Just One Evil Act (79 page)

Her first thought was that he intended to stop her. But she soon discovered that she was wrong. Instead, he negotiated payment with Signora Vallera, picked up Hadiyyah’s suitcase and Barbara’s duffel, and nodded towards the door. He said, “
Seguitemi, Barbara e Hadiyyah
,” and he walked outside. He didn’t take them to his car, however. Instead, he headed out of the amphitheatre on foot and wound his way through the narrow medieval streets. These led into the occasional unexpected piazza ruled over by one of the city’s ubiquitous churches, past shuttered buildings where the occasional opened double doors gave glimpses of hidden courtyards and gardens, and along the fronts of businesses just reopening after the day’s break for lunch and rest.

Barbara knew there was no point in asking where they were going, and it was some way along the route before it occurred to her that Hadiyyah’s youthful Italian would probably serve the purpose perfectly. She was about to ask the little girl to make the enquiry of Salvatore Lo Bianco, when he stopped at a narrow structure many floors tall and set down the duffel and the suitcase.

He said to them, “Torre Lo Bianco,” and fished in his pocket to produce a key ring. Barbara got the Lo Bianco part, but it wasn’t until he opened the door with the key and called out, “
Mamma? Mamma, ci sei?
” that she twigged this was his mother’s home. Before she could clarify this or protest or say anything at all, an elderly woman with well-coiffed grey hair appeared from an inner room. She wore a heavy apron over a black linen dress, she was drying her hands on a towel, and she was saying, “Salvatore,” in greeting and then in a different tone, “
Chi sono?
” as her dark eyes took in Barbara first and then Hadiyyah, partially hidden behind her. She smiled at Hadiyyah, which Barbara took for a good sign. She said, “
Che bambina carina
,” and bending to put her hands on her knees, “
Dimmi, come ti chiami?
”

“Hadiyyah,” Hadiyyah said, and when the woman said, “
Ah! Parli italiano?
”
Hadiyyah nodded. Her “
un po’
”
produced another smile from the woman.

“
Ma la donna, no
,” Salvatore told her. “
Parla solo inglese
.”

“
Hadiyyah può tradurre, no?
” Salvatore’s mother replied. She spied the duffel and the suitcase, which Salvatore had left on the doorstep. “
Allora, sono ospiti?
” she said to her son. And when he nodded, she held out her hand to Hadiyyah. She said, “
Vieni, Hadiyyah. Faremo della pasta insieme. D’accordo?
” She began to lead Hadiyyah farther into the house.

Barbara said, “Hang on. What’s going on, Hadiyyah?”

Hadiyyah said, “We’re staying here with Salvatore’s mum.”

“Ah. As to the rest?”

“She’s going to show me how to make pasta.”

Barbara said to Salvatore, “Ta. I mean
grazie
. I c’n at least say
grazie
.”

He said, “
Niente
,” and went on a bit, gesturing towards a stone stairway that climbed up what was clearly a tower as well as being the family home.

Barbara said to Hadiyyah, “What’s he saying, kiddo?”

Hadiyyah said over her shoulder to Barbara, “He lives here, too.”

LUCCA

TUSCANY

In the way of all things Italian, they had to eat first. Barbara wanted to deal at once with the list of employees Salvatore had brought with him from DARBA Italia, but he seemed as intent upon having a meal as his mother was intent upon serving one. He did make a phone call, however, speaking to someone called Ottavia. Barbara heard DARBA Italia mentioned and then the name Antonio Bruno several times. From this she took hope that someone at the
questura
was checking into something. This made her doubly eager to get out of Torre Lo Bianco, but she learned that no one put Salvatore and his mamma off their food. It was simple enough: roasted red and yellow peppers, cheese, several kinds of meat, bread, and olives, along with red wine and, afterwards, more Italian coffee and a plate of biscuits.

Then Salvatore’s mamma began bringing forth the ingredients for Hadiyyah’s experience in homemade pasta, and Salvatore and Barbara left the tower. Once outside, she saw that the building was indeed a bona fide tower. There were others in the town whose shape she’d clocked without really taking in what they were as they’d long ago been converted to shops and other businesses that disguised their original purpose. This one, though, was unmistakable, a perfect square soaring into the air, with some kind of greenery draping over the edges of the roof.

