Just One Evil Act

way but was gratified when a minute later, she came to find him. He was, ashamedly, even more gratified when the young woman murmured, “Merda. It goes nowhere,” but he was professional enough to give Nicodemo a minor show of support by murmuring back, “Give him time, Ottavia.”

She gave a sputter that communicated as you like and said, “Daniele Bruno, Ispettore.”

“The man with Lorenzo in the Parco Fluviale.”

“Si. A family with very big money.”

“The Brunos? But not an old family, non e vero?” By this he meant, not old money handed down through the centuries.

“Twentieth century. It all comes from the great-grandfather’s business. There’re five great-grandsons and they all work for the family company. Daniele’s director of sales.”

“The product?”

“Medical equipment. They sell a lot of it if looks say anything.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning they live on a compound outside Camaiore. Much property and all the houses together behind a great stone wall. Everyone’s married with children. Daniele has three. His wife’s an assistente di volo on the Pisa–London route.”

Salvatore felt a little rush of excitement at this connection to London. It was something. Perhaps it was insignificant, but it was something. He told Ottavia to look into the wife. Keeping it all very quiet, he said. “Puoi farlo, Ottavia?”

“Certo,” She sounded a little offended. Of course she could do this. Keeping things quiet was her middle name.

Shortly after they parted, Salvatore took a call from DI Lynley. The London man claimed that, as he did not know how to reach the new chief investigator, perhaps Salvatore could pass along some information they’d uncovered in London . . . ? Between the lines, Salvatore read the truth of the matter, which was that DI Lynley was kindly keeping him informed. He played along, assuring the other detective that he would indeed tell Nicodemo whatever Lynley wished him to know.

“Non e tanto,” Lynley said. The private investigator in London named by Di Massimo claimed that he had hired the Italian to look for the girl in Pisa but that Di Massimo had reported to him that the trail went dead at the airport. He was, in fact, sending a report to Salvatore in proof of this. “He claims,” Lynley said, “that once the trail went dead at the airport, everything from that point on had to have come from Di Massimo on his own initiative as he—Doughty—knows nothing of it, and there’s no evidence pointing otherwise.”

“How can there be no evidence?”

“There’s a computer technology wizard involved here in London, Salvatore. Chances are very good that he’s wiped all superficial traces of a connection between them. They’ll be somewhere deep on God only knows what kind of backup system there is, and we can certainly find them in time, but I think it’s going to come down to whatever can be unearthed at your end if you want to settle this quickly. And whatever you unearth, Salvatore . . . ? It’s going to have to be solid evidence.”

“Chiaro,” Salvatore said. “Grazie, Ispettore. But it is out of my hands now, as you know.”

“But not, I suspect, out of your mind or out of your heart.”

“E vero,” Salvatore said.

“So I’ll keep you informed. And you may pass information on to Nicodemo as you will.”

Salvatore smiled. The London officer was a very good man. He told Lynley of the wife of one Daniele Bruno: a flight attendant on the Pisa–Gatwick route.

“Any connection to London needs to be explored as well,” Lynley concluded. “Give me her name and I’ll see what I can do from this end.”

Salvatore did so. They rang off with promises to keep each other informed. And less than five minutes later he had his first piece of new information.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

It came from Captain Mirenda of the carabinieri. It came by special messenger. It was a copy of the original, which she was keeping, but it included a note from the captain in which she explained that a thorough search of the rooms above the barn at Villa Rivelli had turned it up. All of this information was contained on the cover page of three pages that were clipped together. Salvatore removed this top one and looked to see what he had been sent.

The second page comprised the front and back of a greeting card, unfolded so as to show it in its entirety on one sheet of paper. It was a smiley-face sun with no message printed. Salvatore glanced at it, removed it, and looked at the third page.

This was the message contained within the card. It was handwritten. It was in English. Salvatore could not translate the message completely, but he recognised key words.

He rang Lynley back at once. He knew he could have—should have—gone to speak with Nicodemo Triglia instead, not only because he was holding something that could indeed be vital to the case he was now assigned but also because, unlike himself, Nicodemo spoke English. But he told himself it was a case of quid pro quo, and when Lynley answered, he read him the message.

Do not be afraid to go with the man who gives you

this card, Hadiyyah. He will bring you to me.

Dad.

Lynley said, “God,” and then he translated the message into Italian. He said, “What remains is the handwriting. Is the message in cursive, Salvatore?”

It was, and thus they needed to see a sample of the Pakistani man’s handwriting. Could Ispettore Lynley get a sample? Could he fax it to Italy? Could he—

“Certo,” Lynley said. “But I expect there’s a source more immediate, Salvatore.” Taymullah Azhar would have filled out paperwork at the pensione where he had stayed in Lucca. This was Italian law, no? Signora Vallera would have that paperwork. There would not be a lot of writing upon it, but perhaps there would be enough . . . ?

Salvatore said that he would see to it at once. And in the meantime, he would send to Lynley a copy of the card and its contents, exactly as it had been sent to him.

“And the original?” Lynley said.

“It remains with Captain Mirenda.”

“For God’s sake, tell her to keep it safe,” Lynley said.

Salvatore went on foot to Pensione Giardino. It was a half-mad way of making a bargain with Fate. If he went by car, there would be nothing at the pensione in the handwriting of Hadiyyah Upman’s father. If he went on foot—walking briskly—there would be something he could use to identify the writer of the card as Taymullah Azhar.

The anfiteatro was filled with sunlight and activity when Salvatore arrived. A large group of tourists encircled a tour guide at the centre of the place, people were charging into and out of the shops in search of souvenirs, and most of the tables at the cafes were occupied. Tourist season was hard upon Lucca now, and in the coming weeks the town would become more and more crowded as guides with their duckling charges in tow began to explore the many churches and piazze.

The greatly pregnant owner of Pensione Giardino was washing windows, a small child in a pushchair next to her. She was putting a great deal of energy into the activity, and a fine sheen of perspiration glistened upon her smooth olive skin.

Salvatore introduced himself politely and asked her name. She was Signora Cristina Grazia Vallera and, Si, Ispettore, she remembered the two Englishmen who stayed at the pensione. They were a policeman and the anguished father of the little girl who’d been