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Wondery Plus subscribers can binge all eight episodes of Who Killed Daphne ad-free. Join Wondery Plus in the Wondery app or on Apple Podcasts. It was a warm October afternoon on the island of Malta. A man sat on a rocky hillside under an almond tree, waiting. He leant forward and peered through a telescope. Eight hundred yards away across the shallow valley, a limestone house glowed in the sun, surrounded by a lush garden.

Just then, the door of the house opened and a woman hurried out. She was middle-aged, with long dark hair. The man grabbed his phone and made a call. He spoke into it as he watched her. She crossed the garden, opened the gate and hurried up to a small white Peugeot hatchback parked in the driveway. Then she stopped. As if she sensed something, the man took a breath. He lifted his eyes from the scope and looked at her across the valley. She was standing near the car, motionless. Then she turned and went back into the house.

The man muttered into the handset and hung up. Six miles away, the man on the other end of the call lowered the phone. He was standing on a small yacht, the Maya, floating near the breakwater in Malta's Grand Harbour. He picked up another mobile, a cheap Nokia, and checked its screen. Hours earlier, he'd typed a text message there. It was computer code. #REL=ON. The phone rang again. It was the man on the hill,

The woman was back on the move. He listened to him relay her movements. She was getting in the car, moving off on the driveway, left onto the main road, heading down the hill. He looked at the message typed on the Nokia. His thumb paused over send. Then he pressed. The SMS message flew to a cell phone tower facing the harbour. It moved through the network, through wires and exchanges. It reached a single cell phone mast near the stone house and then was sent to its final destination.

an electronic switch attached to a mobile SIM card tucked under the front seat of the woman's car. The circuit board is what police call a God device. It determines who lives, who dies. BEEPING

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From Wondery, I'm Stephen Gray and this is Who Killed Daphne? In the middle of the Mediterranean, just below Sicily, lies the island of Malta. A speck of rock 70 miles by 9 with a shoreline crowded with beachfront hotels and bars. The tourist board calls it a little slice of paradise.

I'm a reporter for Reuters, the global news agency. Back in 2017, I'd spent a decade covering the war on terror, reporting on the CIA's torture programme and the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan. I then covered financial corruption. So I didn't expect to be spending the next four years writing about a place where the bars pump out Europop, or where the cruise ships spill out thousands of elderly tourists.

But then, an island like that is not the type of place where a local journalist winds up getting killed. When Daphne Caruana Galizia died in 2017, it made headlines around the world. Very quickly, it went beyond a story of a little island. It came to stand for much more. It was a tale of how the lure of easy money can so quickly lead to corruption at the highest level, and how politicians and their supporters can turn a blind eye to the growing threat of crime.

And also just the story of one woman, alone with her laptop, trying in her way to tell the truth. And one that sums up the vilification and even mortal danger to women like her who stand up to power. This is episode one of six. Now I'm really going. In 2017, Matthew Caruana Galizia began to wonder what he was doing with his life.

He was 31 years old. He'd just split up with his girlfriend and his apartment in Paris was terrible. I had a 25 square metre flat, a kitchen that was installed in the 1960s. The apartment was in the attic so I had to kind of squat to have a shower. It also didn't have any internet, which given he was a data journalist, was a problem. So there was only one thing for it. He was going to have to move back in with his folks.

They still lived in Malta, where Matthew grew up. You'd hear the birds outside, the house would be quiet. It was just the perfect place. You'd be in a kind of nest. Matthew worked from home during the day for the International Consortium of Investigative Journalists, the ICIJ. His mother worked from home too. She was a journalist as well. During the day she would be sitting at the dining room table

with her laptop open in front of her. That's where I would be most of the time. During breaks, they worked in the garden, enjoying the chance to spend time together. She loved tending to the trees. That summer, she helped me collect olives. We preserved them in brine. These things were escapes for her. But outside of his home, Malta didn't feel like the place he remembered from his childhood. Something was different.

It had always been divided down the middle between two political parties. But a series of crises and scandals had rocked the country.

