Sign of the Cross Read Free Page B

great –’
    ‘OK, Spike, you’ve done your bit.’ She moved her chair closer. ‘Another victory, they tell me.’
    ‘A monkey would have won.’
    ‘That’s not what I heard.’
    ‘I didn’t think newly promoted detectives paid attention to small fry in the magistrates’ court.’
    The waitress interrupted with a tray of shots. ‘Whoa!’ Hamish boomed, eyeing his colleagues at the end of the table.
    ‘They come with one proviso,’ Galliano said. ‘That you let me take you out to lunch to explain what Galliano & Sanguinetti can do for you and your team at Charon Partners.’
    ‘What? Oh, right. Sure.’ Grabbing eight shots in his large hands, Hamish set off up the table. Jessica smiled over at Galliano – ‘You shouldn’t have’– then stood to help the waitress distribute the rest.
    ‘Arsehole,’ Galliano muttered. He kept his eyes on Jessica as she laughed with another guest. ‘Apparently he’s being headhunted for some fund in Zug.’
    ‘Will he take the job?’
    ‘You mean, will she follow?’ Galliano held Spike’s eye, then mock-slapped his own forehead. ‘ Bezims ,’ he cursed. ‘The crisps.’ He began the slow process of shunting his chair backwards.
    ‘I’ll go,’ Spike said, standing.
    3
    The other tables outside the All’s Well were empty, punters driven away either by the engagement party, or by the fact that it was a Tuesday night in February. Inside, even the karaoke machine was off. A few solitary drinkers sat cradling pints of bitter.
    The waitress was smoking behind the bar. ‘Three packs of salt and vinegar,’ Spike said.
    ‘Sorry. The box is down in the storeroom.’
    ‘ Harampai ,’ Spike replied, ‘finish your cigarette first.’ He turned and scanned the muted sports channel on the pub TV. Some kind of junior tennis tournament – players looked about twelve. His ear was caught by a curious, softly spoken accent. Alone at a corner table, a figure sat hunched over a mobile phone.
    Spike moved closer. The man was listening intently; a moment later he launched into a fluent reply, speaking in a strange Slavonic language, vowels issuing from the back of his throat.
    Moving to one side, Spike made out the sweaty face of Piers Harrington. His sun-bleached hair had been tidied up at the barber’s. His eyes shone hard and uneasy in his gaunt face.
    Spike turned back to the bar, where the waitress stubbed out her cigarette and rose to her feet. ‘Change of plan,’ he said. ‘A glass of champagne for the man in the corner.’
    The waitress peered around Spike’s shoulder; Harrington was still talking, the bony fingers of one hand clasped over his head, like a spider feeding off his skull.
    ‘Tell him Spike Sanguinetti is impressed by his command of Serbian.’
    ‘Impressed by his command of Serbian,’ the waitress repeated uncertainly.
    He gave her a twenty-pound note. ‘That’s too much,’ she called after, but he was already out on the terrace.
    Hamish Ferguson’s booming laugh cut through the February air. On the other side of Casemates, the unsteady figure of Drew Stanford-Trench was shepherding two girls through the entrance to the Tunnel nightclub. Spike turned away and walked in the direction of the Old Town.
    4
    The shops on Main Street were locked up for the night. Spike stared through the security grilles at the tawdry, duty-free displays. This city: once a proud impenetrable fortress, now cravenly begging for custom. A green cleaning truck was inching down the cobbles, flanked by two boiler-suited Moroccans furiously hosing down the gutters. Spike felt a fine salty mist on his face as he passed.
    Defend your client, Galliano liked to say. Defend your client and let the law take care of itself.
    Spike wiped his forehead and continued towards John Mackintosh Square, where Old Man Gaggero was on his nightly walk, fag in one hand, blue bag of excrement in the other, waiting as his dog marked its territory in fitful spurts over the parliament building. He