Just One Evil Act

by Elizabeth George

  “Its nature?”

  “Complicated. I’ve not even done it yet. I’ve not even begun.”

  “So its revelation should present no . . . no moral or ethical dilemma for you.”

  Still, Smythe kept his gaze on the painting. Lynley wondered what he saw there, what anyone saw when they tried to interpret someone else’s intentions. Smythe finally said with a sigh, “It involves altering bank records and phone records. It involves a date change.”

  “What sort of date change?”

  “On an airline ticket. On two airline tickets.”

  “Not their elimination?”

  “No. Just the date. That and making them round-trip.”

  Which would, Lynley thought, explain why Barbara had said nothing to Isabelle about those tickets to Pakistan that SO12 had uncovered. Altering them would remove suspicion from Azhar entirely, especially if the change involved the date of purchase. So he said, “Purchase date or flight date?” and he waited for what, at heart, he knew Smythe would say.

  “Purchase,” he said.

  “Are we talking about the airline’s records, Mr. Smythe, or something else?”

  “We’re talking about SO12,” he said.

  SOUTH HACKNEY

  LONDON

  He’d given up smoking long before he and Helen had married. But as Lynley stood with the key to the Healey Elliott in his hand, he longed for a cigarette. Mostly, it was for something to do other than what needed doing. But he had no cigarettes, so he got into the car, rolled down the window, and gazed sightlessly at the London street.

  He understood why Barbara’s call upon Smythe with Taymullah Azhar in tow had not been part of John Stewart’s report. It had only occurred that morning, itself the reason she’d arrived late at the Yard. But he had no doubt that it would be included as an addendum that Stewart would hand over to Isabelle at the appropriate moment. The only question was when and what, if anything, he himself was going to do about it. Obviously, there was no stopping Stewart. There was only preparing Isabelle in advance.

  In this, he saw that he had two options. He could either manufacture a reason that Barbara had paid a call on Bryan Smythe. Or he could report to Isabelle what he’d discovered and let matters develop from there. He’d asked the guv for time to sort all of this out but what, really, was there to sort at this point? The only saving grace that he could see was that his own call upon Smythe had obviated any tinkering the hacker might have been about to do inside the records of SO12, if he could, indeed, even get inside them in the first place. At least that blot on the copybook of Barbara’s career would not be present. As to everything else . . . The truth was that he didn’t know how far she was steeped in the sin of this mess and there was only one way to find out and he didn’t want to do it.

  He’d never been a coward when it came to confrontations, so he had to ask himself why he was feeling such cowardice now. The answer seemed to be in his longtime partnership with Barbara. The truth was that she’d apparently gone bad, but his years working with her told him that, in spite of everything, her heart was good. And what in God’s name was he supposed to do about that? he asked himself.

  LUCCA

  TUSCANY

  Salvatore’s removal from the kidnapping investigation put him in the position of ship-without-harbour. This left him daily slinking by the morning meeting of Nicodemo and his team, a displaced policeman trying to catch a word here and there that would allow him to know where the investigation stood. No matter that the child had been returned to her parents unharmed. There were things going on here that needed understanding. Unfortunately, Nicodemo Triglia was not the person to sort through them.

  Salvatore caught the eye of Ottavia Schwartz on his fifth morning venture by the meeting. He went on his way but was gratified when a minute later, she came to find him. He was, ashamedly, even more gratified when the young woman murmured, “Merda. It goes nowhere,” but he was professional enough to give Nicodemo a minor show of support by murmuring back, “Give him time, Ottavia.”

  She gave a sputter that communicated as you like and said, “Daniele Bruno, Ispettore.”

  “The man with Lorenzo in the Parco Fluviale.”

  “Sì. A family with very big money.”

  “The Brunos? But not an old family, non è vero?” By this he meant, not old money handed down through the centuries.

  “Twentieth century. It all comes from the great-grandfather’s business. There’re five great-grandsons and they all work for the family company. Daniele’s director of sales.”

