02 _ Maltese Goddess, The (27 page)

“Could do, I suppose,” Tabone said. “It does sound a little far-fetched, though, you have to admit. In any event, Sidjian was already here. He arrived at the same time you did, so he couldn’t have been in Toronto killing Galea.”

I shrugged. “I know. But what about Francesco? Where was he and what was he doing all this time?”‘

“Good question,” Tabone said to me, as a young policeman came to the door with an envelope. As he took it, Tabone said, “No way to find out until we know who he is, either. Maybe this will help,” he said, taking two photographs out of the envelope. “Take at look at these for me, will you?”

The two photos were placed in front of me. I looked carefully at each. They were not very good quality, having been taken with a long lens from a considerable distance, I thought, but they were good enough. I pointed to one.

Tabone grimaced at me. “Afraid you’d pick that one. Franco Falcone, actually Franco Falzon. Maltese, regrettably. From Xemxija on St. Paul’s Bay. Left Malta as a very young man to go to Italy, where clearly he picked up some nasty habits.”

“Franco the troublemaker,” I said. “The boy who grew up to be a gangster. That’s it! That’s what we need!” I was up and dancing around the room.

“What is she talking about?” Tabone asked Rob in a puzzled tone. “Is it shock, do you think?”

“Franco the troublemaker. That rings a bell. Why does that ring a bell?” Rob asked me.

“Three pals at school. Marcus the young bull, Giovanni the rat, and Franco the troublemaker. Marcus grew up to be an architect, Giovanni became External Relations Minister, but Franco grew up to be a gangster. Ask the Hedgehog.”

“The Hedgehog?” Tabone groaned. Rob just grinned at me.

“Grizzled old guy who sits on a deck chair beside the grocery store at some steps that lead up the hill in Mellieha. If anyone would know about this, the Hedgehog would,” Rob said.

“Send Esther,” I added. “Tell her to take a six-pack of Cisk lager. He’ll like her. I’d tell her to mention my name, but he wouldn’t remember me.” Tabone threw up his hands. “Don’t worry,” I said. “He may not remember me, but he’ll remember Giovanni the rat and Franco the troublemaker just fine.”

Rob turned to Tabone, still smiling. “I’m calling this name in, Vince. See what we can find out about Falcone’s and his activities in the last while. Back soon,”‘ he said as he left the room. While we waited, Tabone got on the phone to Esther and gave her instructions on how to find the Hedgehog. “Get on this, Esther. It may be the break we need in this mess.”

About fifteen minutes later, Rob returned with a rather bemused expression on his face. “I’m a bit reluctant to tell you this, because I can already see what you’ll want to do with this bit of information,” Rob said slowly, “but I guess I have to. I’ve just been talking to a friend of mine in the CIA. I’d called him with Lara’s ID of Falcone and asked him what information he had on the man. I mean, we know how Sidjian got here, but where did Falcone come from? As it turns out, the Americans have been wondering where Franco went to. The CIA caught a glimpse of him in a random check of airport video footage a week or so ago—he’s a known criminal wanted all over the place—but he’d vanished without a trace. The photograph you saw, Lara, was taken off the videotape, which is why it was rather grainy. On a hunch, I asked them to check where he was videotaped and when—the tape will give them that—and then to check them against flight schedules and departure gates at that time. It seems our friend was just a few yards from a gate where a flight bound for guess where was about to take off.”

“Rome,” Tabone said.

“Malta,” I chipped in.

“Both wrong. Toronto!” the Mountie said. “About twenty-four hours before Galea died.”

“So are you saying Lara might be right about Galea being killed because of the assassination plans? Do you think it was Franco who killed Galea and then used his ticket and travel documents?” Tabone exclaimed.

“It’s a long shot, but I suppose it’s possible. On the strength of this bit of information, let’s throw caution to the winds here, and see if we can pull it all together.”

“Sidjian does the deal with Galizia and checks on the PM’s schedule,” Tabone hypothesized. “Not too many opportunities here, because as we know Abela’s been ill. But there is the soiree at Galea’s house and they decide to do it there. Sidjian makes his way from France, planning to set up operations in the house. Franco kills Galea in Toronto to get him out of the way, then travels to Rome using Galea’s documents. I suppose Sidjian could have planned to impersonate Galea. I mean, Galizia knew what Galea looked like, they grew up together, but the Prime Minister might not, nor might the others. Galea left here a long time ago, and he’s an architect, not a movie star, after all. Galea was not exactly a household name around here, at least not until he died. And if Galizia were the perpetrator of all this, then he wouldn’t say anything. Marissa and Joseph might be a problem, but, not, I would think, an insurmountable one. They could be avoided. I’m not sure he’d have to, however. With Galea out of the way, he could just wait in the house until the victim showed up.

