Just One Evil Act il-18

by Elizabeth George

  “Mi senti?” he said. “Domenica, mi senti?”

  She nodded, for she was not deaf and this he knew. She said to him, “La porterai via di nuovo.”

  “Di nuovo?” he repeated, incredulous. Why, he seemed to be asking, would he ever remove the child from her care?

  “Lei è mia,” she said.

  She looked up then. He was watching her. On his face, it seemed a calculation of her words was being made. Knowledge appeared to be breaking over him, and he seemed to confirm this when he put his hand on the back of her neck, said, “Cara, cara,” and drew her closer.

  The heat of his hand on her flesh was like a brand that marked her forever his. She felt it throughout her body, even to her blood.

  “Cara, cara, cara,” he murmured. “Non me la riprenderò più, mai più.” He lowered his mouth to hers. His tongue probed and caressed. Then he lifted the linen shift she wore.

  “L’hai nascosta?” he said against her mouth. “Perché non sta nel granaio? Te l’ho detto, no? ‘La bambina deve rimanere dentro il granaio.’ Non ti ricordi? Cara, cara?”

  But how could she have kept Carina hidden within the cold stone barn as he had demanded she do? Domenica wondered. She was a child, and a child must be free.

  He rained tender kisses against her neck. His fingers touched her. First here. Then there. And the flames seemed to eat at her flesh as he lowered her gently to the ground. On the ground, he entered her and he moved within her with mesmerising rhythm. She could not abhor it.

  “La bambina,” he murmured into her ear. “Capisci? L’ho ritornata, tesoro. Non me la riprenderò. Allora. Dov’è? Dov’è? Dov’è?” And with each thrust, he said the words, Where is she? I brought her back to you, my treasure.

  Domenica received him. She allowed the mantle of sensations to cover her until they peaked at their completion. She did not think.

  Afterwards, he lay panting in her arms. But only for an instant before he rose. He adjusted his clothing. He looked down upon her, and she saw his lip move in a twist that did not speak of love. “Copriti,” he said between his teeth. “Dio mio. Copriti.”

  She lowered her linen shift in compliance. She looked up at the sky. Its blue was unbroken by a single cloud. The sun shone in it, like God’s grace falling upon her face.

  “Mi senti? Mi senti?”

  No, she hadn’t been listening. She hadn’t been there. She’d been in the arms of her beloved but now—

  He jerked her upright. “Domenica, dov’è la bambina?” He barked the words.

  She scrambled to her feet. She looked to the earth where, between the rows of fresh young lettuces, the mark of her body flattened the dirt. She gazed at this in confusion. “Che cos’è successo?” she murmured, and she looked at him. She said insistently, “Roberto. Che cos’è successo qui?”

  “Pazza,” he responded. “Sei sempre stata pazza.”

  From this, she knew that something had indeed occurred between them. She could feel it in her body, and she could smell it in the air. They’d mated in the dirt like animals, and she’d stained her soul yet another time.

  He asked again where the little girl was, and Sister Domenica Giustina felt the pain of this question like a sword piercing her side to take the last of her blood. She said to him, “Mi hai portato via la bambina già una volta. Non ti permetterò di farlo di nuovo.”

  She repeated herself, insistently this time: He’d taken the child away from her once. He would not do so again.

  He lit a cigarette. He tossed the match to one side. He smoked and said, “How can you trust me so little, Domenica? I was young. So were you. We are older now. You have her somewhere. You must take me to her.”

  “What will you do?”

  “I mean no harm. I want to know she is well. I have clothing for her. Come. I’ll show you. It’s in the car.”

  “If it is, you may leave it and go your way.”

  “Cara,” he murmured. “This I cannot do.” He glanced beyond them where through the magnificent camellia hedge the villa loomed, silent but watchful. “You do not wish me to remain here,” he said. “That would not be good for either of us.”

  She understood what he was threatening. He would remain. There would be trouble unless she produced the child.

  “Show me the clothing,” she said.

  “That is my wish.” He opened the gate and held it for her. As she passed him, he smiled. His fingers lightly touched her neck, and she shuddered at the feeling of his flesh upon her own.

