Just One Evil Act

“Have you entirely lost your mind?”

“I know you’re cheesed off. But Salvatore and I are onto something over here, and what I need from you is a piece of information. One little piece of information, Inspector.”

“Coming from which side of the law?”

“It’s completely legitimate.”

“Unlike virtually everything else you’ve done.”

“All right. Agreed. I get it, sir. You need to scourge me and the only thing wanting is a pillar. We c’n see to that when I get back. Meantime, like I said, I just need one piece of information.”

“Which is what, exactly?” He glanced at Daidre. She’d tucked into her starter. He rolled his eyes expressively.

“The Upmans are on their way to Italy. They’re coming to fetch Hadiyyah. I need to prevent that. If they get their mitts on her, they’ll keep her from Azhar.”

“Barbara, if you’re heading in the direction of my intercepting—”

“I know you can’t stop them, sir. I just need to know if they’re on their way now to fetch Hadiyyah. I need to know what flight they’re on and which of them is coming. It would also help to know the airport. It might be the parents coming—they’re called Ruth-Jane and Humphrey—or it might be Bathsheba Ward, the sister. If you ring the airlines and check the flight manifests . . . You know you can do this. Or you can get SO12 to do it. That’s it. That’s all I need. And it’s not for my own sake. It’s not even for Azhar’s. It’s for Hadiyyah’s sake. Please.”

He sighed. He knew Havers would not relent. He said, “Winston’s checking into everyone here associated with Angelina Upman, Barbara. He’s looking for any connection that might point from here to Italy among people she knew. So far, there’s nothing.”

“And there won’t be, sir. Mura’s our man. He intended Azhar to ingest the E. coli. Salvatore and I are heading to a place called DARBA Italia to prove it.”

“That’s the incubator company from Azhar’s lab, Barbara. Surely, you can see how this points to—”

“Right. I can see it. And for the record, Salvatore’s made the same point.”

“Salvatore? How exactly are you managing to communicate with him?”

“Lots of hand gestures. Plus he smokes, so I think we’ve bonded. Look, sir, will you sort out the Upmans- on-their-way-to-Italy situation? Will you have SO12 do it? One piece of information. That’s it. Full stop. And it’s not for me. It’s for—”

“Hadiyyah. Yes, yes. I’ve received your point.”

“So . . . ?”

“I’ll see what I can do.”

He rang off then and looked for a moment not at Daidre but at the wall, where a stylish photograph of cliffs and the sea put him in mind of Cornwall. Daidre, apparently seeing the direction of his gaze, said, “Considering an escape?”

He glanced back at her and thought about the question. He finally said, “From some things, yes. From others, no.” And he reached across the small table for her hand.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

In the best of all worlds, Barbara thought, Lynley would somehow manage to stop the Upmans before they reached the airport or, at least, before they boarded the plane to Italy. But she didn’t live in the best of all worlds, so she reckoned they were on their way, whoever was coming. What was available to her was the knowledge of their whereabouts and her ability to dodge them when they reached Lucca. They would go first to Fattoria di Santa Zita, where they would presume Hadiyyah was still in residence with Lorenzo Mura. He would tell them she’d been fetched by Barbara. He might reckon Barbara was staying where Azhar had stayed. But he might not.

In any case, she had only a limited amount of time to get Hadiyyah out of the Pensione Giardino and into a hideaway somewhere. And before she did that, she needed to see what Salvatore managed to uncover at DARBA Italia.

It didn’t take long to reach the manufacturing concern. They did a quarter’s circumnavigation along the boulevard that skirted Lucca’s wall, and then they took a sharp right and headed out of the town. DARBA Italia was some three miles along the road, tucked off a neatly paved driveway and posted with an elaborate metal sign above double glass doors. There were very few trees in the immediate vicinity and lots of asphalt in the car park, so the heat was intense and it rose in visible waves from the ground. Barbara hustled after Salvatore to get inside the place, praying for air conditioning.

Naturally, she couldn’t follow a word of the Italian that passed between Salvatore and the receptionist, who was a gloriously handsome Mediterranean youth of about twenty-two: olive skin, masses of wavy hair, lips like a Renaissance putto, and teeth so white they looked painted. Salvatore showed his police ID, gestured to Barbara, and spoke at great length. The receptionist listened, shot a glance at Barbara that dismissed her as quickly as it acknowledged her presence, nodded, said si and no and forse and un attimo, of which only si and no were remotely recognisable. Then he picked up his phone and punched in a number. He turned his back, spoke in a hushed voice, and made some sort of arrangement, since his next action was to rise from his chair and tell them they were to follow him. At least, that was what Barbara worked out from his words since Salvatore trailed him into the bowels of the building.

Things happened far too quickly for Barbara’s liking after that. The receptionist took them to a conference room where a mahogany table in the centre was accompanied by ten leather chairs. He said something to Salvatore about the direttore, which she took to mean that the managing director of DARBA Italia was the person they were going to see. That person showed up perhaps five minutes into their wait. He was beautifully suited and equally well mannered but clearly curious about the police showing up on his professional doorstep.

She caught only his name: Antonio Bruno. She waited for more. There was very little. Salvatore spoke, and she strained to pick up E. coli from among the flood of Italian that came from him. But nothing in Antonio Bruno’s expression indicated he was listening to a tale of anyone’s death by any substance that DARBA Italia might have provided. After an exchange of seven minutes’ length, the managing director nodded and left them.

She said to Salvatore, “What? What’s he doing? What’d you tell him?” although she knew it was useless to expect an answer. But her need to know overrode her ability to reason. She said, “Do they have E. coli? Do they know Lorenzo Mura? This has nothing to do with Azhar, does it?”

To this, Salvatore smiled regretfully and said, “Non La capisco.” Barbara reckoned she knew what that meant.

The return of Antonio Bruno didn’t clarify anything. He came back to the conference room with a manila envelope, which he handed over to Salvatore. Salvatore thanked him and headed for the door. He said, “Andiamo, Barbara,” and to Antonio Bruno with a courtly little bow, “Grazie mille, Signor Bruno.”

Barbara waited till they were outside to say, “That’s it? What’s going on? Why’re we leaving? What’d he give you?”

From all of this, Salvatore seemed to understand the last question, for he handed over the manila envelope, and Barbara opened it. Inside was only a list of employees, organised by each of the company’s departments. Names, addresses, and telephone numbers. There were plenty of them, dozens. Her heart sank when she saw them. She knew, then, that Salvatore Lo Bianco was engaged in the slog of an investigation: He would look into each person listed among the employees of DARBA Italia. But that would take days upon days to accomplish, and they didn’t have days before the Upmans arrived.

Barbara needed results and she needed them now. She began to consider how best to get them.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

For the first time, Salvatore Lo Bianco thought that the woman from London might actually be correct. He