Hollow Mountain (12 page)

A group of noisy teenagers was strolling down the beach, girls in string bikinis, boys punting a football as though expecting to be scouted by FC Barcelona. They passed Spike and Jessica without a glance, then sprinted into the surf.

From the road, a middle-aged man was watching, leaning against a blue car. For a second Spike thought he was staring at Jessica, but then his gaze switched to the teenagers as they ducked in and out of the water, squealing.

Chapter Twenty-three

Spike and Jessica returned to the centre of Cádiz via Calle Sagasta. What Spike had remembered as a thriving commercial street was now lined by boarded-up shops and pawnbrokers. He was used to La Línea being rundown – people even said that the Spanish government kept it that way as a punishment for Gib – but the great Cádiz? The oldest city in western Europe? Suddenly Spike could see how the Spanish must feel as they read about the Rock’s booming economy, saw its new buildings, heard its jumbo jets, learnt of the only government in Europe that earned more than it spent. Not just British, but openly defying the economic downturn through low taxation. He passed a posse of Spanish students smoking dope on a park bench. Thank God for twenty-first-century apathy: the next Spanish siege was still some way off.

‘I think that’s the Archaeological Museum,’ Jessica said, pointing to a townhouse resting in the shade of a mimosa tree. Behind it spread a more modern residential area of pale-cement apartment blocks. Spike reread the address on the bill, then rang a buzzer. A man’s tenor voice answered. ‘
Sí
?’

‘
Hablamos por teléfono
,’ Spike replied, wincing at how rusty his Spanish accent was becoming.

‘You are Simon’s friend from Gibraltar,’ the voice said, switching to a serviceable English. ‘Where is he? Why has he sent you?’

‘
Es muerto
.’
Muerto
. . . There was so much more life to the Spanish word than its velvet-covered English equivalent, Spike thought as he heard a breath catch at the end of the line. ‘You have the money?’

‘Six hundred euros.’

The door gave a click. Jessica glanced at Spike and raised an eyebrow. He grinned and pushed into the apartment hallway.

The lift opened to a grey-haired couple carrying a picnic hamper and a yellow parasol. They nodded at Spike and Jessica, sharing a wistful smile as they shuffled out together onto the street. Spike guided Jessica into the lift, then hit floor three.

A boy was waiting outside the lift doors. Crossed arms, black-rimmed glasses, heavy-metal T-shirt. On closer examination, not a boy, but an unfortunately short twenty-something. He glanced from Spike to Jessica, then blushed so fiercely that the shaving rash on his neck was visible. ‘This way,’ he said, tossing his tousled black hair to one side. Why not, thought Spike – the flash of scalp suggested that he would not be tossing it for long.

The apartment was surprisingly stylish, walls decorated with architectural
vedute
and oils of Moorish streets. A paella dish sat on the stove, Miele dishwasher sloshing beneath. Parents’ place, Spike decided uncharitably, remembering the youth’s unabashed admiration of Jessica.

The study off the kitchen overlooked a yellow-grassed communal garden. A sleek olivewood desk was covered with architectural plans and elevations, while the far end of the room had been given over to some sort of workshop, a plastic table cluttered with solvents and paints, a laptop on the floor surrounded by computer-game sleeves.

Jessica glanced at a framed diploma propped against the wall. ‘Archaeological Honours,’ she read aloud. ‘Juan Andrés Gonzalez. That’s you, right?’

‘Who else would it be?’ Juan lifted a small metal cashbox onto the table. ‘Money, please,’ he said to Spike.

‘I’d like to see what we’re buying first.’

Juan pulled a wooden crate from beneath the desk. Drawing out some balled newspaper, he carefully removed what looked like a Roman helmet and placed it on the table. The object was small, no more than fifty centimetres high and made of a blue-black metal, its surface covered in greenish growths, as though lugworms had burrowed inside. Spike leant down to take a closer look. ‘What
is
it?’

