“Ah, Helen,” he whispered. “Helen.”
He closed his fingers over the hairbrush. He carried it to his chest of drawers. He opened the top one and, deep at the back, he placed the brush like the relic it had become. He closed the drawer carefully upon its contents.
Upstairs, Charlie Denton was asleep as Lynley had expected. He knew that he could leave things until the morning, but he felt that this was the moment and he did have some fear that it wouldn’t come again. So he went to Denton’s bed and touched his shoulder. He said his name, and the younger man was instantly awake.
Denton said quite unusually, “Your brother . . . ?” for the fact of Peter Lynley’s addictions and his battles with them was something they did not generally discuss. But wakened so suddenly, what else would he think? Only that something terrible had occurred to a member of his family.
Lynley said, “No, no. Everything’s fine, Charlie. But I wanted to . . .” How to go on? he wondered.
Denton sat up. He turned on the light on his bedside table. He reached for his glasses and put them on. Awake now and back in the character he so assiduously played, he said, “D’you require something, sir? I’ve left dinner in the fridge for reheating and—”
Lynley smiled. “His lordship requires nothing at all,” he said. “Just your help tomorrow, as it happens. I want to pack Helen’s things in the morning. Can you sort out what we need to do this?”
“In a tick,” Denton said. And when Lynley thanked him and headed for the door, “Are you sure about it, sir?”
Lynley paused, turned, and considered the question. “No,” he admitted. “I’m not at all sure. But there’s no real certainty about anything, is there?”
Acknowledgements
I’m indebted to some wonderful people who helped me with this novel, not only in the United States and in Great Britain, but also in Italy.
In the UK, Detective Superintendent John Sweeney of New Scotland Yard set me on the correct course towards understanding exactly what happens when a British national is kidnapped in a foreign country, as well as what happens when a British national is murdered abroad. It’s a complicated process that involves the British embassy, the Italian police, the victim’s local police from the individual’s hometown in England, and New Scotland Yard, and I’ve attempted to make it a process that the reader is able to follow easily in this novel, and I hope I have been somewhat successful in that endeavour. The indefatigable and always resourceful Swati Gamble assisted in this, making initial arrangements for me and tracking down bits and pieces of information as I needed them. Private Investigator Jason Woodcock was essential to my understanding of what private investigators can and cannot do in the UK. He also was terrific when it came to the art of blagging, and it must be said that he bears absolutely no resemblance to Dwayne Doughty in this novel. Fellow writer John Follain weighed in via email with information about the labyrinthine nature of Italian policing, and his book Death in Perugia: The Definitive Account of the Meredith Kercher Case gave me additional assistance. Douglas Preston and Mario Spezi’s extraordinary book The Monster of Florence was a great help to me in sorting out the part played by the public magistrate in a criminal investigation, and Candace Dempsey’s Murder in Italy as well as Nina Burleigh’s The Fatal Gift of Beauty were also extremely helpful.
With this novel, I bid a very fond farewell to my longtime UK editor at Hodder, Sue Fletcher, who retired in December 2012, and I begin my thanks to my new editor, Nick Sayers, with the hope that I’ll be continuing to thank him for any number of years. It’s also high time for me to thank Karen Geary, Martin Nield, and Tim Hely-Hutchinson for all they do to promote my books in the UK.
In Italy, Maria Lucrezia Felice started me out in Lucca with a detailed tour that took me into churches, piazzas, parks, and shops in order to familiarise me with the medieval centre of the town. She was also helpful in Pisa at the Field of Miracles, and together she and I attempted to work through the parts played by the Polizia di Stato, the Arma dei Carabinieri, the Polizia Penitenziaria, the Polizia Municipale, and the Vigili Urbani when it comes to an investigation. Giovanna Tronci’s home in the hills above Lucca—Fabbrica di San Martino—was the model for my Fattoria di Santa Zita, and I am most grateful for the tour she and her partner gave me of the house itself as well as of the property. A chance encounter with Don Whitley on the train from Milan to Padua gave me the one thing I was desperate for—the source of the E. coli—and I am grateful that he was my seatmate for that journey, willing to let me pick his brain about his business in West Yorkshire. Finally, Fiorella Marchitelli was my amiable and lovely Italian tutor in Florence while I studied the language in Scuola Michelangelo.
In the US, Shannon Manning, PhD, of Michigan State University, was my go-to source for all things relating to E. coli, which she studies in her lab. She fielded phone calls and sent me photographs, and it has to be said that without Shannon’s participation, there probably would not have been a book called Just One Evil Act in the first place. Josette Hendrix and the Northwest Language Academy started me off on my long and ongoing journey to learn Italian, Judith Dankanics has willingly practised the language with me for several years now, and for this novel native speaker Fiorella Coleman kindly went over every single Italian word or phrase to make sure I wasn’t making any ghastly errors. This same service was also supplied by two excellent copy editors: Mary Beth Constant and Anna Jardine. If there are any linguistic errors remaining at this point, they are my own.
Also in the US, I’m grateful to my assistant, Charlene Coe, who maintains good cheer and a gracious presence in my life no matter what request I throw at her; to my husband, Tom McCabe, who puts up with my long hours of disappearance into my study; to my goddaughter Audra Bardsley, who was my initial companion-in-arms in Lucca and who is always willing to go on a girl-trip no matter where it takes us; and to my supportive friends and fellow writers here on Whidbey Island and elsewhere. They always believe I can do it, and they never tire of telling me so: Gay Hartell, Ira Toibin, Don McQuinn, Mona Reardon, Lynn Willeford, Nancy Horan, Jane Hamilton, Karen Joy Fowler, and Gail Tsukiyama. There are probably others that I am forgetting in this moment of writing, but their omission is unintentional.
Finally, I must thank my literary agent, Robert Gottlieb, for steering the ship; my extraordinary Dutton team of Brian Tart, Christine Ball, Jamie McDonald, and Liza Cassidy; and above all I must thank Susan Berner, who has been my cold reader for an incredible twenty-five years. This book is dedicated to her, for that reason and for many others.
Elizabeth George
WHIDBEY ISLAND, WASHINGTON
Just One Evil Act: A Lynley Novel Page 82
