A Dead Man in Malta (12 page)

‘He’s not that keen on the English.’

‘No, but it was more that he is very keen on football. He and Wilson used to argue about it all the time. The trouble was that Vasco knew more about football, even English football, than Wilson did, and it irritated him. It irritated the others, too, when they were visiting.

‘Of course, you expect a bit of banter about football when it’s men but this was different. It had an edge to it. And it happened every time. Every time that they came in. He would
always
say something about football. Either about the football here—usually the Navy football—or about football in England. And usually it was not just saying, it was
taunting
.

‘It got so bad that I felt I had to stop it, so I moved him to the other end of the ward. But that made it worse. He would shout down the ward and they would shout back. So
everyone
could hear, and
everyone
got involved! Of course, I read the riot act and threatened to put Vasco in a cubicle on his own. Things got a little better. But then Wilson died.’

‘And they stopped coming?’

‘Well, actually, they didn’t. I still used to see them hanging around. Visiting someone else, I suppose. Or maybe they just thought that the hospital was a cool place to go!’

Standing there in the Upper Barraca Gardens, looking out over the harbour crowded with English warships, and out further to the incredible blue Mediterranean, empty except for just a couple of ships laying a trail of steam across the horizon, Chantale suddenly felt a moment of release.

It wasn’t so much release from the constraints of being with Mrs Wynne-Gurr’s St John Ambulance party, although it was nice to get away for a moment, as release from a general feeling of tightness that she had been carrying about with her, it seemed, for ages. She knew what it was. The tightness was England. And it wasn’t just the tightness of the crowded East End streets—heavens, the streets of Tangier were crowded enough!—as the way in which the sky closed down on you, shutting you into the closed, tight little horizon of greyness.

Here, the sky opened up and carried on for ever, merging its blueness with sea which was equally blue, and still, so still. This morning the sky was subtly different from what it had been the day before. Mrs Ferreira waking up that morning had pronounced it colder and had stipulated that Sophia was to wear her jacket. Grandfather—surely not?—had put on a scarf.

And, yes, the day had seemed colder when Chantale had stepped out into the street. Of course, these things were relative and later Grandfather would remove his scarf and his jersey and go about shirt-sleeved as before. And Sophia would be racing around in her thin summer dress. But there definitely was a difference in the air.

Or was it not so much a difference in the feel of things as in the look of things? The sky, that beautiful blue sky, seemed somehow whiter, the sun gently muted.

Chantale recognized the feel of the day at once. It was one of those mornings that were treasured in Tangier, when the heat was less intense, lifted its burden, and lots of things came alive. Birds, especially, attacking any stretch of water with revived alacrity.

And, suddenly, Chantale felt a great ache inside her at all the things she missed, all that she had forgone when she had moved to England: the subtle changes of the sun and light.

No, she would not go back, she knew that. But it was nice occasionally to be reminded of it. And here in Malta she was reminded of it. It was a different way of life, which you knew from the inside.

The English had come to Malta, just as the French had come to Tangier, and imposed their way of life. On the surface, they had won out. But, underneath, was a buried life which had continued for centuries and would go on regardless.

They might call it the Grand Harbour but Chantale had seen the other name which was on all the maps: il-Port-il-Kebir.

Perhaps it was the slight change in the weather that had prompted it but Mrs Ferreira had announced that morning that she was going shopping with Uncle Paolo to see that he was properly ‘fitted out’ for his return to the big ships. Chantale had soon grasped that this was the tradition when a member of your family put to sea, and even Grandfather did not demur. Nor, surprisingly, did Uncle Paolo, except for a token demurral that he was now old enough etc. But Mrs Ferreira was firm.

‘Debra can’t do it, so I must!’ she said, and Uncle Paolo bowed his head in acquiesence and arrived shortly after breakfast.

Mrs Ferreira had prepared a list. But she didn’t need to, really, since she had proposed similar lists before, for her father, brothers, and even for Paolo himself. In any case, a list was hardly necessary when everyone knew what you needed when you put to sea. But making a list was clearly part of it and Mrs Ferreira got a great deal of pleasure from making one. It helped to bind the family together, she told Chantale, to remind the family that it was one.

