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“It helps in a crisis.”

“There’s a difference between a human and financial crisis.”

Was he teasing her?

“Financial crises involve real people, MacGregor, and your prejudices are showing again.”

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AZZOPARDI’S AGENCYoccupied an upper floor of an old stone building behind the Gardens. Within minutes they were in the outer office, a drab room with no view and a few tourist posters hanging on the walls. Old posters evoking a gentler, slower era—women in 1950s bathing costumes and men playing volleyball on the decks of cruise ships. An incongruous choice, Lela concluded, or else a clever distraction for harried clients.

Hamish gave their names to the receptionist, who made a discreet call, then rose to her feet and gestured for them to follow her into the next office.

“Hi, Hamish. Good to see you again.” A stocky man of medium height in a rumpled light-grey suit was rising from his chair as they entered. He bristled with energy and good humour. He must’ve been in his early forties—Lela sensed a quickness of mind and an alertness useful in his chosen profession. The twinkle in his eyes, when he murmured his welcome, included her and suggested he expected her critical evaluation.

The room was small, sparsely furnished, comfortable, but utilitarian, with two leather chairs angled in front of the big desk. In this age of computers, his desk was piled perilously high with manila folders. The tourist posters of the outer office were replaced by some family photos mixed with dramatic Caravaggio prints, a reminder of the volatile artist’s time on the island. The eclectic mix suited the man and the mood.

“Marty. I didn’t think I’d see you this trip, but something’s come up. This is Lela Vella. She’s looking for her niece. Lela, meet Martin Azzopardi—Marty. An old friend and the best investigator in Malta.”

He’d used her preferred name, another sign he listened.

“Nice to meet you, Ms. Vella.” The detective stretched out a hand. “Please have a seat. Coffee?”

“Not for me, thank you.”

“Me neither,” said Hamish.

Lela angled her chair to face both Marty and Hamish, the triangle establishing her separation from the debonair lawyer. The quick exchange of glances between the men confirmed they’d got the message. She was here, she’d answer questions, but she was reserving judgment.

“How can I help, Hamish?”

“Sophie Vella. She’s a runaway, arrived in Valletta two days ago, on Tuesday.”

Marty reached for his tablet. “Photos, personal details, social media listings, phone?”

“Photos on a few sites.” Hamish took a list from his jacket pocket and laid it on the table. “No postings on any sites since she left Australia, and she’s not answering the number I’ve been given. What about you, Lela?”

“I’ve got some personal photos on my phone. I could forward them if you need them.” She spoke to Marty. “I’ve had no answers to my messages. She didn’t have international calls on her phone plan, and doesn’t seem to have updated it, so I’m assuming she’s picked up a new SIM. I spoke to her closest girlfriend before I left. Her friend knew nothing. She was on the point of contacting me because Sophie is never silent for long. I checked again this morning—still no word to her friends at home.”

“Her grandfather said you had a family dinner a few nights before she left,” Hamish continued, “and Sophie was her usual self.”

“It was a business dinner, and Sophie wasn’t happy Papa demanded she be present. I saw her again the next morning. She complained about how boring it was and said she was going to classes. I had an evening meeting.” Lela scrunched up her nose. “She said all I ever do these days is have meetings.”

“Did you disagree about your absences? About anything?” asked Marty.

“She was being contrary. She resented work taking up my time. When I said I was available, she was too busy with friends. Sophie’s eighteen in two months”—Lela thought of the lavish celebration her father had planned in one of Sydney’s top restaurants—"so yes, we had minor disagreements. Like any adolescent, she was always pushing the boundaries. I can’t answer for Papa.”

“He didn’t mention any disagreements or fights,” Hamish said.

“Is she a confident young woman?”

“Very.” Lela responded to Marty’s quiet question. “Under normal circumstances.”

“What are abnormal circumstances?”

Lela liked Marty, liked his manner and his balancing role with Hamish. “She disappeared for forty-eight hours when she was twelve. We’d combed the streets and feared the worst. She was hiding in the attic. There’d been a few incidents at school, and she wanted to be homeschooled or change schools.”

“What happened?” Hamish asked.