Just One Evil Act

Smythe, Lynley knew nothing at all. She’d covered her tracks by making absolutely sure she saw to the work assigned to her by John Stewart, and even if the ground was shaky when it came to everything she’d declared about her mum, it wasn’t as if that ground was going to crumble beneath her. No, she had to move forward and stick to the plan and get Azhar cleared of this mess.

“Find the genius we need or do it yourself, Bryan” was her parting remark to the man in South Hackney. She wasn’t about to let Azhar go down for kidnapping.

That final thought was fixed inside her head as she careened home. She sent a message of thanks heavenward when she saw that Azhar’s car was in the driveway next to the house. She sent a second message heavenward when she blasted out of her own car—parked behind his to block him although she wouldn’t admit that to herself—when she went through the gate and saw that the French windows of the ground-floor flat were open to the pleasant day.

She hurried over to the flat. At the doors, she called out his name. He came from the bedroom as if materialising out of shadow. One look at his face and she knew he’d been told. Lynley had promised her he would make no attempt to reach Azhar, but he’d also informed her that the Italians would probably contact him. Or perhaps Lorenzo Mura would. But in any case, it was likely that he already knew.

“Inspector Lo Bianco only phoned me as a courtesy” was how Lynley had put it.

“Did he say anything about Hadiyyah?” Barbara had asked.

“Only that she remains with Mura for now.”

“For God’s sake, how did it happen?” she demanded. “This isn’t the sodding nineteenth century. Women don’t just die of morning sickness.”

“Everyone’s in agreement on that.”

“Which means?”

“There’ll be an autopsy.”

Now, confronted with Taymullah Azhar, Barbara said, “Bloody hell, Azhar. What happened to her?”

He came to her and without a thought she took him into her arms. He was wooden. He said, “She would not listen. Lorenzo wanted her to remain in hospital, but she would not agree to that. She thought she knew best when she didn’t know at all.”

“How is Hadiyyah? Have you spoken to Hadiyyah?” She released him and gazed into his face. “Who phoned you with the news? Lorenzo?”

He shook his head. “Her father.”

“Oh my God.” Barbara could only imagine how the conversation with Angelina’s father might have gone. Probably along the lines of “She’s dead, you bloody bastard, and since it’s down to you that she ever took herself to Italy in the first place, I hope you choke on the sodding champagne you’re going to want to swill.”

“But what happened to her?” Barbara led Azhar to the sitting room, where she urged him onto the sofa and sat at his side. He seemed a combination of still stunned from the news and trying to come to terms with it. She put her hand on his arm, raised it to his shoulder.

“Kidney failure,” he said.

“How the hell is that possible? Why the hell wouldn’t the doctors have known? There would have been signs, wouldn’t there? There would have to be signs.”

“I do not know. Her pregnancy was difficult, evidently. It had been so when she carried Hadiyyah as well. When things worsened for her, she thought she’d eaten something bad. But then she recovered—or she said she’d recovered—but I think perhaps . . . This was due to Hadiyyah.”

“Her illness?”

“Her wanting to leave hospital. Her insisting upon that. How could she stay there when Hadiyyah was missing and when Hadiyyah—and not Angelina—was what was more important? So by the time she had Hadiyyah back unharmed and by the time she became ill once again, it was too late. She was more ill than anyone suspected.” He looked at her. His eyes seemed hollow. “This is all I know, Barbara.”

“Have you spoken to Hadiyyah?”

“I rang at once. He would not allow it.”

“Who? You mean Lorenzo? That’s bloody insane. What right has he to keep you from . . .” Her voice drifted off, and her throat grew so tight as the logical question rose to her lips unbidden. “Azhar, what’s to happen to Hadiyyah? What’s going on?”

“Angelina’s parents are going to Italy. Bathsheba as well. They’re on their way now, I expect.”

“And you?”

“I was packing when I heard your voice.”

LUCCA

TUSCANY

Nicodemo Triglia wasn’t concerned about the sudden death of Angelina Upman other than as the misfortune it was. His brief was the kidnapping of the woman’s daughter, and Nicodemo was a man who stuck to his brief like a fly in a pool of honey. Unless he was told there was a connection between two events, he assumed there was none. Salvatore knew this about the man. Nicodemo’s tunnel vision was legendary, which made him useful to il Pubblico Ministero and maddening for anyone else who had to work with him. But in this instance, that tunnel vision was going to be of benefit to Salvatore.

For safety’s sake, he was meeting with Cinzia Ruocco in a neutral environment. Piazza San Michele was littered with cafes facing the white Chiesa di San Michele in Foro, and on this particular day its vicinity was enhanced by a clothing and dry goods market that had been set up on the church’s south side. So the piazza was crowded both with visitors to Lucca and with Lucchese searching for bargains among the cheap clothes. His meeting with Cinzia would thus be unnoticed, which was important to Salvatore.

He had been informed of the sudden death of Angelina Upman by Lorenzo Mura in the late evening of the previous day. The man had turned up at Torre Lo Bianco—it was hardly a secret where Salvatore lived—and had charged up the stairs to the very top of the tower when Salvatore’s mamma had pointed the way. Salvatore was enjoying his regular evening’s caffe corretto when pounding footsteps on the stairs to his aerie caused him to turn from his view of the city.

Mura was a man deranged. At first, Salvatore had no idea what he was talking about. When he cried out, “She’s dead! Do something! He killed her!” and raised his hands to beat upon his temples as he wept, Salvatore had only stared at him in incomprehension. His first horrified thought was of the child.

He said, “What? How?”

Lorenzo crossed the tower to him and grabbed his arm in a grip that crushed his sinews right to the bone. “He did it to her. He would stop at nothing to have the child back. Do you not see? I know he has done this.”

At that, Salvatore knew what he should have known the moment Lorenzo had come into his view. He was speaking of Angelina. Somehow Angelina Upman had died, and Mura’s grief was unmanning him.

But how was it even possible that the woman had died? he asked himself. To Lorenzo, he said, “Si sieda, signore,” and he led him to one of the wooden benches that sided the large square planter in the centre of the roof. “Mi dica,” he murmured, and he waited for Lorenzo to calm himself enough to tell him what had happened.

She had become weak, Mura told him. She had become lethargic. She could not eat. She would not move from the loggia. She kept declaring she would soon enough be well. She kept promising that she needed only to regain her strength after the terrible ordeal when Hadiyyah had been missing. And then she could not be awakened from an afternoon pisolino. An ambulance was called. She died the next morning.

“He did this to her,” Lorenzo cried. “Do something, for the love of God.”

“But, Signor Mura,” Salvatore had said, “how could anyone be involved in this, let alone the professor? He is in London. He has been there for days. Tell me what the doctors are saying.”

“What does it matter what they say? He fed her something, he gave her something, he poisoned her, he poisoned our water, it all took time so that she would die after his departure to London.”

“But, Signor Mura—”

“No!” Mura shouted. “Mi senta! Mi senta! He pretends to reach peace with