“But the house, when he gets there, is now occupied,” Tabone said.

“Exactly!” I said. “I show up at the house and spoil that part of it. So they try to scare me away with the dead cat, and maybe even try to kill me with that business with the brakes, but neither works and the house would remain off limits to them.”

“If this is true, then where the plan to use Galea’s house really ran into a glitch,” Rob said, “is when Galea turned up here dead, a fact that must surely have put a crimp in their plans. It’s ironic when you think about it. Sidjian plans this down to the last detail. But Franco stuffs Galea into a large chest to buy himself some time, not knowing that the furniture is destined to arrive here the next day.”

“But what about the yellow sticker? It was the wrong piece of furniture,” I asked, then answered my own question. “It’s probably as simple as Galea changing his mind about which piece of furniture he wanted to send. He changed the sticker himself probably, or Marilyn did.”

“We’ll probably never know the answer to that one, with Martin dead and Marilyn nowhere to be found,” Rob replied. “But given that this is what happened, which I still really can’t buy, your explanation is as good as any.”

Tabone said excitedly, “Sidjian, who is already here and has seen Lara in the house, begins working on alternate plan B, the fallback position as Lara calls it. He isn’t in contact with Franco yet, and anyway, he has no way of knowing how long Lara will be here. She might well leave before Franco arrives, and they can go back to the original plan. But then Galea turns up in the furniture, and that means plan A is as dead as Galea is. What a terrible waste, if it’s true.”

We all sat and thought about it for a while. Finally Rob spoke up, “I don’t suppose that I have to point out that if the evidence linking Galizia to the assassination plot is rather thin, the evidence linking him to Galea is virtually non-existent. It wouldn’t even qualify as circumstantial, interesting though all this may be. We’ll have to continue the investigation into Galea’s death in Canada. I’m not the officer in charge of the investigation, but I’ll tell him about Falcone and our theories about the link. It’ll be up to him and our superiors as to whether they think this does it or not.

“One thing, though, Lara. You may have to come to terms with the idea that Marilyn Galea is dead. If our theory is true, then Marilyn was probably killed by Falcone too. He just did a better job of dealing with her body. Maybe he killed her, hid the body, and waited for Galea to come home. It was the maid’s day off, you’ll recall. In any event, her credit cards have not been used, no checks have been cashed, since the day Galea died. It doesn’t look good.”

“I know,” I said. “I’d already thought of that. As much as I don’t want her to be the killer, I don’t want her to be dead even more.”

“I think,” Rob said gently, “that we would be better off concentrating on how to prove that Galizia is guilty.”

Later that day, Rob and I went over to the Farragia house in Siggiewi. Marissa had called to tell me that she and Joseph had decided to tell Anthony everything-—about his acceptance at the University of Toronto, his inheritance, and about his father. She said they’d very much appreciate having me there, and Rob too, if he’d come, as neutral parties, and in case their courage failed them.

We joined them in their tiny living room for a cup of tea. All three Farrugias were there as was Sophia. There was lots of idle chitchat for some time, but eventually, Marissa got around to the subject at hand. Joseph sat quietly, almost numb with anxiety, in a chair in a dark corner of me room.

“Anthony,” Marissa said quietly, “we have some news for you. About University, and about other things. Your father and I have done something we aren’t proud of, and we owe you an apology. Our only excuse, I guess, is that we love you and we have been afraid of losing you, so afraid that our judgment has been clouded.”

Anthony looked surprised and slightly baffled by this turn in the conversation.

“You’ve been accepted at the University of Toronto,” his mother told him, “but not, regrettably, in Rome. We opened your letters and we shouldn’t have done mat. I’m sorry. We both are. The letters are here,” she said, handing them to him.

Anthony looked at them carefully, and then said, “I know there’s no way we can afford for me to go,” he said to his parents. “I’m just happy to know I was accepted.”

“But it is possible you will be able to study,” Marissa went on. “Mr. Galea has left you some money in his will. It may be a while before you get it, but Lara has talked to Mr. Galea’s lawyers, and we think you can get a student loan until Mr. Galea’s money comes to you.”