This was particularly necessary in the case of Uncle Paolo, she explained. Because of the unfortunate start to his life and his subsequent moving around, not just from family to family but from country to country, he had never properly put down roots. Mrs Ferreira was inclined to attribute to this cause the fact that he had never married. If he had married, she said, it would have settled him.

For, at the age of forty, he was still in her view unsettled. ‘He doesn’t know where he belongs. Of course, he belongs here, but he doesn’t seem able to recognize it.’ If he had recognized it, she said tartly, he wouldn’t be playing in the Birgu band but for ‘our band’. To Mrs Ferreira this was a kind of betrayal: but Chantale thought it was perhaps a case of kicking against the pricks of family as far as, in Malta, you could decently go. Paolo obviously had a strong attachment to his family. Whenever it gathered, he gathered, too. But Chantale sensed an uneasiness there, a kind of tension, as if he felt that because of his mother’s marriage he could never be fully accepted into it.

Chantale wasn’t sure whether that was true. Certainly there seemed to be some special tension between Paolo and Mrs Ferreira’s father; but Mrs Ferreira seemed determined that if there was any such tension she would personally do her best to overcome it.

The normally genial Lucca was plainly disheartened.

‘He’s still at it,’ he said.

‘At …?’

‘Questions,’ he said. ‘All yesterday and then all this morning. Well, I don’t mind answering questions. It’s his job, after all. But within reason. I mean, I’ve got a job, too, and this is only part of it. When am I going to get the rest done? Every time I look into my office I see a bigger pile of paper on my desk. I soon won’t be able to see the desk at all. Forms! Please to fill in this one, Herr Lucca, my Government requires it. And this one. And that one. “But this one is not right, Herr Lucca. It has not been correctly filled in!” “Where has it not been correctly filled in?” “Here and here!” “Where was I standing at 3 p.m on Saturday, June the 3rd? Christ, I don’t know. I stand in all sorts of places.” “But this is a vital moment, Herr Lucca. This is when the balloon started to come down!” “Ah, then. Well, at that point I was watching to see if any other balloons came down.” “Ah, you had suspicions, then?” “No, I was just watching
in case
any of the balloons came down.” “But you were watching? Where, then, were you standing?”

‘In the end I told him I was standing by the Old Customs House. Well, it was as good a place as any. The fact is, I moved around. I had to. There were other things to see to as well as balloons. A fight between
dghajsas
, for example. Where the Governor was to stand. But his wife couldn’t see! Could she move—? Yes, but if she did then I would

have to move—and so on. Not to mention the drunks coming out of the bars. And so on.

‘Then he wanted to know about security arrangements. ‘“Look,” I said, “we weren’t bothering too much about security arrangements. I mean, Christ, it was just balloons. And they were up in the air. What we were worried about was what would happen if they ran into each other. I mean, they could, couldn’t they? There were so many of them. Security? No, what concerned us was traffic control.”

‘“Traffic control?” he says. “But that would be on a different form.”

‘And he ferrets in his briefcase and produces another form. “Please to fill this in,” he says. “By tomorrow morning.”

‘“Traffic control?” I say. “Are we talking about balloons? Because we don’t reckon to go in for traffic control of balloons much. Or are you talking about
dghajsas
? Because that was what was likely to cause the trouble in the harbour.”

‘“Both,”’ he says. “Both. But
dghajsas
are boats, yes? That would be on a different form.”

‘Then he says, “But that is not important. What is important is the security on the ground. At the launch site. Can you tell me that, please. The security arrangements there. How did you control access to the balloons? What system of permits did you use? Did the technical staff have identification badges?”

‘“Look,” I said, “this was not a Grand Prix event. It was just balloons over the harbour. A spectacle. A bit of fun. For everybody.”

‘“Ah, no,” he said. “People can get injured. Or even killed. At spectacles. Precautions have to be taken. All I am asking is what they were.”

‘Of course, we had made
some
arrangements, and I tried to tell him what they were. And he grew sniffier and sniffier. I thought his nose was going to rise up right over his head. And all the time he was writing. He wrote everything down.

