The Information Officer (31 page)

“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?”

“Last night. From Kalafrana. Left in a seaplane.”

It was good to know that Elliott wasn’t a total fraud.

“Why are you whispering?” whispered Max.

Pemberton looked crestfallen. “You knew?”

“I got a whiff of it.”

Keep it cryptic, keep the new boy in his place, then find out how the hell the new boy got the jump on him.

“Who did
you
hear it from?”

“Rosamund, who heard it from Hugh. Apparently he’s known for a couple of days. She was very upset.”

Rosamund had shown up at breakfast at the Copnalls’ house in Saint Julian’s, where Pemberton was lodging. If she was to be believed, the governor of Gibraltar, Lord Gort, was now the governor of Malta, having flown in to Kalafrana on the same seaplane that had then carried the Dobbies off.

Gort was a good man, by all accounts—a tough no-nonsense type—and Rosamund would get over it once she’d secured a place for herself at the new court.

It wasn’t long before the call came through from the lieutenant governor’s office, as Max knew it would. He wandered next door to the Vincenzo Bugeja Conservatory, pushing aside memories of his last visit.

The sight of Hodges perched self-importantly behind his desk brought them flooding back.

“It’s good to see you again, Major Chadwick.”

A pointed comment intended to go over the heads of the other men already gathered there, waiting to be called through. They were standing in a loose huddle, smoking and talking in hushed tones. Max nosed his way among them. There were representatives from Defense Security and Censorship, along with a couple of faces he recognized from the Union Club.

“Heard the news, old man?”

“About Dobbie?”

“Damn shame, if you ask me.”

“Straight out of left field. Didn’t even say goodbye.”

“He’s been poorly for a while.”

“Yes, a bad case of
‘Et tu, Brute?’
from what I hear.”

“Really?”

“Methinks Mabel has been up to her old tricks.”

Mabel Strickland was the editor of the
Times of Malta
, and a force to be reckoned with. It was well known that her influence extended far beyond the shores of Malta to the corridors of Whitehall.

“Oh goody, a scandal. We haven’t had one of those for a while.”

If you only knew
, thought Max.

He stayed well out of the was-he-pushed-or-did-he-jump speculation that followed, which was soon interrupted by the appearance of Colonel Gifford, who summoned them through.

The lieutenant governor rose from his desk to greet them. Despite the suntan, his face appeared drawn and careworn. He didn’t hang about, confirming that Lord Gort was indeed the new governor and commander in chief. In the fullness of time they would all have a chance to meet him, but right then he had his head down with the service chiefs, poring over the preparations for the forthcoming battle. The fly-in of Spitfires would meet with fierce resistance from the Germans, as would the arrival of HMS
Welshman
the following day. The fast minelayer was going to be making a lone dash from Gibraltar loaded to the gunwales with ammunition, aircraft parts, and food. They were calling it Operation Bowery, and Lord Gort was firmly of the view that nothing should be allowed to distract the islanders during this time. News of his appointment should therefore be kept under wraps for a couple of days, and it was the responsibility of the men in the room to see that his wishes were fulfilled.

The lieutenant governor assured the men that they wouldn’t be disappointed with the new governor, and even shared an anecdote to bear out his point. As luck would have it, the seaplane base at Kalafrana had suffered a heavy air raid soon after Lord Gort’s arrival, the first bombs raining down right in the middle of the swearing-in ceremony. A very large egg, possibly a two-thousand-pounder, had narrowly missed the base commander’s house where they were all gathered, sending everyone diving for cover—everyone other than Lord Gort, who had barely flinched.

He’ll learn
, thought Max.

“Something for you to use, Major Chadwick, when the time’s right.”

“Absolutely, sir. Stirring stuff.”

He saw Colonel Gifford’s nostrils twitch, sniffing for sarcasm.

The meeting over, the men filed out of the office, past Hodges, and into the corridor. Colonel Gifford followed close on their heels.

“Major Chadwick …”

He evidently wanted a word in private, so Max hung back. Gifford waited for the others to drift out of earshot before speaking.

“No hard feelings about the other day, I hope?”

“No, just suitably chastened.” He threw in a coy and contrite little look. “I was a bloody fool. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Gifford appeared to swallow it. “That’s war for you. It messes with our perspective on things.”

“Not yours.”

“No, even mine.”

This admission of fallibility was accompanied by an almost beatific expression.

Just think of Busuttil
, Max told himself,
out there at this very moment, digging for the truth
.

“Well, we’re all going to have to stay focused over the next few days,” said Gifford. “The time of reckoning is here.”

“Let’s hope,” replied Max.

Mother hen was seated at the counter, talking to the barman, and her lined face lit up when she saw him.

Josef dumped himself at a table well away from the other girls and waited for her to join him. She made her way over with a small glass of something brown.

“On the house.”

Josef sneaked a sip. It was whisky, and it hadn’t been watered down. He flattened a larger sip against his palate, savoring it.

“I need to know if you were lying.”

“Lying?”

“About Ken.”

“Why would I lie to you?”

“Because of your nephew.”

“I told you what Mary told me.”

“She definitely said he was with the submarines?”

“Yes.”

“Anything else? Dark, fair? Thin, fat?”

“How many fat people do you know on Malta?”

“True.”

