Spike checked the Baron’s face; his moustache quivered, as though he were trying not to succumb to some wickedly amusing anecdote.
‘Except they came home early,’ Spike said. ‘Surprised Salib.’
The Baron took another step closer.
‘You used me,’ Spike went on. ‘You learned from my father about David’s plan to return to Gozo, so you sent Salib there to check if he’d put the painting back in the chapel. But it wasn’t there. When Salib attacked me in Marsa, you only called him off because you thought I might finally be closing in on it. Otherwise, you’d have let me burn.’
The Baron seemed to have lost interest.
‘Then when you saw Rachel Cassar carrying an oval-shaped canvas from the flat, you contacted Salib and told him to steal it. What did you think would happen? That he’d ask her politely?’
He turned his head back to Spike, irritated now. ‘A man cannot steal what belongs to him. That painting was commissioned by the Order of St John. It was produced in secret by Caravaggio while he was still in prison, in exchange for his safe passage to Italy after his expulsion from the order. One last masterpiece before they lost him for ever. That was why so few people saw it, even before it disappeared. Such a bargain would have caused a scandal. So it was kept for the order’s private delectation. A reminder that even in brutality, in dissolution, God’s beauty can exist. And within beauty, lies hope.’
Spike sensed that the Baron had rehearsed this speech. ‘Why not just tell David to surrender the painting to the authorities? Let it hang with the other Caravaggios in the oratory? You could have enjoyed it there.’
‘In that circus?’ the Baron spat. ‘No, The Martyrdom was painted for the order. It belongs to us.’ He raised the rifle back to his shoulder. ‘Now stand up.’
Spike got to his feet.
‘Into the bedroom.’
Spike stepped backwards, hands in the air; as he passed the table, the Baron stopped before the Caravaggio, lost in its terrible beauty. Creeping forward, Spike looped his arms around the Baron’s flanks, pinning the rifle in front. A bullet fired up into the ceiling, cratering the plaster. There was a delay as both Spike and the Baron watched the dust particles land on the canvas. No sound from upstairs: Clara and her friend were long gone. Then the Baron began to struggle.
10
Spike wrestled the Baron to the floor. Grabbing the barrel of the rifle, he prised it from his fingers. It came away easily, and he threw it aside, then rolled the Baron onto his back.
‘What was his name?’
Another shower of dust dropped from the ceiling, creating an iron-filings flare as it burned in the flame of a candle. The Baron tried to get to his feet, desperate to protect the painting, but Spike pressed down on his shoulders, pinning him to the floor. ‘I asked you a question, Michael. Who was Salib?’
‘Nobody . . . nothing.’ The Baron’s voice was urgent and high; smoke from the burning plaster dust was now rising from the table. ‘Just someone I used to get things done –’
‘Did you pay him?’
‘In a sense; I knew he had interests in Sicily.’
‘So you gave him John Petrovic. Someone he could use to source vulnerable women and children.’
The Baron bared his teeth. ‘The immigrant camps are a blight on Malta. A second Great Siege. Why do you think the police have turned a blind eye all these years? They breed like rabbits . . .’
‘So you made them into a commodity. Allowed dozens of women to be sold into prostitution.’
‘What happens in Italy is not my concern.’
‘And the tattoo?’
The Baron’s expression softened. He gave a gentle, almost paternal smile. ‘Salib may have been damaged, but he was a patriot. He came to see me as something of a father figure.’
‘The son you never had.’
‘Perhaps.’
‘He was a rapist. A murderer –’
‘So was Caravaggio,’ the Baron called out, glancing back at the painting. He started to stand but Spike shoved him forward against the table. A bottle fell, leaking rum as it rolled, knocking over one of the candlesticks. An orange glow rose from the table, followed by the sweet aroma of burning alcohol.
‘My painting,’ the Baron gasped.
Spike wrapped an arm around his throat. ‘Where’s Zahra?’
‘Who?’
‘Who did Salib sell her to?’
On the table, the flames were being drawn towards the hole in the ceiling, greedily licking at the exposed wood.
