The man was walking away. Footsteps in the distance, the sound of a motorbike wheeled towards him. Spike’s eyes were open but he could see nothing but a grey blur.
The rattle of a matchbox, a hissing Maltese voice. The slow slide of the box opening. The rasp of a match on the striking strip . . .
Imperceptibly, Spike’s thoughts turned to Zahra, and he found himself less afraid. A flame glowed above, a halo of orange around it. He waited for the heat, for the shrieks to rise from his chest until the dizziness engulfed the agony. The match was burning, so brightly he realised he must already be alight, yet there was no pain. How clever, he thought, the body arranged it so there would be no pain. What a thing to discover so late.
He listened to the long, loud hoot of a horn. Shouting echoed, an exchange of voices. An engine revving, then a motorbike passing beside him, kicking up dust which caked the inside of his mouth.
Hands rolled him over. The glow came from car headlights, not a flame. The face above wore a small neat moustache.
‘My boy,’ whispered the Baron. ‘My poor, dear boy.’
She sits in the same position, legs out, back against the bars, chin lolling. Her upper arms throb: an infection spreading between the needle marks, joining the dots.
Deep within the cavern, the man’s voice sounds agitated as he talks on a mobile phone. A word is spoken which jolts her from her fever. It reappears a few sentences later, the Maltese pronunciation rasping and harsh: Geebraltah.
She feels her cracked lips form a smile. Spike is here . . . he is looking for her.
The man stands, voice quieter as he issues what sounds like a warning down the phone. Then he turns, looking her way. She closes her eyes, dreading the footsteps. But instead comes the click of a padlock as the gate opens, then closes.
She raises her head. In the half-light, she sees new figures on the camp beds. Beside her, the same woman sits slumped. She has given up calling for her baby. Perhaps she is dead.
With added determination, she tries to force her arms away from the bars. The needle marks in her upper arms start to pound. Leaning to one side, she lets her right arm flop down, then stretches her hand as far from her body as it will go. Her fingers brush something: the rough weave of hemp. She has reached the ropes of the woman next to her. She digs her nails beneath the knot and starts to work it free.
Chapter Nine
1
Spike opened an eye. The wallpaper above was old and peeling, decorated with images of a stork carrying a baby bundle through the air. Sometimes the stork’s wings were raised, sometimes lowered. The baby bundle remained the same.
Spike opened the other eye. He was stretched out on a metal-framed bed. Small, lace-trimmed pillows supported his head. A glass of water rested on the bedside table.
He sat up, shoulders throbbing. By the door, slumped in a wicker armchair, sat the Baroness. She wore white jeans and a sky-coloured linen shirt, her sandy hair tied back in a ponytail. In repose, her lips sagged as she breathed in and out.
Spike surveyed the bedroom, seeing his clothes washed and folded on the dresser, his espadrilles side by side below the cupboard. He blinked to clear the fog from his eyes, trying to remember the events of last night. Helped into the Baron’s Daimler. A frantic drive back to Valletta. The cool sting of eye drops from the doctor’s pipette. The unsympathetic tones of Clara as she’d reluctantly made up the spare room.
He moved his neck gingerly: the blow beneath his chin had bruised his windpipe. A taste of petrol lingered on his palate. Rainbows attached themselves to all sources of light. His retinas ached if they focused too long.
When he cleared his throat, the Baroness stirred, then got to her feet. ‘How are you?’ she whispered, coming over.
‘Better. I think.’
She sat down on the edge of the bed. ‘We were wondering whether to call your father.’
‘Best not.’
She nodded. ‘How are your eyes?’
‘Not too bad.’
‘That in Malta, little Malta . . .’ She shook her head. ‘Michael has already contacted the police. Given a description of the man. Apparently there’ve been robberies there before. Why did you go to Marsa?’ she asked, suddenly angry. ‘Sorry. You do not want to be interrogated. You go there for your own reasons. But Michael . . . when you phoned him, he worried and worried. Thank God he chose to go.’
‘How did he find me?’
‘He drove around. But you can ask him yourself, I’ll send him up. If you’re not too tired?’
