Joseph Farrugia had gone to Rome for some reason he would not reveal, had been in the vicinity at the time of Graham’s murder, and Tabone was still a little suspicious because of his reticence.
Rob and I had just had what he would describe as a close encounter of the automotive kind, right after I’d been thrown out of the Palazzo Galizia by the Minister himself, a man with sumptuous tastes and blank, soulless eyes. He was also, according to someone called the Hedgehog, a boyhood friend of Martin Galea, a fact he had denied to my face.
All sorts of important people were in town, foreign ministers of various European countries and lots of military types, and Galizia, in his role as External Relations Minister, was associated with them all. Several of these people were to attend a performance at Mnajdra the following evening, a place which had had its share of strange events and controversy.
It was an interesting catalogue, but it didn’t seem to be leading anywhere in particular, and soon I fell asleep curled up in a blanket across the end of die bed. It seemed the easiest thing to do. I just rolled over from time to time, woke Rob up, shone a flashlight in his eyes, then we both went back to sleep.
Marissa arrived the next morning, and made both of us breakfast. She and I then had a brief discussion about looking after Rob, which she agreed to, because I knew there were a couple of things I had to do before I went to the performance that evening. The first was that Marissa and I had to have a serious talk.
“Marissa,” I began, “I’m sure you’re very happy to have Joseph back home, but you need to know that Detective Ta-bone still has some reservations about him, primarily because of his refusal to say why he went to Rome.”
“I know,” she sighed. “He can be a very stubborn man. I’ll tell you why he went, but only if you promise me not to tell anyone else, and also to give me advice as to what I should do about it.” I agreed to her terms.
“Anthony, as you know, wants very badly to be an architect and we want the best for our son. But now with Galea dead, it will simply not be possible, I think. We cannot afford it,” she said sadly.
“But before all this happened, we were waiting for Anthony to hear from the University of Toronto and the school in Rome. Joseph and I—we shouldn’t have, we know that— opened the letters before Anthony got home from school. The first to come was an acceptance from Canada. You know how we felt about our son going to be with Marcus. We hid the letter, hoping for a similar reply from Rome. But when it came, it was a rejection letter. Anthony was not accepted. It was, in a way, our worst fear. Only one acceptance, and from so far away, where Marcus could continue to influence our boy.
“We didn’t say anything to Anthony—he continued to watch for the letters, but it kept gnawing away at Joseph. He couldn’t sleep, he fretted all the time. Finally he decided to go to Rome and plead, beg, the people at the school to let Anthony in. We had difficulty putting together the money for the ticket, and we couldn’t afford a hotel. Joseph spent the night sitting up in a cafe. He had trouble finding the place, and the right person to talk to, but finally he did.
“They were horrible to him, polite, of course, but horrible. He knew they were laughing at him behind his back, his workingman clothes, even though he wore his best, his only, suit. They sneered at his poor Italian and his working-class manners. He looked out of place, and he knew it, but they made it clear to him even if he hadn’t known.
“They refused to change their decision, of course. I knew it was hopeless, but Joseph wouldn’t admit it to himself. He thought if he just explained it to them, they would understand and change their minds. He is a proud man in his own way, and the whole experience was profoundly humiliating for him. He forbade me to speak of it; he could hardly tell even me when he got back that night. Not that I was particularly helpful, what with Martin’s body and everything.
“ I know he should have told the police, but I think he really felt, naively, that because he was innocent, everything would be all right, and he wouldn’t have to tell anyone about his humiliation in Rome.
“The thing is, we haven’t said anything to Anthony yet. Even though Marcus is gone, and he knows there is no chance he’ll be able to go now, he checks the mail every day, perhaps just for the satisfaction of being accepted somewhere, or else the closure of knowing he couldn’t get in to either place anyway, so the money doesn’t really matter anymore. I’m torn really. I don’t know what to do. What do you think?”
“I think Anthony will be able to go to the University of Toronto if he wishes to. You obviously haven’t heard yet, but Martin left Anthony a rather large sum of money. It will definitely see him through school. You’ll be hearing from the executors of Galea’s estate soon, I’m sure, and as long as you are all cleared of any wrongdoing in Galea’s death, Anthony will get the money. It’s $100,000.”
She looked stunned. “That is so much money,” she gasped.
“It is and it isn’t,” I replied. “I’d consider it a small payment in light of what he owes you. That’s my opinion, of course. But you will have to tell Anthony eventually, and you’ll probably have to tell him everything. For all we know, the wording in the will may even reference the fact that Anthony is Martin’s son.”
“I understand what you’re saying. But I’m afraid it will kill Joseph. He has a strong heart, the heart of a workingman, but not perhaps strong enough for this,” she said with tears in her eyes.
“You don’t have to do anything immediately, so give Joseph time to deal with it in his own mind, and in his own way,” I advised her. We talked a while longer, and she calmed down a little.
Then I headed out to answer my second question of the day. First I checked the refrigerator and was pleased to see a six-pack of beer there, chilled and ready. I packed it into the car and roared off across the island, heading once again for Mellieha and another conversation with the Hedgehog.
I found him in exactly the same chair and the same location, but he was looking, if anything, even scruffier than he had the first time we’d met, and there was a certain air of vagueness, or perhaps puzzlement, about him. He was pleased to see the beer, however, and told me to sit down.
“I was here a few days ago with a friend of mine,” I said. “From Canada.”
“Were you?” he said vaguely.
“I asked you about Marcus Galea,” I said, remembering to pronounce it the way the Hedgehog liked to.
“Did you?” he replied. I was getting a sinking feeling that this expedition was a hopeless one, but I soldiered on.
“I’ve been thinking that perhaps I asked the wrong questions,” I said.
“Perhaps you did,” he agreed.
“I think I should have asked you about Giovanni Galizia.”
“I expect so, yes,” he said.
“Do you remember Galizia?” I asked tentatively.
“Of course I do,” he said irritably. “It’s you, a few days ago, that I don’t remember. The past I remember vividly. It’s both a blessing and a curse.”
“And in the case of Galizia?”
“A curse. I would have to say a curse,”‘ he sighed. “Is that beer for me?” I handed him a bottle. “Have one!” he ordered. “I hate to drink alone.” He took a long swig from the bottle, then watched as I took a smaller swig from mine.
“You’re not one of those social worker types, are you?” he asked me. I shook my head, and he looked at me very carefully. Then, apparently satisfied with what he saw, he began. “Things happen to people around Giovanni Galizia. Bad things. I should know.” He paused. I waited. I knew, somehow, that this conversation would have to play its way out at the Hedgehog’s own pace.