Juan stared at him, as though suddenly realising he was talking to someone of subnormal intelligence. ‘It’s a ship’s bell,
señor
,’ he said. ‘Simon brought it to me to be restored.’ He switched his gaze from one blank face to the other. ‘I’m a conservator?’ he said, intonation suggesting he feared they might not understand the word.

‘So you work at the museum,’ Jessica replied.

Juan pushed his hair back defensively. ‘Their funding got cut. But I still do some private work. Now please, the money.’

Spike held out the envelope, then withdrew it. ‘Doesn’t look like you’ve done much by way of restoration.’

‘The bell has bronze disease. There was nothing that could be done.’

Spike examined a bottle of white vinegar on the table. ‘Clearly a high-end job.’

‘I hadn’t realised you were an expert in metallurgy.’

‘Did you do much work for Simon?’

‘You a cop or something?’

Jessica stepped between them. She stood almost at Juan’s height. ‘We’re friends of Simon’s wife,’ she smiled reassuringly. ‘We’re just helping her to sort out his estate, OK?’ She extracted the envelope from Spike’s grip and handed it to Juan. He opened it, fingering the sides of the notes. ‘Simon brought me a number of pieces,’ he said more equably. ‘He wanted them cleaned so he could sell them on.’

‘Just cleaned?’ Spike said, turning over a pile of papers on the table and finding sheets of museum headed paper.

‘And identified.’

‘Items the museum wouldn’t touch.’

Juan gave a non-committal shrug.

‘Why didn’t Simon get the work done in Gibraltar?’

‘Most of the objects came from the sea, and in Gibraltar, you need to surrender whatever you find. But bring something into Spain, and if it’s from Gibraltar, who cares?’ He glanced at Spike’s expression. ‘The first time, Simon brought me a flagon of gin. Then a manila bracelet – handcuffs used for transporting slaves.’ Jessica frowned, so he moved on rapidly. ‘Then an eighteenth-century ship’s bell.’

‘It’s that old?’ Spike said.

‘You can tell from the size. It might have been quite valuable. If it didn’t have bronze disease.’

‘What
is
bronze disease?’

Juan looked down and brushed a thumb over the blue growths protruding from the surface of the bell. ‘An irreversible corrosion of the metal. Archaeologists used to think the deterioration was caused by bacteria. Now they know it’s the result of a chemical reaction, like rust on iron-based metals. Simon should have put it in a bucket of salty water the moment he brought it out of the sea.’

‘So it’s worthless.’

‘Depends on how much you’re into eighteenth-century ships’ bells. I’ve cleaned off most of the tarnish with a scalpel. You can still make out a few letters of the inscription. There are some so-so carvings on the rim.’ He put the envelope into the cashbox and locked it. ‘Simon told me he was going to give it to his wife.’ He dropped the key into the pocket of his baggy jeans, then peered up, a concerned look suddenly crossing his chubby face. ‘How did Simon die?’ he asked.

‘He killed himself.’

‘Oh.’ As if losing interest, Juan checked his watch. ‘I have to go. You guys should probably . . .’ His voice tailed off as he picked up the bell and slipped it back into the crate.

‘Anything else belonging to Simon in here?’ Spike said.

Juan shook his head. ‘He sold whatever I restored. I think he had a buyer in Marbella.’

Jessica touched Spike’s shoulder. ‘Come on.’

‘Sign this,’ Spike said, taking out the invoice.

‘I never had to sign anything before.’

‘Well you do now.’

Grabbing a Mont Blanc pen from a holder on Juan’s father’s desk, Spike pressed it into his son’s hand. Then he took back the receipt, picked up the crate and followed Jessica out of the flat.

Chapter Twenty-four

They stepped back onto the street. The sun had risen above Cádiz and Spike’s eyes ached in the glare. He envied Jessica her oversized Gucci sunglasses.

‘Jesus,’ she said. ‘You’re so
aggressive
.’

‘Sorry?’

‘I thought you were going to smack him.’

‘He was a scumbag.’

‘He was a
kid
.’

Spike held up the crate: ‘Six hundred euros for this?’ On one side was written
Fino Quinta Osborne
. ‘The box is worth more. His parents have taste, at least.’

