‘These are to die for as well. What are they called again?’
‘Kwarezimal. It’s a traditional Maltese Lenten food, which derives its name from the Latin word Quaresima, meaning the forty days of Lent. During Lent, adult Catholics abstain from eating meat and often had these instead. They’re quite fattening, but I love them... naughty but nice,’ he said, picking one up and biting into it.
The kettle started whistling. Chris made Jane a coffee, emptied what was left of the wine into his glass and offered her another kwarezimal.
‘If I eat any more, I’ll burst. But I’d love to know the recipe for the widow’s soup.’
He opened a drawer and removed a worn leather-bound notebook with an elastic band around it. ‘My mother kept all her recipes in this book. Cooking Maltese food reminds me of my parents and my old life in Malta.’ He removed the elastic band and handed the book to Jane.
She noticed some old burn marks on the back, which made it look as if it had been dropped on a stove at some point. ‘Do your parents still live in Malta?’
‘Sadly, they’re both dead now.’
She realised they must have died quite young if Chris was in his early thirties. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, wondering if he had any brothers or sisters but didn’t want to ask.
‘I miss them, but they are still with me in spirit... and never more so than when I’m cooking something from my mother’s recipe book.’ He smiled. ‘What about your family?’
‘My parents live in London, and so does my sister.’
‘Is she also in the police?’
Jane laughed. ‘No, she’s a hairdresser. She’s married with two young children.’
‘Does she do your hair?’
‘Yes. I’m due to see her for a trim next week, though it may depend on how this case works out.’
‘She’s obviously very good. I’ll swap her details for the soup recipe.’
Jane laughed. ‘Deal... though I better check with her first as she doesn’t usually cut men’s hair — apart from my father’s and her husband’s.’ She opened the recipe book. It hadn’t crossed her mind that all the recipes would be written in Maltese. ‘I think I’ll need you to translate again,’ she said, handing him the book.
Chris read out the ingredients and the method for making the soup and Jane wrote it down in the back of her notebook. He asked if she’d like the recipe for the kwarezimal biscuits as well.
She smiled. ‘I think they may be beyond my cooking abilities.’
Chris closed the recipe book, put the rubber band around it, then gently kissed it and made the sign of the cross.
Jane looked at her watch. ‘I really must be going, or I’ll never get my report done by tomorrow morning. Would you like a hand with the washing up?’
He stood up. ‘No, it’s fine. My housekeeper will do them in the morning. She actually gets annoyed if I do the dishes — or cleaning of any sort.’
Jane laughed. ‘Thanks for a lovely meal.’
‘My pleasure. Thanks for the company.’
‘Hopefully, I’ll see you tomorrow.’
‘I hope your meeting goes well. It would be a great shame if someone as determined as you wasn’t allowed to continue the investigation.’
In the hallway, Chris helped Jane on with her coat and opened the front door — then he asked her to hold on for a second and nipped back to the kitchen, returning with the biscuit tin.
‘Please, take these.’
‘Are you sure?’
He nodded. ‘I can easily make some more.’
‘Thank you. Goodnight, Chris.’
‘Goodnight, Jane,’ he replied, closing the door.
Chris went to the living room, turned on the radio and sat in the armchair to listen to the evening news. After a couple of minutes, he got up, turned off the radio, then picked up the phone and dialled a number.
It was quickly answered. ‘Bishop Meade speaking, how can I help you?’
‘Good evening, Bishop. It’s Father Floridia. I’ve just rung to tell you a coffin was uncovered today in the grounds of the old St Mary’s Convent...’
Chapter Eight
Driving home, Jane felt nervous about her conversation with Father Chris. She knew it could land her in trouble, and she only had herself to blame if it did. She hoped he’d meant it when he said ‘trust works both ways’. It was that remark that had persuaded her to confide in him. Her only two previous encounters with a priest were at a friend’s wedding and the funeral of a murder victim she had attended in her official capacity. In both instances the priests had been in their sixties and rather dour. Father Chris seemed proof that not all priests were the same, with his warmth and humour.
It was obvious he still grieved the loss of his parents. She wondered if he’d left the Mediterranean island of Malta to become a priest because of their deaths.
Arriving home, she parked her Mini Cooper on the small driveway. As she got out of the car, Jane noticed a man in his late sixties walking past with a small Jack Russell terrier, which cocked its leg on her front wall pillar and peed on it. The owner looked embarrassed and was gently tugging the dog’s lead.
‘Naughty boy, Spud. I’m so sorry. I’ll get a pitcher of water...’
‘No need,’ Jane said. ‘I can do it.’
‘No, I insist. I won’t be two seconds,’ he said, hurrying to the house next door.
Jane removed her briefcase from the passenger seat, opened her front door and flicked the hallway light on. It lit up briefly, popped and went out.
‘For God’s sake, not again,’ she said to herself.
‘Everything all right, love?’ the neighbour asked, pouring some water on the pillar.
‘There’s a fault with the hallway light. It works fine for a bit and then the bulb blows.’
‘I can have a look at it if you like. Have you got a ladder?’
‘Sorry, I haven’t. Don’t worry, it’s pretty late and I’m sure you’ve better things to do.’ She switched on the living-room light which lit up a section of the hallway. ‘That will do me until the morning.’
‘It’s not nice entering a dark hallway. We don’t want you tripping over anything on your way upstairs,’ he said, noticing the storage boxes in the hallway Jane had yet to unpack. ‘I’ll just nip and get my ladder and tool kit.’
Jane really wanted to get on with her report but didn’t want to offend him. It wasn’t long before he returned with an old wooden ladder and a metal toolbox, from which he removed a torch.
‘Can you switch the main fuse off for me, please?’ he asked as he unfolded the ladder.
‘Certainly,’ she said, assuming it was somewhere in the hallway coat cupboard next to the kitchen door.
‘I think you’ll find it in the small floor cupboard next to the front door,’ he told her, turning the torch on.
‘Sorry, I haven’t had a chance to get to know where everything is yet.’ She opened the cupboard while he shone the torch on the fuse box.
‘I’m Gerry, by the way. I live next door with my wife Vi, that’s short for Violet. Would you hold this for me while I remove the bulb and light shade?’ He handed her the torch.
‘Pleased to meet you. I’m Jane.’
‘Welcome to Oakdene Avenue, Jane. How are you settling in?’ He removed the light bulb and handed it to her.
‘Fine, thanks. Still got a lot of unpacking to do, though. Sorry I haven’t popped round to introduce myself yet.’
‘I expect a young woman like you is very busy with her work. Are you in the police?’ he asked, as he removed the lightshade.
‘What makes you ask that?’ Jane asked.
‘I saw you at lunchtime in the Hillman Hunter when I was walking Spud. My grandson told me if you ever see a deep red Hunter behind you, it’s wise to slow down as it’s probably a plainclothes police car.’