Just One Evil Act (81 page)

All of this Barbara watched in a welter of nerves. She’d never seen a cop play his hand in this manner. She said, “Chief Inspector . . .” quietly and in appeal, then, “Salvatore . . .” then, “Chief Inspector,” although she didn’t know how the hell she could stop him aside from physically backing him into a corner, tying him to his desk chair, and gagging him.

She hadn’t the first clue about what had passed between Salvatore and Bruno in the interview room. She’d picked out various words among the Italian being flung about, but she hadn’t been able to put together much. She’d heard
DARBA Italia
over and over, as well as
E. coli
and the word
incubatrice
. She’d seen Daniele Bruno’s growing agitation, so she had some hopes that Salvatore was putting the thumbscrews to him. But throughout the interview, Salvatore had looked like a man in need of an afternoon siesta. The bloke was casual to the point of virtual unconsciousness. Something had to be going on beneath those hooded eyes of his, Barbara thought, but she had no idea what it was.

At the end of his reading, Garibaldi spoke again to Salvatore. This time, he brought Barbara into their conversation by saying, “I am asking the
ispettore
to allow me to see my client, Detective Sergeant Havers.” This, Barbara thought, was what a UK solicitor would have done in the first place, and just when she’d got to the point of accepting that things were different in Italy when it came to police work, they became more different still.

Salvatore made no move to take Garibaldi to his client in the interview room. Instead, he had Daniele Bruno brought to them. This was irregular but she was willing to wait to see how things would proceed from there. She got no comfort at all when within less than five minutes Garibaldi gave a formal little from-the-waist dip to Salvatore, said, “
Grazie mille
,” put his hand on Bruno’s arm, and led him from the premises. It happened so quickly that she didn’t have time to react other than to swing round to Salvatore and cry, “What the bloody hell?” to which he smiled and gave that Italian shrug of his.

She cried, “Why did you let him
go
? Why did you show him that TV film? Why did you tell him about DARBA Italia? Why did you give him . . . Oh, I know he would’ve got to see everything eventually, at least I think he would’ve because God knows I haven’t a clue what goes in this country, but for God’s sake you could have pretended . . . you could have suggested . . . But now he knows your hand—which, let’s face it, is bloody empty—and all he has to do is to tell Bruno to keep his mug plugged from now till the end of time because all we have is supposition anyway and unless you blokes practise some very strange form of justice over here
no
one is going to gaol based on supposition, and that includes Daniele Bruno. Oh, bloody hell why don’t you speak English, Salvatore?”

To all of this Salvatore nodded sympathetically. For a moment, Barbara thought he actually understood, if not from her words then from her tone. But then, maddeningly, he said, “
Aspetti, Barbara
.” And with a smile, “
Vorrebbe un caffè?
”

“No, I do not want a cup of bloody coffee!” she fairly shouted at him.

He smiled at this. “
Lei capisce!
” he cried. “
Va bene!
”

To which she said with sagging shoulders, “Just tell me why you let him go, for God’s sake. All he has to do is ring up Lorenzo Mura and we’re cooked. You see that, don’t you?”

He gazed at her, as if some kind of understanding would come from a close reading of her eyes. She found herself getting hot under his scrutiny. Finally, she said, “Oh, sod it,” and dug her packet of Players from her shoulder bag. She took one of the fags and offered the packet to him.

“Sod . . . it,” he repeated softly.

Their cigarettes lit, he nodded towards the window of his office. She thought he intended them to blow the smoke from it into the afternoon air. But instead he said, “
Guardi
,” and he indicated the pavement below them. There she saw Garibaldi and Bruno had emerged from the
questura
and were strolling along without a care.

“And this is supposed to reassure me?” she demanded.