  “The product?”

  “Medical equipment. They sell a lot of it if looks say anything.”

  “Meaning?”

  “Meaning they live on a compound outside Camaiore. Much property and all the houses together behind a great stone wall. Everyone’s married with children. Daniele has three. His wife’s an assistente di volo on the Pisa–London route.”

  Salvatore felt a little rush of excitement at this connection to London. It was something. Perhaps it was insignificant, but it was something. He told Ottavia to look into the wife. Keeping it all very quiet, he said. “Puoi farlo, Ottavia?”

  “Certo,” She sounded a little offended. Of course she could do this. Keeping things quiet was her middle name.

  Shortly after they parted, Salvatore took a call from DI Lynley. The London man claimed that, as he did not know how to reach the new chief investigator, perhaps Salvatore could pass along some information they’d uncovered in London . . . ? Between the lines, Salvatore read the truth of the matter, which was that DI Lynley was kindly keeping him informed. He played along, assuring the other detective that he would indeed tell Nicodemo whatever Lynley wished him to know.

  “Non è tanto,” Lynley said. The private investigator in London named by Di Massimo claimed that he had hired the Italian to look for the girl in Pisa but that Di Massimo had reported to him that the trail went dead at the airport. He was, in fact, sending a report to Salvatore in proof of this. “He claims,” Lynley said, “that once the trail went dead at the airport, everything from that point on had to have come from Di Massimo on his own initiative as he—Doughty—knows nothing of it, and there’s no evidence pointing otherwise.”

  “How can there be no evidence?”

  “There’s a computer technology wizard involved here in London, Salvatore. Chances are very good that he’s wiped all superficial traces of a connection between them. They’ll be somewhere deep on God only knows what kind of backup system there is, and we can certainly find them in time, but I think it’s going to come down to whatever can be unearthed at your end if you want to settle this quickly. And whatever you unearth, Salvatore . . . ? It’s going to have to be solid evidence.”

  “Chiaro,” Salvatore said. “Grazie, Ispettore. But it is out of my hands now, as you know.”

  “But not, I suspect, out of your mind or out of your heart.”

  “È vero,” Salvatore said.

  “So I’ll keep you informed. And you may pass information on to Nicodemo as you will.”

  Salvatore smiled. The London officer was a very good man. He told Lynley of the wife of one Daniele Bruno: a flight attendant on the Pisa–Gatwick route.

  “Any connection to London needs to be explored as well,” Lynley concluded. “Give me her name and I’ll see what I can do from this end.”

  Salvatore did so. They rang off with promises to keep each other informed. And less than five minutes later he had his first piece of new information.

  LUCCA

  TUSCANY

  It came from Captain Mirenda of the carabinieri. It came by special messenger. It was a copy of the original, which she was keeping, but it included a note from the captain in which she explained that a thorough search of the rooms above the barn at Villa Rivelli had turned it up. All of this information was contained on the cover page of
three pages that were clipped together. Salvatore removed this top one and looked to see what he had been sent.

  The second page comprised the front and back of a greeting card, unfolded so as to show it in its entirety on one sheet of paper. It was a smiley-face sun with no message printed. Salvatore glanced at it, removed it, and looked at the third page.

  This was the message contained within the card. It was handwritten. It was in English. Salvatore could not translate the message completely, but he recognised key words.

  He rang Lynley back at once. He knew he could have—should have—gone to speak with Nicodemo Triglia instead, not only because he was holding something that could indeed be vital to the case he was now assigned but also because, unlike himself, Nicodemo spoke English. But he told himself it was a case of quid pro quo, and when Lynley answered, he read him the message.

  Do not be afraid to go with the man who gives you

  this card, Hadiyyah. He will bring you to me.

  Dad.

  Lynley said, “God,” and then he translated the message into Italian. He said, “What remains is the handwriting. Is the message in cursive, Salvatore?”