Jessica set off down the street towards the bus station. ‘You never used to be like this,’ she called back to him.

‘Like what?’

‘Using your size to intimidate people. What’s your problem?’

Spike mulled the question as they came into the Plaza de España, stopping in front of a white monument built to celebrate some long-abandoned Spanish constitution. ‘I suppose I don’t like people abusing their position,’ he said.

‘He was broke.’

‘Taking money from a widow and child?’

Jessica swung round to face him. ‘Please don’t tell me you have a thing for this Grainger woman.’

‘She’s a client.’

‘An extremely pretty client. That’s why the
Chronicle
wasted so much copy on her.’ Jessica walked on at pace, then called over one shoulder, ‘Jesus, Spike. She’s about fifteen!’

Spike had to run to catch her up. It took him ten minutes to calm her down. Then another five to persuade her to have a drink with him.

Chapter Twenty-five

Four
finos
later, it was Spike who slept on the bus home. As he woke they were coming into Algeciras, Gibraltar’s opposing port on the Spanish side of the bay. A line of striped, barber’s-pole chimneystacks flanked one side of the road. Franco had built a petrochemical plant near the town in the hope that it would belch fumes into Gibraltar’s face. Unfortunately, the planners had failed to calculate the contrary winds of the Straits, and the pollution had blown inwards, blighting the area with one of the highest rates of bowel cancer in Spain.

Spike looked round and saw Jessica staring at him, sipping from a can of San Pellegrino orangeade. ‘You look like a little boy when you sleep.’ Unsure how to respond to this, he took the can from her grasp and drank deeply, tasting the salt from her mouth on the rim.

‘I meant to ask,’ she said. ‘How’s Peter?’

Spike sat up. Outside, the sun was setting. ‘He’s having a CAT scan on Tuesday, then I’m meeting his sister. There’s going to be a formal discussion with the doctors.’

‘
Cacarucca
,’ Jessica murmured. ‘Is there anyone else? In his life, I mean.’

‘I’m not sure. We never really talked about that stuff.’

‘He goes to Corfu, doesn’t he? In the summer?’

‘I know he inherited a house there. He’s been meaning to do it up for years.’

The bus stopped to let off the Algeciras passengers. Now it was just Gibraltarians and
Linenses
, residents of La Línea. The usual quiet analysis of who was who rippled through the bus.

‘How did you first meet Peter?’ Jessica asked.

‘He was at Ruggles & Mistry when I joined the firm. Fifteen years ago, maybe.’

‘What was he like then?’

‘The same. Just fatter.’ Spike smiled. ‘You know what Ruggles lawyers are like. Machines. Well, Peter was different. He liked wine, flamenco, Laurel and Hardy. Random things. You could smoke in the office in those days. We used to share a room – wave at each other through the fug.’

Jessica laughed. ‘I forgot you used to smoke.’

‘The partners would come in and weep.’

‘Was that why he got made redundant?’

‘For smoking?’ Spike heard the mockery in his tone and hated himself for it. ‘Technically Peter wasn’t made redundant. They just failed to promote him, year after year. One day he told me he was leaving. Took me out for a boozy lunch and asked me to come in with him. So I forfeited my bonus. And off we went.’

‘Bit of a risk.’

‘Not with Peter. He always had his own clients. A collection of oddballs Ruggles couldn’t be bothered with, but who were strangely lucrative if you weren’t too fussy and would put in the time.’

‘And the rest is history.’

The finality of the phrase troubled Spike. ‘Aren’t you going to hand that in?’ Jessica asked, gesturing at the crate as they got off the bus at the Gibraltar frontier.

‘Or what, Detective Sergeant Navarro?’

She grinned.

‘Let me put it this way,’ Spike said as they approached the first set of customs, ‘if somebody confiscates it, I’ll live.’

Chapter Twenty-six

‘Thank the Lord,’ Spike muttered as they neared the house. The kitchen lights were out. ‘Dad’s taken to staying up late to finish the crossword.’