And his mother, Daphne, was right at the centre of it. Maltese Prime Minister Joseph Muscatus called a snap general election for June 3rd, a year before the end of his term. Her blog called Running Commentary had become the biggest news site on the island, mixing breaking news and gossip. The move comes after opposition parties demanded his resignation, following allegations that his wife owns an offshore company in Panama.

The controversies she wrote about had split and already divided Malta even further. The revelations have caused a political storm in Malta. Daphne Caruana Galizia first broke news of the Panama firm owned by Energy Minister Konrad Mietze. The atmosphere in the country was really thick with fear and suspicion. You got a feeling that every person you met was looking over their shoulder when you were speaking to them.

You could feel it in the air. On the morning of October 16th, 2017, Matthew woke up and looked at the time. It was late, after nine. It was Monday, so my inbox was flooded. There were a million things to do. I didn't have time for breakfast. He could hear footsteps in the dining room. It was his mother. He got up, pulled on some clothes and came out of his room.

My mother was already working. She was making phone calls and answering messages. I was completely focused on what I was doing. It was just very quiet. The air was solid. And there was this very bright light streaming through the house. His mum seemed preoccupied. She was in the middle of a legal battle. A few months before, she'd written that Malta's economy minister had visited a brothel while on state business in Germany.

The minister was suing her for libel and now the court had frozen her bank account. Her phone rang. It was the bank. She said, "Look, I'll just come into the office and we'll talk about it." And she made an appointment for 3 o'clock. But before that, she had a lot to do. They sat near each other, Matthew catching up on emails, his mother typing up a post for her website. Normally my mother and I would have lunch together, but there was no time for it. She was constantly on the phone talking to sources and other people.

But she still found time to cut up some tomato and mozzarella and place it next to him. She called the bank to tell them that she was late, typed out her last blog post, published it, approved some comments, replied to some others on her blog. And she told me, "I'm going out to the bank now. I'll be back between 4 and 5 p.m." She walked out of the house. I said bye.

Maybe 15 seconds later, I heard her walking up to the house again and she came into the house, like kind of flustered and said, I forgot my chequebook. With her account frozen, she had to use her husband's cheques to pay for things. After picking up her chequebook, my mother just said, OK, now I'm really going and walked out of the house. I heard her walking away. I panicked.

pressed resume on the laptop to continue playing the music I was listening to and then I heard an explosion. I slammed shut my laptop, kind of leapt up, got to the door and as I opened the door, the dogs were barking uncontrollably and I just felt like I was going to faint. But somehow, I don't know what happened. A load of adrenaline kicked in and I just...

I just sprinted off. He ran through the garden, to the gates. I kept running and then I saw the plume of smoke. It was, I don't know, 200, 300 metres high. It was like a tower of thick black smoke. I've never seen anything like it. It looks like, I don't know, the fire of hell. He kept going, barefoot down the gravel lane. I could see that the trees were burning at the side of the road.

He ran across the field towards the flames, praying to himself.

Please God, please God, be another car. I couldn't see the number plate, I couldn't see the colour of the car, I couldn't tell what kind of a car it was. I ran around and in the front I could just make out one of the hubcaps and I saw the logo of Peugeot and at that moment I thought, shit. Just then a police car arrived. Two officers got out. One of them was holding a fire extinguisher. I screamed at them, what are you doing? Use it!

I tried to take the fire extinguisher from them, but they said, no, don't, it's pointless. The police dragged him a safe distance away. Matthew was frantic, looking for something, anything he could do. And that's when he saw the man in the grey SUV. This man in a checked shirt got out and he just kind of ambled up to the car.

And I saw him holding up his phone. He was taking photos. What on earth is that guy doing? He put his phone down, walked back to his car, completely nonchalantly. I told the police, that man was taking photos. You need to stop him.