  At the car, she saw the bags on the floor. There were two of them. He had not lied. Clothing was folded neatly within them. It was a little girl’s clothing, used but still serviceable.

  She looked at him. He said, “I seek her comfort, Domenica. You must learn to trust me again.”

  She nodded abruptly. She turned from the car. She said, “Vieni.”

  She led him through the camellia hedge. At the cellar steps, however, she paused. She looked at her cousin. He smiled, and it was a smile she knew well. Nothing to fear, it said. Innocent, it proclaimed. She had only to believe as she once had done.

  She descended. He followed. “Carina,” she called quietly. “Vieni qui. Va tutto bene, Carina,” and as if in answer, she heard the patter of the little girl’s feet as she emerged from her hiding place among the casks in the second room.

  She skipped out to them. The light was dim, but in it Sister Domenica Giustina could see the cobwebs in the child’s dark hair. Her knees were marked from the filthy floor, and her shift bore the soil of generations of the cellar’s disuse.

  Her face lit up when she saw who was with Sister Domenica Giustina, and completely unafraid, she danced over to him.

  She spoke in English, saying, “Yes! Yes! Have you come to fetch me? Do I get to go home?”

  LUCCA

  TUSCANY

  Being called to the office of il Pubblico Ministero was only slightly less infuriating than having to make the drive to his home in Barga. The second was an insult and designed to be one. The first was merely un’eritema, like an itch on the skin that cannot be scratched. Thus, Salvatore Lo Bianco knew he should have been at least moderately grateful that Fanucci hadn’t waited until evening to direct his appearance once again into the ministerial presence among his cymbidiums. But he was not. For he’d made his daily reports as he’d been instructed, and still Piero edged closer and closer to becoming an intrusive presence in the investigation. Piero was not a stupid man, but his mind was like a prison cell: closed, locked, and with no one in possession of the key.

  As a magistrate, Piero knew that the power within an investigation was his, and he liked to play with it. It was he who assigned the lead officer to a case. Thus someone assigned could just as easily be unassigned, and everyone knew it. So when he made a request for one’s presence, one had to comply. Or one had to face the consequences of failing to do so.

  So Salvatore took himself to Palazzo Ducale, where Piero Fanucci had a suite of offices as impressive as local revenues could make them. He walked, as the way wasn’t long, for the palazzo stood in Piazza Grande, where a gaggle of tourists gathered near the central statue of the town’s beloved Maria Luisa di Borbone. There they snapped pictures, learned the history associated with the loathsome Elisa Bonaparte, who’d been condemned by her brother to rule in this Italian backwater, and they watched a colourful carousel on the piazza’s south side take laughing children on a trip to nowhere.

  Salvatore watched this, also. He took a moment to consider what he wanted to impart to the magistrate. A piece of information had fallen into his lap from a most unexpected source: Salvatore’s own daughter. For she was enrolled in the Scuola Elementare Statale Dante Alighieri here in Lucca. And so, as it happened, was the missing child.

  This wasn’t unusual. Children from the area surrounding Lucca often came into town for their education. What was unusual was the amount of information that Bianca had actually managed to glean from the girl.

  He hadn’t told Bian
ca that Hadiyyah Upman was missing. He hadn’t wished to frighten his child. But he also hadn’t been able to prevent her from seeing the flyers that were being posted around the town, and she’d recognised her little schoolmate. Recognising her, she’d told her mother of their acquaintance. Birgit, praise God, had informed Salvatore.

  Over a casual but indifferent gelato purchased from the only café on Lucca’s great wall, Salvatore had probed carefully for details. His daughter, it turned out, had assumed that Lorenzo Mura was Hadiyyah’s father, not understanding at first that had that been the case, the child’s Italian probably would have been much better. Hadiyyah had revealed to her that her father was, instead, in London. A professor, she’d said proudly, at a university. She and her mummy were in Italy visiting Mummy’s friend Lorenzo. Dad had intended to come for Christmas, but then he’d had too much work and was supposed to be there at Easter instead. But things had come up once again for him because he was so terribly busy . . . Here’s a picture of him. He’s a scientist. He sends me emails and I write to him and p’rhaps he can come for summer hols . . .

