“I’ve told you. I work for Doughty occasionally. The work’s confidential.”
“A broad idea would be fine.”
“I compile information on cases he’s working on. I pass the information to him.”
“What’s the nature of the information?”
“Confidential. He’s an investigator. He investigates. He investigates people. I follow trails that they leave and I . . . Let’s say I map those trails, all right?”
Trails suggested only one thing in this day and age. “Using the Web?” Lynley said.
Smythe said, “Confidential, I’m afraid.”
Lynley smiled thinly. “You’re a bit like a priest, then.”
“Not a bad analogy.”
“And for Barbara Havers? Are you her priest as well?”
He looked confused. Clearly, he had not expected the river to course in this direction. “What about her? Obviously, she’s the cop who came to see me and she went from me to Doughty. You already know that. And as to what I told her or what sent her there . . . If I don’t keep my work confidential, Inspector . . . What did you say your name was?”
“Thomas Lynley.”
“Inspector Lynley. If I don’t keep my work confidential, I’m out of business. I’m sure you get that, eh? It’s a bit like your own work when you think about it.”
“As it happens, I’m not interested in what you told her, Mr. Smythe. At least not at present. I’m interested in why she showed up on your doorstep.”
“Because of Doughty.”
“He sent her to you?”
“Hardly.”
“She came on her own, then. For information, I daresay, since—if you work for Doughty—supplying information is your business. We seem to have come full circle in our conversation and what’s left is for me to repeat the obvious: Gathering information appears to be paying you quite well. From that and the look of your home, I expect what you’re doing can lead you to trouble.”
“You’ve said this.”
“As I noted. But your world, Mr. Smythe”—he glanced round the large room—“is about to undergo a seismic shift. Unlike Barbara Havers, I’m not here on my own behest. I’ve been sent, and I expect you can put the pieces together and come up with the reason why. You’re on the Met’s radar. You’re not going to be happy to be there. To use an analogy that I’m certain you’ll understand, you’re living in a house of cards and the wind has now begun to blow.”
“You’re investigating her, aren’t you?” he said, with dawning understanding. “Not me, not Doughty, but her.”
Lynley didn’t reply.
“So if I tell you—”
Lynley interrupted him. “I’m not here to make deals.”
“So why should I bloody—”
“You can do as you like.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“The simple truth.”
“The truth’s not simple.”
Lynley smiled. “As Oscar himself once said. But let me make it simple. At your own admission you look for trails and create ‘maps’ of them for Dwayne Doughty and, I expect, for others. As this pays you extraordinarily well by the look of your home, I’m going to assume you also ‘uncreate’ maps by removing those trails, an activity for which you charge rather more. Since Barbara Havers was here, I suspect—due to some glaring omissions in her reports to me—that she’s employing you to engage in uncreating and removing. What I need from you is confirmation of this fact. A simple nod of your head.”
“Or?”
“‘Or’?”
“There’s always an or,” he said angrily. “Spit it out for God’s sake.”
“I’ve mentioned the wind. I think that’s sufficient.”
“What the hell do you want?”
“I’ve said—”
“No! No! There’s always something bloody more with you lot. First it was her and I cooperated. Then it was her and him and I still cooperated. Now it’s you and where the hell is it going to end?”
“‘Him’?”
“The bloody Paki, all right? She came alone first. Then she brought him. Now you’re here and for all I know, the bloody Prime Minister is going to show up next.”
“She was here with Azhar.” That wasn’t in the report and how, Lynley wondered, had John Stewart missed that?
“Of course she was bloody here with Azhar.”
“When?”
“This morning. When d’you think?”
“What did she want?”
“My backup system. Every record, all my work. You name it, she wanted it.”
“That’s all?”
He looked away. He walked to one of his paintings—this one largely red with a blue stripe at the bottom that bled almost imperceptibly into a purple haze. Smythe gazed on it as if evaluating what would become of it once the appropriate Met officers started swarming round the place. “As I said,” he explained to the painting rather than to Lynley, “she wanted to hire me as well. One job only.”
“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 apparentl
y 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.
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