“What sort of relationship did they have?”
“What sort …?”
“You know what I mean. Did it demand privacy? Did they go somewhere?”
“She mentioned a flat. She didn’t say where. Gzira maybe, or Sliema.”
“Which? Gzira or Sliema?”
“I can’t remember.”
“Was it his flat?”
“She didn’t say.”
She was growing agitated now, regretting her decision to speak to him.
“Okay,” he said, more gently. “Thanks.”
“And my nephew?”
“If it checks out, I’ll come back and see you.”
“He’s a baby. He shouldn’t be in that place.”
“No, he should be. But that doesn’t mean I can’t help.”
When Lilian had come to his house in Naxxar and told him her tale of dead girls and cover-ups, Josef had agreed to meet Major Chadwick only out of courtesy to her and their mutual acquaintances. As he had seen it, the whole thing was either too preposterous for words or too hot to touch. The major had made Josef see things differently. It wasn’t what he had said so much as how he had carried himself. The quiet conviction of the man had touched Josef. If anyone was playing with fire, it was Major Chadwick. That an officer of his standing was prepared to throw everything away on a point of principle was more than just intriguing; it obliged you to take a long hard look at yourself.
He had decided to help on an impulse, not believing he’d make any real progress in a few short days. And yet, he already had a name: Ken. He ran it over and over in his head, testing it to see if it rang true. Was it too much to ask that the killer had given his real name to Mary Farrugia? Probably. Best to remain skeptical, he told himself, as he lay there on the mattress, the mother reading aloud to her two children the story of Little Red Riding Hood. She read well, fluently and with feeling….
He woke with a start, seizing the hand on his shoulder. The woman didn’t struggle or recoil, allowing him to orientate himself in the half-light, his filmy eyes slowly focusing.
“I’m sorry,” said Josef, releasing her wrist.
He saw that his jacket had fallen open while he was asleep, revealing the gun at his hip.
“I hope it didn’t scare them off.”
He meant her children, who were no longer there.
“Why do you have a gun?”
“I’m a policeman.”
“Where’s your uniform?”
“A detective.”
He swung his legs off the bed and pulled on his shoes. “How long have I been asleep?”
“Two hours, maybe a bit more. It’s easy to lose track of time down here. The all clear’s only just sounded.”
“Some life,” he said.
“It won’t last forever. There are more Spitfires coming.”
She had large, knowing eyes and a level stare.
“Can you keep a secret?” he asked.
“Most of the time,” she replied with a ghost of a grin.
“They’ll be here the day after tomorrow. More than the last time, more than sixty this time.”
Her teeth showed, white and even, when she smiled. “I don’t believe you.”
Josef extended his hand. “I’ll bet you a shilling.”
“I don’t have a shilling.”
“Then I’ll allow you to pay your debt in installments.”
“Okay,” she said after a moment, “but I can’t promise to offer you such generous terms.”
She took his hand, sealing the bet, providing them with the excuse to see each other again.
As he was leaving, she said, “You should put some baking soda on that thing. It’ll bring it to a head.”
She was referring to the carbuncle on his neck.
“Baking soda? I didn’t know that.”
“Well, now you do.”
“Where can I find baking soda?”
“You can’t. It’s all gone, months ago.”
“Well, thanks for the tip anyway.”
“Don’t mention it.”
Outside in the blinding sunshine, Josef paused to fill his lungs with fresh air and get his bearings. He felt invigorated by the sleep, or was it something else, something he hadn’t felt in a long while? He hadn’t even asked her name. That’s how hopeless he had become in his dealings with women.
He rarely stopped to think about how it had crept up on him, this solitary life of his: the small house in Naxxar inherited from his father, the house that would have gone to his older brother, if Karlu hadn’t given himself to God, turning his back on all worldly possessions. Karlu with his undying faith in man’s ability to rise to the challenge set him by the Almighty; he, Josef, the one with the biblical name, mercilessly hunting down those who failed to measure up.
He used to care about the job, he used to think he was serving a purpose, but now he wasn’t so sure. There would always be others to fill his boots, and yet he couldn’t give it up. It was his excuse for the half-life he’d landed himself with.
Strange that a chance encounter in an air-raid shelter could challenge his weary resignation. He smiled at the memory of her words, playfully defiant: I can’t promise to offer you such generous terms.
A pretty woman, and a funny one too, he mused as he pushed open the door to Griscti’s military outfitters.
The wooden counter ran the full width of the shop, and on the felt panels covering the wall behind it were pinned a dizzying array of caps, berets, badges, and buttons. The cabinets lining the side walls had lost their glass and now stood empty. Behind the counter a dapper-looking man with a goatee beard and pince-nez spectacles was berating a shopgirl for something or other to do with a reel of gold braid. He schooled his features into an unconvincing smile as Josef approached.
“May I help you?”
Josef produced his badge and demanded to see the shop ledger. The manager grudgingly handed it over.
There was no record of a sale of a submariner’s shoulder tab in the past ten days, not since Carmela Cassar had been found dead in the street with the remnants of one in her hand. In fact, the ledger recorded barely any sales since the beginning of the month. This wasn’t so surprising; the soldiers, sailors, and airmen on the island had better things to think about right then than the trim of their battle dress. Ken, assuming that was his name, assuming that he had killed Mary Farrugia before going on to murder two more girls, assuming that he existed at all and that mother hen hadn’t been trying to pull a fast one for the sake of her nephew—
“Have you finished?” demanded the manager.
Josef silenced him with a look, irritated by the distraction, irritated by the number of assumptions driving the case. Facts and evidence were what counted.
He flicked back through the ledger—April, March, February, January …
“Do you have a ruler?” asked Josef.
“A ruler?”
Unprompted, the shopgirl pulled one from a drawer and handed it over.
“Thanks,” said Josef with a smile, taking it from her and using it to tear off the relevant pages of the ledger.
The manager looked stunned by this act of desecration.
“Don’t worry. You’ll get them back.”
TACITUS CONTACTED HIM AT THE USUAL TIME.
He had made a point over the past days of neither broad casting nor receiving, choosing instead to leave the machine tucked well away in its wooden box. He could imagine Tacitus’s frustration, but he couldn’t picture the man behind the code name. He vacillated between an unassuming character, easily underestimated, and a more obvious type in the Lutz Kettelmann mold: tall, officious, blandly handsome. His tastes ran naturally to the former. He liked a dark horse, being something of one himself.
The message brought a smile to his lips. It was the first time that Tacitus had addressed him in English.Silence is not always golden. Tacitus.