Authors: Thomas Mogford
Hollow Mountain (25 page)
‘How were Neptune Marine paying Jardine?’ Isola asked, tongue still roving around his mouth.
‘I have no idea, Inspector. I should have thought that was your job. While we were up on the Rock, Jardine did mention an account in the Cayman Islands. I expect that you’ll find that the payer was Clohessy.’
‘The drowned man.’
‘Before he drowned.’
Spike watched Isola try to think of something with which to admonish him, then abandon the search.
‘Do I need to instruct a lawyer, Inspector Isola? Because unless you’re planning to charge me with something, I think I’ve spent enough time voluntarily helping the police with their enquiries.’
Isola clicked off the tape recorder and got to his feet. ‘I’ve always had a good bullshit detector,’ he said quietly. ‘And it’s going off right now.’
‘Neptune were running a complicated operation,’ Spike replied. ‘I realise it must be difficult for you to keep up.’
As Spike pulled open the door, he felt Isola’s glare intensify as he saw Jessica get up from a plastic chair in the waiting room, and accompany him into another sunlit Gibraltar morning.
Spike Sanguinetti stared out of the window, identifying the Balearic Islands below, Minorca at the head of the chain, ceded to Britain three centuries ago under the same treaty as Gibraltar, now returned to Spanish rule. Just another chess piece of the Mediterranean, shifted by naval superpowers jostling for prominence. How many lives had been changed by these baffling political moves, families uprooted, strange races formed?
‘Sir?’ The smiling stewardess was back at his elbow. It was a busy flight yet she seemed remarkably solicitous of Spike’s needs. ‘Another tomato juice?’
‘Thanks.’
‘Want any vodka in this one?’
Spike shook his head as the ice-filled plastic cup appeared. What was it about planes and tomato juice? He never had any desire to drink the stuff on land, yet up in the sky he couldn’t get enough of it. He reached for his briefcase and pulled out the documents he’d received from his contact at Interpol. In some ways, the situation had worked out better than he could have hoped. The scanned image of Žigon he had sent to Interpol had tallied with the driver’s licence of a man pulled over for racing his Lamborghini Aventador in Genoa. Once an identification had been made, armed police had arrived at Žigon’s opulent townhouse on the Via Garibaldi to question him over the death of a hotel doorman, whose decomposing body had been found face-down in the Gulf of Genoa. A firefight had ensued in which Žigon – now believed to be a former member of Slovenian special forces – had been gravely wounded, and three of his henchmen killed. Žigon was currently in intensive care at an undisclosed hospital, awaiting trial. Spike stared down at the blurred photocopy of Žigon’s driving licence. His real name was Aleksander Zavrl.
The greater challenge for the Italian police had been trying to unravel Žigon’s financial dealings. It was clear that he’d been trying to reinvent himself as a legitimate businessman, siphoning the fortune he had stockpiled from drug and prostitution rackets into an offshore company in Monaco, which was greedily snapping up commercial property all along the Italian Riviera. Most of this had already been seized by an impecunious Italian government. The question now was what other assets they could link to him.
No trace of a Zahra al-Mahmoud had been found in Žigon’s townhouse, nor was her name known to any of his contacts. As a last resort, Spike had asked his friend at Interpol if there were any residential properties contained in Žigon’s portfolio. Two apartment blocks, it emerged, one in Genoa, one in San Remo, plus a smattering of villas along the Italian coastline. None of the tenants had matched Zahra’s description; all would shortly face eviction, with the Italian government selling its spoils to the highest bidder. One address had caught Spike’s eye, however. A house in a village called Ruta. Though Spike hadn’t heard of the place, he’d since found out that the nearest town was Portofino.
The sound of the name brought a hot sting of sweat to Spike’s forehead. He reached up to adjust the nozzle of the ceiling fan. Žigon would never hurt me, Zahra had once said. What had previously been a source of pain was now the only thing Spike could cling to.
