Sign of the Cross Read Free Page A

just two of them at the firm, this was no accolade.
    ‘And a mere thirty-five years old –’
    ‘Thirty-six,’ Spike corrected.
    Galliano raised a pudgy hand to attract the attention of the waitress. They sat together at the head of a trestle table outside the All’s Well in Casemates Square, a pub named in honour of the refrain used by British soldiers at night to confirm that the gates of Gibraltar were safe. The Rock loomed above, its bone-white limestone lit up for the non-existent winter tourist. The fresh poniente wind was dropping, but it was still mid-teens, icy for Gibraltarians. As Spike flipped up the collar of his overcoat, he remembered an Italian phrase of his father’s – ‘ Febbraio, febbraietto, corto e maledetto ’, ‘February, little February, short and cursed’. Yes, he thought as he finished his pint, that was about the size of it.
    Midway down the table, Jessica Navarro was crouching to talk to another guest. She wore a grey pencil skirt and tight ribbed jumper. Catching Spike’s eye over the shoulder of her companion, she threw him a smile.
    ‘ Vale ,’ Galliano said, signalling to the waitress. ‘How many are we, Spike? Fifteen?’
    ‘Twenty-two.’
    Galliano puffed out his cheeks. ‘ Waka . . . Twenty-two shots of sambuca.’
    The waitress jotted the number down.
    ‘And lots of crisps,’ Galliano called after as she returned to the bar.
    On the other side of the table, a tall blond man in a blazer and cashmere roll-neck was expertly working the guests. Spike watched him reward a comment with a raised hand, which became a high five.
    ‘M’learned friends?’
    Spike stood to his full height, then leaned down to kiss Jessica hello, catching a scent he didn’t recognise. Still seated, Galliano reached up to draw her hand into his suspiciously black goatee. ‘Get ’em in while I can,’ he said, smothering her fingers with kisses.
    As Jessica started to crouch, Spike pulled across a plastic chair. ‘Please. You’re making me feel unfit.’
    She smiled, then positioned the chair facing both of them. Her chestnut hair looked as though it had been freshly cut. As she tossed it over one shoulder, Spike caught a crimson flash of bra strap.
    ‘ Muncho chachi ,’ he said, slipping into yanito , the patois used by native Gibraltarians.
    ‘What, this old thing?’ Jessica replied, arching an eyebrow.
    ‘May I?’ Spike indicated her left hand, and they both leaned in to admire the chunky octagonal diamond on its thin platinum band. Spike thought of his mother’s engagement ring, buried somewhere in the chaos of Rufus’s bedroom. About a tenth of the size, a cluster of yellow diamonds in a daisy setting. ‘The biggest rock on the Rock,’ he said. ‘So . . . up for a late one?’
    Jessica shook her head. ‘Hamish has to fly to Switzerland tomorrow morning.’
    ‘All OK?’
    ‘Just a few meetings . . . Speak of the devil.’
    Hamish Ferguson appeared alongside Spike. His well-tamed blond curls gave him the air of a young Roman warrior heading out for battle. The proud disdainful face left little doubt as to the probable result of the campaign. ‘Heard a heck of a lot about you,’ he said, crisp English accent bearing no trace of his alleged Glaswegian roots.
    ‘Congratulations.’
    The handshake was delivered with a well-honed burst of pain. ‘When you know, you know.’
    ‘You remember Peter Galliano?’ Jessica said.
    Galliano smoothed down his goatee with a hand. ‘You’re a hedgie, right?’
    ‘For my sins.’
    ‘Grab a pew and I’ll tell you why your fund’s with the wrong law firm.’
    ‘Peter . . .’ Spike said.
    ‘No, it’s OK,’ Hamish replied, touching Spike’s shoulder benevolently. He glanced – almost imperceptibly – at his Rolex then sat down beside Galliano.
    Spike retook his seat. He was used to seeing Jessica in police uniform. Tonight she wore lipstick, smoky eyeliner; he thought he had never seen her look so beautiful. ‘It’s just such