“Busuttil’s the one doing all the hard work. He’s quite a character.”
“They say he’s the best on the island.”
“He’d better be. He’s got only two more days before the
She wanted details of the investigation, which he refused to give her. The less she knew, the better—for now, at least. Instead, they talked at length about the change of governor and how they both planned to break the news when finally allowed to do so.
As he was leaving her office, she placed her palm against the door to prevent him from opening it.
“What?”
“What do you think?” she replied.
“I have to guess the password?”
She smiled. “Hold me.”
“I haven’t washed properly in days.”
“You think
He drew her into his arms, and for the first time he felt the soft pressure of her breasts against his chest. Her hair was powdered with dust, the omnipresent Maltese dust.
She raised her head to peer up at him. “You weren’t lying.”
“Oh God …”
“I like it,” she said, holding him tighter to prove her point.
“The first thing I’m going to do when I get home is have a bath. Not just any bath. The bath to end all baths. I’m going to sit there and soak for hours. With a good book. And a big glass of pure malt whisky. And I’ll use my foot to top it up with piping hot water from time to time.”
“Your foot?”
“On the tap.”
“Oh.”
“You’ve never done that?” he asked.
“No.”
“It’s not so hard. The hardest part is using your other foot to remove the plug so the tepid water can drain away.”
“I can see you,” she said.
“Can you?”
“Like I was standing there.”
Max hesitated. “You can come in, if you want.”
“You’ll have to put your book down.”
“As long as I don’t have to let go of the whisky.”
“Okay,” she conceded with a small smile. “Now kiss me.”
It was a long and languorous kiss, neither of them wishing it to end.
It was growing dark, and Busuttil had spent more than enough time with the Cassars. He knew pretty much everything there was to know about their dead daughter—how as a young girl Carmela had hated having her hair braided for church; how she had loved having her back stroked in the bath; how she had won the art prize at school with her drawing of the Tarxien Temples. She had always been strong-willed, good with animals, tough on bullies, and indifferent to boys.
Josef searched for lies in their words, but was left with a picture of a model daughter, proud, principled, and kindhearted. So eager were they to bring her back to life with their reminiscences that only once did they ask him why he had come visiting. He palmed them off with the usual line about it being standard police procedure.
Carmela had been laid to rest in Santa Maria Addolorata Cemetery just a few days before, and before the light faded, her father was able to point out the spot from the house—a quiet corner near the western wall that apparently caught the early-morning sun. Carmela had always said that she wanted to be buried there.
Well, now she was. And only a stone’s throw away, Josef suspected, from the place where she’d been abducted. He knew from her parents the route she’d taken home from work every night, and he had played it through in his mind, walking the streets with her back from the Blue Parrot: Valetta, Floriana, down past the Porte des Bombes to Marsa, skirting the end of Grand Harbour, leaving the racetrack on her right. Until this point she’d have been on main roads. Better to wait till she took the shortcut, up the valley and through Santa Maria Addolorata Cemetery. That’s what he would have done. That’s what anyone who knew her movements would have done— waited till she was on the home stretch, well off the beaten track. Josef knew it in his bones, just as he knew that out there somewhere, someone was watching and waiting.
Who they were, and just where they’d picked up his trail, he didn’t know. But he would know soon enough. That’s why he had lingered so long with the Cassars, allowing the sun to set and darkness to descend. The night was his time, his friend. It was when he had always done his best work, even as a student at the university. The Cassars were keen that he stay and eat with them, but he made his excuses and left.
There was a waning moon overhead, only half-full, yet bright enough to illuminate his path down the hill. It was ideal. Any less light, and it would have been too dark to see what he was doing; any more, and the hunter might have realized that he had become the hunted.
The iron gate set in the south wall of the cemetery offered an added bonus. Its dry and dusty hinges groaned in protest as Josef slipped the latch and eased it open. After closing it behind him, he quickened his pace, stepping
