SECRETS OF MALTA - Book review

 

Cecily Blench’s second historical novel Secrets of Malta was published in 2024. It is set in 1943, primarily in Malta but also in London, Tunisia and Egypt; there are flashbacks to Syria in 1926.

The dreadful plague of air-raids on Malta has lessened by now.

As the title suggests, the story involves intelligence activities of the Allies against the Axis forces. Dennis Pratchett is sent to Malta to root out a suspected mole in the intelligence community of Malta. ‘Chap called Morton runs our networks in North Africa and he’s got several operatives who go back and forth’ (p20). Pratchett’s senior, Sir Harold informs him the suspected agent was active in the last war and used the code-name Nero; and the man was believed to be responsible for a couple of murders in Europe before the war. The presence of Nero in Malta at this critical time is most serious – for reasons that will be explained in the book much later...

Margarita is a cabaret singer in Valletta; she has just ended an affair with Henry Dunn. Mrs Vera Dunn accosts Margarita in the night club and reveals that Henry has gone missing. There is no animosity between them; indeed, they seem sympathetic towards each other.

In 1926 Vera was one of four young archaeology students working on a dig in Syria for Professor Curzon. The relevance of these flashbacks only becomes significant as the book progresses.

Now, Margarita is courting a submarine officer, Arthur. Several submarines are involved in covert missions, landing spies in Tunisia, which was recently occupied by Axis forces.

The two women conduct their own investigations, and secrets are revealed...

Vera is a pragmatist: ‘Nothing does more to stimulate one’s sex drive than a war’ (p131).

The author has captured the period and the situation both in Malta, Tunisia and in Syria. Her characters provoke interest throughout. There were some clever misdirections, too; which only seems appropriate in a book about spying and deception!

Perhaps more could have been made of the awful destruction from the almost continuous bombing of 1942, and the stoic response of the inhabitants; but that’s a minor quibble.

I kept turning the pages; it was a quick read, made enjoyable because the setting was familiar.

Editorial comments:

‘Arthur had complained that Malta had no beaches, but Margarita had taken him to one of her swimming spots, where they swam off warm rocks...’ (p59). I’ve heard this nonsense before. There are plenty of sandy beaches on Malta!

There are a lot of ‘sighs’ and ‘sighing heavily’ – which do not detract from the reading pleasure; but perhaps the editor could have addressed some of them.

‘Her eyes brushed past and then returned to settle on him’ (p366). To avoid the surreal image, it would read better if ‘gaze’ was used instead of ‘eyes’!

BODIES IN THE WATER - Book review

A.J. Aberford’s debut novel Bodies in the Water (2022) is very impressive and can stand up against many accomplished best-sellers such as Gerald Seymour and Ken Follett.

For me, he’s covering a lot of familiar ground, setting his story primarily in Malta, where I lived for almost two years.

Neatly structured, it has a prologue and epilogue which features two Nigerian youths, Abeao and Mobo. The tale begins when a body is found floating in the Grand Harbour of Valletta. Police inspector George Zammit is tasked with investigating the death – which is soon established to be murder.

Several scene changes take us to Libya where a certain people smuggler Abdullah Belkacem is intent on expanding his business, notably with links to Malta.

Another protagonist is Englishman Nick Walker who is working for a Sicilian company, the business being a front for money laundering. ‘By the time he began to suspect what he was really involved in, he also knew that walking away was no longer an option’ (p25).

George’s nemesis is Assistant Commissioner Gerald Camilleri, an influential unprincipled man who has little respect for Inspector Zammit.

Added to the mix are Marco Bonnici and his daughter Natasha, both involved with the Sicilian Family and not averse to law-breaking.

All of these different characters are linked. The threads draw together as we experience militia fighting in Libya, the treacherous illegal crossings of the Mediterranean, and the political blackmailing by powerful people in both Italy and Malta.

Aberford has clearly done his research, and this gives us an insight into the conditions in the different lands. There is humour, especially with George’s domestic existence, and also friendships are established. The book and characters cry out for another outing – which is all right, since there are now five Zammit books in the series!