Spike lay back. ‘Maybe I’ll just rest my eyes for a moment.’ He was asleep before the Baroness had left the room.
2
Spike woke to a gentle sound of knocking. The glow from the curtains was a darker yellow: street lamps not sunshine. ‘Yes?’
The door part opened to reveal the small upright figure of the Baron. ‘Are you awake?’ he hissed loudly.
‘Yes.’
The Baron creaked towards him over the floorboards. His cords were a lurid red; from the collar of his checked shirt rose a spotted neckerchief. He gave an apologetic smile, then sat down awkwardly. Something about his presence in the half-light made Spike fumble uneasily for the bedside lamp. It took a moment before a reassuring brightness illuminated the room.
‘How are you, my boy?’
‘Just relieved you found me. How did you know where to look?’
The Baron glanced over one shoulder. ‘Don’t tell Natalya,’ he said, ‘but I had a bit of a misspent youth. Went to Marsa a few times, if you know what I mean. The most notorious area was always by the stables. But I never heard of anything like that happening.’
‘Do they know who he is?’
‘Not yet. But they’re looking for him.’
‘He had a tattoo on his back,’ Spike said. ‘A Maltese cross. Did you tell them that?’
‘Of course. The police are doing all they can, but don’t expect miracles. This isn’t Scotland Yard.’
Spike tried to climb out of bed, but the Baron put a hand on his chest. ‘Your job is to get better. You let me deal with this, OK?’
3
Another knock at the door. This time the room streamed with natural light.
‘Visita,’ came Clara the maid’s monotone.
Spike drew himself up into a sitting position, noting that the pain in his shoulders had diminished.
Rachel Cassar appeared in the doorway. She covered her mouth in shock as she crossed the room.
‘Do I look that bad?’
‘Are you sure you’re up for visitors?’
‘It’s fine. Good to have the company.’
She was about to sit down on the bed, then thought better of it, choosing the wicker armchair instead. ‘Does it hurt?’
‘I’ve had worse.’
‘In Gib?’ she said, trying to be playful. Quickly defeated, she looked around, taking in the nursery-themed decor. ‘Why did they put you in here?’
Spike rubbed the sheets, which gave off a plastic crinkle. ‘I was throwing up when I arrived. Safest place.’
‘Bit creepy, if you ask me. The child that never was.’
There was a pause as they stared at each other, minds moving uncomfortably to the night before last.
‘How did you know I was still in Malta?’
Rachel looked away. ‘The message you left about David’s studio . . . I called the Baron in case he knew more about it. He was David’s landlord, after all.’ She glanced round to the door. ‘He told me what had happened. Do you still have keys to the studio, by the way?’ she asked, looking back.
‘I gave them back to the estate agent.’
‘Already?’
‘It was just a poky room. I cleared it out myself. The contents are all downstairs in the flat. Why does it matter?’
A creak came from outside the door. ‘Better to talk later,’ Rachel whispered. ‘When are you fit to leave?’
‘The doctor’s coming at lunchtime. After that, I suppose.’
‘I could meet you tonight at the flat? Eight o’clock?’
‘If you like.’
Rachel got to her feet. ‘Marsa, eh?’
‘It’s not what you think.’
‘When the knights first came to Malta, the Grand Master tried to close down the brothels. There were full-scale riots from the locals. Prostitution has been legal ever since.’
Spike didn’t have the energy to argue back. Rachel reached for the door handle, then turned again. ‘You could just have given me a call,’ she said with a wink.
Once she’d gone, Spike lay back heavily on the pillows, hearing distant voices downstairs. The lights were still surrounded by a strange, iridescent fog; he rubbed his eyeballs, then swept an arm beneath the bed for his phone. As soon as it switched on, it burst into life with a message from Azzopardi, his tone urgent, serious. Hearing the word ‘Zahra’, Spike sat up, finishing the message before swinging his legs out of bed.
Another creak as the Baroness peered round the door. ‘What are you doing?’ she asked.
‘Got to go.’
‘Where to?’
‘The hospital.’
‘We can take you.’
‘It’s not about me.’
