The Information Officer

drew comfort from his ignorance. The fact that he hadn’t got wind of such matters suggested that men such as Busuttil were accustomed to bringing a certain discretion to bear on their work. And that’s exactly what Max required of him.

“Is it possible there’s already an investigation under way?”

Busuttil shook his head. “I would know.”

“Unless Defense Security’s handling it.”

“I would know.”

Lilian had briefed Busuttil thoroughly, but he wanted details, specifics, all of which he recorded meticulously in a scuffed notebook.

He was intrigued by the idea that the killings might be the work of an enemy agent, but was more curious about the mechanics of the meeting in the lieutenant governor’s office. He asked for physical descriptions of all the men present.

His most reassuring question, though, related to the torn shoulder tab discovered in Carmela Cassar’s hand. He wanted to know where someone would go for such a thing if he needed a replacement. Max was able to give him the name of the military outfitters in Valetta favored by the submariners, because Lionel was forever moaning about Griscti’s. Unforgivably, Lionel’s second bar had been on order there since the beginning of the year, as if shipping in his medal to the besieged island were more of a priority than fuel, arms, and essential foodstuffs.

Busuttil made it clear to Max that time was against them and that the chances of success were low.

“You should have come to Busuttil before.”

“There are a lot of things I should have done differently,” said Max. “Look, I don’t know if Lilian said, but I can’t pay you.”

A shade of disappointment darkened Busuttil’s solemn countenance. “And you?” he asked. “Are you doing it for money?”

Max wouldn’t hear from him for twenty-four hours, Busuttil explained. Until then, he was to go about his business as normal. He advised against any contact with Lilian but didn’t forbid it.

As he was leaving, he turned at the door. “There is one thing you can do for me. The Spitfires, are they coming soon?”

“The Spitfires?”

“You are the information officer, no?”

“Believe me, that doesn’t count for much.”

Busuttil accepted the brush-off with a gracious nod and made off down the stairwell.

“Two days,” Max found himself calling into the darkness.

“Two days?”

“The ninth. Lots of them. More than sixty.”

“Ohhhhh,” cooed Busuttil from below. “Ohhhh, that is good.”

“We’ll see.”

“No, they will see. In two days they will see.”

There seemed to be a new lightness to the footfalls as they carried on down the stone steps.

Max took Busuttil at his word, throwing himself into his work, losing himself in a fog of intra-departmental meetings. Generally, he regarded these as an almost complete waste of time. The deadwood had long since been cut out of the rotting ship he’d inherited. His staff was faultless to a man (and woman), their proficiency and dedication beyond reproach. They also worked demanding schedules that left little room for lunch, let alone a series of ultimately pointless get-togethers called by their boss. They didn’t need the distraction. He, however, did. Anything to keep his mind off Mitzi and the revelation she’d sprung on him.

Shortly before midday he returned to his office and was surprised to find Freddie seated in an overstuffed chair near the window, nursing a mug of tea.

“Very good,” he said, raising the mug.

“Maria holds the best stuff back for visitors. We don’t get many.”

“I thought it best to tell you face-to-face. Your face, for what it’s worth, has looked better.”

“I didn’t sleep a wink last night.”

“He’s left-handed.”

It came from nowhere, and Max wasn’t sure if he’d heard right. “He’s what?”

“Left-handed.” Freddie leaned forward in the chair. “I should have realized it before. It occurred to me only when I was in surgery yesterday. The wound in Carmela Cassar’s neck, it was on the right-hand side, her right, which means he used his left hand.”

Max could still picture the long gash, the one inflicted by the bomb splinter that had sliced through her carotid artery. It was an image, he suspected, that would haunt his thoughts for a good long while.

“Unless he was standing behind her.”

“True,” conceded Freddie. “But unlikely.”

Getting to his feet, he took up the ebony letter opener on Max’s desk to demonstrate his point. The carotid artery was set deep in the neck. To penetrate to the required depth demanded considerable thrust, to say nothing of accuracy, neither of which was afforded by taking up a position behind the victim. It was a convincing demonstration, if a little unnerving.