He said, “
Un attimo
,
Barbara
.” And then, “
Eccolo
.” She followed the direction of his hooded gaze to see a man in an orange baseball cap following some thirty yards behind them. “Giorgio Simione,” Salvatore murmured. “
Giorgio mi dirà dovunque andranno.
”

Barbara felt only a small measure of relief at the sight of Giorgio following the other two men since all they needed to do was get into a car and that was that when it came to Bruno disappearing or getting in touch with Lorenzo Mura. But Salvatore seemed absolutely and preternaturally bloody
assured
of everything going along according to some sort of inner plan he had. Barbara finally decided there was nothing for it but to trust the man, although she hated to do so.

They spent a half hour waiting. Salvatore made a few unintelligible phone calls: one to mamma, another to someone called Birgit, and a third to someone called Cinzia. Real ladies’ man, she reckoned. It probably had to do with those hooded eyes of his.

When Rocco Garibaldi appeared at the doorway to Salvatore’s office, Barbara was both relieved and surprised. He came alone, which caused her some serious consternation, but this time when he spoke to Salvatore, he showed some degree of mercy by telling Barbara what he was saying.

His client Daniele Bruno was back in the interview room. He was now ready and willing to tell
Ispettore Lo Bianco everything he knew about this matter under investigation because he was deeply grieved by the death of an innocent woman who was carrying a child. That he now wished to speak had nothing at all to do with any fear he had for his own neck, and he had insisted that Garibaldi make this clear to the
polizia
. He would tell everything he knew and everything he had done because what he did not know at any time was how Lorenzo Mura intended to use the
E. coli
that he gave to him. As long as Ispettore Lo Bianco could promise to be satisfied on this one point, they could proceed. But it would be information in exchange for release: total immunity for Signor Bruno.

Salvatore appeared to think about this at great length, as far as Barbara could tell. He jotted a few notes on a legal pad, and he paced to the window where he made a phone call from his mobile in a very hushed voice. For all Barbara could tell he was ringing somewhere for takeaway Chinese, and when he at last finished the call, she had a suspicion she wasn’t far from the truth.

More Italian ensued during which she caught
E. coli
mentioned and the word
magistrato
dozens of times. So was Lorenzo Mura’s name. So was Bruno’s and Angelina Upman’s.

From this, all Barbara could work out was that a deal was being reached. Garibaldi said to her, “We have an understanding, Detective Sergeant,” at which point he stood and shook Lo Bianco’s hand. But what the understanding was remained a mystery until Salvatore made yet another phone call, followed by their return to the interview room where Daniele Bruno sat expressionlessly at the table, clearly waiting to hear about whatever deal had been struck between Garibaldi and Lo Bianco.

The deal became apparent very soon. A knock on the door heralded a police technician, and he carried with him a large plastic container of equipment, which turned out to be of an electronic nature. This he began to unpack upon the table as the rest of them watched.

He began a lengthy explanation to Bruno of what comprised all the items on the table, but in this instance, Barbara required no translation. She recognised them well enough along with the deal that Lo Bianco and Garibaldi had worked out.

Daniele Bruno would tell them everything. That much was certain. But he would also meet with Lorenzo Mura, and when he did so, he would wear a wire.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

The clatter of feet on a stone floor and cries of “Papà!
Papà!” greeted them when they returned to Torre Lo Bianco that evening. A little girl was running from the direction of the kitchen, and she was followed by a boy not much older, and both of them were followed by Hadiyyah. The little girl—whom Salvatore called Bianca—began chattering excitedly, and it came to Barbara that she was speaking about her. She concluded whatever she was saying by speaking to Barbara directly with “
Mi piacciono le Sue scarpe rosse
,” to which Salvatore fondly told her that “
La signora non parla italiano, Bianca
.”

Bianca giggled, covered her mouth with her hands, and said to Barbara, “I like the shoes red of you.”

Hadiyyah laughed at this and corrected her with “No! It’s ‘I like your red shoes,’” after which she said to Barbara, “Her mummy speaks English, but sometimes Bianca mixes the words up ’cause she
also
speaks Swedish.”

“No problem, kiddo,” Barbara told her. “Her English is bloody good compared to my Italian.” And to Salvatore she added, “That’s right, eh?”

