Just One Evil Act

happened . . . He’s not like you, all right? I’m not like you. And you goddamn know that. So if you don’t stay in this room while I look through the house to prove Hadiyyah isn’t here, I’m going to ring the cops myself and have them out here on a domestic disturbance. Am I being clear enough for you?”

Lorenzo murmured to Angelina in Italian. He put his hand gently on the back of her neck. “All right,” she said.

Barbara made for the stairs. It was not a major project to search the house because there was so little of it. Three floors comprised its interior, with bedrooms, bathrooms, a kitchen, little else. Barbara startled Azhar’s other daughter in the midst of her school prep, but she was the only living creature above stairs.

She returned to the others. She said, “Nothing. All right? Let’s leave. Now.”

Angelina’s eyes grew bright with tears, and it came to Barbara how deeply she’d been hoping that—despite the ludicrous nature of what she’d decided had happened to her child—Hadiyyah would indeed be in the house. For a moment, Barbara felt sympathy for her. But she stamped on the feeling. Azhar was who mattered. And he was minutes away from a confrontation with his father. She knew they had to get him out of the neighbourhood before that occurred.

They had no luck. They were leaving the house when two men in traditional dress came storming down the street from the direction of Green Lane. One of them carried a shovel and the other a hoe. It wasn’t a case for Sherlock to read their intentions.

“Get in the car,” she said to Azhar. “Do it. Now.”

He didn’t budge. The men were shouting in Urdu as they tore towards them. The taller had to be Azhar’s father, Barbara figured, because his face was transfixed by rage. The other—his companion—was much the same age, perhaps a partner in administering retribution.

“La macchina, la macchina.” This from Lorenzo to Angelina. He opened the car door and bundled her inside. Barbara half expected him to follow her and lock the doors, but he didn’t do so. He seemed to be a bloke who liked to mix things up. He might have had no love for Azhar. But when it came to a street fight? No problema.

Between the Urdu being shouted by the older men and the Italian being shouted by Lorenzo, Barbara had no idea who was accusing whom of what. But the target of the Pakistani men was clearly Azhar, and she didn’t intend him to get hurt. The older men came in swinging their tools. She pushed Azhar out of the way. She yelled, “Police!” at the top of her lungs. This didn’t impress. Lorenzo swung.

She reckoned he was swearing in Italian. He didn’t sound pleasant as he chose his words. He was good with his fists and better with his feet and, farm implements or not, the potential assailants were on the ground before they knew what had hit them. But they didn’t remain there. They threw themselves back into the fray as Sayyid came roaring out of the house. Then an older woman and two other men debouched from the house next door as Sayyid barreled into his father and drove his fist into Azhar’s throat.

Someone screamed. Barbara thought it might have been herself except she had her mobile phone in her hand and was punching in the nines to bring the local rozzers. Clearly, her declaration of identity wasn’t going to stop this lot.

Azhar’s father got to him. He pulled Sayyid off and fell upon him himself. Lorenzo went after the man only to be jumped by the former hoe wielder. The older woman pounced upon Azhar and his father, screaming what sounded to Barbara like a name as she pulled and dragged and did what she could to put an end to things. Barbara did the same to the bloke on Lorenzo. Nafeeza came out of the house and grabbed Sayyid. But three more teenage boys came into the street with cricket bats and two women began to shout imprecations from the pavement on the opposite side.

It took the police to break everything up. Two panda cars and four uniformed constables handled things. It was down to Barbara that no one ended up arrested, although all of them ended up explaining themselves in the local nick. She offered her identification once they got there. She said it was a family dispute. Azhar’s father spat, “He is not family,” but the cops brought in an officer who spoke good Urdu and he gave everyone a chance to say what needed to be said on the matter. The end of it all was time wasted, anguish caused, horrors visited upon everyone, and nothing learned. They rode back to Chalk Farm in near silence.

Azhar didn’t speak. Angelina only wept.

18 April

VICTORIA

LONDON

You’ve gone quite mad” was how Isabelle Ardery dealt with Barbara’s request. She added to this, “Get back to work, Sergeant, and let’s not talk of this again.”

“You know they need a liaison officer” was how Barbara countered her superior officer’s command.

“I know nothing of the sort,” Ardery told her. “And I have no intention of sending you or anyone else barging into a foreign investigation.”

She’d been finishing up with someone on the phone when Barbara had entered her office. Planning an extended celebration, no doubt. The announcement had descended from on high thirty minutes earlier in the person of Assistant Commissioner Sir David Hillier gracing their side of New Scotland Yard’s two tower blocks with his florid-faced presence. He’d imparted upon the assembly of officers the news that Acting had been dropped—permanently—from the Detective Superintendent that until that precise moment had preceded Isabelle Ardery’s name. Kudos all around and let flow the champers. Whatever hoops she’d needed to jump through for the past nine months, Isabelle Ardery had apparently managed to catapult herself through them.

Azhar had left early that morning, accompanying Angelina Upman and Lorenzo Mura to Lucca, Italy. Barbara had been determined to follow hard upon their heels. She had it all worked out—how this would happen—and she had just concluded presenting the matter to the superintendent.

It had seemed perfectly logical to her. A British national had disappeared upon foreign soil. A British national may well have been kidnapped. When a crime such as this occurred, a liaison officer was generally assigned to breach the cultural, linguistic, investigatory, and legal gaps between the two countries involved. Barbara wished to be that officer. She knew the family, and all that was needed was Detective Superintendent Ardery’s okay on the matter, and off she could go.

Ardery didn’t see things that way. She heard Barbara out, taking in the entire subject, beginning with Hadiyyah’s November disappearance in the company of her mother and ending with her current disappearance from a crowded market in Italy. She listened without asking questions other than to clarify names, locations, and relationships, and when Barbara concluded and waited for the logical “of course you must go to Tuscany at once” that she believed would be coming on the verbal wings of a hundred angels, Ardery pointed out what she called “a few salient details that the sergeant had apparently overlooked.”

First among them was the fact that the British embassy was not involved in this matter. No one had rung them or paid a call upon them or sent them a telegram, email, fax, or smoke signal, and without the involvement of the embassy—diplomats pouring oil on potentially troubled waters in advance of the Met’s incursion into someone else’s patch—they did not barge round like bulls among the Belleek attempting an investigation where they were not wanted.

Second, the superintendent pointed out, the purpose of the liaison officer was to liaise, which, as they both knew, meant to keep the family in the UK apprised of everything relative to the investigation that was occurring on foreign soil. But the parents of the child were in Italy, no? Or at least on their way to Italy, according to the sergeant’s own words. Indeed, the mother of the child lived in Italy, no? Somewhere in Lucca? Outside of Lucca? In the vicinity of Lucca? And with an Italian national, yes? So she had no reason to request a liaison officer. Hence, there was no case to present as to the need of sending Detective Sergeant Barbara Havers into Tuscany to be of assistance in whatever was going on.

“What’s going on,” Barbara said, “is the disappearance of a nine-year-old girl. A nine-year-old British girl. No one saw it happen, and whatever it was that happened, it happened in the middle of a market. A crowded market with hundreds of witnesses who apparently