He could have been the person who did this. Before I knew it, he was standing on the engine and was driving off. And I ran up to the police and I told them, "Look, you can't let him go. He was taking photos." And the guy said, "No, no, I wasn't taking photos. I wasn't taking photos. Look at my phone." I made a quick calculation and I said, "I have to do something so that they detain him." Matthew snatched his phone and smashed it into the road. He got out of the car and punched me in the face.

The police grabbed the man and held him back as he struggled to attack Matthew. He told me, you smashed my phone. Are you going to pay me for it? I kept telling him that was my mother in the car. The police dragged the man away. Matthew stood at the side of the road. Suddenly he felt alone. He needed help. But his dad and his brothers weren't answering their phones. Eventually he got through to his Aunt Corin, his mother's sister. I just jumped in my car and started driving towards their home.

And I knew I was on the right track because all the emergency vehicles were flying past. Corinne got there in less than 10 minutes. She cut the ignition and left the car on the side of the road. Firemen, ambulances, even the army had shown up. And there was Matthew, surrounded by all these people, on his own, almost frozen, and the fire was still smouldering. He was standing there in his T-shirt and jeans and barefoot. And we were standing in the road with all this around us.

I was shouting, I said, "They blew her up, they blew her up." I said, "That's the car over there, look, she was in it." And she didn't understand. And I said, "Yes, yes, she's dead. She's dead." And I remember she hugged me and she just started crying. As he stood there holding his aunt, Matthew looked into the flames. It felt like just moments before his mother had been rushing around the house, getting ready to leave. Now she was gone.

Questions began to form in his mind. Who would do this? And for what? What possible reason could there be? His thoughts turned to cold fury. He had no doubts who was to blame. I just thought those bastards...

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The burned wreck of Daphne Caruana Galicia's car lies in a Maltese field. Some feel her murder is a sign of threats to freedom of speech. The life of Malta's best-known blogger and investigative journalist was cut short on Monday. Most assume the car bomb that took her life was connected to the aggressive work she had done calling out corruption in Malta. News of the murder spread fast and far.

I was in London when I got an email from Matthew's boss at the ICIJ. It is with great sadness and outrage that we confirm the death of Maltese investigative journalist Daphne Caruana Galizia, mother of long-term ICIJ staffer Matthew Caruana Galizia. She was killed today when a bomb exploded in the car she was driving. I was in shock. I'd never met Daphne. I knew almost nothing about her. But I knew Matthew. He'd been helping me out on a project to design a research tool for journalists.

It also struck me for my own reasons. When I heard of Daphne's death, I saw another face. The sweet image of a dear old friend, Gauri Lankesh. Well-known journalist Gauri Lankesh has been shot dead at her home in Bengaluru. The police commissioner has confirmed the incident. Gauri had just died a month before. Like Daphne, she was a woman who was brutally and suddenly killed for her writing. All I'd been able to do was watch it, blankly, from thousands of miles away.

But now it had happened again. Another journalist killed. I wanted to do something. That evening, when the kids were in bed, I started reading about Daphne. And I started talking to my reporter friends around the world. Emails were already pinging around, at first just expressing sorrow. And then Sam, a reporter in Africa, spoke up. We hope that ICIJ can mobilise resources to help make sure the killers are caught. But others were more cautious.

One message read: "It's tricky and you have to do the investigation without interfering with police. You need a lot of local expertise and money." Then came even more difficult questions. Fredrik, a reporter in Sweden wrote: "She's not the only one. I heard a figure of 10 journos killed in Mexico just in 2017.

I could see their point. Who were we to decide which murders were investigated and which weren't? And anyway, we were reporters, not the police. We didn't have the power to arrest someone or seize evidence. What could we really do? It was best to let the police do their job. I told the others this wasn't the right time.