He smiled and said, “
Certo
,” and gestured her towards the kitchen. There he greeted his mother who was in the midst of making dinner. It looked as if she was expecting a horde of foot soldiers. There were large trays of drying pasta on the worktops, a huge vat bubbling with sauce on the stove, the aroma of some kind of roasting meat coming from the oven, an enormous salad standing in the middle of the table, and green beans sitting in a large stone sink. Salvatore kissed his mother hello, saying, “
Buonasera, Mamma
,” which she waved off with a scowl. But the look she cast him was one of fondness, and she said to Barbara, “
Spero che abbia fame
.” She nodded at the food.

Barbara thought,
Fame?
Famous? No. That couldn’t be right. Then she twigged.
Famished
. She said, “Too bloody right.”

Salvatore repeated, “‘Too bloody right,’” and then to his mother, “
Sì, Barbara ha fame. E anch’io, Mamma
.”

Mamma nodded vigorously. All was right with her world, it seemed, as long as anyone entering her kitchen was hungry.

Salvatore took Barbara’s arm then and indicated she should come with him. The children stayed behind with Mamma in the kitchen as Barbara followed Salvatore up the stairs, where a sitting room comprised the floor above them. At one side of the room, an old sideboard tilted on the uneven stone floor. There, Salvatore poured himself a drink: Campari and soda. He offered Barbara the same.

She was strictly an ale or lager girl, but that didn’t appear to be on offer. So she went for the Campari and soda and hoped for the best.

He indicated the stairs and began to climb. She followed as before. On the next floor was his mamma’s bedroom along with a bathroom making a bulbous extension out from the ancient tower. The next floor held his own room, the floor above it the room she shared with Hadiyyah. It came to Barbara at this point that she and Hadiyyah were sharing the room belonging to Salvatore’s two children, and she said to him, “Sod it, Salvatore. We’re sleeping in your kids’ room, aren’t we? Where does that leave them?” He nodded and smiled at this. He said, “Sod it,
sì
,” and continued upward. She said, “It would help if you spoke better English, mate,” and he said, “English,
sì
,” and still he climbed.

They came out at last upon a rooftop. Here Salvatore said, “
Il mio posto preferito, Barbara
,” and indicated with a sweeping gesture the entirety of the place. It was a rooftop garden with a tree at its centre, surrounded on all sides by an ancient stone bench and shrubbery. At the edge of the roof, a parapet ran along all four sides of the tower, and to this parapet Salvatore walked, his drink in his hand. Barbara joined him there.

The sun was setting, and it cast a golden glow upon the rooftops of Lucca. He pointed out various areas to her, various buildings that he quietly identified by name as he turned her here and there. She understood not a thing he said, only that he spoke of his love for this place. And there was, she admitted, a lot to love. From the top of the tower, she could see the twisted, cobbled medieval streets of the town, the hidden gardens that were barely visible, the ovoid shape of the repurposed amphitheatre, the dozens of churches that dominated the individual tiny neighbourhoods. And always the wall, the amazing wall. In the evening, with a cool breeze now blowing across the great alluvial plain, it was, she had to admit it, like a slice of paradise.

She said to him, “It’s gorgeous. I’ve never even been out of the UK, and I never thought I’d ever be standing in Italy. But I’ll say this: If someone or something drags one out of one’s local chippy and into a foreign country, Lucca’s not a bad spot to end up.” She hoisted her glass to him and to the place. “Bloody beautiful,” she said.

He said, “Bloody right.”

She chuckled at this. “
Bene
, mate. I think you could learn to speak the lingo without that much trouble.”

“Sod it,” he said happily.

She laughed.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

T
he ringing of her mobile phone awakened Barbara. She grabbed it up quickly and glanced at the other bed in the room. Hadiyyah was sleeping peacefully, her hair tumbling on the pillow around her. Barbara gave a look at the incoming number and sighed.

“Mitchell,” she said by way of greeting.

“Why’re you whispering?” was his hello.

“Because I don’t want to wake Hadiyyah, and what the bloody hell time is it?”

“Early.”

“I twigged.”

