“A
“We can show you, if you like,” said one of the younger girls, a frail-looking creature who must once have been pretty.
They were teasing him now, losing interest in his quest. He made one last effort to draw a name from them. When this failed, he made his excuses and left them to their drinks.
Mother hen caught up with him near the entrance.
“Tell me something—if you’re Mary’s uncle, then why weren’t you at her funeral?”
She had him cold.
“Are you a cop?”
“Yes.”
“What’s this about?”
“Nothing that concerns you.”
“It might.”
“You know something?”
“I know I have a nephew in prison.”
Oh, so that was it.
“What’s he in for?”
“Looting.”
Josef despised looters.
“Some would say prison’s the right place for a looter to be.”
“Some would say it’s no place for an eighteen-year-old boy who fell in with the wrong crowd and who’s learned his lesson.”
Josef let the silence linger awhile. “It depends on what you’ve got.”
“Will a name do?”
“Maybe,” he said, trying to contain himself.
She gave a quick glance over her shoulder. “There
Josef could feel his pulse quickening. “Go on.”
“That’s it.”
“His name?”
“Ken.”
“Ken?”
“That’s what she said.”
“No surname?”
“Just Ken.”
It was possible she was lying. At the table he had asked for the name of a submarine officer, and now she had just given him one. He stared into her bloodshot eyes. He prided himself on his ability to ferret out a fiction from a person’s eyes. Bombarding the person with rapid-fire questions also helped.
“She never described him to you?”
“Only that he was tall and handsome.”
“If they didn’t meet here, where did they meet?”
“In the street, I think, out and about.”
“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.”
