She slowed, more from respect than fear. With the cemetery doing a roaring trade, it was not the first time she had come across some grieving soul while making her way home from work in the early hours of the morning. She had once heard deep male sobs in the darkness and had removed her shoes so that the unfortunate person would not be disturbed by her footfalls on the paved pathway.

“Good evening,” she said quietly in Maltese as she drew level.

He was seated on the low stone wall to the right of the path, and he responded in English.

“I think you’ll find it’s morning, Carmela.”

She didn’t know the voice, or if she did, she couldn’t place it.

“Did you make good money tonight?” he asked.

He not only knew her, but he knew what she did, and she was happy he couldn’t see the color rising in her cheeks.

“Yes, not bad.”

“Oh, but you are, and you know it.”

It wasn’t so much the words as the slow, easy drawl with which they were delivered that set her heart racing.

His small laugh did something to soothe her building apprehension.

“I was only joking.”

He drew long and hard on his cigarette. In the dim glow of burning tobacco, she could just discern that he was wearing khaki battle dress: shirt and shorts. This didn’t help much. All the services had adopted it recently, and she was unable to make out the shoulder flashes.

“Who are you?” she asked.

“Ah, now I’m insulted.”

It could have been Harry, or Bernard, or even young Bill, the one they all called “little Willy” (before invariably erupting in laughter). But she didn’t feel like laughing because it could have been almost any one of the officers who passed through the Blue Parrot on a typical night, and this man remained silent, enjoying her confusion, her discomfort, which was cruel and uncalled for.