With the watch.’
Spike moved away to the glass partition which divided the gate from Arrivals. Above the exit, a banner welcomed tourists to ‘Malta Carnival – Introduced by Knights, Enjoyed by Nights’. Fire the copywriter, Spike thought. ‘You live with Zahra, right?’ he said.
‘Flat-mate,’ she replied, splitting the word with Oriental precision.
‘Is she with you now?’
‘Gone.’
‘Gone where?’
‘Not sure. I think she leave with boyfriend.’
‘Which boyfriend?’
‘You?’
Spike glanced back at the queue, where his father was nearing the front. ‘When did you last see her?’
‘Friday.’
‘Friday? So Zahra hasn’t been home for five days?’
‘Her passport is gone. I thought maybe you had both left for trip.’
‘Have you had any contact from her since?’
‘No.’
Spike heard his father’s voice echoing through the terminal: he was trying to keep his place in the queue without surrendering his boarding pass. ‘Chen,’ Spike said, ‘you have to report this to the police. To Assistant Commissioner Azzopardi. Do you understand?’
‘Yes.’
‘Tell them Zahra is missing. That you haven’t seen her since Friday.’ He heard his name called; Rufus’s cheeks reddened as irate travellers jostled him from behind.
‘Can you do that for me, Chen?’
‘I try.’
Spike hung up and returned to the queue.
‘You see?’ Rufus said. ‘My boy’s here.’ He held out his boarding pass.
‘Something’s come up, Dad.’
‘We can talk on the flight.’
‘No, we can’t.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because I’m not getting on the plane.’
She tries to move but something is holding her back. She looks down and in the half-light sees ropes around her elbows, looped through the metal bars, keeping her in a seated position, numbing her arms through lack of blood.
A sound comes from in front, and she lowers her head, squinting at a glimmer of light: the gates are opening, figures moving against a bright backdrop. Her eyes sting, then the gates close again and she hears voices, a creak of springs as a deadweight is lowered onto a camp bed.
Footsteps now; she closes her eyes, feeling a hand grab at her hair, hoisting up her chin. A fingertip presses down on her eyeball, easing up the lid. She sees a silhouette above, a jaw cut out against the gloom. Her head lolls and the man releases her, barking something in Maltese. She keeps her eyes closed, trying to control her breathing, trying not to scream. Screaming makes it worse.
Footsteps again, then a bolt scraping roughly back in place.
She reopens her eyes, peering down at her arms, at the thickness of the rope. The knot is large and complex, some kind of fisherman’s loop. She stretches her fingers towards it but they will not reach. She tries her other hand. The dizziness returns; she shivers despite the warm sweat trickling down her face.
When she next awakens, groans are spreading through the cavern as the needles are administered. She wishes she were alone in the dark. There is no comfort in the cries of others.
Chapter Eight
1
Giving up on the taxi queue, Spike caught a bendy bus back to Valletta. Azzopardi’s mobile phone was engaged, so he left him a message telling him to expect a visit from Chen. In the row in front, a batch of rookie tourists, fresh off the plane, stared out at the newsagents’ signs offering ‘London Newspapers Today’, wondering aloud to each other about Malta’s current colonial status.
Drumming his foot as the bus waited at a set of temporary lights, Spike called Jessica in Gibraltar. Her tone suggested there was a limit to her benevolence, but she agreed to meet Rufus off the plane and drive him home to Chicardo’s. ‘What do you mean gone?’ she said when Spike told her about Zahra’s disappearance.
‘She’s not answering her phone. Her flatmate hasn’t seen her in five days.’
‘And this was after you two hooked up again?’
‘Yes.’
‘Maybe she’s just not interested.’
‘I’d prefer that to the alternative.’
Jessica paused. ‘Sorry, Spike.’
As soon as the doors opened at the bus terminus, Spike grabbed his bag and pushed through the crowds towards the City Gate.
2
Not even a double room was available at the hotel, so Spike went to the estate agent’s office and requested the keys back for the flat. On arrival, he found the hallway crammed with packing crates awaiting collection; he edged past into the sitting room and retrieved Mifsud’s address book from the desk drawer. John Petrovic’s mobile gave a ‘no such number’ whine. No answer from the charity office landline either. He tried Azzopardi. Finally, a ringtone.
‘Mr Sanguinetti.’
‘Did you get my message?’
‘Yes.’
‘And you’ve spoken to Chen?’
‘She’s just left the Depot.’
‘Has Zahra turned up?’
‘The Moroccan?’
‘The court interpreter.’
‘You do realise she’s on a work visa, Mr Sanguinetti.’
‘Of course.’
‘Which runs out next week.’
‘She was going to renew.’
‘Well, she didn’t. And her passport’s still missing. Know what that means?’
‘What?’
‘That she’s someone else’s problem. Probably found her way to Sicily like the rest of them.’
‘Now you listen to me,’ Spike said. ‘Zahra’s passport’s only missing because she took it with her to the visa office on Friday. She’s not been seen since and I’m very concerned for her safety.’