Recommended. 

THE INFORMATION OFFICER - Book review

 

This is the third book by Mark Mills – each one different in place and time. The Information Officer was published in 2009. It’s set in Malta in 1942 during the second great siege (the first being against the Turks in 1565). [The book brought back memories of the time my wife Jen and I lived in Rabat in 1974-75].

There are two maps – one of the Maltese islands with significant places shown; and a second of the Grand Harbour – which will prove helpful if you’re unfamiliar with Malta.

It begins (mistakenly in my opinion) in London, May 1951 with a viewpoint by a restaurant’s maître d’ with the hint of a spoiler. The real story begins in Malta, April 1942 when a young woman is murdered.

Major Max Chadwick is the Information Officer in Malta, responsible for reporting to the populace with suitable material to maintain morale. Max has a number of friends, among them Freddie, the medic who works out of Mtarfa hospital [I worked there in the 1970s; it’s now a school and apartments]; Elliott, an American serviceman; and Ralph, a cavalier pilot.

When Max is told that there have been three young women murdered yet the authorities seem to be hushing it up, he decides to do some private investigating himself. Digging around for clues is not easy for an amateur, granted, and it is made more difficult by the wartime conditions, notably the constant air raids.

The submarine base on Manoel Island, the Tenth Submarine Flotilla, was one of several targets for Italian and German bombers; inevitably, the airfields were prime targets too: Ta’ Qali, Hal Far and Luqa; and of course the many quaysides and docks of the Grand Harbour and its inlets. [Jen learned to drive in Malta and took her driving-test on the old airfield at Ta’ Qali].

Mills quickly immerses the reader in the place and period. ‘It was typical of many Maltese homes in that the unassuming façade gave no indication of the treasures that lay behind it’ (p21). [When living there we’d seen many examples of this.] He also has a fine turn of phrase: I liked his ‘bewilderment of bastions’ when describing Valletta.

‘…he accompanied her and her mangy dog to the Blessing of the Animals at the church of Santa Maria Vittoriosa’ (p130). [We’d seen these ceremonies in Malta and Spain].

‘… he’d been forced to crash-land in a field – a near-impossible thing to do on Malta without hitting a stone wall’ (p191). [Not much has changed with this overbuilt island].

‘The Point de Vue Hotel stood on the south side of the Saqqija, the leafy square separating Mdina and Rabat’ (p230). The hotel ‘took a direct hit during an afternoon raid, killing six’ (p230). [We enjoyed a splendid meal here].

He mentions the megalithic temples of Hagar Qim and Mnajdra (p243) and on the same page on Dingli Cliffs the primary Radio Direction Finding station is found there; [even now, though the spying is somewhat more sophisticated].

He conveys the absolute terror of living through intense bombing day after day. ‘The ground beneath him had bucked like a living thing, and all around him the air had rung to the tune of flying splinters, a lethal symphony of rock and metal overlaid by more obvious notes: the whistle and shriek of falling bombs, the thump and crump of explosions, the staccato bark of the Bofors firing back blind, and the screams of the diving Stukas’ (p43).

Intermittently, we are privy to the male murderer’s thoughts, jotted down in his notebook, though he remains faceless; a man without empathy, a thoroughly unpleasant specimen. The mystery of his identity is maintained almost to the end.

It was obvious that Mills did a lot of research for the story and highlights two of the many books he consulted: Malta Magnificent by Francis Gerard and Fortress Malta by James Holland. ‘Twice the tonnage of bombs dropped on London during the worst twelve months of the Blitz had rained down on their heads in the last two months alone’ (p61).

There are a couple of interesting choices of character names he has used:

Chadwick lakes are formed behind a number of dams constructed by Sir Osbert Chadwick, a British engineer, in the late 19th century.

Mabel Edeline Strickland was the editor of The Times of Malta before and during the war. Mills’s book The Savage Garden has a main character called Adam Strickland…

If you have any interest in wartime skulduggery or Malta, you should find the book a fascinating read.