Anthony looked absolutely stunned, then jubilant. He got up and hugged his mother, then Sophia, and then went over to Joseph. Joseph, looking close to tears, patted his son on the shoulder, but said nothing.

“That’s nice of Mr. Galea, isn’t it, Mum?” Anthony said. “Why would he do that, I wonder?”

“He did it because… I knew him before, a long time ago. But he went away. I thought he’d come back, but he didn’t, until last year. He didn’t know, then, I mean, but when he came back, he knew. He did it because he knew, because he was…”

Anthony looked at her, trying in vain, I could tell, to comprehend what she was saying. Joseph slumped in his chair and covered his eyes. Marissa looked at me, and then Rob, pleading with her eyes. She tried to speak, but couldn’t. I opened my mouth to speak, but my throat felt dry, and I couldn’t get any words out either.

“What your mother is trying to tell you, Anthony,” Rob said gently, “is that Martin Galea was your dad.”

Anthony’s eyes searched all our faces, looking intently at each of us for a few seconds. Marissa had tears running down her face, I still couldn’t speak, Joseph slumped even lower in his chair and would not look at his son.

“No!” Anthony exclaimed suddenly. “Dads help you with your schoolwork. They go and speak to the school principal so he won’t expel you when you’ve done something bad. Dads teach you to play football and tell you everything about girls. And most of all,” he said, his face flushed, “dads are nice to your mum!

“Mr. Galea may have been my father, but this,” he said, pointing to Joseph, “this is my dad!”

We all cried. Marissa and I held on to each other and sort of sobbed quietly, and even Rob looked a little misty-eyed. Joseph was completely overcome. Only Sophia remained dry-eyed, and she looked at Anthony as if seeing him in an entirely new light. And perhaps we all did. Anthony had the easy charm and rather quixotic moods of his natural father, but he obviously had something Martin Galea had lacked: a generosity of spirit and a very solid grounding in what was important in life. I had the feeling I’d watched a little boy grow up in an instant, and he went on to prove that.

“I have something more I’d like to say,” he went on when we’d all recovered slightly. “I really want to be an architect,” he said. “I know it won’t be easy, but I think I can do it. So if there really is some money, I’m going to go to Canada to study. I’ll come back when my studies are done.”

He turned to Sophia and smiled at her. “I won’t forget you, Soph, I promise.”

“Of course you won’t,” she said firmly. “I’m coming with you.”

Perhaps, I thought, history does not always repeat itself. How pleased Anna Stanhope would be.

“Don’t worry, Marissa,” I promised, as we left a little later. “I’ll keep an eye on them for you.”

“Me too,” Rob said and hugged her.

Late in the afternoon the day before I went home, I returned to Mnajdra. The area was still cordoned off, but a policeman, one of Tabone’s men, recognized me and let me in.

The VIP tent, one of its tent poles broken, slumped sadly, canvas drooping like a ghostly sailing ship becalmed. The light standard lay where it had fallen, its lamp shattered, jagged pieces of glass fragments caught by the late afternoon sun. I could see where Anna Stanhope had fallen, and the memory of that night flooded back very painfully, the horror and senselessness of it almost choking me.

I thought about Anna as I had seen her that morning, lying in her hospital bed, pale, ill, and with her emotional pain perhaps worse than her injuries. A nurse let me into the room, whispering that Anna was to be flown back to England by air ambulance the next day, to complete her recovery there.

I had thought she was sleeping, she lay so still, her eyes closed, but she began to speak after a few moments, without looking at me.

“I should have known, shouldn’t I,” she said softly. It was a statement, not a question. “I should have known that a man like him would never be attracted to a woman like me. The signs were all there, of course, had I not been so busy behaving like a silly schoolgirl.”

“I don’t know how you could know,” I said, “I didn’t guess.”

“When I make a mistake, I make a big one,” she said and laughed a little. “Never been one to do anything by halves.” She paused for a moment.

“Do you know what the topper is, though?” she asked, opening her eyes and turning to look at me. “Biggest blunder of my life, and can you believe this? Look at this!” she demanded, waving a piece of paper in front of me. “They’re giving me a medal for it!” I looked at the paper. It was, indeed, a letter from Prime Minister Abela telling her he was recommending her for a medal of some kind.