Mark Mills - The Information Officer

They perked up a little when he asked, “Thirsty?”

He knew better than to order the drinks himself; their commission was what mattered to them. The youngest was dispatched to bring the refreshments, and Josef found a chair pulled up for him. He immediately turned his attention to the oldest, a baggy-eyed specimen in a grubby white frock. Win over the mother hen, and the others would follow.

“What’s the story?” he asked her, nodding at the sobbing man.

“He misses his wife.”

It was a voice coarsened by drink and cigarettes.

“You don’t say? Me too.”

“So why aren’t you crying?”

“You haven’t seen my wife.”

He knew he had them when they laughed.

“Where’s your wedding band?” asked mother hen, more practiced at such matters.

“Sold, so that the poor orphan boys of Saint Joseph’s might eat.”

This set them off again, although they sobered up fast when he raised the subject of Mary Farrugia. A few of them crossed themselves at the mention of their dead colleague. Josef made his play. He said he was Mary’s uncle, and he was there on a sensitive matter. It involved a pair of silver earrings, a gift to Mary from one of her customers just before her death. The family felt that the earrings should be returned to the British serviceman in question, the only trouble being that they had no idea who he was.

This triggered a flurry of speculation around the table. Judging from the number of names bandied about, Mary Farrugia had been a popular girl with the clientele of the John Bull.

“I think he might have been a submariner,” offered Josef, which was met with shrugs and blank faces. “Possibly an officer, unless she was lying.”

“Well, they’re not supposed to come here, but they do.”

“They dress down on purpose.”

“They know where to come for a good time.”

“A much better time.”

“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 was a man. I never met him. That lot don’t even know. Mary asked me not to tell. Her ‘special friend,’ that’s what she called him. She also said he was an officer with the submarines.”

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.”

“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. Best to remain skeptical , he told himself, as he lay there on the mattress, the mother reading aloud to her two children the story of Little Red Riding Hood. She read well, fluently and with feeling….

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?”