  It was, and thus they needed to see a sample of the Pakistani man’s handwriting. Could Ispettore Lynley get a sample? Could he fax it to Italy? Could he—

  “Certo,” Lynley said. “But I expect there’s a source more immediate, Salvatore.” Taymullah Azhar would have filled out paperwork at the pensione where he had stayed in Lucca. This was Italian law, no? Signora Vallera would have that paperwork. There would not be a lot of writing upon it, but perhaps there would be enough . . . ?

  Salvatore said that he would see to it at once. And in the meantime, he would send to Lynley a copy of the card and its contents, exactly as it had been sent to him.

  “And the original?” Lynley said.

  “It remains with Captain Mirenda.”

  “For God’s sake, tell her to keep it safe,” Lynley said.

  Salvatore went on foot to Pensione Giardino. It was a half-mad way of making a bargain with Fate. If he went by car, there would be nothing at the pensione in the handwriting of Hadiyyah Upman’s father. If he went on foot—walking briskly—there would be something he could use to identify the writer of the card as Taymullah Azhar.

  The anfiteatro was filled with sunlight and activity when Salvatore arrived. A large group of tourists encircled a tour guide at the centre of the place, people were charging into and out of the shops in search of souvenirs, and most of the tables at the cafés were occupied. Tourist season was hard upon Lucca now, and in the coming weeks the town would become more and more crowded as guides with their duckling charges in tow began to explore the many churches and piazze.

  The greatly pregnant owner of Pensione Giardino was washing windows, a small child in a pushchair next to her. She was putting a great deal of energy into the activity, and a fine sheen of perspiration glistened upon her smooth olive skin.

  Salvatore introduced himself politely and asked her name. She was Signora Cristina Grazia Vallera and, Sì, Ispettore, she remembered the two Englishmen who stayed at the pensione. They were a policeman and the anguished father of the little girl who’d been kidnapped here in Lucca. By the grace of God, it had all ended well, no? The child had been found safe and healthy, and the newspapers were full of the happy conclusion to what could have been a most tragic tale.

  “Sì, sì,” Salvatore murmured. He explained that he was there to check upon a few final details and he would like to inspect any documents in the signora’s possession that the kidnapped girl’s papà had filled out. If there was anything else he had written upon in addition to those documents, that would be helpful as well.

  Signora Vallera dried her hands on a blue towel tucked into the apron she was wearing. She nodded and indicated the pensione’s front door. She guided the pushchair into the dim, cool entry of the place and invited Salvatore to sit in the breakfast room while she searched for something that might answer his need. She kindly offered him a caffè while he waited. He demurred politely and said he would prefer to entertain her bambino while she assisted him.

  “Il suo nome?” he enquired politely as he dangled his car keys in front of the toddler.

  “Graziella,” she said.

  “Bambina,” he corrected himself.

  Graziella was not overly enthusiastic about Salvatore’s car keys. Give her a few years, he thought, and she’d be delighted to have them dangled in front of her eyes. As it was, she watched them curiously. But she just as curiously watched Salvatore’s lips as he made a series of bird noises that she doubtless found strange emanating from a human being.

  In short order, Signora Vallera returned. She had with her a registration book in which her guests filled out their names, their street addresses, and—should they wish—their email addresses as well. She also had with her a comment card with which each of her rooms was supplied in order that she might better meet the needs of her guests in the future.

  Salvatore thanked her and took these things to a breakfast table beneath one of the front windows that the signora had been washing. He sat and unfolded from his pocket the copy of the card that Captain Mirenda had sent to him. He began with the reception book and he went on to the comment card on which Taymullah Azhar had thanked Signora Vallera for her great kindness to him during his stay, adding that he would have changed nothing about the establishment other than the reason that had necessitated his stay within its walls.

  It was the comment card that Salvatore found most useful. He set it next to the copy of the card from Captain Mirenda. He took a deep breath and began his perusal of first one, then the other. He was not an expert, but he did not need to be one. The handwriting on each was identical.