I’d also recommend Malta: Blitzed but not Beaten by Philip Vella. And of course Nicholas Monsarrat’s The Kappillan of Malta.

Editorial comment.

Two characters go to see a film at the Rabat Plaza (p229). Jen and I often went to the Adelphi cinema in Rabat (sometimes twice a week!); according to the Old Cinemas in Malta Facebook group, Rabat has only ever had two cinemas – the Adelphi and the Astoria.

An exorcism...

There follows a small scene from CHILL OF THE SHADOW. An exorcism.

 ***

The church clock chimed eleven, each tolling of the hour resonating in the room.

            “Oh, God, it’s time?” Father Joseph said.

            “Yes, Father. Your hour is here.”

            Father Joseph nodded, his holy stole draped round his neck. The Bible in one hand, he recited the Credo aloud three times. He carried around the room a censer containing a small amount of the burning Frankincense.

            Maria’s eyes suddenly opened wide, staring, alarmed. But Michael didn’t recognize Maria in them.

            The priest whispered, “Poor soul–”

            “Now, Father, the water,” Michael said, his tone firm and commanding.

            Putting down the censer, the priest picked up a large glass jug of holy water which he had consecrated in his church next door. He dipped a hyssop in the purifying liquid and sprinkled it over Maria, intoning, “I exorcise thee, O unclean spirit, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Ghost.”

            The response was immediate and startling. Maria’s body arched up from the bedsprings, and her flesh started to bead with a sickly green sweat.

            “Stand firm, Father,” Michael commanded as an eldritch shriek erupted from Maria’s mouth. Then she slumped down, the bedsprings rattling, and was still again.

            Father Joseph was trembling. “Dear God, will she survive this ordeal?”

            Michael whispered, “The strain has been known to be so great that limbs have been dislocated. But I believe she isn’t fully possessed yet. The demons are not comfortable in her shell.” He waved a hand. “Again, Father.”

            Father Joseph nodded and swallowed. Steeling himself, he stepped forward again. This time he was too quick, accidentally splashing Michael’s outstretched hand in the process. Three globules of water settled for a moment on the back of his hand, and then sizzled. Unconcerned, Michael shook the liquid off his hand; blisters, as if from an acid burn, appeared.

            “My God, what manner of man are you?” Father Joseph said, almost dropping the jug of holy water.

            “Just one of the good guys, Father.” He took a pair of black leather gloves from his jacket on the back of a chair and put them on. “Please continue. Maria’s life and soul are at stake.”

            Father Joseph made the sign of the cross, and then sprinkled more holy water on Maria. “I exorcise thee, unclean spirit, in the name of Jesus Christ. Tremble, O Satan, enemy of the faith, thou foe of mankind who hast brought death to the world, and hast rebelled against justice, thou seducer of mankind, thou root of evil, source of avarice, discord and envy.”

            “Stand back, it’s my turn,” Michael ordered, lighting the Paschal candle.

            Very carefully, he lowered the flame to Maria’s naked flesh that still glistened with an unwholesome green sheen. “Get ready!”

            There was a disconcerting flash of yellow and suddenly Maria was surrounded by a blazing transparent flame. It lasted for mere seconds and her body levitated this time, prevented from rising more than twelve inches by the ropes.

            “May God break your teeth, vile spirit, and cut the veins of your neck and the sinews thereof. I bind you in the name of Gabriel and Michael, I bind you by these Angels!” wailed the priest. “May you vanish as smoke from before the wind for ever and ever, Amen!”

            Maria shrieked horribly, and out of her mouth leapt a gout of thick bile, speckled with green and yellow and red. In its gross suddenness it resembled projectile vomit, but it was unlike it in colour, consistency and smell.

            As the vile streamer left Maria’s mouth, Father Joseph leapt forward and thrust the crucifix he was holding over her mouth and held it there, while his eyes followed the terrifying manifestation across the room.

            Defying gravity, the sliver of bile appeared sentient, moving toward the balcony door; it baulked inches from the array of crosses; it tried the window and door, and retreated. Wherever it travelled, it left a putrefying stench in its wake.

