Just One Evil Act

“And her grandparents are going to do what? Cooperate with that idea? Fly over, scoop her up in their arms, and take her home to a bedroom they’ve just redecorated in her honour? That’s not bloody likely. Believe me, Lorenzo, they’d never even seen Hadiyyah before Angelina died, if they saw her then. Did they come to the funeral? Yes? It was probably to dance on Angelina’s grave, that’s how much of a nothing she was to them once she got herself involved with Azhar. They’d’ve seen her death as her finally receiving what she deserved for getting herself pregnant by a Pakistani Muslim in the first place. I’d like to see Hadiyyah now.”

Mura’s face had darkened to nearly the colour of his port wine birthmark during Barbara’s speech. But he seemed unwilling to argue further. After all, he had work to do on the crumbling villa, and his hanging on to Hadiyyah was only intended to thrust the sword deeper into Azhar’s chest, as was handing her over to her grandparents.

Barbara said to Mura, “So . . . are you and I finished here, Mr. Mura?”

Mura’s expression indicated that he would have liked to spit on her shoes, but instead he turned and headed into the villa. He didn’t go up one of the curving stairways to the loggia, though. Instead, he ducked beneath a mass of honeysuckle that arched over a weathered door at ground level. Barbara followed him.

She was surprised at the condition of the place, considering Angelina Upman had lived within it. The villa was decrepit, a relic from the distant past, and when she saw its wreck of a kitchen—so dimly lit that its higher calling clearly was to be turned into a dungeon—she reflected on how Angelina’s first move upon returning to Azhar the previous year had been to redecorate his flat to her own standards. She’d not bothered with that here. Nor, it seemed, had she bothered to clean the place. Dust, grime, cobwebs, and mould appeared to define it.

Barbara followed Lorenzo Mura through several rooms, all of which seemed part of the kitchen. Eventually, they climbed a stone stairway and emerged into some kind of huge reception room with enormous glass doors opened onto the loggia. This room was, like the kitchen below, dimly lit. Unlike the kitchen, it was relatively grime free. Its walls and ceiling were heavily frescoed, but these decorations were hard to make out after their exposure to several hundred years of candle smoke.

In this room, Lorenzo called Hadiyyah’s name. Barbara yelled, “Hey, kiddo, look who’s come calling!” In reply, footsteps clattered along some kind of corridor up above them. They came storming in Barbara’s direction, and a small body hurtled into the room and, more important, into Barbara’s arms.

Hadiyyah said the best thing possible. “Where’s my dad?” she cried. “Barbara, I want my dad!”

Barbara cast Lorenzo Mura a look that said, So he’s not her father, eh?, but she spoke to Hadiyyah. “And your dad wants you. He’s not here just now, and he’s not in Lucca, but he’s sent me for you. Want to come along, or are you happier staying with Lorenzo? He tells me your granddad and grandma’re coming to fetch you. You c’n wait for them, if that’s what you’d like to do.”

“I want to be with Dad,” she said. “I want to go home. I want to go with you.”

“Right. Well. We can make that happen. Your dad’s got a few things he’s sorting out, but you c’n stay with me till he’s finished up. Let’s get you packed. Want me to help you?”

“Yes,” she said. “Yes. Help me. Do.” She tugged at Barbara’s hand. She dragged her in the direction from which she’d come.

Barbara followed her, but not without a glance at Mura. He was watching them steadily, his face expressionless. Before she and Hadiyyah were out of the room, he’d turned on his heel and left them to it.

Upstairs, Barbara saw that at least Hadiyyah’s bedroom had been made pleasant and modern. It even had a small colour television, and on this television Angelina Upman and Taymullah Azhar were speaking into the camera together. There was a voice-over in Italian, but Barbara recognised the location of the filming: They sat under the wisteria arbour in front of the winery in the company of the ugliest man Barbara had ever seen, his face covered with warts as if a witch had cursed him.

