Just One Evil Act

even if he is seen in Alessandro Bruno’s department, no one thinks about it because he is often there. The brothers live in and out of each other’s pockets, eh? So no one would think about his appearance in a place where he does not belong because he does belong there, because he belongs everywhere, because that is how things are at DARBA Italia. So for him to take this bacteria—and let us say his choice was . . . well, let us say E. coli—no one would notice. And he would be wise and not take all of it. And since it is in the incubator to reproduce itself, no?, whatever he takes will soon enough be replaced.”

Bruno lifted a hand to his mouth and squeezed his lips between thumb and fingers.

Salvatore said, “It was meant to look like a natural death. Indeed, he could not be sure death would even be the consequence although he was willing to try nearly anything, I expect. When there is so much hate—”

“He did not hate her,” Bruno said. “He loved her. She was . . . She did not die as you think she died. She had not been well. There were such difficulties with her pregnancy. She had been in hospital. She had been —”

“And yet the autopsy does not lie, signore. And a single terrible case like this one . . . ? A single case of E. coli does not happen, unless of course, it is deliberate.”

“He loved her! I did not know . . .”

“No? What did he tell you he needed this bacteria for?”

Bruno said, “You have proof of nothing. And I say nothing more to you.”

“This is, of course, your choice.” Salvatore opened the folders he’d asked for. He showed Daniele Bruno the photos of himself in earnest conversation with Lorenzo Mura. He showed him the autopsy report. He showed him the pictures of Angelina’s dead body. He said, “You must ask yourself if a woman who carries a child should die a painful death for any reason.”

“He loved her,” Daniele Bruno repeated. “And this—what you have—is evidence of nothing.”

“Just circumstances, si. This I know,” Salvatore said. “Without a confession from someone, all I can lay before the magistrato is a set of circumstances that look suspicious but prove nothing. And yet, the magistrato is not a man who quails in the face of mere circumstances. You may not know this about Piero Fanucci, but you will.”

“I want my lawyer here,” Daniele Bruno said. “I say nothing more to you without my lawyer.”

Which, as it happened, was fine with Salvatore. He had Daniele Bruno where he wanted him. For the first time Piero Fanucci’s reputation for prosecuting based on virtually no evidence was actually a boon.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

Daniele Bruno’s solicitor spoke English. He spoke, in fact, exactly like an American and with an American accent as well. He was called Rocco Garibaldi, and he’d learned the language from watching old American films. He’d only been in the US once, he told Barbara, laying over in Los Angeles for two days en route to Australia. He’d gone to Hollywood, he’d seen the imprints in cement of the hands and feet of long-dead movie stars, he’d read the names on the Walk of Fame . . . But mostly he had practised his language in order to see how well he’d done learning it.

Perfectly well, Barbara reckoned. The man sounded like a mixture of Henry Fonda and Humphrey Bogart. Obviously, he favoured the old black-and-whites.

After an interminable exchange of Italian between Garibaldi and Lo Bianco in the reception area of the questura, they all decamped to Lo Bianco’s office. Salvatore indicated that Barbara was to accompany them and she did so, although she hadn’t the first clue what was going on and Rocco Garibaldi, his perfect English notwithstanding, did not enlighten her. Once inside the office, the unimaginable happened in very short order. Salvatore showed Bruno’s lawyer the television film, followed by the list of employees from DARBA Italia, followed by what appeared to be a report that she highly suspected was the autopsy information from Angelina Upman’s death. What else could it be since Garibaldi read it, frowning and nodding meditatively?

All of this Barbara watched in a welter of nerves. She’d never seen a cop play his hand in this manner. She said, “Chief Inspector . . .” quietly and in appeal, then, “Salvatore . . .” then, “Chief Inspector,” although she didn’t know how the hell she could stop him aside from physically backing him into a corner, tying him to his desk chair, and gagging him.

She hadn’t the first clue about what had passed between Salvatore and Bruno in the interview room. She’d picked out various words among the Italian being flung about, but she hadn’t been able to put together much. She’d heard DARBA Italia over and over, as well as E. coli and the word incubatrice. She’d seen Daniele Bruno’s growing agitation, so she had some hopes that Salvatore was putting the thumbscrews to him. But throughout the interview, Salvatore had looked like a man in need of an afternoon siesta. The bloke was casual to the point of virtual unconsciousness. Something had to be going on beneath those hooded eyes of his, Barbara thought, but she had no idea what it was.

At the end of his reading, Garibaldi spoke again to Salvatore. This time, he brought Barbara into their conversation by saying, “I am asking the ispettore to allow me to see my client, Detective Sergeant Havers.” This, Barbara thought, was what a UK solicitor would have done in the first place, and just when she’d got to the point of accepting that things were different in Italy when it came to police work, they became more different still.

Salvatore made no move to take Garibaldi to his client in the interview room. Instead, he had Daniele Bruno brought to them. This was irregular but she was willing to wait to see how things would proceed from there. She got no comfort at all when within less than five minutes Garibaldi gave a formal little from-the-waist dip to Salvatore, said, “Grazie mille,” put his hand on Bruno’s arm, and led him from the premises. It happened so quickly that she didn’t have time to react other than to swing round to Salvatore and cry, “What the bloody hell?” to which he smiled and gave that Italian shrug of his.

She cried, “Why did you let him go? Why did you show him that TV film? Why did you tell him about DARBA Italia? Why did you give him . . . Oh, I know he would’ve got to see everything eventually, at least I think he would’ve because God knows I haven’t a clue what goes in this country, but for God’s sake you could have pretended . . . you could have suggested . . . But now he knows your hand—which, let’s face it, is bloody empty—and all he has to do is to tell Bruno to keep his mug plugged from now till the end of time because all we have is supposition anyway and unless you blokes practise some very strange form of justice over here no one is going to gaol based on supposition, and that includes Daniele Bruno. Oh, bloody hell why don’t you speak English, Salvatore?”

To all of this Salvatore nodded sympathetically. For a moment, Barbara thought he actually understood, if not from her words then from her tone. But then, maddeningly, he said, “Aspetti, Barbara.” And with a smile, “Vorrebbe un caffe?”

“No, I do not want a cup of bloody coffee!” she fairly shouted at him.

He smiled at this. “Lei capisce!” he cried. “Va bene! ”

To which she said with sagging shoulders, “Just tell me why you let him go, for God’s sake. All he has to do is ring up Lorenzo Mura and we’re cooked. You see that, don’t you?”

He gazed at her, as if some kind of understanding would come from a close reading of her eyes. She found herself getting hot under his scrutiny. Finally, she said, “Oh, sod it,” and dug her packet of Players from her shoulder bag. She took one of the fags and offered the packet to him.

“Sod . . . it,” he repeated softly.

Their cigarettes lit, he nodded towards the window of his office. She thought he intended them to blow the smoke from it into the afternoon air. But instead he said, “Guardi,” and he indicated the pavement below them. There she saw Garibaldi and Bruno had emerged from the questura and were strolling along without a care.

“And this is supposed to reassure me?” she demanded.

He said, “Un attimo, Barbara.” And then, “Eccolo.” She followed the direction of his hooded gaze to see a man in an orange baseball cap following some thirty yards behind them. “Giorgio Simione,” Salvatore murmured. “Giorgio mi dira dovunque andranno.”