‘Tell me!’
The Baron strained like a dog at the lead. ‘I don’t know. I swear!’
The panic in the Baron’s voice was persuasive. As soon as Spike relaxed his grip, he leapt forward to the table, shielding his face from the glare. The heat was unbearable, flames spreading along the ceiling, so Spike retreated to the hallway. He realised he’d locked the front door from the inside; the keys were in his suitcase. Smoke blocked the route to the bedroom. Doubling back, he stopped outside the kitchen door, seeing the Baron still inside, one arm stretching towards the canvas, which lay just out of reach on the table, glowing as its ancient softening paint reflected the flames.
‘Michael!’
The Baron swivelled his head. His faded blond hair dripped over his brow. Sweat streaked his face. He grinned, then looked away.
Smoke was filling the room; Spike could no longer see into the kitchen. He found the Maglite on the desk then moved to the cellar hatchway.
As he descended, the air began to cool. On reaching the bottom, he heard a thin, sharp scream amid the roar and crackle of the flames, like air escaping a burning log, or a rabbit pinioned by a falcon.
He clicked on the torch and moved more deeply into the cellar.
11
Squinting in the glare of the Maglite, Spike saw that one of the wine racks had been pulled away from the wall. He dragged it towards him and found a mouldy sheet of plywood behind. He pushed the plywood aside. The mouth of a tunnel gaped.
He glanced back. Above, the hatchway door was open, a reddish glow emanating from a furling cover of smoke. Flames crackled; he turned back to the tunnel, crouched down and stepped inside.
The walls and roof of the tunnel were made of carved blocks of limestone. The ground was damp; he flashed the torch downwards and saw the Baron’s dainty footprints still in the muddy clay.
He pressed on, head low, eyes staring ahead. He ought to have been beneath the main part of the Baron’s palazzo by now; at any point, the tunnel would open up and he would find himself inside the roomy, vaulted cellars.
The tunnel curved to the right; as he rounded the corner, he stopped. Two small, solid metal gateways stood side by side. Both were rusty brown, the central bolts unfastened.
Spike looked again for footprints but saw none on the dry rock floor. He tried to picture the layout of the palazzo, then chose the left-hand gate, seeing his arm stretch towards it, illuminated by the shaking beam of the Maglite.
The hinge was stiff; he pushed one side and the hatch swung open. The sudden breeze on his face reassured him and he edged inside crabwise.
The tunnel grew broader on the other side: tree roots had inveigled their way through the blocks of limestone, dangling down like jungle creepers. Spike brushed them from his face, relieved to find the tunnel curving again to the left, directing him beneath what he calculated must be the downstairs kitchen of the palazzo.
He stopped. A brick wall blocked the way. He raised the torch and saw it was no more than three feet high, leaving room to clamber over.
The wall was curved, one half of a circle. The circle continued on the other side, a round dark space in between.
Spike peered over the edge and pointed his torch downwards. From below came a faint, penny-sized gleam. He shone the beam around the walls of the shaft. A well had been sunk into the tunnel, blocking the way forward.
Spike aimed the torch upwards, seeing a rusty chain dangling, perhaps once having held
a bucket. The blackness above suggested the wellhead had been sealed off.
Cursing, he turned and started to retrace his steps. As he rounded the corner, he stopped again. A dark fog filled the tunnel. His eyes began to water. Smoke was streaming towards him: opening the metal hatchway had created a vacuum.
He lumbered back towards the well, the smoke just a few yards behind. He waited to see if it would be drawn up into the shaft, but it swept on over the circular wall and into the tunnel beyond.
Spike’s sinuses burned with the fumes; he tried to breathe in, but his lungs refused. Coughing, he shone the torch over the top of the well, checking distances. Already the smoke was too thick for the beam to penetrate. The only object illuminated was the hanging, bucketless chain; Spike reached up and grabbed it, feeling his hand slide down rings coated in centuries of greasy muck.