“I knew you were quick. Get outside. We’ve things to discuss.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Where I always am: across the piazza at the café, which, by the way, is not yet open and I could do with a coffee. So if Signora Vallera wouldn’t be crushed by the thought of your stealing out into the dawn with a cup for me—”

“We’re not in the
pensione
, Mitchell.”

“
What?
Barb, if you’ve scarpered, there’s going to be hell—”

“Untwist them. We’re still in Lucca. But really, you can’t think I’d still be at the
pensione
with Hadiyyah’s grandparents about to show their mugs in town.”

“Well, they’re here. Tucked up in the San Luca Palace Hotel, by the way.”

“How d’you know?”

“It’s my job to know. Fact is, it’s my job to know all sorts of things, which is one of the many reasons I suggest you trot over here to the piazza . . . No, better yet. I need a coffee. I’ll meet you in Piazza del Carmine in twenty minutes. That should give you enough time to perform your morning toilette.”

“Mitchell, I have no clue where Piazza whatever-you-called-it is.”

“Del Carmine, Barb. And isn’t that why you’re a cop? To suss things out? Well, do a little sussing.”

“And if I don’t wish to accommodate you?”

“Then I just hit send.”

Barbara felt the grip of pain in her stomach. She said, “All right.”

“Wise decision.” He ended the call.

She dressed in a hurry. She looked at the time. Not even six in the morning but there was mercy in that. No one in Torre Lo Bianco appeared to be stirring.

Shoes in hand, she began a slow descent of the stairs. She worried that there might be something complicated about getting out of the tower, but it turned out to be a straightforward affair. Major key in the lock, but it rotated without a sound. She was out in the narrow street soon enough, wondering what direction she should take to find Piazza del Carmine.

She set off arbitrarily, just seeking another human presence in the cool early morning. She found it in the persons of an unshaven father-and-son duo trundling two large wooden carts of vegetables along a narrow path between a church and a walled garden. She said to them, lifting her shoulders quizzically and looking hopeful, “Piazza del Carmine?”

They looked at each other. “
Mi segua
,” the older one of them said. He gave the jerk of the head that Barbara was beginning to recognise as the Italian nonverbal for
come along with me
. She followed them. She wished she’d thought of breadcrumbs to find her way back to the tower at the end of whatever happened with Mitch Corsico, but there was no help for that now.

It wasn’t long before she found herself in the assigned meeting place, a less-than-scenic piazza
that accommodated a disreputable-looking restaurant, an unopened supermarket, and a large mildewed white building of indeterminate age with
Mercato Centrale
across the front of it. This was where Barbara’s companions were themselves heading and after tossing “Piazza del Carmine,” over his shoulder, the younger of the men trundled his cart of vegetable boxes inside the place, followed by his companion, followed by Barbara.

She found Mitch Corsico without any trouble. She just tracked the scent of coffee to the far side of the space and there he was, leaning on a narrow counter built into a wall, a few feet away from an enterprising African adolescent selling takeaway coffee from a shopping trolley.

Corsico saluted her with his cardboard cup, saying, “I knew you had the right stuff.”

She scowled and went for some coffee herself. It teetered just north of utterly undrinkable, but times were desperate. She took it to where Corsico was standing, after throwing a few coins into the African’s palm and hoping they would do.

“And . . . ?” she said to Corsico.

“And the question is why didn’t you phone?”

Barbara thought for a moment, wondering how far she could push this. She said, “Look, Mitchell. When there’s something to phone you about, I’ll phone you.”

He evaluated the expression on her face, but he didn’t go for it, fondly shaking his head at her. “Doesn’t work that way,” he said and slurped his coffee. He turned his laptop so that she could see the screen.
Grieving Parents of Dead Mum Speak of Abandonment and Loss
was his title of the piece. She didn’t need to read far into it to see that he’d scored an interview with the Upmans. They’d employed their hatchets on Azhar: as a father and as the man who’d “ruined” their daughter like a villain from a Thomas Hardy novel.

“How the hell did you get them to talk?” she asked him, the only thing she could think of as her mind raced with possible ways to appease him.

