“The chief inspector told us you were coming,” Taymullah Azhar said to Lynley, walking over to shake his hand. “I am, Inspector Lynley, so very grateful that you are here. I know how busy a man you are.”
“Barbara wanted to be sent,” Lynley told him. “Our guv wouldn’t allow it.”
“I know she must walk a very fine line in all of this.” Azhar used a thin hand to indicate the pensione, but Lynley knew he meant the situation of Hadiyyah’s disappearance. He also knew that the “she” in Azhar’s remarks did not refer to Isabelle Ardery.
“She does,” he told the London professor.
“I wish she would not. To have her on my conscience . . . what might happen to her . . . to her employment with the police . . . I do not wish this,” Azhar said frankly.
“Let go of that burden,” Lynley said. “Over a long acquaintance, I’ve found that Barbara goes her own way in matters that are important to her. Frankly? I wish she wouldn’t. Her heart’s always in the right place, but her wisdom—especially her political wisdom—often takes an ill-advised back seat to her heart.”
“This I have come to understand.”
Lynley explained to Azhar what his own position in the investigation would be as long as he remained in Lucca. He was in all respects an outsider, and how much he would be able to assist the Italian police was going to depend entirely upon them and upon the public minister. This man—a magistrate—directed the investigation, Lynley told Azhar. That was how Italian policing was structured.
“My job is to be a conduit for information.” Lynley went on to tell Azhar how it had come about that the Metropolitan police had decided to send a liaison officer to Lucca at all: because of The Source and what appeared to be Barbara Havers’s leaking information to that rag. “This has made her less than popular with Superintendent Ardery, as you can imagine. Nothing can be proved, of course, as to whether she actually gave them the story. But I have to say that I’m hoping my presence here will also keep Barbara out of any further trouble in London.”
Azhar took this in, quiet for a moment. “I will hope . . .” But he did not conclude the thought. Instead, he said, “The tabloids here are following the story, as well. I myself do what I can to keep it alive. Because with the tabloids involved . . .” He shrugged sadly.
“I understand,” Lynley told him. Pressure upon the police was pressure upon the police. No matter where it came from, it produced results.
Azhar went on to tell him that he was also carrying handbills to the nearby towns and villages. Rather than endure the agony of waiting for word of anything, he instead had been going out each day and posting these handbills in an ever-widening circumference around Lucca. He brought them from his room and handed one to Lynley. Mostly it comprised a large and very good picture of the little girl, with her name and the word MISSING written in Italian, German, English, and French beneath the photo along with a phone number that Lynley took to be that of the police.
Lynley was struck by the innocence of Hadiyyah’s expression in the handbill’s photograph and by how much of a child she still was. In the way of the modern world, children were growing up at a younger and younger age, so Hadiyyah could have looked like a miniature Bollywood film star despite her age. Instead, though, the photo showed a little girl with plaited hair tied off in small bows. She wore a crisp school uniform, and she had lively brown eyes and an impish grin. She looked quite small for a nine-year-old, which Azhar confirmed that indeed she was. This meant, of course, that she could have been mistaken for a younger child. Excellent pickings for a paedophile, Lynley thought grimly.
“This immediate area is not so difficult to canvass with the pictures,” Azhar said as Lynley gave the handbill back to him. “But as I move farther away from Lucca and as the towns rise up into the hills . . . Things are more difficult then.”
From his room’s chest of drawers, he took a map. He explained that he was about to set out for the rest of the day to continue canvassing the area with Hadiyyah’s picture. If Inspector Lynley had the time, he would show him where he had gone so far. Lynley nodded and they descended the stairs. They went out into the piazza, where, across from the pensione, a café offered a handful of small tables and, more important, shade. There they sat and ordered Coca-Cola, after which Azhar opened his map.