That evening, Paul Caruana Galizia, Daphne's youngest son, was on the first plane to Malta he could catch. His brother Matthew had finally got through to him with the news. You can imagine a flight from London to Malta is full of Maltese people who know each other and so everyone talks, everyone gets up over there. But no one was talking, it was completely quiet. As the plane approached Malta, he looked down on the island. The strange thing about flying over Malta at night is it makes the country look...

in a way even smaller because its perimeter is lit up and its interior is lit up and obviously the sea appears black the sky is black and it just looks like this floating patch of light I remember looking out of the window and

thinking how unbelievable it is that so much and so much that is wrong happens on such a tiny, tiny piece of earth and how this country just seems to be cursed. It's just cursed, this country. Matthew met him at the airport. He looked like a stick, like he was so gaunt. It's as though within a few hours he had lost 20 kilos.

And we just drove home. I can't even remember what we said. They got home after midnight. Huge searchlights lit up the field next to the house. A row of figures in white forensic suits were walking up and down, collecting any scrap of evidence. Police stood guard outside the house. The killers were still on the loose. For the family, it was a restless night. The next day, a detective walked into the house. He was strongly built with a shaved head, dressed in dark clothes.

Paul recognised him immediately. I remember thinking, oh my god, it's him, it's Keith Arnault. Inspector Keith Arnault had arrested Daphne in 2013 on the eve of an election.

My article went up at seven o'clock in the evening and two and a half hours later, by half past nine, the police were already at my gate with a warrant for my arrest issued by a magistrate within two and a half hours. She'd broken a rule that banned writing about politics on the day before the vote, but to Daphne it was police harassment. I remember thinking, this guy is sent to arrest journalists for these minor infractions. You know, how is he going to work...

On this case, what's he going to do? Spend his mornings dealing with these minor events and then afternoons with an assassination. Paul sat with his family across from Inspector Arno and his deputy, Kurt Zara. He had to ask us some quite straightforward things, you know, for our phone numbers, for example, so he could pass them on to the team of analysts that were looking at phone calls in the area. The questions kept coming one after another. Paul was worried.

With every minute, vital evidence could be being lost. And I remember Matthew saying, whoever did this definitely used what's called the Tarja battery, so an old British gun post that overlooks our house across the valley. He said, whoever did this used the old gun post as a lookout. And I remember Kurtzara immediately replying, we already have men there. But Paul was still concerned.

He knew there'd been six car bombs in the last four years on the island. And the police hadn't solved any. My first thought was, we're never going to get to the bottom of it because the track record is that you just don't find these people. Why do they like car bombings? It destroys all evidence. It destroys the person. It destroys everything around them.

Matthew was also losing confidence. I thought, look, how many suspects could there possibly be? And what are you doing about the money laundering that my mom was investigating? What are you doing about the bribery that she was investigating? His response was, let's let the physical evidence lead us. I felt like he was trying to paint a house with a toothpick. Like there was this massive...

task in front of him. And he was focused on these steps that seemed reasonable, but I was thinking, look, it's this massive organized criminal group that we're fighting against. What hope has this one investigator got against these mighty people?

The meeting left Matthew with a bad feeling. He wanted the investigation to move forward, but nothing he'd heard had made him trust the police. And time was precious. There was a huge problem of trust. It was only much later that he would find out the truth. When we found out how bad it was, it turned out to be even worse than we had ever suspected. Okay, it's time to commit. 2024 is the year for prioritizing yourself.

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Get 80% off your impression kit when you use code WONDERY at Byte.com. That's B-Y-T-E dot com. Start your confidence journey today with Byte. In the days after the bombing, Matthew was a mess. I just slept and I didn't shower for like five days. I spent five days in the same clothes that I was wearing on the day of the murder. Why do you think you didn't change the clothes?

That's our producer, Nika Singh. If I changed my clothes, it would be like I accepted that the murder happened. Whereas if I didn't change my clothes, there is a chance that I might wake up from the nightmare. Daphne's sister, Corinne, was also struggling to come to terms with what had happened. There was a flock of birds in the garden. They landed on a tree and somebody commented, oh, look, mummy would love that. And, you know,

Then the conversation just tailed off because the inevitable conclusion to that sentence was, but now she never will. You know, it was moments like that which, you know, brought out the full horror of what had happened. But the family couldn't shield themselves from reality for long. No one would let them.

