with a thumb, then took a leisurely drag. ‘Soon, signore . Soon.’
Swearing under his breath, Spike returned to the balustrade. The ferry was closing in on Rapallo, its pace so sluggish it felt as though they were travelling backwards. He clutched at the railings, rocking back and forth, his movements tracked by the wet, melancholy eyes of the mountain dog.
Chapter Seven
A line of white Mercedes cabs was parked above the harbour, drivers slouching against passenger doors. Spike jogged up the steps towards them. ‘Portofino,’ he called out. ‘How much?’
One driver stepped away from his taxi, shaking his head. ‘Not possible, signore .’
Spike reached for his wallet.
‘No road to Portofino,’ the driver shouted close to Spike’s face, causing him to recoil from his espresso breath. ‘Only boat.’ He confirmed this with one of the innumerable Italian hand gestures of which Spike was starting to tire. ‘Exclusive,’ he added proudly.
‘How about the train?’
‘Only to Santa Margherita. Es-clu-si-vo! ’
Spike found himself squaring up to the man, rising to the full extent of his six-foot-three frame, then realised the pointlessness of the confrontation and turned back to the harbour. The ferry he’d just disembarked was already en route for the next stopover. In the ticket hut, the timetable showed that the next boat to Portofino didn’t leave for another two hours.
There was a café next to the hut. Spike walked to the bar, feeling the amused gaze of the taxi drivers upon him. ‘ Doppia grappa, per favore, ’ he said to the waitress.
Sitting down at a plastic table, he felt the queasiness pool again in his belly. So Zahra was alive. He’d thought about this moment so many times but had never imagined it would be like this. It just didn’t make sense . . . She’d called him, but only to ask him to leave her alone. She’d told him her abductor was dangerous, yet insisted she was safe. He raised the grappa to his lips. What if she genuinely didn’t want to be found? If she was so ashamed of what had happened to her that she never wanted to see him again?
A low rectangular mirror hung behind the bar. For a moment Spike failed to recognise the angry, bearded man in its reflection. He looked away, feeling frustration flare through him as he signalled to the barmaid, who brought over the entire bottle, insisting on full payment before refilling his glass.
His phone was vibrating. He knocked over the grappa as he scrabbled to answer it, sticky clear liquid oozing onto his bag. ‘Zahra?’
‘ Qué ?’
His tongue felt clumsy and furred with liqueur. ‘Oh,’ he said, identifying the voice of his friend, Detective Sergeant Jessica Navarro, ‘it’s you.’
‘Yes,’ Jessica replied impatiently, ‘it’s me. Can you talk? It’s important.’
‘Not really. Why? What is it?’ There was a pause as he wiped his hand on the thigh of his shorts.
‘I’m standing outside your Chambers.’
Spike struggled to keep the irritation from his voice. ‘And?’
‘It’s Peter. Peter Galliano.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Somebody’s hit him, Spike. With a car. A passerby found him covered in blood.’
Spike rose to his feet, picturing the tight Gibraltar backstreet, a St John Ambulance blocking the way, blue lights rotating as they hoisted Peter aboard . . . ‘When?’ he said.
‘About an hour ago.’
‘And he’s OK?’
Jessica paused. ‘From what the paramedics say, it’s touch and go.’
The barmaid came over with a cloth, and Spike stepped away to let her clean the table. ‘But he’ll recover?’
‘It’s pretty bad, Spike.’
Out in the bay, the Portofino ferry began its approach. ‘Well, keep me informed,’ Spike said, nodding at the waitress and picking up his bag. From the other end of the line came a swish of uniformed legs as Jessica walked to a quieter place. ‘Keep you informed ?’ she hissed. ‘This is Peter we’re talking about. Peter Galliano. Your