Lynley saw that he’d circled the towns he’d so far visited, and although he himself was familiar with the Tuscan landscape, he allowed Azhar to explain the difficulties he was encountering just going from one point to another in the nearby hills. Lynley could tell Azhar’s mere act of speaking about what he was doing acted to assuage what had to be tremendous anxiety, so he nodded, looked over the map with him, and noted how assiduous Azhar was being in his search for his daughter.
Finally, though, the London professor ran out of words. So he said what he no doubt had been trying to avoid saying from the first. “It’s been a week, Inspector.” And when Lynley said nothing but merely nodded, Azhar went on. “What do you think? Please tell me the truth. I know how reluctant you might be, but I wish to hear it.”
Lynley did Azhar the honour of believing that he meant what he said. He looked away from him for a moment, seeing the students at work on their drawings around the piazza, noting the ubiquitous green, shuttered windows protecting interiors of Italian apartments from the sun. A dog barked from somewhere within one of these apartments. From another the sound of piano music drifted. Lynley thought of how to approach the truth. There seemed no other way but to tell it directly.
“This is different from the kidnapping of a very small child,” he said quietly to Hadiyyah’s father. “A toddler snatched from a pushchair or a baby from its pram? That kind of kidnapping with no request for ransom suggests an intention to keep the child or to pass her along for a purpose that doesn’t involve harming her. An illegal ‘adoption’ perhaps, effected by money. Or just handing the child over to relatives desperate for a little one of their own. But to take a child Hadiyyah’s age—nine years old—suggests something else.”
Azhar asked no questions. His hands, folded on his map, gripped each other tightly. “There has,” he said quietly, “been no sign of . . . There has been no indication . . .”
No body was what he meant. “Which is a very good sign.” Lynley did not add how easily hidden in the Tuscan hills or in the Apuan Alps beyond them a body could be. Instead he said, “From this, we can conclude she’s well. Perhaps frightened, but well. We can also conclude that if someone’s intention is to pass Hadiyyah along to someone else, she would have to be hidden away for a time first.”
“Why is this?”
Lynley sipped his Coke and poured more from the can into the glass where three ice cubes did their limited best to keep it cold. He said, “It’s not likely a nine-year-old is going to forget her parents, is it? So she has to be held for a period of time until she becomes docile, used to her captivity, and reconciled to it and to her situation. She’s in a foreign country; her ability to speak the language is, perhaps, limited. Within time and in order to survive, she needs to learn to see her captors as her saviours. She needs to learn to depend upon them. But all of this works to our benefit. It puts time on our side and not on theirs.”
“Yet if she is not to be handed to another family for purposes of adoption,” Azhar pointed out, “then I do not see—”
Lynley cut him off quickly, to spare him speculations. “She’s young enough to be schooled in any number of things a child might be wanted for, but the point isn’t what those things are so much as it’s she’s alive and must be kept safe and well.” He didn’t add the more horrifying kind of scenario that was possible in this situation of Hadiyyah’s potential imprisonment, however. He didn’t point out that she was the perfect age to be held prisoner for a paedophile’s pleasure: in a basement, in a house with a carefully hidden and even more carefully soundproofed room, in a cellar, in an abandoned building high in the hills. For someone to have taken her so successfully from a market i
n the middle of the day, someone had to have prepared the abduction. Preparation for abduction also indicated preparation for use. Nothing could have been left to chance. So while time was on their side, the truth of the matter was that circumstances were not.
Yet there was one hope which could be to their benefit, and it came from Hadiyyah herself. For not everyone behaved as human psychology otherwise indicated she would behave. And there was a relatively simple way to ascertain if Hadiyyah was, potentially, among those people who acted differently from what might otherwise be expected of them in similar circumstances.
“May I ask,” Lynley said, “how likely is it that Hadiyyah would fight her situation?”
“What do you mean?”
“Children are often extremely resourceful. Might she raise a ruckus at an opportune moment? Might she draw attention to herself in some way?”
“In what way?”