He pulled on his jumper, then pecked at the Baroness’s withered cheek, catching a scent of stale vodka beneath the rosewater. ‘Thanks for helping,’ he said. ‘Sorry.’
4
The Mater Dei Hospital was a modern, low-slung building, sprawling over an area of wasteland just off the bypass outside Valletta. The taxi stopped in the car park. The hospital’s facade looked as though it had recently been touched up with a flesh-coloured coat of render.
‘Get well soon,’ the cabbie said, assessing Spike’s appearance in the rear-view mirror.
Spike slammed the back door, then walked through the car park. A blonde woman was penguin-waddling through the main entrance, hands on an enormous baby-bump as a lanky, anxious man trailed behind. Spike followed them into the reception area.
Azzopardi was sitting on one of a rank of moulded chairs, legs crossed elegantly, talking to a member of his Mobile Squad. The moment he saw Spike, he rose from his seat.
The usual confident smile was missing. Spike felt his windpipe throb as Azzopardi gave a small but unmistakable shake of the head.
Spike closed his eyes; it felt as though the floor were tipping. When he opened them, Azzopardi was standing beside him. He placed an arm on his shoulder and steered him towards the plastic seats.
Spike sat down, brow resting on fists. A crunching echoed through his skull: he was scratching his knuckles back and forth against his scalp. A numbness started to take over, strangely familiar. ‘OK,’ he said, looking back up. ‘Let’s get this done.’
5
Spike followed Azzopardi down a long strip-lit corridor. The rubber soles of Azzopardi’s colleague squeaked behind them on the linoleum; he tried to lighten his tread, but the squeaking continued. Round the corner, a horizontal sign dangled from a chain: ‘Mortuary’. A cloying reek of formaldehyde sweetened the air. ‘OK?’ Azzopardi said.
Spike nodded; Azzopardi knocked on a door and they went inside.
The room gleamed: porcelain tiles, stainless-steel tables, walls covered with what looked like rows of school lockers, minus the stickers and graffiti. In one corner, a middle-aged man stood beside a gurney. He wore blue scrubs and round wire-rimmed glasses. He nodded at Azzopardi, then started to wheel the gurney to the far wall. The wing of a dicky bow rose above his collar.
‘Forensic pathologist,’ Azzopardi said. ‘Also called Mifsud, incidentally,’ he added, then seemed to regret it.
The pathologist rotated the handle of one of the lockers, then drew out a stainless-steel tray. The corpse was covered by a white shroud. At one end, Spike made out the oval shape of a face, at the other, the upturned points of toes. He felt his Adam’s apple slide up and down his throat.
The pathologist snapped on a pair of latex gloves. He glanced again at Azzopardi, who turned to Spike. ‘You want to take a moment?’
‘No. Do it now.’
The pathologist moved to the end of the gurney, and a stiff coffee-coloured arm flopped out of the shroud, a web of needle marks defacing its inner side. With blank recognition, Spike took in the smooth skin, the unpainted nails. The shroud edged backwards, exposing Zahra’s beautiful almond-shaped eyes, closed as though in sleep. Her lips were pale, blue-tinged and less full somehow, her hair long and tangled, massed in curls around her neck . . .
‘It’s not her.’
All eyes turned to Spike, but he continued to stare at the girl’s face. ‘It looks like her, but it’s not.’
Azzopardi seemed to be searching Spike’s expression for evidence of hysteria.
‘It’s not Zahra,’ he repeated.
In response to a signal from Azzopardi, the pathologist drew the shroud back further, revealing the girl’s long, elegant neck and heavy breasts. The areolas were broad and brown.
‘Are you sure?’
‘One hundred per cent.’
The pathologist said something in Maltese. ‘Any distinguishing features?’ Azzopardi asked.
‘On the small of her back,’ Spike replied. ‘Two dimples. They’re quite pronounced.’
