He dialed the police emergency code, and waited. Sometimes the phones in Valletta worked, and sometimes they didn’t. This time they worked. A voice said grumpily, ‘Yes, police.’ ‘Please send somebody here right away,’ Hans said, his voice shaking just a little. ‘It’s my wife. She’s dead.’ ‘What?’ ‘She must have killed herself while I was out. Here, make a note of my skelter code. I’ll disconnect the privateer.’ Less than two minutes later a uniformed sergeant appeared in the skelter, holding up a portable recorder. He said, ‘Repeat after me, please: I Hans Dykstra – do of my own free will – consent to the use of my skelter code – by law-enforcement officers – and understand – that on completion of these inquiries – I may require another code – confidential from the authorities … Thank you.’ He stepped into the hallway, his eyes fixed in dismay on Dany. A moment later another policeman appeared, and then after a slightly longer delay a harassed-looking man carrying a medical kit, immediately followed by a photographer.