            “Unbind the curse!” Father Joseph cried out and prayed again, louder, bellowing, commanding the evil spirit to leave in the name of the Blessed Virgin and the Holy Trinity.

            The horrible thing made a beeline for Michael, as if divining that he carried no protective cross. In one swift motion Zondadari’s fingers hooked up the censer and swung it, catching the thing as if he were playing pelota. As the evil spirit sizzled and emitted a stomach-churning smell, Father Joseph left Maria’s side and poured the remainder of the holy water onto the mixture of cooking bile and Frankincense. The steam quickly dissipated, to leave a burned, brittle husk.

            “And what the hell do you think you’re doing?” shrieked Maria from the bed, trying to tug her arms and legs free.

            Michael crossed the room, picked up the sheet and draped it over her. He gazed into her eyes and after a long moment of study he smiled thinly, satisfied. “As it happens,” he said, “Hell has a lot to do with it.” He pulled out the Knife of Astarte and cut the rope securing her right wrist. “You’ve had quite an ordeal, Maria – but now you’re free.”

***

CHILL OF THE SHADOW

Available as an e-book and paperback here

Halloween horror-01 - ‘with X-rated parts…’

Especially for Halloween – the horror/romantic thriller Chill of the Shadow. One US reviewer stated ‘The story carefully unfolds into a complex, and chilling tale not exactly for the lighthearted. Maria Caruana, an investigative journalist and police Sergeant Francis investigate the disappearance of young pregnant women. They put their lives on the line to learn whether or not black magic is alive on the Maltese islands.
            … Some people make good out of bad, but Bryson Spellman takes his bitterness to the dark side. Zondadari, a vampire, and Bonello a politician, and his right hand man, Grech are just a few he sucks into his evil plan. Maria’s search for answers takes her to Zondadari. He has a hold over her from the moment she sets eyes on him, and even as she wonders if she loves him, she fears that he is a vampire.
            The dark forces gather, and then the story breaks wide open and reveals the depth of evil that has befallen the beautiful tourist island of Malta.

            This is a rather deep story with some X-rated parts that I feel should be placed as a warning...’

Here’s an excerpt from Chapter 3: ‘Tumbling thoughts’, where the journalist Maria does some research on black magic in Malta…

As the day wore on Maria found that several small libraries locked away books, often for purely censorial purposes, a hangover from the earlier times when the church held stronger sway.

            A quick search took her through the scant collection of Malti books and offered up nothing of note, which wasn’t surprising since her country’s language hadn’t been officially written down till last century

            The English, French and Italian works had merely scratched the surface of folklore, particularly the dark side. Instinctively, she now believed that a dark side existed, but it was – not surprisingly – hidden. Where there is light, there is shadow.

            The stories were all probably oral; and the country people normally associated with earth-magic were still exceptionally insular. Perhaps they didn’t write the lore down. Of course, the secret societies, if they existed, had the Order of St. John to emulate.

            Witchcraft reared its ugly head as well. Here, too, in these idyllic islands the Inquisition had taken its toll. Blood and gore had been splattered in the name of the Pope. But she could find no substantiated accounts of devil-worship in the islands. Which seemed rather odd. Throughout history, every society and country had its share of devil-worshippers and there was no reason why Malta should be any different. Father Joseph may believe that he is right and the islands are too devout but her cynical reporter’s head told her to dismiss the priest’s assurances for what they were, self-delusion.

            She found old copies of several classics in French: Collin de Plancy’s Spectriana, Cuisan’s Les ombres sanglantes and Gabrielle de Paban’s Histoire des Fantômes et de Demons and Démoniana. And while they were true treasure troves of the black arts, they didn’t mention Malta once.

            A couple of English encyclopedias on occultism and ritual magic proved useful for definitions and practices and were of great help when she spent time on the dense but always fascinating prose of the Reverend Montague Summers in his History of Witchcraft.

