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to ease before driving home to Marbs. Defence cuts, property crises . . . The one group still out in force were the locals. No longer mere tourist-industry workers, they now wore a uniform of power suits and silk blouses, rictus grins affixed as they explained to moon-faced Russians or anxious Italians exactly why their money would be safe on the Rock. Financial services had come to Gibraltar, and the natives – once in the employ of the British garrison – had adapted.
    Spike’s eye was caught by a lawyer from a rival firm, something of a high-flyer, people said. She was sitting with her back to a wall adorned by a series of hunting prints, a nod to the pub’s name, The Royal Calpe, a Victorian foxhunt which had exploited a brief good period of Anglo-Spanish relations to secure permission to ride with hounds over the border. The lawyer was using the hunt to open a discussion on the political idiosyncrasies of Gibraltar, but seemed to be struggling with the etymology of ‘Calpe’. ‘It’s a reference to the fact that the Rock has a hollow centre,’ she said in her lilting Gibraltarian English. ‘“Mons Calpe” – “Hollow Mountain”. It’s Greek, I think. Or Latin . . .’
    A few years ago, Spike might have taken the opportunity to join her and reveal that the word was actually Phoenician. Now he just sat back in his chair and drank his beer.
    ‘Sorry I’m late.’
    Spike looked up to find Jessica Navarro standing by his table. As usual, he’d forgotten how pretty she was: even in her white jeans and man’s grey V-neck, the eyes of other drinkers were pulled towards her. Slung over her slim shoulder was a gym bag that he knew would contain her police uniform. She glanced down at his empty pint glass, then over at the vodka and tonic. ‘Onto the chasers now?’
    ‘It’s for you.’
    ‘Sorry. Let me get you another.’
    ‘I’ll do it . . .’ He half-stood, but she was in no mood for indulging his old-fashioned chivalry and was already at the bar, where she drew a warmer greeting from Casey. By the time she returned, dropping her change into the British Red Cross collection box, Spike had stashed his empty glass on the shelf behind the table where the day’s English papers lay half-read and abandoned.
    ‘Out of sight, out of mind,’ Jessica said.
    Spike ignored her and took a gulp of his beer.
    ‘So what’s up?’ she asked.
    ‘How do you mean?’
    ‘Summoned by Spike Sanguinetti for an evening drink?’ She raised her dark, neatly curved eyebrows. ‘To what do I owe the honour?’
    Spike did his best at a smile, and she softened her tone: ‘I’m worried about you, Spike. I haven’t seen you like this in years.’
    The oblique reference to the death of his mother provoked the usual feelings of exasperation. Then he recognised the real concern on Jessica’s face, and checked himself. ‘It’s Peter, right?’ she said, her tanned, heart-shaped face tilted to one side. A kink ran through her chestnut hair where it had been folded beneath her police hat. ‘He could still wake up,’ she added, and Spike gave a nod, aware that he could leave it at that. But he didn’t. ‘I don’t think it was an accident, Jess.’
    She sat back. ‘Go on.’
    ‘When I was in Genoa . . .’ He watched Jessica’s eyelashes flutter skywards in irritation. ‘I told you I spoke to Zahra?’
    ‘How could I forget.’
    ‘Well, the man who took her. Žigon. He’s not some small-time pimp. He’s a serious player, the head of an organised crime syndicate. According to Interpol, he took out most of his rivals in the Balkans in a single night. Threw grenades through their windows. Six men – and their families – dead.’
    Jessica nodded. ‘I know all this. Drugs, people trafficking, prostitution. Said to run his operation out of the Italian Riviera.’
    ‘Zahra warned me, Jess. Told me if I didn’t back off, Žigon would hurt someone close to me.’
    ‘Like your Dad?’
    ‘Exactly.’
    ‘Who’s