‘Well, later in the morning I got a chance to take a look at some of the things he had written. And it made we mad. “Lack of system,” he had written. “Typically British.” “But we’re
not
British,” I felt like shouting at him. “We’re Maltese! And we’ve got our own way of doing things, our own systems. They may not be yours but on the whole they work.” But I thought I’d better not because the boss had already been on to me. “This German business is a hot potato, Lucca,” he said. “And it’s getting hotter every minute.”’

‘Well, I’m sorry to hear this,’ said Seymour.

‘You should be,’ said Lucca. ‘Because your turn is next. He wants to speak to the Englishman in charge.’

‘No, no, no,’ said Seymour. ‘I am afraid you are under a misapprehension, Mr Backhaus, I am not in charge. I am merely a detective assigned to the case.’

‘A naval detective?’

‘No, no. I don’t think we have naval detectives. I’m from Scotland Yard.’

‘Ah, Scotland Yard? So London thinks this is important, yes?’

‘Well, I wouldn’t quite say that—’

‘London is concerned, yes?’

‘Well, naturally. Suspected murder is—’

‘And the Navy, the Navy, too, is concerned?’

‘Yes, I’m sure they are. Two of their men, after all. And on board one of their ships.’

‘Ship?’ Backhaus shuffled his papers. ‘It says nothing about ships here.’

‘The hospital is a ship to them. It is a naval hospital. In the Navy it counts as a ship.’

Herr Backhaus was silenced. But only for a moment.

‘A ship? Yes, yes, I can see that to them—in terms of responsibility, yes. I can see that. It would, yes.’

He thought.

‘But that would make it even more important to them!’ he said. ‘They would see it as something aimed at the heart of the Navy!’

‘What?’

‘Herr Kiesewetter’s balloon. Would they not see it as a threat?’

‘No, no, not much of one. They’re pretty robust.’

‘Think, Mr Seymour! Think! You have the whole British Mediterranean fleet before you. Including its very latest vessels. The Type XK 115—does that not mean anything to you, Mr Seymour? I assure you it does to the British Navy. Would they want foreign observers studying it from the air?’

‘But, look, they can study it perfectly well from the land! If you just stand up in the Upper Barraca Gardens—or anywhere along the harbour front—’

‘But study it, Mr Seymour, really study it! Closely. From above. An unimpeded vision. Would they be so happy about that? Might they not be … concerned, Mr Seymour? Concerned? At least just a little?’

‘Well, I can see what you are saying. But aren’t you overdoing it? Anyone could perfectly well observe these ships from the land with a telescope. Why are you making so much of observing them from the air?’

‘It is not I who am making too much, Mr Seymour. It is possibly others.’

‘The Navy?’

‘You said it, Mr Seymour. Not I.’

‘But that’s ridiculous! Are you suggesting that the Navy—?’

Mr Backhaus held up his hand. ‘I am suggesting nothing, Mr Seymour. But there are questions to be asked, are there not? A balloon comes down, a German balloon, in a British port. For no apparent reason. Its occupant, hitherto perfectly fit, and not, apparently, injured during the descent, is taken to a hospital where he suddenly dies. A British hospital, a British naval hospital. British doctors. British nurses—’

‘Maltese.’

‘Are there not questions to be asked? I could go on. The balloon. Herr Kiesewetter is a very experienced balloonist. He cares for his balloon, he is very careful with it.

He examines it all the time. Of course, he examines it. His life depends on it. And so, normally, do his technicians. He has flown many times before, all over the world. Safely. But this time there is something different. The technicians are British. And suddenly the balloon is not safe. Why is it not safe, Mr Seymour? Are there not questions to be asked?’

‘There are, indeed,’ said Seymour, ‘but the questions you pose cover only part of the picture. As I understand the drift of your questioning, you are suggesting that the British Navy may have had a hand in the death of Mr Kiesewetter. But may I remind you that his death is only one of a group of deaths that I am investigating. Are you really suggesting that, in addition to murdering Mr Kiesewetter, the Navy also murdered two of its own men? Because if you are, unless you can produce some more substantial evidence in support of your suggestions, I would hesitate before advancing your suppositions, whether in Berlin or London, or indeed, anywhere else. Because I fear they would not be taken seriously.’