‘Be grateful she’s a migrant, Mr Sanguinetti, or we might have picked you up.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Her flatmate says you were the last person seen with her. People seem to fall off the grid when you’re in town. You’re something of a liability.’
‘Zahra would not just disappear.’
‘Plenty of them do, Mr Sanguinetti, every week. Goodbye.’
‘Manascada!’ Spike put his fingers to his temples and tried to think. There was one place left to try. He pocketed the address book, then left the flat.
3
A night flight rumbled overhead as Spike skirted the perimeter fence. Two hangar-sized buildings loomed on the other side. The site of a former British Army barracks, John had said. Spike found the main entrance and stopped.
The gateposts were bound together by a bicycle lock. The barbed wire at the top looked like a hangover from the military era. He touc
hed the gate tentatively in case it held a charge, then gave it a firmer shake. It parted, but not widely enough to squeeze through. Evidently the inhabitants of the family camp did not enjoy the right to enter and exit at will.
Continuing along the fence, he searched for gaps, then turned around and set off up the verge he and Zahra had followed on their last visit.
A scent of woodsmoke wafted from ahead, an orange glow. Voices on the breeze, the tinny chime of music. Spike hesitated, then carried on walking.
The bonfire was burning in the wasteland behind the Portakabin. Thirty or so figures flickered in its flames, female voices combining with male.
Adjusting his gait to casual, Spike strolled towards the circle. The music was coming from a mobile phone on full volume. Plastic bottles were being passed around, along with what smelled like a cannabis bong.
As Spike came closer, an athletic man snapped his hands to the ground and sprang up. Nearby conversations stopped; hostile faces turned.
The man took a step towards Spike. He wore a red baseball cap low over his eyes, presumably to protect them from the smoke.
Spike held out his palms. ‘I’m looking for Zahra.’
A seated man barked something in Arabic, raising a modest laugh. The man in the baseball cap stepped closer.
‘She’s a teacher here,’ Spike said, taking out a photograph. ‘Has anyone seen her?’ One of the revellers picked some leaves off a sprig, then folded them into his mouth like a stick of gum.
‘Anyone?’ Spike repeated as he moved along the line of people. Roasting at the edge of the fire was a spit. Drawing closer, Spike made out the long, charred shape of a rabbit. He crouched down to the woman turning it. ‘Do you remember me?’ he said. ‘I was here with Zahra last week.’
The woman turned her face away so Spike could only see the back of her headscarf.
‘You mistook her for Dinah. Do you remember?’
A louder voice came from the other side of the fire. Spike heard ‘Dinah’ repeated in various tones until a thicker-set man climbed to his feet. ‘What you say for Dinah?’ he shouted, accent West African rather than Arabic. His nostrils flared.
‘I’m looking for Zahra,’ Spike said, and the heavier man shoved him in the chest, sending him staggering back towards the bonfire, regaining his balance moments before tipping into the flames. He straightened up slowly.
When the African came at him again, Spike moved to one side. The man’s momentum carried him on, so Spike stuck out a foot. The man stumbled, then fell to the ground. More laughter from the revellers.
‘I don’t want to fight,’ Spike said. ‘I just want information.’
Someone killed the music. Four youths rose from the fire. One held a carving knife, its blade gleaming with rabbit fat.
‘Go,’ the big man called up. ‘Now.’
Spike backed away towards the Portakabin.
4
The door to the Portakabin was locked, no signs of life inside. Spike glanced back at the bonfire, seeing only sparks and smoke flowing upwards into the sky.
He stopped. A noise had come from the side of the steps. ‘Pst,’ he heard. ‘Ici.’
Spike moved to the edge of the platform. A clearing had been formed between the Portakabin and the perimeter fence, weeds and creepers tamped down, a blanket spread over the ground. In one corner a man sat crouching on his hunkers. Jaundiced eyes flashed in the moonlight.
‘Ici, mec,’ the man whispered.
‘Frankie?’
‘Oui, c’est Frankie.’ A shy smile: ‘Comme Frank Sinatra, mais plus beau.’
Spike stepped down into the clearing.
‘Plus vite,’ Frankie whispered.
A tang of stale urine mixed with the humid earth as Spike moved towards him. Frankie motioned for Spike to duck down further until they faced each other like a couple of squatting Buddhas.
‘C’est bien.’
The sores around Frankie’s mouth had multiplied. ‘No French,’ Spike said. ‘Remember?’
‘Engleesh,’ Frankie replied as he stretched an arm into the undergrowth by the fence. His hand returned with a plastic tub. ‘Cherchez la femme,’ he said as he prised his fingers beneath the lid. ‘C’est toujours la femme qu’il faut chercher.’
Spike started to stand.
‘You like khat?’ Frankie asked slowly as the lid to the tub came off. Cigarette butts, most of them hand-rolled, an inch or so of tobacco remaining.
‘I don’t smoke,’ Spike said, turning away.
‘Zahra,’ came a whisper.
Spike stopped. ‘What did you say?’
Frankie itched at his mouth with an uncut thumbnail as Spike crouched down beside him. ‘You’ve seen Zahra?’ he said.
Frankie grinned.