I think it must have been maybe a day or two after the murder. I was speaking to my dad about something and he mentions that we have to be in court in a few days because there was a hearing of a libel suit filed by Chris Cardona, the Minister of the Economy. In all the chaos, Matthew'd forgotten all about it.

This was the guy that Daphne had written about, saying he'd visited a brothel while on state business in Germany. I expected the case to just fall apart. I mean, and for the magistrate to say, OK, I mean, the key witness is dead. So this case is ended. Matthew finally changed out of the clothes he'd been wearing since the explosion. He ironed a shirt, put on a dark suit and tie and headed to the court with his dad.

The courthouse was in Malta's capital city, Valletta, in a crowded square surrounded by tourist cafes. Its entrance rose like a faded Roman temple. And the courtroom is packed to the brim. There are even people standing up, which you never see in a courtroom in Malta. He recognised some of the faces.

They were from the governing Labour Party. From top to bottom, there was everyone, every driver, official who had nothing better to do associated with the Labour Party was there. Every single person. It felt as though they had bought an entrance ticket to the show where my mother's family was going to be tortured.

It dawned on Matthew. The case was not going to go away. Instead, Matthew, his father and his brothers were going to inherit the lawsuit.

They were now being sued in Daphne's place. And the Cardona case was far from the only one. There were another 47 libel suits outstanding against her. The list of people suing her read like a who's who of the island's powerful elite. Conrad Mitzi, the Minister of Energy. Keech Kembry, the Prime Minister's Chief of Staff. The Prime Minister, Joseph Muscat.

the Minister of Economy, Chris Cardona, Silvio de Bono, who is a sort of Maltese mini-oligarch, he filed 19 libel suits alone against my mother. Even if some were dropped, it was going to be a huge weight hanging over them. The libel suits were being used against my father, my brothers and I in the same way that they were being used against my mother.

to burn up our time, to burn up our money, to burn up our resources, our health, our well-being, our patience, and make it impossible to focus all our energy on the campaign for justice. But in the days after, it wasn't just the courts the family had to deal with. In the immediate aftermath, you're dealing with a most

The horrendous questions which you have and other people are throwing at you and dealing with drones flying overhead, journalists trying to come to the door, the phone ringing incessantly, messages coming through from every direction.

You know, having to face down what had happened as though, you know, you can just brush it away. A TV news crew asked Matthew for an interview. There was some crew here. I can't even remember what network it was from. And they said, can we do an interview over there in the field? And I said, OK, fine. So we went down and as they were setting up the camera...

This van passed by and a guy shouted out of the window, boom, ha ha ha ha ha, like that. And there was this very loud cackle, sort of, and just kept driving off. Matthew did his best to finish the interview, but all he could think about was that laugh. I wanted to kind of run after that car with a baseball bat and like beat that person to a pulp.

But I couldn't do it. It might have given me sort of satisfaction for 10 seconds. But if I instead put all of that energy into giving a speech at the Council of Europe's Parliamentary Assembly, that is way more effective. So you used it as fuel, you're saying? I mean...

That's a bit of a sort of Tumblr way of putting it. It's like one of those captions you see on someone's Facebook post. Your jealousy is my energy. It's a bit more complicated than that because these things really do hurt no matter what people say. On this small island, it seemed like his mother's enemies were everywhere. How could he and the family deal with all of this? The court cases, the media, the harassment...

And worst of all, he wasn't sure his mother's murder was ever going to be solved. On the morning of November 3rd, it seemed like the entire island had gone quiet. Daphne's funeral was to be held in the nearby town of Mosta at the Grand Rotunda, a massive basilica church with a 200-foot dome. The streets were empty. Flags were flown at half-mast by order of the government. Today was a national day of mourning.