            Apparently, in medieval times crossroads were grim places, where miscreants were hung and left in cages to be feasted upon by carrion. Legend suggested that the mandrake or mandragora – the semi-human – was a plant of fertility, magical virtue and occult power. When a man was hanged, his semen or urine fell to the ground and there in that spot grew up the mandrake. Never read that explanation in Harry Potter, Maria mused. J.K. Rowling got it right, though, about not uprooting a mandrake as its shrieks were so fearful that whoever dug it up would die with the yells ringing in his ears. It could be harvested by getting dogs that tugged up the roots; though a whole kennel-load of them might be needed.

            Poisoning was quite commonplace in those dark days. Fortune-tellers added to their meagre fees by acting as back-street abortionists and bargain-basement prostitutes and as a side-line they also sold poisons to duchesses, princes, marquises and lords.

            Malta jumped out at her when she read about a poison ring with connections in England, Italy and Portugal. It was formed in the 1670s and had been headed by Galaup de Chasteuil, the son of the Attorney general of Aix, a Knight of Malta, and at one time also a Carmelite prior who happened to keep a mistress in his cell. Among the ring’s membership had been nobles, a banker and a lawyer. Chasteuil fled during the investigations of the Chambre Ardente in 1680, when the Black Mass was first mentioned in any historical document.    

            She was surprised to learn that the Knights Templar had been associated with black magic rites, though in fact it was their enemies who, jealous of the Knights’ power, had spread the rumour that even now wouldn’t lie still. King Philip of France and his puppet Pope Clement V lusted after the vast Templar wealth and sought to capture and torture the Knights. The Inquisition’s torture produced many confessions, among them that the knights worshipped the idol Baphomet, a goat-headed demon. Some scholars believed that Baphomet was a corruption of Mahomet or Mohammad. Maria shook her head, finding it hard to believe, considering that the Islamic faith abhors idols of any kind.

            A person who is physically constrained or morally terrorized has no freedom of will, Maria reasoned, shuddering as she read on. How could they give credence to confessions extorted in such a manner? The victim is not responsible. The elderly Grand Master Jacques de Molay insisted the Order was innocent of all but one offence against God, and that was confessing untruths while being tortured. Burned at the stake while facing Notre Dame, de Molay called out through the flames that both Pope Clement and King Philip would soon meet him before God. Pope Clement died a month later and King Philip was killed in a hunting accident before the year’s end.

            In 1312 the Knights Templar Order was dissolved and their assets were sequestered and some passed on to their rivals, the Knights Hospitallers who subsequently became the Knights of Rhodes and Malta. This was familiar territory for her, as she – like most of the islands’ schoolchildren – had studied the Great Siege of Malta of 1565.

            After delving into the terrible atrocities of the past – a perpetual war between good and evil in which inevitably the innocent were often destroyed – she was glad to emerge from the oppressive confines of the musty libraries.

            She spent an hour at her office computer, googling the worldwide web for anything about the combination of Witchcraft and Malta. Not a lot of useful information came up in the results, surprisingly. Wicca adherents argued for the understanding of life and nature, while there were studies of Witchcraft and sorcery during the Inquisition years in Malta, but nothing recent turned up. She hadn’t the stamina to check out all 91,300 result pages so she decided to leave for a hasty burger.

            Later in the afternoon, as she stood and leaned over the railings of Barrakka Gardens, idly watching the few ships and boats in the Grand Harbour, she breathed in the warm air and the fragrance of the flowers to clear her head. A flower arrangement spelled out MERHBA – welcome –– and had done so for many years.

            She never tired of this view. It was somehow reassuring; perhaps it was the solidity of the city-walls, a satisfying permanence – the same sixteenth century bastion walls that the knights of the Order of St. John built to protect and encircle their city of Valletta. The panorama from left to right took in the breakwater entrance to the harbour with, across the water, Fort Ricasoli, where she had covered the making of several films. Over there, too, was Bighi, once a Royal Naval hospital but now state housing, and Fort St. Angelo, still standing substantial and perfect – living history. Directly in front of her was the town of Senglea, now dwarfed by a moored rust-streaked giant Liberian tanker.