‘When?’
‘Friday.’
‘Where?’
‘Ici. Here.’
‘Working? Teaching?’
‘In the night-time.’ He pointed up at the Portakabin. ‘Frankie hearing things.’
Spike moved closer. ‘What did you hear?’
‘L’Américain.’
‘John?’
‘Oui, Jean. Shouting. Angry.’
Spike glanced to the left. The clearing was out of sight of the Portakabin but well within earshot. ‘What were they shouting about?’
Frankie sniggered, covering his mouth with a hand. ‘Jean,’ he said. ‘He liking les jeunes. Young girls.’ He made a half-thrust with his hips. ‘Frankie too . . . and now look!’ He lifted up his woollen jumper: looped around his belly was a flaky band of fuchsia sores. ‘Le pauvre Frankie,’ he groaned, ‘avec les sales jeunes . . .’
A crunch of gravel came from behind; multiple footsteps. Frankie dropped his jumper down. ‘Viens,’ he hissed, ‘vite.’ Voices now; the glow of a torch.
Frankie crawled into the right-hand corner of the clearing. A passageway of flattened undergrowth extended as Spike followed behind, keeping his head close to the fusty ground.
When they reached the perimeter fence, Frankie shuffled to the side, hoisting up the base of the wire for Spike to squeeze beneath. The voices grew louder; Spike felt the mesh scrape against his back. Once on the other side, he crawled forward, then stood.
Frankie’s sore-spattered face clattered against the wire. ‘Baby girl,’ he hissed. ‘Twelve, maybe fourteen year. You know?’
5
The taxi stopped at the end of a pedestrianised street in St Julian’s. ‘Up there on the left,’ the cabbie said. ‘You can’t miss it.’
Spike made use of a cashpoint, then set off down the corridor of flashing neon. A few of the bars seemed to be closed for the off season, but most had music throbbing from within, the odd early-bird drinker already slumped at the counter.
Pasha occupied the last berth on the strip. A guest-list queuing area was roped off, an act of some optimism in a deserted street. Spike ducked beneath and found the door closed. When he lowered the handle, it opened easily.
The cloakroom was empty, a single spotlight illuminating the attendant’s stool. Two hanging Bedouin rugs blocked the route past; Spike slipped between them to find a darkened dance floor, chairs stacked to one side, DJ booth with the door ajar. The bar was encrusted with chipped mosaic tiles depicting a sultan’s palace. Maltese pop played from a battery-operated radio on the shelf behind.
A painfully thin girl in a Ramones T-shirt appeared from the curtain at the side of the bar, carrying a plastic-wrapped tray of supermarket Coke. Her hair was henna red, tied back to reveal a shaven underside.
Nodding to the music, she gave a jump as she saw Spike standing with his arms folded on the other side of the bar. ‘Jesus,’ she blurted in an American accent, putting down the tray of cans. ‘We’re not open till ten.’
Spike stared at her across the bar. There was so much metal in her face it looked as though she’d been caught in a nail bomb and the doctors had decided not to operate.
‘You fucking slow?’ she said to Spike, who still hadn’t
moved. She withdrew a biro from her ponytail and stabbed it through the plastic of the tray.
‘I’m looking for John Petrovic.’
‘Well, he ain’t here, sweetheart,’ the barmaid said, ripping back the casing.
‘But he’ll be in later, right?’
‘When we’re open you can pay the fifteen-euro cover charge and find out for yourself.’
She took out a can, then glanced up. ‘You need to leave. Now. The bouncer’s out back.’
Spike reached slowly into his pocket. ‘Thing is,’ he said, ‘I owe John money, but I’m on a flight home tonight.’ He slid three folded notes across the bar.
‘Mango Lounge,’ the barmaid said, jabbing the biro back into her ponytail. ‘On the seafront.’
6
The strip on the beachfront was busier. Girls with promotional leaflets darted from bars like fish at a lure. A brunette in hot pants and a tied-off man’s shirt stepped in front of Spike. ‘Free chaser with every pint,’ she said in a London accent.
‘I’m too broke.’
‘Babe, I’d buy you a drink any time,’ she replied, tapping him on the behind with her sheaf of flyers.
The bars occupied the ground floors of what looked like holiday apartments. The odd party was taking place on the balconies above, but mostly the windows were dark. Spike passed a group of students talking German, all carrying balloons on sticks. Below on the beach, a couple disappeared hand in hand along a carpet of moonlight.
Louder music throbbed ahead, ‘Mango Lounge’ scribbled in orange neon above a doorway. Inside, a waitress stood on the bar, firing a water pistol of tequila down into the mouths of three underage European boys, their pimply heads tilted back like nestlings. Watching on unimpressed was a group of tall, vanilla-haired Scandinavian girls.
Spike moved deeper inside the room. Vicious nu-metal pumped from speakers. In one corner sat a pack of groomed Maltese youths, eking out bottles of Cisk beer, their fitted shirts and complex facial hair suggesting an affiliation with the Italian national football team. A few ruddy-faced British ex-pats were huddled round a quiz machine, too old for the scene but seeming not to care.
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