Just One Evil Act

this time. Knowing the bloke’s habits as she was learning them, she had little doubt that after her last meeting with him in the garden, he’d wired that earlier area for sound.

At the end of all the fine plantings, she spied a garden shed, disguised with a heavy growth of wisteria in such full bloom that she reckoned he fed it with the ground-up remains of the neighbourhood’s missing pets. She headed in that direction, and he followed her. “Let me ask in advance,” he said to her. “What part of ‘you’re trespassing on private property’ might be too difficult for you to understand?”

“Where are you with making the changes on the tickets to Pakistan?” she demanded.

“You can leave or I can phone the local cops.”

“We both know you’re not about to do that. What’ve you done about those tickets?”

“I don’t have time to talk about this. I’ve an employment interview to go to.”

“‘Employment interview,’ is it? What sort of employment does a bloke with your talents come up with?”

“I’ve been headhunted by a Chinese firm. For tech security. Which is what I do. Which is what I have been doing for the better part of fifteen years. If you must know.”

“That’s kept you in expensive art in the modern mode, has it?” she asked archly, indicating his house and its collection.

“Let’s be straight with each other” was his reply. “You’ve done your best to destroy the better part of my career—”

“Such as it was, although it’s a bit like hearing a cat burglar complaining because someone’s had the bollocks to put a security system on their house. But do go ahead.”

“So I owe you nothing. And nothing is what I have to offer you.” He glanced at his watch. “Now if there’s nothing more . . . and traffic being what it is . . .”

“You’re bluffing, Bryan. I’m holding a better hand than you are, or have you forgotten that? Now what’s been done about those Pakistan tickets?”

“I told you there was no way to get into SO12’s system, and there’s no way to get into SO12’s system. Surely you’re capable of understanding that.”

“What I’m also capable of understanding is there are other blokes exactly like you out there in cyberland, and you know each other bloody well. And don’t tell me there’s no one out there who could hop, skip, and jump their way into SO12’s system because on a daily basis these blokes hack into everything from the Ministry of Defence to Inland Revenue to the Royals’ social calendars. So if you haven’t found someone to do the job, it’s because you haven’t asked someone to do the job. And in your position, that’s risky, Bryan. I’m holding your backups. I could sink you in a minute. Have you forgotten that?”

He shook his head, not an I’ve-not-forgotten movement but one that signalled disbelief. He said, “You can do what you like, but I think, if you do, you’ll find out soon enough that all of us are cooking in the same pot just now. And that would be largely due to you.”

“What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

“First of all, you’ve been bloody stupid to think that Dwayne intends to take the fall for anything. Second of all, if some records can be altered—superficially or otherwise—others can be altered as well. So what I’m suggesting is that you might want to have a think about that one. And when you’ve finished your thinking, you can get on to third of all. Which is, you stupid cow, that you’ve been found out. What’s known is every movement you’ve made, I suspect, but especially the movement that led you to my front door.”

He turned on his heel at that and headed through the sumptuous spring garden and back towards his house.

She followed him, saying, “What’s that supposed to mean besides an idle threat?”

He swung back to her. “It means I had a visit from the Met. Do I need to say more? Because you and I know there’s only one way that could have happened and I’m looking at her.”

“I didn’t grass you up,” she told him.

He barked a laugh. “I’m not saying you did. You were followed here, you bloody fool. You’ve probably been followed since you first got involved in this mess, and you’ve been turned in to the higher-ups. Now, do I escort you to the door or do I strong-arm you? I’m happy to do either, but in any case, I’ve an interview to get to and whatever business you and I had, believe me, it’s finished.”

LUCCA

TUSCANY

In his entire career, Salvatore Lo Bianco had never withheld evidence in the course of an investigation. The very idea was anathema to him. Yet that was the position he found himself in, so he invented a reason for this that he could live with, which was simplicity itself as well as actually being true: He needed to find a forensic handwriting specialist to compare the words on the greeting card that had been given to Hadiyyah to the remarks Taymullah Azhar had made on the comment card at Pensione Giardino. While that was being done, he decided, there was no real reason to make the existence of this piece of possible evidence known to anyone.

Prior to leaving for Piazza Grande, Salvatore had a word with the resourceful Ottavia Schwartz. Along with Giorgio Simione, she was continuing to make progress—albeit tedious progress—on the matter of the attendees at the Berlin conference. The fact that they were an international group made things difficult but not impossible. She showed him the list of names they’d ticked off the list, their specialities accounted for. She and Giorgio had not come up with anyone who was doing research on E. coli, she told him, but there were many names left, and she had confidence that among the remaining scientists, she would find someone significant.

Salvatore left the questura. He took with him the most recent information that the London private detective had sent to Lucca. Accompanying this were the earlier records of Michelangelo’s bank account that he’d unearthed. His intention was to use both sets of these documents to play Piero Fanucci like a mandolin.

Il Pubblico Ministero was in, the man’s secretary confirmed upon Salvatore’s arrival at Palazzo Ducale. She disappeared into Fanucci’s office and returned momentarily with the word that certo, il magistrato would not only see him but would wish him to know that he always had time for his old friend Salvatore Lo Bianco. She gave this news to Salvatore expressionlessly since years of working for Piero had allowed her to master the art of delivering information without irony.

Piero was waiting for him behind his impressive desk. It was scattered with papers and manila filing folders thick and dog-eared, heavy with grave and important contents. It wasn’t Salvatore’s intention to add to this collection. What he’d brought into the room with him, he intended to remove. As he would remove himself once Piero’s cooperation was secured.

Il Pubblico Ministero said nothing about Salvatore’s appearance. His face was still bruised but improving daily. Soon all evidence of their encounter in the botanical gardens would be gone, but Salvatore was glad that his skin was still marred. In this situation, he hoped that a reminder of their encounter would be helpful.

He said, “Piero, it appears that you have been right all along in the approach you have taken. I wish you to know that I see it now.”

Fanucci’s eyes narrowed. They moved from Salvatore’s face to the folders he had in his hand. He didn’t say anything, but he nodded brusquely and indicated with a wave of his six-fingered hand that Salvatore could continue.

Salvatore presented him with the first folder. This contained all of the information that Dwayne Doughty had sent to Lucca from London: receipts, statements, and reports. Since they suggested a landscape of guilt that tied Taymullah Azhar to Michelangelo Di Massimo and pinned culpability on both men for the kidnapping of Hadiyyah Upman, it looked, superficially of course, as if Salvatore was mocking the magistrato with his affirmation of the correctness of Piero’s approach. Piero—nobody’s fool when it came to matters touching upon himself—flared his nostrils. He said, “Che cos’e?” and waited for elucidation.

Elucidation came in the form of the earlier material Salvatore had gleaned. This comprised the bank statements and phone records of the dead Roberto Squali and the same of Michelangelo Di Massimo. Set alongside the new material provided by Signor Doughty, it was only too apparent that the London private investigator, for reasons unknown and of his own, was manipulating information to make it appear that Taymullah Azhar had arranged for Di Massimo to kidnap his daughter. See how the money travels from Signor Azhar’s