“Had a chinwag with Lorenzo at the
fattoria
yesterday. They showed up while I was there.”

“Lucky,” she said.

“It had nothing to do with luck. So where did Lo Bianco stow you?”

She narrowed her eyes in response but said nothing.

He took this on board. He gave a martyred sigh. He said, “You shouldn’t have let him settle your account with Signora Vallera. She gets up early, by the way. A knock on the door and there she was, and
dove
means
where
in their lingo.
Ispettore
was clear enough to me. And where you and I come from, one and one still make two. What I expect at this point is that the Upmans will be seriously chuffed to know the inspector pulled you and Hadiyyah out of the
pensione
. But I also expect you’d rather I didn’t trot over to the San Luca Palace Hotel and interrupt their brekkers to give them the word.” He fiddled with the keys on his laptop, and Barbara saw him access his email, although she didn’t have a clue how he’d done it from this location. A few manoeuvres and he’d attached the Grieving Parents story to a message to his editor and his finger was hovering one click away from send. “Now, do we still have a deal or do we not, mate? Because as I’ve tried to explain to you ad nauseam, I’ve got to keep the beast fed or it’s going to eat me.”

“All right, all right,” she told him. “Yes, it was
E. coli
. Yes, it was intended for murder or at least for a very serious illness. I c’n confirm it came from that place I told you about: DARBA Italia. They make and test medical equipment, including incubators of the sort that breed bacteria for laboratories to study. One of the bacteria they have on site is
E. coli
, and it was handed over to Mura. The bloke who did it—”

“Name, Barb.”

“Not yet, Mitch.”

He pointed a warning finger at her. “That’s not how we’re going to play this.”

“Forget it, Mitchell. He’s agreed to wear a wire, and if I give you his name and you use it, the entire investigation goes straight to hell.”

“You can trust me,” he said.

“I trust you like I trust my hair to stop growing.”

“I won’t use the name till you say the word.”

“Not going to happen and that’s how it is. You write your story. You leave blanks or whatever else you want to leave where the names should go. Once we have what we need from the wire, I give you the names and then you hit send. That’s how it has to be because there’s too much on the line.”

He thought about this for a moment, slurping his coffee another time. Around them Mercato Centrale was starting to heat up with activity as more vendors arrived and organised themselves in something of a ring round the place. The coffee-selling business began to be brisk.

Corsico finally said, “Problem is . . . I don’t trust you not to go sour on me. I think some kind of guarantee . . .”

She nodded at his laptop and said, “You’ve got your guarantee right there. I don’t do what you want when you want it, you just hit send.”

“Send this, you mean?” He clicked and the story was on its way to his editor. “Whoops,” he said solemnly. “There it goes, Barb.”

“And there goes our deal,” she told him.

“I don’t think so.”

“No? Why not?”

“Because of this.” He did a bit more expert manoeuvring and revealed another story he’d been writing. This one’s proposed headline was
Dad Was Behind It
, and when Barbara read through it quickly, her teeth seemed to grind of their own volition.

He’d got to Doughty. Or Doughty had got to him. Or perhaps it was Emily Cass or Bryan Smythe, but she reckoned on Doughty. He’d given Mitch Corsico line and level, A to Z, the whole bleeding alpha to omega on Azhar, on Barbara, on Hadiyyah’s disappearance, and on her subsequent kidnapping in Italy. He’d given him names and dates and places. He had, in effect, pointed a loaded gun at Azhar. He’d also put an end to her career.

Barbara discovered that one couldn’t actually think when one’s heart was leaping about like a wounded kangaroo. She raised her eyes from the laptop’s screen and simply had nothing to say other than, “You can’t do this.”

Mitch said, “Alas and alack,” in a tone so speciously solemn that she wanted to punch him. Then this tone altered and the words were stone. He glanced at his watch. “Midday should do it, don’t you think?”

She said, “Noon? What’re you talking about?” although she had a fairly good idea.

“I’m talking about how much time you have before this baby rockets off into cyberspace, Barb.”