But Paul had mixed feelings. The prime minister, leader of the opposition, the president and some other politicians were trying to turn it into a sort of national political day. You know, they wanted to come, they wanted to sit at the front of the church, they wanted to shake our hands, which we found repulsive. These were some of his mother's bitterest enemies. Some of them were still pursuing her family through the courts. And so we asked them,

to not attend. But a lot of people did. By 2pm, every pew in the church was full, though the mourners kept on arriving, filling the square outside. Thousands more spilled out into the streets beyond. I remember it being so quiet, so weirdly quiet, and just the strangeness, you know, of this big square full of people dressed in black, total silence. When we emerged from the church to go

to bury her, we all had to wait until her coffin was loaded into the hearse. And again, everyone was completely silent and we were just all standing there. People were coming up to my father and my brothers and me and just hugging us and kissing us. One woman grabbed Matthew's hands and pressed these silver devotional medals into them, you know, of a saint or

I was just crying, you know, people were really crying and it was strange because my brothers and I weren't, you know, we were just there. And weirdly we were comforting them. But then in one moment, one man just shouted out: "Justitia rei doa just!" "Justitia!" "Anna rei doa justitia!" So justice, we want justice. And then they began singing the Maltese national anthem.

Looking out through the windows of the funeral car, he began to see a different side to the country. Because in a way you only saw the ugliness, you only saw the harassment, you only saw the abuse. You never saw the people writing to her privately. You never saw the people who would go to the house and offer her support. You know, it was crowded out by the ugliness.

Paul began to realise there were people who cared about his mother, who cared about justice, but even if he had support, he had no idea how ugly things would get. MUSIC PLAYS

Coming up this season on Who Killed Daphne. There were so many names, so many scandals, so many offshore companies, bank accounts. I entered with my serious doubts and I left with probably even more doubts. There's going to be an attempt not just to kill Daphne, but also to bury her stories and her memory. The fuckers are going to get away with it and you're going to be responsible for it. He won't believe it. He just confessed.

From Wondery, this is episode one of six of Who Killed Daphne? A series about power, corruption and one woman's fight for the truth. Who Killed Daphne is written, reported and hosted by me, Stephen Gray. The senior producer is Russell Finch and producer is Nika Singh. The consulting producer is Suzanne Reber. Associate producer and fact checker is Kristina Czapiewska.

Production assistant is Simon Campbell, with additional reporting by Jacob Borg. Our managing producer is Luta Pundia. Coordinating producer is Olivia Weber. The music supervisor is Scott Velasquez for Freesawn Sync. Sound design, scoring and mix by Michelle Macklem. And sound design supervision by Marcelino Villalpando. Our theme song is composed by Kevin Dupree.

Executive producers are George Lavender, Marshall Louis, and Jen Sargent for Wondery. Welcome to the Offensive Line. You guys, on this podcast, we're going to make some picks, talk some s**t, and hopefully make you some money in the process. I'm your host, Annie Agar.

So here's how this show is going to work, okay? We're going to run through the weekly slate of NFL and college football matchups, breaking them down into very serious categories like No offense. No offense, Travis Kelsey, but you got to step up your game if Pat Mahomes is saying the Chiefs need to have more fun this year. We're also handing out a series of awards and making picks for the top storylines surrounding the world of football. Awards like the He May Have a Point Award for the wide receiver that's most justifiably bitter.

Is it Brandon Ayuk, Tee Higgins, or Devontae Adams? Plus, on Thursdays, we're doing an exclusive bonus episode on Wondery Plus, where I share my fantasy football picks ahead of Thursday night football and the weekend's matchups. Your fantasy league is as good as locked in. Follow the offensive line on the Wondery app or wherever you get your podcasts. You can access bonus episodes and listen ad-free right now by joining Wondery Plus.

This is the emergency broadcast system. A ballistic missile threat has been detected inbound to your area. Your phone buzzes and you look down to find this alert. What do you do next? Maybe you're at the grocery store. Or maybe you're with your secret lover. Or maybe you're robbing a bank. Based on the real-life false alarm that terrified Hawaii in 2018, Incoming, a brand-new fiction podcast exclusively on Wondery Plus, follows the journey of a variety of characters as they confront the unimaginable. The missiles are coming.

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