“Gozo, maybe. I hear they still eat like kings on Gozo.”

She reached for one of his cigarettes, and he lit it for her.

“I see him as having a mustache, but I don’t know if that’s because of something Mary said.”

“Can you think of anyone else she might have talked to about him? Maybe someone from her family?”

“She wasn’t close to her family. She wasn’t close to many people. She lived alone in Hamrun.”

He didn’t bother asking for the address. He had enough on his plate already without a trip to Hamrun.

“Are you going to tell me what this is about?”

“No,” replied Josef. “But you’re going to tell me the name of your nephew and I’m going to see what I can do for him.”

“There’s no need to take it so personally. We’ve all been through it.”

Pemberton shifted in his chair. “You’re asking me to lie?”

“To exercise a certain discretion. The press correspondents are out to make a name for themselves. Good news, bad news, it’s all fair game to them.”

Pemberton had made the mistake of being honest with one of the correspondents about a couple of Beaufighters that had failed to return to Luqa after a mission. It was the sort of news you didn’t want going off the island.

“All I’m saying is, be a bit more guarded in your responses to them.”

“Guarded?”

“Gray. Until you’ve spoken to me.”

Pemberton fumbled for a cigarette.
Poor boy
, thought Max,
he’s probably never put a foot wrong
. It was written all over him: top of the
class, captain of sports,
victor ludorum
, head boy, handsome as hell, and now this—a small blunder that had tarnished his perfect record.

“Rosamund says no one reads the
Daily Situation Report,”
Pemberton moaned.

“Does she?”

“She says it’s a joke.”

“Not for the men whose deaths you’re recording.”

Max was beginning to lose his patience, but Pemberton didn’t appear to notice.

“She says no one reads it and the Maltese don’t believe a word of it.”

True enough; he knew that from Lilian.

“Surely they have to read it in order not to believe a word of it.”

“That’s semantics.”

“Semantics is our business. The sooner you understand that, the better it’ll be for you.”

This time, Max invested his voice with a firm touch of authority that startled Pemberton into silence.

“Look,” sighed Max, “whatever you think, whatever you’ve heard, they’ll all be reading it over the next few days. It’s my guess you’re about to chronicle one of the great moments of this war.”

“You think so?”

“I do. I think we’re going to show the Germans a thing or two tomorrow. I think they won’t know what’s hit them. I think we’re going to be standing on the beach when the tide turns.”

It was hardly Churchill, but it seemed to lift Pemberton’s spirits.

“I like that image of the tide turning. I was brought up by the sea, you know?”

Probably swims like a fish, too
, thought Max.

The moment Pemberton was gone, Max lit a cigarette and reflected on the exchange. He felt bad for having raised his voice. He knew he had only been taking out his own frustrations on his young charge, the most recent conversation with Tommy Ravilious still fresh in his mind.

Max had thought about heading over to the submarine base in
person. Remembering Busuttil’s warning to tread carefully, he had picked up the phone instead.

“Tommy, it’s Max.”

“Ahhhh, Max …” There was something strange in his tone.

“A quick question—”

“I should stop you there, old man. I’m under orders not to speak to you.”

“What?”

“Apparently you’ve become persona non grata. I told them you always were.”

“Who’s them?”

“Does it matter? The powers that be.”

“Tommy, this is important.”

“So’s my pension, old man.”

“Ken.”

“Come again?”

“I’m trying to find a chap called Ken. He’s one of yours, probably an officer.”

“They said you weren’t to be trusted and I was to let them know if you tried to make contact.”

“You can’t do that.”

“I most certainly can, but I’m not going to. I’m going to hang up.”

“Is he one of yours? Yes or no?”

“Sorry, no ken do.”

“That’s not funny.”

“It’s code, you idiot. We don’t have a Ken—not now, not ever.”

“Thanks, Tommy.”

“What for? We never spoke.”

A dead end. There was nothing more he could do to move matters along. The waiting game was messing with his head, and young Pemberton had paid the price for it.

He was thinking about taking another turn on the roof when the phone rang. It was Maria, and she had Hugh on the line.

“Your presence is requested for dinner at ours this evening, seven for seven-thirty. You won’t guess what we’re eating.”

“I’m so hungry that dog would do.”

“Try duck.”

“Duck? Not Laurel and Hardy!”

Laurel and Hardy were two plump mallards who’d inhabited the pond at the end of Hugh and Rosamund’s garden. They were part of the family, like surrogate children. Max had spent many an hour gathering snails to feed them.

“Think of it as a noble act of self-sacrifice. And if that doesn’t work, think of the taste.”

“Hugh, you can’t.”

“Lady Macbeth already has, I’m afraid. It’s a special occasion—farewell to Mitzi and Lionel.”

“They’re going to be there?”

“Bit of an odd farewell bash if they weren’t, don’t you think?”

Max suggested they meet at the Union Club beforehand. He was going to need a couple of drinks to set himself up.

“I wish,” said Hugh. “The CRA has got us jumping through hoops. I’ll be lucky to get away by seven as it is.”

Busuttil made his way beneath Victoria Gate and down to the customhouse at the water’s edge. He had a particular fondness for the elegant old building from his days on port control and was saddened to see that it had taken a couple of bad knocks since he’d last been there.