Just One Evil Act

Azhar had, ostensibly, not even known where she was. That suggested only one thing, and Barbara couldn’t bear to consider the extent to which she’d been played for a fool.

She spent a moment searching for something to explain this information. She said, “Anyone could have —”

“Maybe yes, maybe no,” Doughty said. “But the question is why would someone other than our friend the quiet, unassuming, and brokenhearted professor of whatever the hell he professes buy two one-way tickets to Pakistan?”

“Someone who wanted him to look guilty—like yourself, for example—could have made the purchase.”

“You think so, eh? So ask your blokes over there in Special Branch to track this thing down because you and I both know that in these days of playing at Who’s the Terrorist, anyone going to a country where people wear headscarves, towels, bedsheets, and dressing gowns in the street is going to be looked at fairly closely once you give them the word it’s got to be done.”

“He might have—”

“Known his kid was going to be snatched in Italy?”

“That’s not what I was going to say.”

“But it’s what you know, Sergeant Havers. Now, I think you and I c’n agree it’s game, set, and match we’re looking at here. So are you going to continue harassing me, or are you going to do something about getting that miserable excuse of a father—if he even is her father—to tell the cops over there where he’s stowed that poor kid?”

BOW

LONDON

Barbara sat inside her rust-dappled Mini, lit a fag, and inhaled so deeply that she could have sworn the heavenly carcinogen managed to travel all the way to her ankles. She smoked the entire thing before she would even allow herself to think. Buddy Holly helped in this. A tape deck in the car that functioned only on an off-and-on basis today was leaning towards the on end of things, although the very idea of Buddy’s telling her that anything was a-getting closer was not doing much to lift her spirits.

Doughty was right. A call to Special Branch and she’d know the truth about those tickets to Lahore. It wasn’t enough that Azhar was a respected professor of microbiology. That alone would never save him from scrutiny. When it came to travelling to a Muslim country, a man with a name like Taymullah Azhar was going to be looked at, even more so because he’d bought a one-way ticket to the place. In fact, he’d probably already been investigated by the blokes in SO12 because his purchase of that ticket—if indeed he was the person who had made the purchase—was going to light up the roadside flares. All she had to do was dig out her mobile, place a call to the Met, and hear the worst. Or hear the best, she thought. Pray God in his heaven that it was the best.

Barbara considered what she knew once she’d smoked the fag down to a dog-end the size of her little finger’s nail. She flicked this into the street—apologies to the litter patrol, but her ashtray was teeming with six months of Players smoked down to various lengths and crushed therein—and she tried desperately to reason everything out. From Lynley she knew that Di Massimo was pointing every finger he had and all of his toes at Dwayne Doughty in London. Emily Cass appeared to be doing the same. Doughty had everything to lose if culpability came down to him. He knew that better than he knew anything, which was why, of course, he’d have ordered every indication that he’d been in contact with anyone in Italy wiped from the records.

Bryan Smythe could confirm this. Back him into a corner, guarantee that no visit from the Bill was going to occur if he spilled his beans onto a porcelain plate, and Bob was, let’s face it, going to be your uncle. Barbara knew that she probably didn’t even need to visit the bloke. These computer types? In her experience their bravado was limited to what they could accomplish behind closed doors, in a darkened room, with the glow of a computer monitor shining in their eyes. Hearing that the cops were onto him, he’d cave in an instant. He’d tell everything he knew, just as fast as his vocal cords could vibrate. Barbara just wasn’t sure she wanted to know what that everything was.

Truth was, he was going to confirm, and she bloody well knew it. Emily Cass wouldn’t have given her the bloke’s name if there was any doubt in the matter. Barbara told herself that this was probably because Emily would have put him in the picture the moment Barbara and she had parted ways. And following up on that, Dwayne Doughty would have rung the bloke and given him the word. The private investigator would have concluded instantly that Emily Cass was the person who had named Smythe to Barbara, for there was no one else to do the naming. He’d deal with her later, but upon Barbara’s departure from his office, Smythe would have been his very next move. Ring him and say, “There’s a cop coming. She can’t prove a damn thing so hold your tongue in this business and there’s a bonus coming your way.”

So he would hold his tongue. Or he would break and spill. Or he would run for cover. Or he would head for Scotland, Dubai, the Seychelles. Who the bloody hell knew what Smythe would do because Barbara’s head was spinning, so she lit another fag.

Reality in a tablespoon? She knew what her next step was. It involved ringing Lynley with the information she had and giving him everything. But God, God, God, how could she ever do that? For surely there was an explanation somewhere and all she really had to do was to find it.

She could give Lynley Bryan Smythe’s name. That wore the guise of progress being made. He’d tell her to haul Smythe into the nick for a proper go at him—or he would ask her why she hadn’t already done so—but in any case that would buy her time. The only question was: What was she going to do with time bought? And once she admitted to herself what it was, she set her course upon doing it.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

Salvatore had no choice once Michelangelo Di Massimo named the man in London. His next encounter with Piero Fanucci wasn’t going to be pleasant, but it had to be got through. Once that was taken care of, he was intent upon the Apuan Alps and that convent at which Domenica Medici was the caretaker. It was the only lead they had as to the location of the missing little English girl and, Piero Fanucci or not, Salvatore intended to follow it.

He spoke to il Pubblico Ministero by phone. In advance he’d done what little there was to be done to prove to Fanucci that no connection appeared to exist between Carlo Casparia and anyone else they had discovered having ties to the kidnapping case. Piero snapped that he hadn’t been looking closely enough. Get back to that at once, Fanucci ordered. At this, Salvatore bridled. At this, he made a crucial error. Patiently, he said, “Piero, capisco. I know that you are heavily invested in the guilt of this Carlo—” At which point Fanucci morphed into il drago and Salvatore felt that dragon’s wrath.

He listened to Piero’s roaring and railing. Il Pubblico Ministero called into question everything from Salvatore’s capabilities as a member of the police force to the various reasons—most of them having to do with Salvatore’s masculinity—for the breakdown of the chief inspector’s marriage. The peroration of il drago’s diatribe was the unsurprising information that Piero was replacing him as head of the investigation into the girl’s disappearance. Someone who could follow the directions of the magistrate in charge of the investigation would be taking over, and Salvatore was to hand to this person every bit of information he had.

“Don’t do this, Piero,” Salvatore said. His blood had long since boiled, especially when il Pubblico Ministero had ventured into the area of his marriage. Indeed, Salvatore felt he had no blood left, just the burnt-copper scent of it in his body. “You have decided upon the guilt of this man based upon your fantasy. You have decided that Carlo saw an easy way to make money by following a child, grabbing her from a public market, and selling her to . . . Who, Piero? Allow me to ask you this: Is it even reasonable for you to conclude that anyone would go into the business of buying a child from a person like Carlo? A drug addict who is likely to tell the tale of such a sale to the first person willing to offer him the money for another purchase of whatever it is he is shooting into his body? Piero, please listen to me. I know that you are compromised in this investigation. I know that your use of Prima Voce to make a case for—”

That mentioning of the tabloid had done it.

“Basta!” Piero Fanucci roared. “E finito, Salvatore! Capisci? E finito