A newly discovered claustrophobia started to tighten his chest. He flung the Maglite ahead into the darkness, then took hold of the chain with both hands. A moment later, his body was swinging in a slow arc above the well. The wall on the other side must have been slightly higher, as he felt himself slam against it, knees knocking into the curved sides of the shaft. Silence, then a distant plip as some loosened chunks of masonry hit the water. What a way to go, Spike thought as he held on. An hour treading water in a disused well before slipping unseen into the mire.
Breath held, he released the chain with one hand, then grasped at the rim of the wall with the other. His left arm strained under his weight; another set of splashes followed as his feet dislodged more stone. Arms trembling, he released the chain with his left hand, catching the top of the wall just in time. With the last of his strength he hauled himself up, then collapsed onto the damp tunnel floor on the other side.
12
It was tempting to rest, but smoke was still pouring into the tunnel. Beside him lay the torch, its beam shining boldly into the darkness, pointing the way. He struggled back to his feet and pressed onwards.
Once through the main cloud of smoke, he stopped to get a sense of his bearings, breathing in deeply as he shone the torch around. He found that the walls were no longer made of carved blocks: the passageway had been bored directly into the limestone, its surface pitted and pale like Stilton. He felt for his phone, then searched in vain for a signal. In his pocket were his wallet and passport; at least when his bones were found, he’d be easy to identify.
The smoke was catching him up, so he resumed his slow journey forward, clipping his head against the greasy roof as the tunnel narrowed. An opening appeared to the right: in the torchlight he saw another tunnel branching off. He was deep within it before he realised the end was bricked up. Groaning as he reversed like a horse in a stable, he continued along the main artery.
The torch flickered, damaged from its flight over the well. Spike’s head was dizzy in the putrid air; he knocked the side of the torch on his palm, almost sobbing before it sputtered back to life. He felt his breathing steady as the darkness receded. He needed to focus his mind, to find a way out. If not, who would look for Zahra?
The tunnel ended in a small dank puddle beneath a shelf of limestone. He tried to turn, but the way was too tight. Feeling his lungs sting, he realised the smoke had found him even here, the cloud just a few yards behind, edging closer. He would die down here like a mole in its burrow.
He shut his eyes and waited for the stench to overwhelm him. Surprised to find himself still breathing, he opened them again and saw the smoke rising in front of him like a will-o’-the-wisp. He followed its path up with the torch beam and saw a round metal shape above his head.
Finding the air for one last breath, he stepped beneath the manhole cover and shoved upwards with his palms. The left-hand edge moved, so he focused his energy on that side, legs apart like a weightlifter, driving upwards. A sliver of light shone in; he shoved harder, twisting his arms until the cover slid to one side, rattling like a giant coin before coming to a standstill.
He pushed his head up through the gap, smoke billowing from around his neck. Shaking off a halo of dust, he made out the aisle of a church. Wooden chairs were spread on either side, an altar in front, Jesus waving down from the frescoed ceiling flanked by a company of angels.
Light-headed, he started to haul himself out. Smoke was still seeping up through the open grate as he pushed the cover back in place, seeing its ancient iron carved with an eight-pointed cross, the symbol of the Knights of Malta.
Spike made his way up the aisle. The back door of the church was unlocked; he pushed it open and emerged into a dark residential street.
A noise came from the distance: the slow lazy wail of a siren. A red light flickered in the sky, so high and fierce that it suggested the fire had spread from the Mifsud flat and that the whole of the Baron’s palazzo must now be ablaze.
He breathed in the night air, then turned back to the church. Set above the lintel was a bas-relief of the madonna. Her eyes were pointing south. The direction of the airport, Spike thought, tapping his pocket for his passport.
He set off through Valletta. The sirens grew louder. This time, he didn’t look back.
Part Three
Gibraltar
Chapter Twelve
1
Spike sat at his desk, staring through the French windows. The date palm which grew from the patio of Galliano & Sanguinetti rustled in the breeze. The direction of its fronds suggested that the poniente wind had switched to a levanter. Spring was beginning in Gibraltar, fairer weather on the way.