The pathologist pushed the errant arm back beneath the sheet, then put his hands on the girl’s hip, rolling her over. The back of the girl’s head had been smashed to a clotted, hairy pulp. Two welts lay beneath each shoulder blade; otherwise, the rest of her upper back was unblemished, the skin so smooth, Spike thought as the shroud continued to creep down, that perhaps it was Zahra, and his earlier response really had been one of denial. He felt his bowels shift as the shroud kept lowering. The raised zip-line of vertebrae; the top of the girl’s buttocks. No dimples on the small of her back.
‘You see,’ Spike said.
The pathologist re-covered the corpse. Spike felt the dizziness returning; he reached out and found his hand clutching the frame of the gurney. A moment later he was outside in the corridor, sitting with his head between his knees. It felt as though he’d somehow been given a reprieve.
The door opened and Azzopardi emerged.
‘I know who she is,’ Spike said, looking up.
6
Spike sat with Azzopardi in the front of an unmarked Alfa Romeo, his colleague behind, bored in the back seat. An orange windsock fluttered above the car-park wall, marking a helipad for the hospital air ambulance.
Azzopardi’s radio gave a crackle; he reached forward and turned it off. In the alcove by the gearstick lay a detachable blue light.
‘I need a coffee,’ Azzopardi said to Spike. ‘Want one?’ Without awaiting an answer, he leaned back and spoke to his colleague. Exuding an air of resignation, the colleague got out and set off across the car park.
‘I owe you an apology,’ Azzopardi said. A lock of his slicked-back hair had worked itself free, hanging over his brow like a snapped antenna. He trained it back. ‘So who is she?’
‘A Somali. She’s called Dinah; Dinah Kassim, I think. She disappeared from the Hal Far migrant camp three weeks ago.’
Azzopardi drew a Moleskine notebook from his glove compartment. ‘And your friend is still missing?’
‘Zahra al-Mahmoud.’ Spike spelled out the name, waiting for Azzopardi to write it down.
‘And she looks like the dead woman?’
‘Didn’t her flatmate give you a photograph?’
Azzopardi shrugged. ‘The duty sergeant dealt with it.’
Spike bit back his irritation, then reached for his wallet. The photograph dated from last year in Tangiers. Somehow he’d never quite been able to throw it away.
‘Haqq Alla,’ Azzopardi swore, tucking the picture into his notebook. ‘They do look alike.’
‘Her hair’s shorter now.’
‘I remember; she’s very beautiful.’
‘Yes.’
‘So you think that Zahra’s disappearance is linked to what happened
to Dinah?’
‘No question.’ Spike told Azzopardi of his latest trip to the camps – the tip-off about John Petrovic and the underage girls, his involvement with people smuggling. ‘John sent Zahra to meet a man called Salib. Heard of him?’
Spike thought he saw a shadow move across Azzopardi’s face. ‘No.’
‘I went to try and find him in Marsa.’
‘Is that where you lost your looks?’
‘What?’ Spike was confused for a moment, then touched his nose. ‘Oh, right. Yes.’
‘You met him then. This “Salib”.’
‘He tried to burn me alive.’
Azzopardi stopped writing, and Spike explained what had happened outside the stables. ‘I think he’s the same guy who’s been following me since I arrived in Valletta. He’d have killed me last night if the Baron hadn’t turned up.’
‘The Baron?’
‘Michael Malaspina. An old friend of my uncle’s. I asked him for directions to Racecourse Street, and he got worried. Came and found me in his Daimler.’
Azzopardi added this name to his notebook.
‘Didn’t the Baron tell you this?’
‘If so, it hasn’t filtered up the food chain yet. Did you get a look at your attacker?’
‘Black hair, high forehead. Long, pale face. And a tattoo on his back. A Maltese cross.’
‘That explains the nickname, then.’
‘Sorry?’
‘Is-Salib. It means “the Cross” in Maltese. Did you get his bike registration?’
‘Too dark.’
The windsock hung limply above the car-park wall; a moment later it leapt into life, like an idle worker interrupted.
‘How did Dinah die?’ Spike said.
Azzopardi closed his jotter. ‘She ran out into the road last night. Half naked, jacked up on something strong. The bus driver didn’t see her in time. The case wouldn’t normally have made it to the Mobile Squad, except . . .’
‘Except what?’ Spike asked, dreading the answer.
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