  8 May

  CHALK FARM

  LONDON

  Barbara Havers stormed home after her seventh frantic phone call to Taymullah Azhar produced nothing more than the previous six, his recorded voice asking her to leave a message. This one time, though, she left nothing. “Azhar, ring me at once” had got her nowhere. That being the case, she knew he wasn’t planning to answer or he was already on his way to Italy.

  When word had come from Lucca, that word had gone to Lynley’s mobile. Barbara had seen him take the call, and she had clocked the quick alteration in his face. She had also seen him glance at her before he left the room.

  She followed. She saw Lynley do what she expected he would do: He made his way to Isabelle Ardery’s office.

  None of this was good. And nothing that had preceded it was good, either.

  For two days, Bryan Smythe had reported that all his attempts to hack into SO12’s records had been unsuccessful. He’d declared that he’d gone at the problem every which way to Sunday, but with regard to SO12, the Met was impenetrable. Certainly, he could get into personnel records and the PNC wasn’t exactly a problem requiring an IQ above the level of Einstein’s. But when it came to documents under the protection of the anti-terrorist squad . . . Forget about it, Sergeant. It’s impossible. This is national security we’re talking about. These blokes work hand in glove with MI5, and they aren’t about to leave gaps in their system.

  Barbara didn’t believe him. There was something in his voice that told her something else was up.

  He went on to declare briskly that as he’d done everything he could and as he couldn’t help her and as he’d shown good faith in at least making every possible attempt at fulfilling her wishes, he wanted all his backup information that she was carrying round with her returned to him.

  It was the briskness that gave him away. But “It doesn’t work that way, Bryan” didn’t get her far.

  “You’re in this deep and so am I and what I suggest is that we protect each other” was his immediate reply.

  That was all he would say. But the fact that he would say it when she was the person holding the information
that would land him in gaol suggested that he was holding information about her as well, and it wasn’t of the nature that Doughty’s was: just filmed documentation of her innocent visits to the man.

  She said sharply, “What’s going on, Bryan?”

  He said, “Give me the memory sticks and I’m happy to share on that subject.”

  “Are you actually trying to blackmail me?”

  “Go to bed with thieves and don’t complain when they steal your jimjams,” he replied evenly. “In a word—or three—things have changed.”

  “Then I’ll ask again: What’s going on?”

  “And I’ll say the same: Return my backup system.”

  “You can’t be claiming you have only one system, Bryan. Bloke like you? You wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”

  “That’s hardly the point.”

  “Then what is the point?”

  “The point is the mistakes you’ve made, not those that you’d like to assign to me. Full stop.”

  That was his final word. What was left to her was to decide if he was bluffing on the subject of her alleged mistakes. In his position, she would have bluffed her way to hell and back. But in his position, she also would have reckoned that the information on his memory sticks could be copied endlessly so what was the advantage to him in demanding their return?

  And what did it matter since he had to know that she couldn’t return his backup. Do that, and her leverage over him was gone. She said, “I’m holding on to what I’ve got till you manage our little SO12 problem. I don’t believe that you can’t do it, and I don’t believe you’re friendless in the area of hacking, either. You can’t do it, you know someone who can. So get on the blower—or however else you contact your techno mates—and find a bigger genius than yourself.”

  “You aren’t hearing me very well,” he told her. “I do that, and I’m finished. But here’s what you ought to look at more closely: So are you. Am I being clear? I change those tickets, you’re finished, Sergeant. You hang on to my backup files, you’re finished as well. You’re as good as finished anyway and so am I, but the only thing that proves it is the backup system, which—in your possession, mate—also proves you’re finished. Because it proves what I’ve already told them and how much clearer am I going to have to be with you, eh? I’m doing what I do for a living which, let’s face it, is illegal as hell. But what you’re doing is not what you’re supposed to be doing for a living and the bloody gaff is bloody blown so if you have any bloody sense, you’re going to give me the memory sticks and you’re going to make sure that no one else has a copy of what’s on them.”