“Mummy” was Hadiyyah’s explanation of what she was watching. She said it softly, a single word that exposed the pain and confusion in which the little girl doubtless found herself. She crossed the room to the television and fiddled with the player beneath it. From this she brought out a DVD. She said, “I like to watch Mummy,” in a very small voice. “She’s talking about me. She and Dad are talking. Lorenzo gave it to me. I like to watch Mummy and Dad together.”

The wish of every child whose parents are at odds, Barbara thought.

BOW

LONDON

It was quite late in the day, but Lynley took a chance that Doughty would still be at his place of employment. His time in Azhar’s lab had uncovered a detail that might prove crucial to Salvatore’s investigation into Angelina Upman’s death, and his hope was that a bit of chivvying the detective would go some distance to garner his cooperation in the matter of Hadiyyah’s kidnapping. For Doughty faced considerable jeopardy. He’d had Bryan Smythe lay trails in all directions to stymie the Italian police, but some earlier trails led directly back to his own door. Fighting extradition to Italy to face charges of kidnapping—among other charges—was going to prove costly for Mr. Doughty. Lynley was betting that Doughty didn’t want to go through that.

A teenage girl was in Doughty’s office when Lynley got there. She turned out to be the detective’s niece, having a work experience day for an assignment from her comprehensive. She could have chosen to spend a workday with one of her parents, she revealed to Lynley, but her mum was a San sister and her dad was an estate agent and a day with either of them was destined to be b-o-r-i-n-g. That was before she knew that a day with Uncle Dwayne would be even worse. She thought he carried a gun and engaged in shoot-outs and fist-fights with villains in assorted alleys replete with wooden crates and wheelie bins. Turned out he occupied his time sitting outside a William Hill betting shop where some excessively stupid husband of an even more excessively stupid and jealous wife was spending hours and days making useless wagers instead of having an affair, which was what his wife thought and which, mind you, would’ve been a lot more interesting.

“Ah” was Lynley’s response to all this. “And is Mr. Doughty about?”

“Next door,” she said obscurely. “With Em.”

Em, Lynley thought. This was a name that had not yet come up. He nodded thanks to the girl, who returned—with a mighty sigh—to the typing she’d been doing. He went next door.

Doughty was in conversation with an attractive, male-dressed woman. It didn’t appear intense as Doughty was casually leaning against the sill of a window overlooking the Roman Road and Em was facing him in a desk chair, one mannishly clad foot on a computer table. She swung in her chair when Doughty said, “Who are you?” to Lynley.

Lynley showed his identification and introduced himself. He noted the lack of recognition in Doughty’s expression. He also noted Em’s guarded look. From this he reckoned Bryan Smythe had not revealed to either of them that he had had a recent visit from New Scotland Yard. This could make things easier, Lynley thought.

He began with the purpose of his late-afternoon call. He was, he told him, there to talk to the private investigator about his interactions with a woman called Barbara Havers.

Doughty replied with “My cases are confidential, Inspector.”

“Until the CPS becomes involved,” Lynley noted.

“What, exactly, are you talking about?”

“An internal police investigation,” Lynley told him, “into the activities of Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers. I’m assuming that you knew she was a Met officer when you met her, but perhaps you didn’t. In any case, you can cooperate with me now or wait for the court order for your records. I’d suggest cooperation as it’s less messy that way, but it’s up to you.”

Doughty remained without expression. Em—who turned out to be called in full Emily Cass—glanced at her fingernails and brushed her right hand over her left as if unnecessarily ridding it of dust. Was the name familiar to either of them? Lynley enquired politely when they said nothing. He repeated it: Barbara Havers.

Doughty, he discovered, was a fairly quick thinker. He said to Em Cass, “Barbara Havers. Emily, could she be the woman who came to see us last winter? She was only here twice, but if you could check . . .”

To which Em Cass said to him cautiously, “Are you sure about the name? D’you have a time period? C’n you refresh . . . ?”—also a wise response.