The Information Officer

The characters lost their lustre, like wet clay hardening in the sun. Baked, cracked, and flawed, the tiny effigies were hard to care for. He shunted them about, choreographing the final act as best he could. The days ahead would be turbulent and unpredictable. He couldn’t foretell the exact hour when the new Spitfires would fly in, or when the Upstanding would slip away to Alexandria, or where exactly the official duties of the various players, himself included, would carry them during the inevitable chaos.

His meditations were interrupted by the building wail of the siren. Yet another raid, the third of the night. He lit a cigarette, annoyed by the distraction that had caused him to lose his train of thought. Extinguishing the candle, he crossed to the window and pushed open the shutters.

The blue-white fingers of the searchlights groped around the heavens, their efforts thwarted by a low blanket of clouds that played in the Germans’ favor. Before long, he heard the grumbling roar of unseen Junkers approaching. There weren’t many of them, a mere handful by the sound of it. The reason for that became clear a few moments later.

They dropped through the clouds in the hundreds, sputtering into life—bright white, falling silently to earth, dripping phosphorescence, illuminating the underbelly of the clouds. And still they kept coming, hundreds of them, thousands of them, like swarming fireflies, turning night into day, lighting up the whole island now, laying bare the undulating mosaic of the Maltese landscape.

It was a spectacle he’d witnessed before, but never quite on this scale, and it was impressive, almost moving, until you remembered that it was the harmless prelude to a far more devastating display of pyrotechnics. The other bombers, the ones carrying death in their bellies, were already approaching, the air throbbing with the menacing beat of their engines.

The revelation came to him as the searchlights converged on the first wave of planes to break cloud cover: a new ending, a bold and unexpected finale, one at which Max and Lilian would both be present.

DAY SEVEN

UNFORTUNATELY, BUSUTTIL WAS A MAN OF HIS WORD.

He reappeared at Max’s flat at five A.M., exactly twenty-fours after his first visit. He seemed surprisingly perky given that he hadn’t made it home to his own bed, opting instead to pass the night in a shelter in Valetta.

“You’re welcome to stay here, you know.”

“Thank you, but the shelter is okay.”

Max had raided Maria’s secret store of quality tea for the occasion, sneaking home just enough for a small pot.

“She’ll kill me for it.”

“I might do the same,” said Busuttil, the taste sending him into a worrying trance. Once he’d recovered, he got straight to the point, bringing Max up to speed on his findings.

“Ken?”

“That’s what she said. Maybe it’s his real name. Maybe it isn’t. Maybe she was lying. I found nothing at Griscti’s. I’ll try the other outfitters today.”

“Maybe I can help?”

“Of course you can. But be careful who you speak to.”

Busuttil had paid two visits to the Blue Parrot, neither of which had revealed anything of note regarding Carmela Cassar. The other girls she’d worked with had painted a picture of a scrupulously moral young woman who had never associated with clients outside the confines of the club. This didn’t mean there wasn’t more to discover on that front; he’d ascertained that the club was popular with officers from the submarine flotilla. He also intended to pay a visit to Carmela’s parents. He stood a better chance of extracting something from them, which, given the hopeless failure of Max’s visit, wasn’t saying much.

Max had nothing much to offer Busuttil in return besides Freddie’s theory that the killer was left-handed.

“Interesting,” said Busuttil, before adding, “Tell me about Freddie.”

“Freddie?”

“Tell me about him.”

“Why?”

“Because everything starts with him. He tells you. You tell Lilian. She tells me. The story grows. Maybe that’s what he wants. Who do I tell?”

“No one, I hope, until you know exactly what’s going on,” replied Max firmly.

“You never know exactly. What makes a man kill? I don’t know. Do you?”

“I know you’re barking up the wrong tree with Freddie.”

Busuttil shrugged. “I’m very suspicious. I have even asked myself if it is you.”

“Well, it isn’t me.”

It was a slightly sour note on which to end. Busuttil suggested that they meet again at ten o’clock that night to pool their findings, and then he disappeared into the new day.

Pemberton was waiting for Max when he got to work, bursting with barely concealed excitement, although he waited till they were alone before spilling the beans.

“The governor’s gone.”

“Gone?”