  “D’you think her dad came to take her home to London?” Bianca had asked Salvatore, her great dark eyes reflecting a worry that an eight-year-old’s eyes should never reflect.

  “Possibly, cara,” Salvatore had said. “Possibly indeed.”

  The question now was whether he was going to share this information with Piero Fanucci. It would, he decided, all depend on how his meeting with the magistrate went.

  Fanucci’s secretary was the first person Salvatore encountered when he climbed the great staircase. A long-suffering seventy-year-old, she reminded Salvatore of his own mother. Instead of black, though, she always wore red. She dyed her hair the colour of coal, and she possessed an unattractive moustache that—in the years he had known her—she’d never bothered to remove. She’d maintained her position in the magistrate’s office because she was completely unappealing to Piero, so he hadn’t once molested her. Had she been even marginally attractive to il Pubblico Ministero, she would not have lasted six months, as Fanucci’s career was littered with the spiritual and psychological corpses of the women who’d been victimised by him.

  Once inside the office suite, Salvatore learned that a wait for the magistrate would be necessary. For a junior prosecutor had been taken into the presence in advance of Salvatore’s appearance, he was told. That meant someone was being dressed down. Salvatore sighed and took up a magazine. He flipped through it, noted which closeted homosexual American celebrity was currently attaching himself to a conveniently stupid supermodel twenty years his junior, and tossed this rivista idiota to one side. After five minutes he requested that Fanucci’s secretary let the magistrate know that he was waiting.

  She looked shocked. Did he truly want to chance an eruption of il vulcano? she asked. He did, he assured her.

  But it turned out that interrupting Fanucci was not necessary. A pale-to-the-gills young man emerged from the magistrate’s office and scuttled on his way. Salvatore strode in, unannounced and not wishing it otherwise.

  Piero eyed him. His facial warts were pale excrescences against skin inflamed by whatever had gone on between him and his underling. Apparently deciding to say nothing about Salvatore’s unheralded entrance into his office, he gave a sharp and wordless nod to a television on one of his office bookshelves, and he clicked it on without preliminaries.

  It was a recording of a broadcast, made that morning by England’s BBC. Salvatore spoke very little English and was thus unable to follow the rapid-fire conversation between the two presenters. They were engaged in a strange discussion about UK newspapers, it seemed, and one at a time they held them up to the camera.

  Salvatore saw quickly that no translation of this broadcast was actually going to be necessary. Piero stopped the recording when the presenters reached the front page of a particular tabloid. The Source, it was called. It had the story.

  This, he knew, was not a good development. One tabloid meant many. Many meant the possible incursion of British reporters into Lucca.

  Fanucci clicked the recording off. He indicated that Salvatore was to take a seat. Piero himself remained standing because standing was power, and power, Salvatore thought, could be demonstrated in so many ways.

  “What more have you learned from this street beggar of yours?” Fanucci asked. He meant the poor drug addict, him of the Ho fame sign. Salvatore had brought the youth once into the questura for a formal interrogation, but Fanucci was pressing for another. This would be, he’d instructed Salvatore, a more serious one, a lengthier one, one designed to “encourage” the unfortunate’s memory . . . such as it was.

  Salvatore had been avoiding this. While Fanucci believed drug addicts capable of anything to support their habit, Salvatore did not. In the case of this particular drug addict, Carlo Casparia had been occupying that same spot at the entrance to Porta San Jacopo for the past six years without incident, a disgrace to his family but a menace to no one but himself.

  He said, “Piero, there is nothing more to be learned from this man Carlo. Believe me, his brain is too addled to have planned a kidnapping.”

  “Planned?” Fanucci repeated. “Topo, why do you say this was planned? He saw her, and he took her.”

  And then? Salvatore thought. He produced an expression on his face that he hoped projected that question without having to ask it directly.

