Just One Evil Act

Purtroppo, no had been Salvatore’s reply. For surely the telegiornalista knew that the kidnapping case had been handed over to Nicodemo Triglia some weeks ago? So Salvatore had no place in any pursuit of this new information.

Did he know, then, where Taymullah Azhar and his daughter had gone? For the telegiornalista had learned that Azhar had been released from the prison where he’d been held, released into the care of Salvatore Lo Bianco and the English detective who’d accompanied him. Barbara Havers was her name. Where had Ispettore Lo Bianco taken them?

Here, of course, Salvatore had said. The professore had collected his passport and had departed, as was his right.

Departed? For where?

“Non lo so,” Salvatore had told him. For he had been most careful about this. Wherever they were going, he did not wish to know. Their fate was out of his hands now, and he intended to keep it that way.

When at last Piero Fanucci returned from pranzo, he appeared to be fully recovered from whatever concerns he might have had during his conversation with the Casparia family’s team of avvocati. Salvatore gave idle thought to the idea that a half liter of wine probably had gone far to allay those concerns, but he nonetheless welcomed Piero’s expansive greeting and he followed the magistrato into his office.

He was there to speak only about the death of Angelina Upman and the guilt of Lorenzo Mura. In the interview room at the questura, Mura had confessed brokenly to everything. With Daniele Bruno’s assistance and his willingness to testify at whatever trial would follow the events associated with his meeting with Mura at the Parco Fluviale, it seemed to Salvatore that the investigation was now complete. Mura did not intend his woman to die, he explained to the magistrato. He did not intend her even to drink the wine that contained the bacteria. He’d meant it for the Pakistani man who’d come to assist in the search for their child. He had not known that, as a Muslim, Taymullah Azhar did not drink wine.

Piero said at the conclusion of Salvatore’s remarks, “It is all circumstantial, what you give to me, no?”

It was, of course. But the circumstances were damning, Salvatore said. “Still, I leave it to you and to your wisdom, Magistrato, to decide how you wish to prosecute Signor Mura. You have been right about so many things, and I trust whatever decision you make once you have familiarised yourself with all the reports.” These were in the folders that Salvatore carried. He handed them over, and Piero Fanucci placed them on the stack of other folders waiting for his perusal. Salvatore added, “The Mura family . . .”

“What of them?”

“They have hired an avvocato from Rome. It is my understanding that he will wish to strike a bargain with you.”

“Bah,” Piero said dismissively. “Romans.”

Salvatore made a formal little bow, just an inclination of the head to indicate his acceptance of Piero’s opinion of any lawyer who might come from Rome, that centre and hotbed of political scandal. He said farewell, then, and turned to leave. “Salvatore,” Piero said, which stopped him. He waited politely while Piero gathered his thoughts. He was unsurprised when the other man said, “Our little spat in the Orto Botanico . . . I deeply regret my loss of control, Topo.”

“These things happen when passions run high,” Salvatore told him. “I assure you that, on my part, it is all forgotten.”

“On mine as well, then. Ci vediamo?”

“Ci vediamo, d’accordo,” Salvatore agreed.

He left the office. A brief passeggiata was in order, he decided, so he took a little detour instead of heading directly to the questura. He wandered in the opposite direction, telling himself the day and the exercise would do him good. That his exercise took him to Piazza dei Cocomeri was of no import. That in the piazza was a very large newspaper kiosk was purely coincidental. That the giornalaio sold newspapers in English, French, and German as well as Italian was merely an intriguing discovery. He did not yet have that day’s edition of The Source, however. The British newspapers generally arrived by late afternoon, flown over to Pisa and transported from the airport. If the ispettore wished a copy to be held for him, this could be easily arranged.

Salvatore said yes, he would like a copy of that particular paper. He handed over his money, nodded at the giornalaio, and went on his way. Certo, he could have used the Internet to see that morning’s edition of the tabloid. But he’d always liked the feeling of an actual newspaper beneath his fingers. And if he had no English sufficient to read what was in the pages of this tabloid, what did it matter? He could find someone to translate it for him. Eventually, he decided, he would do so.

VICTORIA

LONDON

Isabelle Ardery’s third meeting with the assistant commissioner took place at three o’clock. Lynley learned about it in the usual way. Prior to that meeting, Dorothea Harriman informed him sotto voce, there had been a flurry of phone calls from CIB1, followed by a lengthy encounter in Isabelle’s office with one of the deputy assistant commissioners. To Lynley’s question of which one of the DACs had met with Ardery, Dorothea lowered her voice even more. It was the one in charge of police personnel management, she told him. She’d tried to sort out what was going on, but all she could report was that Detective Superintendent Ardery had asked for a copy of the Police Act yesterday afternoon.

Lynley heard all this with a sinking heart. Sacking a policeman or -woman was an inordinately difficult manoeuvre. It wasn’t a matter of saying, “Right, you’re gone. Clear out your desk” because from a remark such as that, a lawsuit would follow as the night the day. So Isabelle had been necessarily careful in building her case, and although it pained him to know this, Lynley found that he couldn’t blame her.

He rang Barbara’s mobile. If nothing else, he could at least prepare her for what was to befall her when she returned to London. But he got no answer, and so he left a simple message for her to ring him at once. Then, after five minutes of waiting, he rang Salvatore Lo Bianco.

He was trying to get in contact with Sergeant Havers, he told the Italian man. Was she with him? Did he know where she was? She wasn’t answering her mobile and—

“I suspect she is on an airplane,” Salvatore told him. “She left Lucca at midday with the professore and little Hadiyyah.”

“Returning to London?”

“Where else, my friend?” Salvatore said. “We are at a conclusion here. To the magistrato I gave my report this afternoon.”

“What will he be pursuing, Salvatore?”

“To this, I confess I do not know. The case of Signora Upman’s death ends with Signor Mura. As to the kidnapping of little Hadiyyah . . . ? That was taken from me long ago, as we both know. It, too, is in the hands of the magistrato. And Piero . . . ? Ah, Piero goes his own way in things. I have learned not to attempt to direct him.”

That was the extent of Salvatore’s information. Lynley had the distinct feeling that there was more going on than Salvatore was willing to say via phone. But whatever it was, it was going to have to stay in Italy until such a time that Lynley travelled to Lucca again.

A phone call from Dorothea Harriman supervened upon his conversation with Salvatore Lo Bianco. DI John Stewart was in conference with the detective superintendent now. He had taken a copy of a tabloid into the meeting, Detective Inspector Lynley. Harriman thought it was The Source, but she couldn’t be sure.

Lynley rang Barbara Havers another time. Another time, it was her voice mail he heard. Just a surly “This is Havers. Leave a message,” in an impatient tone. He told her to ring him as soon as possible. He added, “Salvatore tells me you’re on a flight to London. We do need to talk before you come in to the Met, Barbara.” More than that, he wouldn’t say. But he hoped she sensed the urgency in his tone.

For an hour afterwards, he was weak-stomached. He recognised this not only as completely unlike him but also as an indication of how little he could do at this point to stop the concrete ball from rolling down the ice slope