Just One Evil Act

desperate to dash over here and now we’ve dashed over here and now you get to bloody shut up and let me handle things.”

Mrs. Upman’s face flushed with anger. She said to him, “You’re not getting us closer to Hadiyyah.”

“Oh, I’ll get you close to Hadiyyah soon enough.”

Through all of this, Giuditta Di Fazio murmured, making the conversation clear for Salvatore. He narrowed his eyes at the Englishman and wondered if a little time alone in one of the interview rooms might cool him off. He said to Giuditta, “Tell them their journey has been premature. As we are now learning, Hadiyyah’s father is innocent in everything pertaining to the death of her mother. More than that, I cannot say, but the professor will be released from custody within a few hours. He would, of course, not be pleased to learn that, during his detainment, his child was handed off to people who came in off the street to claim her. This is not the way we do things in Italy.”

Upman’s face went rigid. “‘Came in off the street’? How dare you! Are you suggesting we hopped on a plane and came here out of the blue to . . . to do what? Kidnap a child who is by all rights ours?”

“I do not suggest you mean to kidnap her as you yourself have indicated that you only wish to take her to England until this matter is resolved. I tell you in return that it has been resolved as far as Professore Azhar is concerned. So while you have been very good-hearted to come to Italy—may I assume that Signor Mura sent for you?—I tell you now that the trip was not necessary. The professore is innocent in all ways related to my investigation into the death of the mother of Hadiyyah. He will be released this very day.”

“And I,” Upman said, “do not mean to suggest that I care about that Paki’s guilt or innocence.”

His wife said his name sharply, placing her hand on his arm.

He shook her off and swung on her. “You bloody shut up, for God’s sake.” And to Salvatore, “Now you have a choice. You either tell me where that brat of Angelina’s gone off to, or you face an international incident that’s going to singe your eyebrows right off your face.”

Salvatore sought to control his temper, although he knew his face was reflecting what he felt. English people, he’d thought, were supposed to be calm, supposed to be reserved, supposed to be rational. Of course, there were always the football hooligans, whose reputations preceded them wherever they went, but this man did not have the appearance of a football hooligan. What was wrong with him? A medical condition eating away at his brain and his manners simultaneously? He said, “I understand you well, signore. But I have no knowledge of where this Englishwoman . . . What did you call her?”

“Barbara,” Mrs. Upman said. “I can’t recall her surname and neither can Lorenzo but surely someone must know where she is. People have to register when they stay at hotels. Our own passports were taken and our identities noted, so it can’t be impossible to find her.”

“Si, si,” Salvatore said. “She can be found. But only if her surname is known. A Christian name only? This is not enough. I have no knowledge of where this woman Barbara might be. Nor have I knowledge of why she has taken Hadiyyah from Signor Mura. He did not report this to me or to my colleagues, and as that is the case—”

“She’s done it because the Paki told her to do it,” Mr. Upman snapped. “She does everything she does because of the Paki. You can bet she’s been spreading her legs for him since Angelina left him last year. He’s the sort who doesn’t let grass grow, and just because she’s an ugly cow, it doesn’t mean—”

“Basta!” Salvatore declared. “I have no knowledge of this woman. File a missing person’s report and have done with it. We are finished here.”

He left the office, his blood on the boil. He stopped for a caffe on his way back to Daniele Bruno. It wasn’t likely that espresso would do much to settle his nerves—quite the contrary—but he wanted a moment to think and he couldn’t come up with another way to achieve this.

At this second instance of lying to someone about Barbara Havers, Salvatore had to pause. And then he had to ask himself why he was pausing when any man exhibiting rational behaviour would at this juncture toss her out of the questura on her ear. For she was clearly trouble incarnate, which he didn’t need to be associated with, since he was already himself navigating very difficult political waters. So then he had to ask himself what he was doing, hiding this woman in his own home while claiming not to know where she was. And he also had to ask himself why in his conversation with DI Lynley, he had claimed ignorance of her association with a cowboy journalist whom he—Salvatore Lo Bianco—had seen with his very own eyes. In addition to this, there was now her intimacy with Taymullah Azhar to consider. Upman was a madman, certo, but hadn’t Salvatore seen from the very first that there was something more than neighbourly concern in Barbara’s journey from London?

So he couldn’t trust her. But he wanted to trust her. And he didn’t know what this meant.

Salvatore downed the rest of his caffe. He headed back in the direction of the interview room where Daniele Bruno waited with his solicitor. He was rounding the corner to reach this room when before him, he saw its door open. Barbara Havers emerged and there was something in her manner . . .

Salvatore stepped back to hide himself. When he looked again, she was entering the ladies’ bagno. She was also removing a mobile phone from her bag.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

Her insides were jangling as the minutes stretched into half an hour and then three-quarters. Although Daniele Bruno was fully wired, when the wire was tested as they waited for the return of Salvatore, it was discovered that the unit placed upon Bruno was faulty and another had to be fetched. Barbara watched the clock, saw the minutes draining away at what seemed like double the normal pace, and knew she was going to have to do something.

Mitchell Corsico wasn’t going to wait. He had a story that was hotter than any he’d previously filed. Unless she could get him a better one, he was going to send it to London no matter how many people it harmed. She had to stop him or to reason with him or to threaten him or to . . . to do something and she didn’t know what. But ringing him was a first step, so three-quarters of an hour into their wait for Salvatore’s return, she excused herself and headed for the ladies’.

She ducked inside and looked into each of the three stalls before locking herself into the last one and ringing the London journalist. She said, “Things are taking longer than I thought.”

He said laconically, “Oh, too right, Barb.”

“I’m not lying to you, and I’m not stalling. The damn Upmans showed up here and—”

“I saw them.”

“Bloody hell, Mitchell. Where are you? You’ve got to stay out of sight. Salvatore’s already got a scent about you—”

“It’s your job to do something about that.”

“Oh, for God’s sake. Listen to me. We’ve got this bloke set up with a wire.”

“Name?”

“I’ve already told you I can’t give you a name. If this first try doesn’t get an admission from Mura, then we’ll need another go at him. Just now it’s one bloke’s word against the other bloke’s word and there’s no case that can be built out of that.”

“No good, Barb. I have a story needing to be sent to Rodney.”

“You’ll get the story as soon as I have it. Listen to me, Mitchell. You can be there for Azhar’s release. You c’n get a shot of him being reunited with Hadiyyah. You’ll have the whole thing exclusively. But you have to wait.”

“I have other things exclusively as well,” he pointed out.

“You use that and we’re finished, Mitchell.”

“I use it, darling, and so are you. So you have to ask yourself if that’s the way you want this to play out.”

“Of course it isn’t. Whatever else you think, I’m not a bleeding fool.”

“I’m chuffed to hear that, so you’ll understand that, while I personally would love to give you all the time God ever invented to produce the names, the dates, the whatevers and whoevers, in my line of work, time counts for something. Deadlines, Barb. That’s what they’re called. I have them, you don’t.”