Just One Evil Act

could tell when she began a passionate discourse that she had no idea why they were leaving DARBA Italia so abruptly and he certainly didn’t have the English to tell her. But he managed “Pazienza, Barbara,” and it appeared that she understood. Nothing happened quickly in Italy, he wanted to tell her, save the rapidity with which people spoke the language and the speed with which they drove their cars. Everything else was a case of piano, piano.

She was tumbling through words he did not understand. “We don’t have the time, Salvatore. Hadiyyah’s family . . . The Upmans . . . These people . . . If you only understood what they intend to do. They hate Azhar. They’ve always hated him. See, he wouldn’t marry her once he got her pregnant and anyway the fact that he got her pregnant and he’s a Pakistani and they’re . . . God, they’re like something out of the Raj, if you know what I mean. What I’m trying to say is if we—I mean you—have to go through every single one of those names on this list”—she waved the manila folder at him—“by the time we do that, Hadiyyah will be lost to him, to Azhar.”

He recognised, naturally, the repetition of names: Hadiyyah, the Upmans, and Azhar. He recognised, also, her agitation. But all he could say was “Andiamo, Barbara,” with a gesture at the car that was steaming in the day’s heat.

She followed him, but she didn’t give up talking despite the many times he said with much regret, “Non La capisco.” He did wish that he spoke her language better—at least enough to tell her not to worry—but when he said, “Non si deve preoccupare,” he could tell she didn’t understand. They were like two inhabitants of Babel.

He started the car and they were on their way back to the questura when her mobile rang. When she said into it, “Inspector? Thank God,” he reckoned it was Lynley ringing her. From her earlier call to the London detective, he knew she’d asked him about the Upmans. He hoped for her sake that Thomas Lynley had discovered something that would relieve her anxiety.

That was not the case. She cried out like a wounded animal, saying, “Bloody hell, no! Florence? That’s not far from here, is it? Let me send her to you. Please, sir. I’m begging. They’ll find her. I know it. Mura will tell them I took her and they’ll look for me and how the hell hard will it be for them to find me, eh? They’ll take her away and I won’t be able to stop them and it’ll destroy Azhar. It’ll kill him, Inspector, and he’s been through enough and you know it, you know it.”

Salvatore glanced at her. It was odd, he thought, her passion for this case. He’d never encountered a fellow cop with such a fierce determination to prove anything.

She was saying, “Salvatore took us to DARBA Italia like I said. But all he did was get us in to see the managing director and that was it. He picked up a bloody list of employees but he didn’t ask a single question about E. coli and there’s no time to go at things this way. Everything hangs in the balance. You know this, sir. Hadiyyah, Azhar, everyone’s at risk here.”

She listened to something Lynley was saying. Salvatore glanced at her. He saw tears sparkling on the tips of her eyelashes. Her fist pounded lightly on her knee.

She handed him the mobile phone, finally, saying unnecessarily, “It’s Inspector Lynley.”

Lynley’s first words were said on a sigh. “Ciao, Salvatore. Che cosa succede? ”

But instead of telling the London man about their visit to DARBA Italia, Salvatore sought some clarification. He said, “Something tells me, my friend, that you have not been completely honest with me about this woman Barbara and her relationship to the professor and his daughter. Why is this, Tommaso?”

Lynley said nothing for a moment. Salvatore wondered where he was: at work, at home, out questioning someone? The London man finally said, “Mi dispiace, Salvatore.” He went on to explain that Taymullah Azhar and his daughter Hadiyyah were neighbours of Barbara Havers, in London. He said that she was quite fond of them both.

Salvatore narrowed his eyes. “What means this fond?”

“She’s close to them.”

“Are they lovers, Barbara and the professor?”

“Good God, no. It isn’t that. She’s jumped off into some deep water, Salvatore, and I should have told you when she showed up over there, when you first rang me about her.”

“What has she done? To be in this deep water, I mean.”

“What hasn’t she done?” Lynley said. “Just now she’s gone to Italy without leave from the Met to do so. She’s determined to save Azhar in order to save Hadiyyah. That’s it in a nutshell.”

Salvatore glanced at Barbara Havers. She was watching him, a fist pressed to her mouth, her eyes—such a nice blue they were—fixed on him like a frightened animal. He said to Lynley, “Her greater interest is the child, you are saying?”

“Yes and no,” Lynley told him.

“Meaning what, Tommaso?”

“Meaning that she’s telling herself her greater interest is the child. As to the reality? That I don’t know. To be honest, my fear is that she’s blinded herself.”

“Ah. Mine is that she sees things too clearly.”

“Meaning?”

“She may have proved me as lacking as Piero Fanucci when it comes to seeing the truth, my friend. I have spoken to the managing director of DARBA Italia. He is called Antonio Bruno.”

“Good God. Is he indeed?”

“He is indeed. I’m on my way to discuss this with Ottavia Schwartz. If I hand this phone back to Barbara Havers, will you tell her please that things are well in hand?”

“I will do. But, Salvatore, Hadiyyah’s grandparents have landed in Florence. They’ll be on their way to Lucca to fetch her. The child doesn’t know them. But she does know Barbara.”

“Ah,” Salvatore said. “I see.”

LUCCA

TUSCANY

All he said to her was “Barbara, you can trust Salvatore,” but she wasn’t prepared to trust a soul. What she needed to know was how long it might take for the Upmans to get from Florence to Lucca. Would they come by train? Would they hire a car? Would they arrange for an Italian driver? No matter how they did it, she needed to get to the pensione in Piazza Anfiteatro in advance of them, so she told Salvatore to take her there. She told him in English, but he seemed to understand from pensione, Piazza Anfiteatro, and the repetition of Hadiyyah’s name.

Once inside the pensione itself, she took a few breaths. It was essential, she thought, not to panic Hadiyyah. It was also essential to work out where the bloody hell she was going to take her. Out of Lucca seemed best, some obscure hotel on the edge of town. She’d seen plenty of them on her route in from the airport as well as on her route to and from DARBA Italia. She’d have to rely on Mitch Corsico to help her out with this manoeuvre, though. She didn’t want to do it as she was loath to give him access to Hadiyyah, but there wasn’t much choice.

She ran up the stairs. Signora Vallera, she saw, was cleaning one of the bedrooms. She said, “Hadiyyah?” to the woman, who gestured to the bedroom that Barbara and the child were sharing. Inside, Hadiyyah was sitting at the small table by the window. She looked completely forlorn. Barbara’s determination hardened. She would get both Hadiyyah and her father back to London.

“Hey, kiddo,” she said as brightly as she could. “We’re going to need a change of scenery, you and me. Are you up for that?”

“You were gone a long time,” Hadiyyah told her. “I didn’t know where you went. Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? Barbara, where’s my dad? Why doesn’t he come? ’Cause it’s like . . .” Her lips trembled. She finally said, “Barbara, did something happen to my dad?”

“God, no. Absolutely not. Like I said, kiddo, and I cross my heart on this one, he’s gone out of Lucca on some business for Inspector Lo Bianco. I came over from London because he asked me to, to make sure you didn’t worry about where he went.” It was, even without a stretch, the basic truth about what was going on.

“C’n we meet him somewhere, then?”

“Absolutely. Just not quite yet. Just now, we need to pack our things and skedaddle.”