crooked from the beating he’d received in Malta, when he’d first heard Žigon’s name mentioned in connection with Zahra’s disappearance. How far had his quest advanced since then? He was saved from considering this depressing question further as the ferry slowed, and he pulled himself to his feet. The village they were now approaching was the most bijou Spike had seen so far. Within a sheltered inlet, a harbour was enclosed on three sides by soft, ochre-hued houses. A yellow clock tower rose above, powder-puffed by palm trees and acacia fronds. The green interlocking knuckles of the Italian Alps concertinaed in the distance. The ferry hit reverse as it neared the jetty, its route narrowed by sleek rows of yachts. Their prows all faced to sea, as though trying to escape but held by an irresistible force. Money, Spike thought, seeing a diminutive oligarch steer a willowy blonde towards a waterfront table. ‘Portofino, signore e signori,’ came the ferry’s announcement. Then, with a hint of reverence in the tone, the more languid repetition, ‘Por-to-fin-o.’
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9781408846582 Hollow Mountain (976h) final pass.indd 13
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