He returned to the loan agreement and managed to mark up another page before his mind drifted again. Moving back to his laptop, he opened Zahra’s website. He’d just paid Google to include it on the first page of hits under ‘Missing Persons’ and sure enough it came up at once, her photograph in the centre, the reward detailed with a link to his Hotmail. He checked the account. Nothing but spam.
‘Working hard?’
Peter Galliano was leaning nonchalantly on the doorpost. His cream linen suit hung a little more loosely on his shoulders: three weeks filling in for Spike at the magistrates’ court had shaved off some weight. His expression changed as he saw the website open on Spike’s laptop. ‘Gruňo?’ he enquired gently.
Spike shook his head.
Galliano stroked his goatee, then brightened as he held out a computer printout. ‘Got some potential new business,’ he said. ‘Application for a shipwreck salvage.’ He placed the piece of paper on the edge of Spike’s desk like bait. ‘Is the vessel in Gibraltarian waters or Spanish?’ he asked, backing towards the door. ‘Who can possibly say . . .?’
2
Rufus Sanguinetti frowned through his bifocals at last week’s Sunday Times of Malta. ‘I always told you David was innocent,’ he said, laying the paper on his knees. ‘And they still haven’t put a name to the brute who did it?’
‘He’s one of those people who just slips beneath the radar.’
‘Not in Gib he wouldn’t.’
Spike looked around the hospital ward. By the opposite bed, a small boy in a yarmulke sat reading to his grandfather. Next to him, an old woman in a headscarf worked her prayer beads as a wrinkled Moroccan stared up at the ceiling. It was like an advert for racially harmonious health care.
‘What does the Baron make of it all?’ Rufus said.
Seeing the oxygen tubing still looped beneath his father’s nose, Spike decided to save that part of the story for later. ‘He’s pretty incensed.’
‘I’m not in the least surprised.’
A doctor was crossing the ward towards them.
‘There’s Doc Caruana,’ Rufus hissed. ‘A good Maltese surname if ever there was one.’
‘I’d better get on, Dad.’
‘Righto. You do what you have to do.’
Spike squeezed his father’s dry bony hand, then joined Dr Caruana at the edge of the ward.
‘I think we can release your father in a day or two,’ the doctor said.
‘Keep him for longe
r if you like.’
Dr Caruana smiled. ‘He’ll need to change his lifestyle, of course. Less stress. No more foreign travel. It’s critical we reduce the pressure on his cardiopulmonary tissue. I believe you’re the primary carer, so I’d understand if –’
‘It’s fine. Thank you.’
Spike could feel the doctor’s keen eyes scanning his frame. ‘You do realise Marfan syndrome is hereditary. Have you thought about getting checked out? Wouldn’t take more than an afternoon?’
Spike shook his head. ‘See you tomorrow, Doctor.’
3
The glass-and-steel tower blocks of the Europort held offices for online gambling firms, empty headquarters for shelf companies, sets of modern apartments. To the constant anger of the Spanish, the land they were built on was reclaimed from the sea. Only twenty years ago, Spike would have been up to his neck in salt water.
He stopped by an estate agency in the ground floor of one of the blocks. A property was being advertised in the window, a white-painted Genoese house on the eastern side of the Rock: wrought-iron balcony, sea view. First-floor sitting room lined with bookshelves . . . Feeling his chest constrict a little, Spike continued towards Line Wall Road.
The Rock loomed ahead, banner cloud gathering around its peak like smoke from a semi-dormant volcano. Herring gulls circled the crags, preparing to nest. Ahead on Queensway, a lollipop lady held up traffic, helping a group of children to cross. Spike let them pass, then entered the Old Town, seeing a Union Jack draped from a window, a Gibraltarian flag alongside, the levanter breeze fluttering both in harmony.
He nodded at a second cousin, then turned into Irish Town, where an outpost of the Royal Gibraltar Police Force nestled reassuringly beside two long-established pubs.
4
Spike sat with Jessica outside the Clipper pub, sipping a mug of Earl Grey tea. Beneath the table lay General Ironside, muzzle resting on Jessica’s feet.
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