Salvatore led the way back to the car. In very short order, they returned to the
questura
. He parked, said, “
Venga, Barbara
,” and Barbara congratulated herself on her budding understanding of the language. She went with him.

They didn’t get far. Mitchell Corsico was leaning against a wall directly across the street from the
questura
, and he did not look like a happy cowpoke. Barbara saw him the same moment that he saw her. He came in their direction. She walked more quickly, in the hope of getting into the building before he reached them, but he wasn’t about to be played for a fool a second time. He cut her off, which in effect cut Salvatore off as well.

“Just what the bloody hell is going on?” he demanded hotly. “D’you know how long I’ve been waiting for you? And why aren’t you answering your mobile? I’ve rung you four times.”

Salvatore looked from her to Mitchell Corsico. His solemn gaze took in the journalist’s Stetson, the Western shirt, the bolo tie, the jeans, the boots. He seemed confused, and who could blame him? This bloke was either dressed for a costume party or he was an evacuee from the American Wild West via time machine.

Salvatore frowned. He said, “
Chi è, Barbara?
”

She ignored him for the moment, saying to Mitch as pleasantly as she could, “You’re going to cock things up if you don’t leave immediately.”

“I don’t think so,” he said. “The leaving part, I mean. I don’t think I’ll be leaving. Not without a story.”

“I gave you a story. And you’ve had your bloody picture of Hadiyyah.” Barbara shot a glance at Salvatore. For the first time she was thankful that he spoke practically no English. No one would conclude that Mitchell Corsico—dressed as he was—was a journalist. She needed to keep things that way.

Corsico said, “That pony isn’t about to gallop. Rod wasn’t chuffed by the winsome photo. He’s running the story but only because it’s our lucky day and no politician got caught in a car behind King’s Cross Station last night.”

“There’s nothing more, Mitch. Not just now. And there’s not going to
be
more if my companion here”—she didn’t dare use Salvatore’s name and clue him in that he was part of the discussion—“works out who you are and what your living is.”

Mitch grabbed her arm. “Are you threatening me? I’m not playing games with you.”

Salvatore said quickly, “
Ha bisogno d’aiuto, Barbara?
” And he clutched onto Corsico’s hand tightly. “
Chi è quest’uomo? Il Suo amante?
”

“What the bloody hell . . . ?” Corsico said. He winced at the strength of Salvatore’s grip.

“I don’t know what he’s saying,” Barbara said. “But my guess is that if you don’t back away, you’re going to find yourself in the nick.”

“I
helped
you,” he said tersely. “I got you the bloody television film. I want what you know and you’re double-crossing me and there’s no way in hell—”

Salvatore twisted Mitch’s hand sharply away from Barbara’s arm, bending the fingers back so far that Corsico yelped. He said, “Jesus. Call Spartacus off, all right?” He took a step back, massaged his fingers, and glared at her.

She said quietly, “Look, Mitchell. All I know is we went to a place where they make equipment for scientists. He talked to the managing director there for less than five minutes, and a list of employees is what we came up with. He’s carrying the list in that envelope he’s holding. And that’s all I know.”

“Am I supposed to get a story out of that?”

“Christ, I’m telling you what I know. When there’s a story, I’ll give it to you but there isn’t a story yet. Now you’ve got to leave and I’ve got to think of some bloody way to explain who you are because, believe me, once he and I”—with a jerk of her head at Salvatore—“walk into the
questura
, he’s going to fetch a translator and give me a proper grilling and
if
he twigs that you’re a you-know-what, we are cooked. Both of us. Do you understand what happens then? No breaking story at all, and how’s your mate Rodney going to feel about that?”

Finally, Mitchell Corsico hesitated. His gaze flicked to Salvatore, who was watching with an expression that combined distrust with calculation. Barbara didn’t know what the Italian was thinking, but
whatever
he was thinking, his face seemed to support what she was claiming. Corsico said to Barbara in an altered tone, “Barb, this better not be bollocks.”

“Would I be that stupid?”

“Oh, I expect you would.” But he backed off, showing upheld empty hands to Salvatore. He said to Barbara, “You answer your mobile when I ring you, mate.”