“Behaving other than she’s told to behave. Trying to escape her captivity. Throwing herself into an attack on her captors. Producing a convenient tantrum. Setting a fire. Slashing a vehicle’s tyres. Anything other than being docile.” Anything other, Lynley didn’t add, than being a little girl.
Azhar seemed to go within himself to find a reply. Church bells rang somewhere in the town, joined by other church bells echoing off the narrow Lucchese streets. A flock of pigeons circled overhead, domesticated homing birds by the close formation they kept in the sky.
Azhar cleared his throat. “None of those things,” he said to Lynley. “She has not been brought up to be a trouble to anyone. I have—God forgive me—been very careful about that.”
Lynley nodded. It was, unfortunately, the way of the world. So often little girls—no matter their culture—were taught by their parents and by society to be pliant and sweet. It was little boys who were taught to use their wits and their fists.
“Inspector Lo Bianco,” Azhar added, “seems to feel there is . . . despite a week . . . there is hope . . . ?”
“And I agree,” Lynley said. But what he didn’t point out to the other man was that, with no word from kidnappers or anyone else, the hope he was clinging to was fading ever faster.
VICTORIA
LONDON
Barbara Havers put it off as long as possible. Indeed, she tried to restrain herself altogether. But by early afternoon she could no longer wait for her first report from DI Lynley. So she rang his mobile.
She knew he was unhappy with her. Any other officer would have kissed her feet for having bulldogged the circumstances of Hadiyyah’s disappearance in such a way that he ended up getting sent to Italy as a liaison officer for the girl’s family. But Lynley had other matters on his mind that went far beyond travelling to Italy at the expense of the Met. He had roller derby matches to attend and Daidre Trahair to . . . to whatever he was attempting to do with the large animal vet.
When Lynley answered with a single word—“Barbara”—she said in a rush, “I know you’re cheesed off. I’m bloody sorry, sir. You’ve got things on your . . . on your mind or whatever and I’ve put a spanner and I know that.”
He said, “Ah. As I suspected.”
She said, “I’m not admitting to anything. But how could anyone who knows her—and her dad and her mum—not want to do something? You see that, don’t you?”
“Does it actually matter what I see?”
“I’m sorry. But things’ll wait, won’t it? She’ll wait, won’t she?”
There was silence. Then he said in that maddening, well-bred fashion of his, “‘Things’? ‘She’?”
Barbara realised she was heading in the absolutely wrong direction. She said hastily, “Never mind. Not my business at all. Can’t think why I even said . . . except I’m worn out with worry and I can see it’s best that you’re there and I’m here and if I only knew how—”
“Barbara.”
“Yeah? What? I mean I know I’m babbling and it’s only because I know you’re cheesed off and you’ve a right to be because I bollocksed things properly this time but it was only because—”
“Barbara.” He waited on his end for her silence. Then he said, “There’s nothing to report. When there is, I’ll ring you.”
“Is he . . . ? Are they . . . ?”
“I’ve not met Angelina Upman. I’ve spoken to Azhar. He’s as well as he can be, under the circumstances.”
“What’s next? Who d’you talk to? Where d’you go? Are the cops there handling things? Are they letting you—”
“Do my job?” he interrupted pointedly. “Such as it is, yes. And, believe me, it’s going to be limited. Now is there anything else?”
“S’pose not,” she said.
“Then we’ll speak later,” he told her and rang off, leaving her to wonder if he actually meant it.
She shoved her mobile in her bag. She’d made the call from the Met canteen, where the only option to keep her nerves in check had been consuming a muffin the size of Gibraltar. She’d gobbled it down like a stray dog keeping a handout secret from the rest of the pack. She’d washed it on its way with huge gulps of tepid coffee. When this didn’t work to calm her savage breast—she should have tried music, she admitted—then she’d given in to phoning Italy. But there was no satisfaction available from Lynley, she realised. So she faced either eating a second muffin or coming up with something else to soothe herself.