The stewardess reappeared. Her platinum hair was twisted viciously into a knot, and Spike found himself wondering again why anyone would choose to conceal such a delicate prettiness under an indelible layer of orange pancake and waterproof mascara.
‘Can I tempt you to any duty-free?’ she said.
‘No thanks; I’m from Gibraltar,’ Spike offered by way of explanation.
The stewardess pushed her lip-glossed mouth into a smile. ‘We were trying to guess where you were from. Haven’t you got your own airport?’
‘It only flies to the UK. Hence the departure from Málaga.’
The stewardess draped a bare arm over the top of Spike’s seat. ‘And what are you up to in Genoa?’
‘Unfinished business.’
‘Sounds intriguing.’ She must have caught his glance at the trolley: ‘Sure you don’t want a proper drink?’
‘No. Thank you. Really.’ He forced a polite smile, then turned back to the window, seeing the brown landmass of Corsica below, first Genoese, then British, now French. He realised that he hadn’t smoked a cigarette, nor had a drink, since the night the
Trident
sank four weeks ago. He hadn’t missed it much, and it had helped him to analyse what had happened with a clearer eye.
Certain things had worked out well. Peter’s recovery was proceeding steadily. The doctors said he would always walk with a cane, and would have to undergo many months of intensive rehabilitation, including relearning to drive, which Spike might have suggested even before the accident. Most importantly, his mental faculties appeared unscathed. He had managed to keep off the weight, and there was even talk of him returning to work early next year. In Peter’s absence, Spike had thrown himself into a series of banal conveyancing and tax cases, and the revenues of Galliano & Sanguinetti were now back in the black. They could pay the rent, at least.
Rufus was also improving. Ever since he had told Spike about his sister, Juliet, he’d seemed more at peace with himself. Now the two of them could sit quietly together in a room, his father painting again, Spike working, even reading the occasional novel, something he hadn’t done in years. Next month, on the anniversary of Spike’s mother’s death, they were planning to visit both graves at the cemetery.
As for Charlie Grainger, there was good news there too, if you looked hard enough. It turned out that the
Trident
had sunk just inside Spanish waters, and the local
junta
had put in an immediate claim for salvage. With the support of Counsel for the Crown, Drew Stanford-Trench, Spike had cooperated with the Spanish authorities, and the copper content of the silver bars raised from the seabed had been matched to that of the
peso de ocho
from the
Flos Sanctus Montis
, the identity of which was confirmed by the ship’s bell. Spike had instructed a reputable firm of Spanish solicitors to have Simon Grainger recognised as the original finder of the wreck. As both Simon and his wife were dead, the sole heir would be Charlie Grainger.
Spike had visited the boy a few times at his grandparents’ house on Horse Barrack Lane. He remained guarded and silent, but for some reason he seemed to like Spike, and was content to sit on his knee reading or colouring. On his last visit, Spike had mentioned the claim, explaining that Charlie could be due a payout of between 5 and 10 per cent of the value of the silver. The grandparents had looked stupefied as Spike had floated a potential award of two million euros, after tax. The possibility of a trust fund had been mooted, with Spike appointed as trustee. Whatever happened, he would ensure that the boy was looked after.
As for Neptune Marine . . . Its stock price had plummeted as news broke internationally, and a vulture fund had seized control. Within days, the company had been rebranded and all its previous sins laid firmly at the door of the late CEO, Morton D. Clohessy. The argument for this was compelling: Clohessy had been so desperate to land a big score to put Neptune back on an even financial keel that he’d lost all sense of proportion, committing crime after crime to keep his business afloat. He’d found a like-minded accomplice in Captain Hugh Jardine. A journeyman soldier, Jardine had been incensed to find so many of his former colleagues earning huge sums of money working for private defence contractors, while he was stuck in a desk job in Gibraltar, in constant pain from an injury suffered during the Falklands War. Following his interview with Spike, Inspector George Isola of the Royal Gibraltar Police had unearthed a series of large illegal payments made to Jardine by Clohessy in a Cayman Islands account. Isola had also been congratulated for matching a paint sample from the scene of Peter Galliano’s accident to a scratch on the chassis of Jardine’s van.