  “It could be,” Fanucci said, “that we have a crime of opportunity, my friend. Can you not see that? He has told you that he saw the child, no? He was not so brain-addled that he forgot that. So why this one child in his memory, Topo? Why not another? Why did Carlo remember a child at all?”

  “She gave him food, Magistrato. A banana.”

  “Bah! What she gave him was a promise.”

  “Come?”

  “The promise of money. Must I spell it out for you what happens once he takes the child?”

  “There has been no demand for ransom.”

  “Why should there be ransom when so many other opportunities exist to make money off an innocent girl?” Fanucci counted them off on the fingers of his six-fingered hand. “She is bundled into the back of a car and bundled out of the country, Topo. She is sold into the sex trade somewhere. She is made into a household slave. She is handed over to a paedophile with a clever basement into which she is stuffed. She is given to a satanic worship group for sacrifice. She is made a rich Arab’s plaything.”

  “All of which, Piero, would beg for planning, no?”

  “None of which, Topo, we will ever learn until you question Carlo again. You must see to this without delay. I wish to read it in your next report to me. Tell me how else you intend to spend your time, little man, if not with this and in this direction?”

  In answer to the insulting question, Salvatore first asked his blood to cool. Then he chose a significant detail that had arisen from the posters and handbills round the central part of town. He’d received two phone calls from two hotels in Lucca, one within the city’s wall and one from Arancio, not far from the road to Montecatini. A man had come by, in possession of a picture of the missing child in the company of a nice-looking woman, presumably her mother. The man had been looking for them, and he’d left a card with the hotel receptionists. Unfortunately, the card in both cases had been tossed away.

  Fanucci swore at the stupidity of women. Salvatore didn’t bother to tell him that in both cases the receptionists had been men. What he did tell him was that this individual had been seeking the girl at least a month earlier or perhaps six weeks. That, he said, was the limit of what they knew.

  “Who was this man?” Fanucci demanded. “What did he look like, at least?”

  Salvatore shook his head. Trying to get a local receptionist to remember what someone looked like a month or six weeks or eight weeks after having seen the individual only once and probably for less than a minute . . . ? He extended his hands, palms up, empty. It could have been anyone, Magistrato.


  “And this is all you know? This is all you have?” Fanucci demanded.

  “With regard to this person seeking the woman and the girl, purtroppo, it is,” Salvatore lied. And when Fanucci would have begun a tedious lecture about Salvatore’s general incompetence or a diatribe ending with a threat to replace him, Salvatore threw the magistrate a bone.

  He shared the fact of the emails that had gone from the child Hadiyyah and her father. “He’s here in Lucca now,” Salvatore said. “This is something that must be explored.”

  “A London father who writes emails to his daughter residing in Italy?” Fanucci scoffed. “How is this important?”

  “There are broken promises about visits he intended to make here,” Salvatore said. “Broken visits, broken hearts, and runaway children. It is a possibility that must be explored.” He looked at his watch. “I meet with these people—the parents together—in forty minutes.”

  “After which you’ll report . . . ”

  “Sempre,” Salvatore said. He would report something, he told himself. Just enough to keep il Pubblico Ministero satisfied that things were moving along under his idiotic direction. “So, my friend, if there is nothing else . . . ?” He got to his feet.

  “As it happens, we are not finished,” Fanucci said. A smile touched his mouth without touching his eyes. Power still lay within his hands, and Salvatore saw he’d been outmanoeuvred again.

  He sat. He looked as unruffled as he could. “E allora?” he said.

  “The British embassy has phoned,” Fanucci told him. There was a tinge of pleasure in the tone he used, and Salvatore knew at once that the infuriating man had saved the best for last. He said nothing in reply. It was the least he could do to attain revenge. “The English police are sending a Scotland Yard detective.” Piero jerked his head at the television, at the recording they’d watched. “It seems they have no choice after the publicity.”

  Salvatore swore. This was not a development he’d anticipated. Nor was it a development he liked.

  “He’ll stay out of the way,” Fanucci told him. “His purpose, I’m told, will be to liaise between the investigation and the girl’s mother.”