            A dghajsa crossed the harbour, the boatman standing above his tourist charges, effortlessly pushing his long oars. Maria was born the same year that the British armed forces left for good – the climax of Dom Mintoff’s political career – so she had no direct memories of the days when the water here was thick with moored warships and dozens of those water-taxis plied their way to the Customs House jetty. But her father had told her of those days and she’d seen his many photographs. Maria fished out of her shoulder bag a pair of small binoculars and studied the harbour.

            She shivered involuntarily on seeing two young boys diving off the bows of a tethered blue-painted luzzu, the fisherman having left the vessel to sell his catch in the market. The water was still too cold for her preference. The boys were having fun, though, the sun glinting off the water on their spare muscular bodies and glistening black hair. Maria was drawn to the protective eye of Osiris painted on the boat’s bow. To ward off evil. Yet another reminder of the fear of evil lurking below the surface of everyday life.

Chill of the Shadow

 Amazon paperback and e-book here

Chill of corruption...

Corrupt politicians. Where would we fiction writers be without them?

There are allegations flying around at present about certain individuals in government in Malta, most notably after the car-bomb assassination of journalist Daphne Caruana Galizia.

Malta is steeped in history – and conflict – and well worth a visit. I’ve lived there, and subsequently visited several times since. Yet, like everywhere else, there’s a dark side…

Apparently, in the last ten years or so Malta has suffered about fifteen mafia-style assassinations and car bombings, and accusations of corruption, bribery and money-laundering currently prevail.

My cross-genre crime/vampire/black magic thriller Chill of the Shadow has its share of corrupt individuals. Here’s an excerpt from pp115/116:

Grech entered the room and welcomed the four men and a woman, all dressed in black. They sat in a circle on easy chairs, and sipped drinks supplied from the cabinet at the curtained window.

            The wall lights were dimmed, subduing the place in shadows. In the centrr of their circle was a round wooden coffee table; lying on its carved surface was a thick large book, its binding tinged a pale yellowing pink in the poor light.

            There were three empty chairs in the circle. As Grech sat in one of them, he said, “Zondadari will be down shortly. And Spellman’s due in a half-hour. Then we can discuss the arrangements for his ceremony.”

            The woman spoke first. “Is Zondadari going to be of any use to us?”

            “Most certainly, Selena,” Grech replied. “He is powerful, knows how to suborn any potential trouble-makers – in particular, dangerous political opponents. He and his acolytes can go into places we or our feeble manifestations cannot. And usually he’s the height of discretion.”

            Selena’s dark eyes widened. “Usually?”

            “Yes,” chimed in Spiteri, breathing heavily as he leaned his obese frame forward. “Sometimes. The other day one of his bloodless corpses was discovered.” He raised a pudgy, ring-laden hand. “Don’t worry. I covered the tracks. Mind you, I had the devil’s own job getting the file hidden away in old HQ records.” His double chins wobbled at the memory.

            Selena persisted. “I thought he promised to be more careful – at least till after the election?” Her thin red lips – enhanced by a grey lipstick outline – pursed cruelly.

            David Bugeja, dressed in black corduroys and a silk shirt, sat with his legs stretched out under the table. Although he was a politician, he more resembled a film or theatre director, someone involved in the make-believe of the arts rather than the lies of politics.

            Bugeja eased himself up in the seat, sighed and said, “We all break promises, don’t we?” And he eyed Selena maliciously.

            Not for the first time, Grech wondered if there had been anything between those two.      “Zondadari tries,” Bugeja concluded, “poor bastard.”

            Spiteri’s thick lips curled wetly in obvious distaste. “You feel sorry for – for him?”

            “Yes, James, I do.” Bugeja gestured vaguely with his long thin hands. “He didn’t ask to become a vampire, you know. He told me the story about his joining the undead – it’s terribly tragic.”

            Spiteri sank back and guffawed.

            “It’s an eternal curse, true,” conceded Selena.

