Just One Evil Act

online—”

Once again, she ended the call, cutting him off midsentence. She’d learned all that she needed to learn. The project now was to get to Azhar.

She could tell that Salvatore no longer trusted her, but as a man with a daughter Hadiyyah’s age, he was going to want to do what was right for the child. Barbara didn’t know what Aldo Greco said to the Chief Inspector, but whatever it had been, it worked. Before they each went off to their respective bedrooms in Torre Lo Bianco on the previous evening, he’d set the time for their departure to fetch Azhar back to Lucca, and he was as good as his word when it came to her accompanying him.

They were silent on the route, for what else could they be in a situation in which neither of them spoke the other’s language. Barbara could tell she’d dealt a real blow to the Italian, and more than anything she wanted him to understand why she’d done as she had done.

He saw her as on the take, no doubt. Anyone would. Police all over the world were dirty—not all of them, of course, but there were enough—and he would have little reason to think she was anything other than an inside source for the worst tabloid in London. That this wasn’t the case . . . How could she explain? Really, who would believe her in any language? She said to him again, “I bloody wish you spoke decent English, Salvatore. You think I betrayed you, but it wasn’t meant as betrayal and it wasn’t intended as a personal blow to you. Truth is . . . I bloody like you, mate. And now . . . with what happens next . . . ? That’s not going to be a personal blow either. But it’ll look like it. It’ll sodding look like I used you only to betray you again. I won’t mean it that way. Believe me, I won’t. God, I hope you’ll be able to understand someday. I mean, I c’n tell I’ve lost your trust and whatever good opinion you might’ve had about me and believe me I c’n see it in your face when you look at me. And I’m so bloody sorry about that, but I didn’t have a choice. I’ve never had a choice. At least not one that I could ever see.”

He glanced at her as he drove. They were on the autostrada and traffic was heavy with commuters, with lorries, and with tourist coaches heading to their next glorious Tuscan destination. He said her name in a very kind tone which, for a moment, made her think she had his forgiveness and his understanding. But then he said, “Mi dispiace ma non capisco. E comunque . . . parla inglese troppo velocemente.”

She had enough Italian at this point to understand that much. She’d heard it from him often enough. She said, “Mi dispiace as well, mate.” She turned to the window and watched the Italian scenery whizzing by: leafy vineyards, wonderful old farms, orchards of olive trees climbing hillsides, mountain villages in the distance, all of it crowned with a cloudless azure sky. Paradise, she thought. And then she added wryly, Lost.

Arrangements had been made in advance at the prison where Azhar was being held. He was ready when they arrived, not a prisoner in a boiler suit any longer but a gentleman scientist in his white shirt and trousers, released into the company of the policeman who had investigated him and the policewoman who was his most determined friend. Ispettore Lo Bianco kept a respectful distance as Barbara and Azhar greeted each other.

She spoke to the Pakistani man quietly, walking him ahead of Salvatore, linking her arm with his in a manner that would demonstrate warm friendship, leaning towards him, saying, “Listen, Azhar. It’s not how it looks, this thing. I mean your being released. It’s not how it looks.”

He looked at her quickly, his dark eyes confused.

She said, “It’s not over.” Quickly, she told him about Corsico’s story, which would be in The Source that morning. Doughty, she told him, had given Corsico everything in order to save his own neck. Names, dates, places, money exchanging hands, Internet hacking, the entire enchilada of information. She’d tried to stop the bloody journalist from writing the story, she said. She’d begged. She’d pleaded. She’d reasoned. And she’d failed.

Azhar said, “What does this mean?”

“You know. Azhar. You know. The Italian journalists are going to pick up on the story sometime today. Once they do, there’ll be a bloody big hue and cry. Someone is going to pursue the facts, and if it isn’t Salvatore, it’ll be some other detective who gets assigned. You’ll be detained again and I’ve burnt too many bridges with Salvatore to be able to help you.”

“But at the end of the day . . . Barbara, they will see how little choice I had once Angelina left London and hid Hadiyyah from me. They will show compassion. They will—”

“Listen to me.” She tightened her grip on his arm. “The Upmans are here in Lucca. They went to the questura yesterday and they’re bloody well going to go there today. They want Hadiyyah turned over to them. Salvatore held them off, but once the kidnapping story hits the papers here . . . And that’s supposing the Upmans haven’t already been rung up by Bathsheba from London telling them about the story in The Source, at which point, believe me, they’ll demand Hadiyyah because what kind of dad kidnaps his own kid and stows her in a convent with a madwoman who thinks she’s a nun, eh?”

“I did not intend—”

“D’you think they care what you intended? They hate you, mate, and you and I know it and they’ll go for custody of her just because they hate you, and they’ll bloody get it. Who cares that she means nothing to them? It’s you they’re after.”

He was silent. Barbara glanced at Salvatore, who was speaking into his mobile, still a respectful distance from them. She knew how little time they had. Their conversation had already gone on too long for a woman who was only supposed to be passing along information about the state of her friend’s beloved child.

She said, “You can’t go back to London. And you can’t stay here. You’re cooked either way.”

His lips barely moved as he said, “What then do I do?”

“Again, Azhar, I think you know. You’ve not got a choice.” She waited for him to take this in, and she saw on his face that he had done so, for he blinked hard and she thought she saw on his lashes the brilliance of unshed tears. She said, although she felt as if the pain of doing so might actually drive a sword through her heart, “You still have family there, Azhar. They’ll welcome her. They’ll welcome you. She speaks the language. Or at least she’s been learning it. You’ve seen to that.”

“She won’t understand,” he said in an agonised voice. “How can I do this to her after what she has been through?”

“You don’t have a choice. And you’ll be there for her. You’ll ease her way. You’ll see to it her life there is an extraordinary one. And she’ll adjust, Azhar. She’ll have aunts and uncles. She’ll have cousins. It will be okay.”

“How can I—”

Barbara cut in, choosing to interpret the rest of his question in the only way possible now. She said, “Salvatore has your passports, probably locked away in the questura. He’ll hand them over, and you and Hadiyyah and I will head to the airport. Fond farewells to him and all the rest. He may take us there, but he won’t stay to see where we go or even if we depart. I’ll go to London. You’ll go . . . wherever you can go to get a flight to Lahore. Just out of Italy. Paris? Frankfurt? Stockholm? It doesn’t matter as long as it’s not London. You’ll do what you have to do at this point because it’s the only thing left. And you know it, Azhar. You bloody know it.”

He looked at her. She saw his dark eyes fill with tears. He said, “And you, Barbara? What about you?”

“Me?” She tried to sound lighthearted. “I’ll face the music back in London. I’ve done it before, and I’ll survive. Facing the music is what I do best.”

LUCCA

TUSCANY

First was Torre Lo Bianco, where Hadiyyah leapt into her father’s arms and buried her face in his neck. He held her close. She said, “Barbara told me you were helping Salvatore. Did you help him a lot? What did you do?”

Azhar cleared his throat roughly. He smoothed back wisps of her hair and said with a smile, “Many, many things did I do. But it is time for us to go now, khushi. Can you thank the signora and Inspector Lo Bianco for taking such good care of you while I was away?”

She did so. She hugged Salvatore’s mamma, who kissed her, got teary, and called her bella bambina, and she hugged Salvatore who said “Niente, niente” as she thanked him. She asked them both to tell Bianca and Marco arrivederci, and she said to