Just One Evil Act

stood.

“The police have been to DARBA Italia,” Bruno told him.

Lorenzo glanced at him sharply. “You have told me this. What is your point?”

And now the lie they had all agreed upon. Salvatore prayed that Bruno could carry it off: “Someone saw me take the E. coli,” he said. “It was nothing to him at first. He wasn’t even sure what he saw. He thought nothing at all until the story about Angelina’s death appeared in Prima Voce. And even then he thought little enough till the police showed up.”

Lorenzo said nothing at first. Salvatore watched his face through the binoculars. He lit a cigarette, his eyes narrowing from the smoke of it. He picked a bit of tobacco from his tongue. He said, “Daniele, what is this that you speak of?”

“You know what I speak of. This E. coli, the particular strain of it . . . The police are asking serious questions. If Angelina is dead because of E. coli, if they found it still within her body . . . Lorenzo, what did you do with the bacteria I gave you?”

Salvatore held his breath. So much hung on Mura’s reply. The man finally said, “And this is why I come to meet you all the way from the fattoria? To tell you what I did with a bit of bacteria? I flushed it down the toilet, Daniele. It was not useful to me as I thought it would be . . . an experiment with bacteria and wine . . . so I flushed it away.”

“Then how did Angelina die with E. coli in her system, Lorenzo? This is what the police want no one to know. This E. coli is what killed Angelina. It is what they are withholding from her murderer.”

“What are you saying?” Lorenzo demanded. “I did not kill her. She carried my child. She was to be my wife. If her death was E. coli . . . You know as I do that this is everywhere, this bacteria, Daniele.”

“Some E. coli is everywhere. But not this E. coli. Lorenzo, hear me. The police have been to DARBA Italia—”

“You tell me this already.”

“They speak to Antonio, they speak to Alessandro. They have made a connection and they will want to speak to me soon and I do not know what to tell them, Lorenzo. If I tell them that I gave the E. coli to you—”

“You must not!”

“But I did give it to you, and if I am to lie on your behalf, I must know—”

“You need to know nothing! They can prove nothing. Who saw you give it to me? No one. Who saw what I did with it? No one.”

“I do not wish to be arrested for what I did, my friend. I have a wife. I have children. My family is everything to me.”

“As mine would have been. As it could have been had he not shown up. You talk of family while mine has been destroyed, just as he planned it.”

“Who?”

“The Muslim. The father of Angelina’s daughter. He came to Italy. He intended to have her back. I could see this: the loss of her, the loss of my child because she left me as she had left others and this is something . . .” Lorenzo’s voice cracked.

Daniele Bruno said, “It was for him, no? The E. coli, Lorenzo. It was for the Muslim. To do what? To make him ill? To kill him? What?”

“I do not know.” Lorenzo began to cry. “Just to be rid of him so that she would not look at him, she would not call him by a pet name, she would not allow him to touch her or to care for her while I stood by and had to watch this . . . this thing between them.” He stumbled towards the picnic tables. He fell onto one of the benches and sobbed into his hands.

“Va bene,” Salvatore said, removing his headphones within the white van. He radioed the police cars that waited for his word, farther along the road and deep into the Parco Fluviale. “Adesso andiamo,” he told them. They had enough. It was time to bring Lorenzo Mura to justice.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

He lifted his head the moment he heard the scrape of tyres on the gravel of the parking area. He saw the police cars, and he didn’t wait to catch sight of the white van trundling along Via della Scogliera from the direction of the cafe. He knew in an instant what had happened. He ran.

He was very fast. A football player, he had remarkable speed and equal endurance. He took off across the campo where he coached his soccer pupils, and before Salvatore was out of the van, he had crossed the field with four uniformed officers in pursuit.

He quickly disappeared into the trees at the far side of the field. He was heading southwest, and on the other side of those trees, Salvatore knew, a steep berm rose, its side heavily grown with grass in this springtime month, with a walking path along its top.

His officers were no match for the man’s speed. They were going to lose him in very short order. But this was of no import to Salvatore. Once he saw the direction that Mura was taking, he had a very good idea where the man was heading.

He said, “Basta,” more to himself than to anyone else. He turned away, nodded at Daniele Bruno for a job well done, and left him in the hands of his avvocato and the officers within the white van who had taped his words. They would transport him to the questura and to his release. Meantime, Salvatore would take care of Mura.

He commandeered one of the police cars. He headed along Via della Scogliera, northeast along the River Serchio. The river sparkled in the sun of the afternoon. He lowered the window and enjoyed the breeze.

At the entrance to the park, he headed back towards the centre of Lucca. But he did not go as far as the viale circumambient to the ancient wall. Instead, he chose to skirt the neighbourhood of Borgo Giannotti on its north side, coursing down a street where luxurious garden trees sheltered houses hidden behind tall walls. He was held up for two minutes along this route by a large camion carico attempting to manoeuvre into position so as to deliver its load of furniture to the occupants of a newly purchased house. Several impatient drivers behind him applied their car horns to the frustration of having to wait, but he felt no need to do so. When he set off again, he passed Palazetto dello Sport and the large playing field of Campo CONI. At last he reached his destination: the cimitero comunale.

There were cars and bicycles in the main car park, but there was no indication of a burial going on within the tall and silent walls of the cemetery on this day. The gates were open as always, and Salvatore entered them respectfully. He crossed himself at the feet of the guano- and weather-streaked bronze Jesus and Mary. A solemn mausoleum rose behind them forbiddingly, but the statues themselves bore faces at peace.

He paced along the gravel path, where the scent of flowers was a mixed perfume in the air and the sun cast brilliant light upon the marble slabs that topped the gravesites. Across the large quadrangle that he was walking through, tombstones rose as quiet witnesses to his progress towards Lorenzo Mura.

He was where Salvatore had concluded he would be: at the grave of Angelina Upman. He had thrown himself across the patch of dirt that would remain unmarked until her own marble slab covered the site of her burial. In the dry, warm dust that stood in place of this marker, Lorenzo Mura wept.

Salvatore allowed him this time to mourn, and he did not approach him for some minutes. The man’s agony was a terrible thing to behold, but Salvatore beheld it. It was a reminder to him of the price of love and he asked himself if he ever wanted to feel such attachment to a woman again.

Finally, when Mura’s worst weeping had passed, he went to the man. He bent and took his arm in a grip that was firm but was not fierce.

“Venga, signore,” he said to Lorenzo, and Lorenzo rose without protest or question or fight.

Salvatore walked him out of the cemetery and eased him into the car for the short drive to the questura.