She hadn’t heard from Dwayne Doughty. She told herself that the reason for this had to do with her having employed him for less than twenty-four hours. But a voice within her demanded to know how long it could possibly take for the man to make certain Taymullah Azhar had indeed been in Berlin during the time his daughter had gone missing from Lucca. She herself could have done it in an hour or two of tracing his movements and confirming all reports of his presence. And she would have done it, using the Met’s resources, had she wished to risk another blot on her copybook. But with Superintendent Ardery’s eyes upon her and DI Stewart doubtless making daily reports on the level of her cooperation as part of his team, she had to be careful. Whatever she did, she had to do it on her time and without the resources of the Met.
Luckily her mobile phone wasn’t one of the Met’s resources. She couldn’t be faulted for using it while taking a break. Nor, she reckoned, could she be faulted for using it while making a visit to the ladies’ in order to answer a pressing call from nature.
She went there next. Carefully, she checked to see all the stalls were empty. She punched in Mitchell Corsico’s number.
“Brilliant job” was what she told him when he barked his greeting with a harried “Corsico,” designed to illustrate how busy a man he was down there in the journalistic gutters.
“Who’s this?” he asked.
“Postman’s Park,” she told him. “Watts Memorial. I wore fuchsia, you wore Stetson. Are you going to Italy?”
“I wish.”
“What? The story’s not big enough for you lot?”
“Well, she isn’t dead, is she?”
“Bloody hell! You lot are a sodding group of—”
“Save it. It’s not me making this decision. What d’you think? I have that kind of power? So unless you’ve got something more to give me . . . I mean aside from the Ilford end of things, which the higher-ups are beginning to like for a few more front pages.”
Barbara went icy. “What Ilford business? What’re you on about, Mitch?”
“What I’m ‘on about’ is the other dimensions of the story. What I’m ‘on about’ is your convenient failure to mention your own involvement in what’s going on.”
“What the hell? What kind of involvement?”
“The kind that ended up with you in a street brawl with Professor Azhar’s parents. Let me tell you, mate, this whole ‘abandoned second family in Ilford’ part of the story has given it legs over here.”
Barbara’s iciness rendered her nearly incapable of rational thought. All she was able to say in reply to this was “You can’t go that way. There’s a kid. Her life�
��s on the line. You have to—”
“That,” Corsico told her, “would be your part of the equation. My part is the story. My part is readership. So while the kidnapping of a cute kid sells papers—you won’t get an argument from me on that score—the kidnapping of a cute kid whose dad has a secret second family willing to talk—”
“They’re not a secret. And they won’t be willing.”
“Tell that to the kid. Sayyid.”
Barbara thought frantically. She had to keep him from thrusting upon Azhar the humiliation of a public exposé of his tortuous personal life. She could only imagine how it would play out in The Source should Mitchell Corsico score an interview with Azhar’s son. It was unthinkable that this might happen, not only because of Azhar himself but also because of Hadiyyah. Focus needed to be maintained on her, on her abduction, on the search, on the Italians themselves, on whatever was going on in Italy.
She said, “All right. I see your point. But there’s something you might want to know about our end of things. I mean the Met’s end of things.”
“And that would be what?”
“That would be DI Lynley.” She hated to do it, but she had no other choice that she could see. “DI Lynley’s gone over. He’s the liaison officer.”
Silence at Mitchell Corsico’s end. Barbara could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind. He’d been angling for an interview with the inspector since the moment Lynley’s wife had been murdered on the front steps of their home. Pregnant, just returned from shopping, looking for her keys to unlock her front door. Accosted by a kid with a gun who’d shot her for the fun of it and rendered her brain-dead. With the inspector left in the position of having to decide to take her off the machines keeping their baby alive. If Corsico wanted a story that would go the distance, Lynley was the story. Both of them knew it.
She said, “The press office here’ll be making the announcement, but you can make it in advance, if you want. And you know what this means, I expect. He’ll be liaising with the parents, but he’ll have to talk to the press and answer their questions. The press means you. And answering questions means an interview. The interview, Mitch.”
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