“I can’t guarantee—”

He waggled a finger at her. “But I can,” he said.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

Barbara named it a miracle that she found her way back to Torre Lo Bianco, although she didn’t do it without several wrong turns. But as things developed, the tower was well known to the citizens of Lucca because of its rooftop garden, and it seemed that many of them used it as some sort of landmark. Everyone she asked knew where it was, although the directions to get there—always in Italian—seemed more complicated each time she enquired about them. It took her an hour to locate it. By the time she arrived, everyone in the tower was in the kitchen.

Salvatore was at his coffee, Hadiyyah was at a mug of hot chocolate, and Mamma was at a stack of what looked like demented tarot cards, which she was laying out in front of Hadiyyah. Barbara looked at these as a way of avoiding Salvatore’s speculative gaze. Mamma was presenting one that depicted a robe-clad woman holding a tray that contained a pair of eyeballs, presumably hers if the blood on her face was anything to go by. Above this, other cards had been arranged: a bloke being crucified upside down, another chained to a pillar and sprouting arrows, a youngish man in a vat with a fire lit beneath it.

Barbara said, “Bloody hell! What’s going on?”

Hadiyyah said happily, “
Nonna
is teaching me ’bout the saints.”

“Could she possibly choose less bloody ones?”

“I don’t think there are any,” Hadiyyah confided. “At least not so far.
Nonna
says that what’s brilliant is you c’n always tell who the saint is by what’s going on in the picture ’cause it shows what happened to them. See, this is St. Peter on the upside-down cross, and this is St. Sebastian with the arrows and
this
”—she tapped the young man in the vat—“is St. John the ’Vangelist ’cause nothing they did to him killed him and look how God up here is sending gold rain down to put out the fire.”

“
Guarda, guarda
,” Mamma said to Hadiyyah, tapping yet another card, on which a young woman tied to a stake was being consumed by eager flames.

“St. Joan of Arc,” Barbara said.

Mamma looked delighted. “
Brava
,
Barbara!
” she cried.

“How’d you know?” asked Hadiyyah, equally delighted.

“Because us Brits killed her,” Barbara said. And since there was no further way to avoid it, she smiled at Salvatore and said, “Morning.”

He said, “’
Giorno, Barbara
.” He’d already risen politely, and he indicated an Italian coffeemaker that sat on a burner of the old stove. On the worktop next to this, an array of breakfast foods was spread out. Barbara said, “Cake for breakfast?” to him. “I could start liking this place.”

Hadiyyah said, “It’s a breakfast
torta
, Barbara.”

Mamma said, “
Una torta, sì. Va bene
,
Hadiyyah
,” and she smoothed her hand fondly on Hadiyyah’s hair. To her son she said, “
Una bambina dolce
” to which Salvatore said, “
Sì, sì
,” but he seemed preoccupied.

When he presented Barbara with her coffee, he said something which Hadiyyah translated as, “Salvatore wants to know where you were,” as she was presented with another saint’s card, which Mamma announced as a depiction of San Rocco.

Barbara made walking motions with her fingers against the tabletop. “Out for a morning walk,” she told him.

“
Ho fatto una passeggiata
,” Hadiyyah said. “That’s how you say it.”

“Right.
Oh fat-o una passa
—whatever.”

“Ah.
E dov’è andata?
”

“An’ where did you go?” Hadiyyah translated.

“I got bloody well lost. Tell him I’m lucky I didn’t end up in Pisa.”

When Hadiyyah passed this along to Salvatore, the inspector smiled. But Barbara could see it didn’t touch his eyes, and she steeled herself for whatever was coming next. This turned out to be Salvatore’s mobile, which chimed. He looked at it and said, “Ispettore Lynley.”

She pressed a finger to her lips, asking Salvatore in this way to keep mum on her whereabouts. He nodded cooperatively.

He said with a smile, “
Pronto, Tommaso
,” into the mobile. But after a moment, his face altered. He glanced at Barbara, and he left the room.

VICTORIA