‘It’s causing uproar here,’ he said after they had greeted each other. ‘Look at this.’ He pushed a copy of theDaily Malta Chronicletowards her.
‘Crikey,’ she said as she read. ‘The locals are furious.’
‘Spitting nails, and quite right too. I don’t believe any of the girls have had rotten food thrown at them.’
‘Well, I never had. It’s ridiculous.’
He told her he’d already published an article calling for the resignation of the minister responsible for the police. ‘He hasn’t done so of course,’ he added. ‘But now theChronicleis demanding an enquiry and the word on the street is the minister has agreed.’
‘That’s a good thing, isn’t it?’
He twisted his mouth to one side as if he wasn’t sure.‘Could be. Rather depends on whether the enquiry ends up being a whitewash.’
She sighed. ‘You think it might?’
He nodded. ‘Everyone is worried. People believe the repercussions of the cabaret scandal, as they call it, will destroy Malta’s good name, deter the visitors we need. The enquiry will probably be a cover-up.’
‘I wish I could help.’
‘You can. With your background in Strait Street, together we might be able to keep up a stream of articles to keep the police on their toes about what’s really happening there. What do you say to working with me on a more regular basis?’
‘In what capacity?’
He grinned, looking pleased with himself. ‘It wouldn’t be anything fancy, just a freelance role, as my assistant.’
She grinned. ‘Sounds like a plan.’
But time had passed since she’d worked in Strait Street and she didn’t know if any of her old contacts would still be there, however she decided to have a quick word with her old friend Tommy-O.
As she walked across the almost empty Evening Star, Tommy turned to look and patted the leather stool next to him. She kissed him on his heavily powdered cheek then perched on the stool next to his, concerned about how old and tired he looked. The venue hadn’t changed, still mirrored and painted in crimson and gold, lit only by gaslight, and smelling of cheap scent and stale beer.
‘I didn’t know if you’d still be here.’
‘Well as you can see, here I am. But I didn’t expect to see you. Thought you were working for our island’s most famous artist.’
She shrugged. ‘I was.’
‘You’ve seen the newspaper articles?’
‘Who hasn’t? That’s why I’m here.’ She lowered her voice. ‘Otto at theTimeswants me to help him. You know everyone on the island. Is there any way you could you get me an interview with the chief of police, on the quiet I mean?’
He puffed out his cheeks and let the air out. ‘I can try. But it’s a big ask.’ He shook his head. ‘The police and the Churcharelooking into the scandal, but they’re looking in the wrong direction.’
‘How do you mean?’
‘The girls at risk are not English. Even in the 1920s they were mainly from Italy and France, as you yourself were. Now they’re nearly all Hungarian. Not British. Ask in any of the bars,tabarinsor music halls. Same story all over.’
‘Even if the girls aren’t British there’s still the issue of prostitution and exploitation.’
He nodded. ‘Yes, but they don’t care about that. The articles claim that it’s English girls who have been used in this way. The enquiry will have no difficulty proving that isn’t true.’
Gianni came in and nodded at Riva. He still hadn’t forgiven her for upping and leaving without notice.
‘Be careful, Riva,’ Tommy said and touched her hand.
A few days later Riva was sitting on a bench in the gardens overlooking the ocean waiting for someone. Shewasn’t quite sure who. She’d received a message from Tommy telling her to be there at ten but to keep her wits about her. It was now half past ten and she was about to get up and leave when a bespectacled man walked across to her. She studied the measured way he was walking and then his face. His rust-coloured hair was thinning and with a spiky face and sharp chin, he looked like a predator of small creatures. A gimlet-eyed weasel; she almost expected him to bare his teeth.
He gave a slight bow. ‘Miss Janvier?’