            Grech loudly cleared his throat. “Can we get back on track?” He addressed the gaunt greying man on his left, another politician. “John, is the police department in our pocket yet?”

            John Camilleri’s hand rubbed his designer stubble and he suddenly seemed uncomfortable. “Ready for the election?”

            “Yes, John,” said Grech with diminishing patience, “the coup we’ve all been working toward.”

            Camilleri fidgeted, his dark brown eyes evasive. “Well, no. Not in our pocket, exactly.”

            “What exactly, then, John – if you would be so good as to tell us?” The tone in Grech’s voice was impatient, bordering on menace.

            “I fear those days are gone. There are plenty of police who’re incorruptible–”

            “Detective Sergeant Attard,” Petri, a shipping magnate, broke in. “Isn’t he becoming a nuisance?”

            Selena shook her head. “He was. But I think you’ll find he’s suddenly lost interest in the black arts. We paid him an instructive visit tonight. He’ll be in plenty of pain, but he’ll live.”

            “Good,” said Grech. “His death might have been difficult to cover up just now.”

            “There’s always the traffic accident,” mused Selena. “That’s worked in the past. We’ve rid ourselves of a few troublesome thorns in the Coven’s side.”

            “True. But until we’ve gained power in these islands, we have to tread with a modicum of care. The time will come when we can rid ourselves of all the Attards.”

            “The reporter,” asked Bugeja, “is she getting too close?”

            “No.” Grech smiled. “She’ll be fully under control very soon. I have Zondadari’s word on that.” The door opened. “Ah, talk of the devil,” – they laughed, though some of the merriment was strained – “and he will appear.”

            Zondadari stood in the doorway and eyed the group. “Gentlemen. Lady. Shall we begin?”

***

CHILLOF THE SHADOW

This cross-genre thriller is set in present-day Malta and has echoes from pre-history and also the eighteenth century Knights of Malta.

Malta may be an island of sun and sand, but there’s a dark side to it too. It all started when some fishermen pulled a corpse out of the sea... Or maybe it was five years ago, in the cave of Ghar Dalam…

Spellman, an American black magician, has designs on a handpicked bunch of Maltese politicians, bending their will to his master’s. A few sacrifices, that’s all it takes. And he’s helped by Zondadari, a rather nasty vampire.

Maltese-American investigative journalist Maria Caruana’s in denial. She can’t believe Count Zondadari is a vampire. She won’t admit it. Such creatures don’t exist, surely? She won’t admit she’s in love with him, either...

Detective Sergeant Attard doesn’t like caves or anything remotely supernatural. Now he teams up with Maria to unravel the mysterious disappearance of young pregnant women. They’re also helped by the priest, Father Joseph.

And there are caves, supernatural deaths and a haunting exorcism. Just what every holiday island needs, really.

Where there is light, there is shadow…

Some reviews extracts:

Kay Lesley Reeves (Spain)

I'll never look at bats in quite the same way again. An original twist on vampire legend with a hint of tongue-in-the-cheek humour.

Mr M. C. Iles (UK)

I visited Malta many years ago and Morton’s description is spot on. In fact his research is so exact that half-forgotten memories soon came flooding back and I found myself walking those ancient streets once again. A dark and classical tale with excellent twists that will keep readers enthralled.

Angela M.

… has a strong structure and is full of rich writing and action. The plot has page turning twists and the main characters are likeable, especially the female lead. I hadn't read a vampire book in a while and was reminded of how intensely gruesome they can be. While this one has its squeamish moments it's not atypical for the genre, and I can't help liking a well written book! The Malta setting was perfect, making this a great escape read.

E. B. Sullivan (California, US)

Set in picturesque Malta (the book) offers the reader a refreshing twist on the popular vampire genre. Mr. Morton weaves a story with multiple surprises. From the beginning, his plausible and complex characters lure the reader deeper into his yarn. In particular, Maria and Michael are hypnotic, compelling, and seductive. The desire to learn more about these romantic and dashing figures makes this book a true page-turner.

 Chill of the Shadow - available from Amazon worldwide - e-book and paperback