The enduring mystery surrounded the body found below Europa Point Lighthouse. Little was known beyond the fact that it belonged to a Spanish national called Rodrigo Guzmán, who’d enjoyed a brief stint with the Spanish police, and had since lived in Madrid surviving on his late parents’ modest estate. Neighbours described him as a loner who claimed aristocratic heritage and had established links to the far right in Madrid. The Gibraltar police were still working on the assumption that he was an accomplice of Jardine’s, but no one quite understood what his role had been, nor why he had been killed.
Spike was sure that Jessica had suspicions that he knew more than he was prepared to admit. They’d been getting on so well recently, however, that he didn’t want to upset her, nor to confirm what he was sure Isola was whispering into her ear. Maybe that was why he hadn’t told her the truth about this trip. As far as she knew, he was spending the weekend in Corfu, where Peter was recuperating.
The cabin lights dimmed as the plane began its descent. Beneath the wing, Spike saw the Porto Antico of Genoa come into view, the aquarium jutting into the bay like a petty insult and the green, mountainous coastline of the Gulf of Paradise curving away into the distance.
As the ferry pulled into Portofino harbour, Spike was struck to find the scene so unchanged from his last visit – the same ageing oligarchs squiring the same immaculate women, the same preppy Americans with bored nannies and squabbling progeny trailing behind. He visited the cheapest café in the
piazzetta
and bought a postcard and airmail envelope, stopping in the Gents to splash water on his face. Glimpsing himself in the mirror, he paused. Clean-shaven, the smart new suit he’d bought on Main Street a touch crumpled from the plane, but nicely cut. Cheekbones jutting in his tanned face; tired blue eyes a little more wary than they used to be, perhaps.
Emerging from the café, he set off up the steps to the Hotel Splendido, feeling his heart quicken as he saw a short dark man in a peaked cap standing to attention outside reception. But his nametag was Polish and his Italian heavily accented as he opened the door for Spike to pass.
The same attractive redhead sat at the desk. If she connected the man before her with the dishevelled Casanova of two months earlier, she showed no sign. ‘How may I help you, sir?’ she asked.
Spike slid his business card across the desk. ‘I’m a relative of Enrico’s.’
Her blood-red talons moved to her lips. ‘I’m so sorry for your loss,’ she whispered.
‘I know he had a daughter in Mestre. I wanted to send her a card of condolence.’
‘Of course, of course.’
‘Do you have the address?’
‘I don’t think so . . . but I know he used to work at our sister hotel in Venice, the Cipriani. I can call them if you like?’
‘Thank you.’
She gestured to a low table in the lobby surrounded by deep leather armchairs. ‘Perhaps we could offer a drink while you wait.’
‘Cappuccino?’
‘I’ll have one brought over. On the house.’
The table was adorned by the latest fashion and design magazines. Spike cleared a space and took out the postcard. ‘I knew your father,’ he wrote in Italian. ‘He loved you very much. Please accept this on his behalf.’ He signed three high-denomination travellers’ cheques, then folded them into the envelope with the postcard. The amount matched the fees that Neptune had paid to Galliano & Sanguinetti before Clohessy’s death. It might have been blood money, but Spike hoped at least that the girl or her mother would be grateful for the cash.
‘Sir?’ came a husky voice from the desk.
Spike walked over.
‘My colleagues at the Cipriani have found an address in Mestre.’
‘I don’t suppose you know the girl’s name?’
‘Giulietta.’
Spike felt his breath catch. He wrote ‘Giulietta Sanguinetti’ on the envelope and passed it over as the bellboy appeared with a tray.
‘Can I order a taxi from here?’ Spike asked the receptionist.
‘Certainly. Where for?’
‘Ruta.’
‘Very good,
signore
.’
Spike nodded at the bellboy, then returned to the table and drank his cappuccino until the taxi arrived.
