“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.
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.
