Free Hollow Mountain by Thomas Mogford

noiselessly assembled by Stevo, as Dougie laid out the unimaginative buffet he’d brought from Morrisons – pap white bread, a wheel of Dairylea, a few unappealing tubs of hummus and slabs of pâté. Spike thought ruefully of what was available on the Rock to those in the know – sweet pastrami from Idan’s, crisp falafel from Samir’s . . .
    Mike, the American, remained faithfully at his station, battling the currents of the Straits to keep the Trident in place while everyone else sat down around the table, with Spike positioned – inevitably, he felt – between Clohessy and Jardine.
    The Neptune workers ate efficiently and said little, preferring to listen to Jardine being brought up to speed on the latest developments of the salvage. ‘Now that’s what I call a silver lining,’ Jardine said eventually. Spike gave a stiff smile at the weak joke, then began: ‘The key matter to address is that of apportionment.’
    ‘No legalese,’ Jardine groaned, ‘I beg of you.’
    Spike shot the soldier a sideways glance. He’d seen him around the Rock over the years, but had assumed he must have retired by now. He wore blue chinos and a pink shirt redolent of old cologne and cigarette smoke. His lips were cracked and his cleft chin had run to fat, but it was the eyes Spike recognised, narrowed and knowing, as though enjoying some private longstanding joke.
    Feeling the weight of Spike’s stare, Jardine turned. A strand of his mousy hair had worked itself from its bed of pomade and hung dankly over his forehead. Too long for a military man, Spike decided, pegging him as a smooth talker with a Sandhurst education and flat feet. ‘I understand Neptune has contracted with the Ministry of Defence to split the salved fund sixty-forty.’
    ‘In Neptune’s favour,’ Clohessy retorted at once.
    ‘Can you confirm that the MoD is happy to retain these terms given the additional potential value of the silver, Mr Jardine?’
    ‘Captain Jardine’ – the grey eyes twinkled in their narrow shells – ‘will endeavour to find out.’
    ‘In which case we can return to the main issue. I feel there’s a good chance that the judge will rule that the silver was illegally imported. If that happens, he may confiscate it in favour of the Crown.’
    ‘You feel there’s a chance?’ Jardine echoed, seeking Clohessy’s eye. ‘Doesn’t sound too convincing, does it?’
    Spike ignored him. ‘What we have to do is persuade the judge to see the salvage as a case of “finders keepers”. The danger then is of an heir to the original owner of the silver emerging, which, judging by that unmarked bar’ – Clohessy had already shown Jardine his discovery – ‘is unlikely.’
    Clohessy nodded. ‘Initial tests suggest the silver came from a mine in southern Ukraine. The captain probably acquired it on the sly, so we don’t believe there will be any trace documents.’
    ‘That remains to be seen. The point is that the more favourably the judge looks upon Neptune Marine and its operations, the more likely he will be to award you the silver. He needs to believe that you merit this windfall. Everything must be done by the book.’ Spike turned again to Jardine. ‘Hence why you need to talk to your superiors at the MoD as a matter of urgency.’
    Jardine sank a corner of bread into a beige tub of hummus and pushed it between his purple lips. Clohessy watched him with barely concealed disgust, then shoved his own plate away untouched. Catching sight of the raised veins on his arms, Spike wondered if he was ill, or had a complicated relationship with food. ‘Excuse me, gentlemen,’ Clohessy said. ‘I have to make a call.’ As soon as he was gone, Jardine reached for the glass bottle on the table, but was disappointed to find it contained only water. A film of moisture covered his face, like cheddar left out of the fridge overnight. ‘When do you need an answer?’ he said.
    ‘The hearing’s on Monday.’
    ‘Friday, then?’
    ‘At