“If I can, I will.”

He turned on his booted heel and left them, striding towards the café near the railway station. Barbara knew he’d wait there for some sort of word. He owed his editor a Big Story in exchange for this jaunt to Italy, and he wasn’t going to rest until he had one.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

Salvatore watched the cowboy walk off, his long strides made seemingly longer by the straight-legged jeans and the boots he wore. They made an odd couple, this man and Barbara Havers, Salvatore thought. But the nature of attraction had always been something of a mystery to him. He could understand why the cowboy might be attracted to Barbara Havers with her expressive face and fine blue eyes. He couldn’t, on the other hand, understand at all what would attract Barbara Havers to him. This would be the Englishman who had first accompanied her to see Aldo Greco, however. The
avvocato
had spoken of him, using the term
her English companion
or something very like. Salvatore wondered what that term really meant.

Bah, he thought. He had no time for these considerations, and of what import were they? He had work to do, and it wasn’t for him to work out the details of a couple’s interaction on the street. Enough that the cowboy had taken himself elsewhere so that he could put Barbara Havers into the picture of what was going on.

He knew she was confused. Everything that had happened at DARBA Italia was a source of anxiety for her. She’d expected him to make a clear move that would take them in the direction she wanted to go: an arrest of someone who was not Taymullah Azhar. He was doing that, but he lacked the words to tell her that things were moving along.

Ottavia Schwartz had seen to that. While he was helping Barbara move Hadiyyah and her belongings from the
pensione
to his mamma’s house, while he and Barbara and the child had been eating their little meal with his mamma, Ottavia had been fulfilling his orders. In a police car, she’d gone with Giorgio Simione to DARBA Italia. She’d returned to the
questura
with the director of marketing. He was waiting for them now in an interview room, where he’d been—Salvatore consulted his watch—for the last one hundred minutes. A few more wouldn’t hurt.

He took Barbara Havers to his office. He pointed to a chair in front of his desk, and he pulled another over and joined her there. He swept a few articles on the desk to one side, and he laid out the list of employees provided to him by the managing director of DARBA Italia.

She said, “Right. But what’s this doing to help us sort out—”

“
Aspetti
,” he told her. He pulled from a pen and pencil holder a highlighting marker. He used it to draw her attention to the name of every department head on the list of employees. Bernardo. Roberto. Daniele. Alessandro. Antonio. She frowned at the highlighted names and said, “So? I mean, I see that these blokes run the show and yeah, okay, their last names are all the same so they must be related, but I don’t get why we aren’t—”

He used a red pen to draw a square round the first initial of each name. Then he wrote them out on a sticky pad. Then he unscrambled them into DARBA. “
Fratelli
,” he said, to which she said, “Brother.” This word he knew and he said, holding up his hand to illustrate what he meant: “
Sì.
Sono fratelli
.
Con i nomi del padre e dei nonni e zii. Ma aspetti un attimo, Barbara
.”

He went to the other side of his desk, where upon a corner lay a stack of files comprising some of the materials he’d amassed on the death of Angelina Upman. From these he pulled out the photographs from the Englishwoman’s funeral and burial. He leafed through them quickly and found the two he wanted.

These he placed on top of the list of employees. “Daniele Bruno,” he told Barbara Havers.

Those fine blue eyes widened as they took in the pictures. In one of them Daniele Bruno was speaking earnestly to Lorenzo Mura, one hand on his shoulder and their heads bent together. In the other, he was merely a member of the
squadra di calcio
who had attended the funeral to show their support to a fellow player. Barbara Havers gazed at these pictures, then she set them to one side. As Salvatore had assumed she would, she took up the employee list and found Daniele Bruno’s name. He was the director of marketing. Like his brothers, he doubtless came and went from his family’s business with no one wondering where he was going or why.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Barbara Havers cried. She soared to her feet. “You’re a bloody genius, Salvatore! You found the link! This is it! This is how!” And she grabbed his face and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

She seemed as startled as he was that she had done this because an instant afterwards, she backed away. She said, “Christ. Sorry, mate.
Sorry
, Salvatore. But thank you, thank you. What d’we do next?”

He recognised
sorry
but nothing else. He said, “
Venga
,” and indicated the door.