Just One Evil Act il-18

by Elizabeth George

  He smiled now at the thought of her. Then he was struck by how the thought of Helen had for the first time not been accompanied by searing pain.

  A door opened behind him. He turned to see Denton opening it for Barbara Havers. Seeing her, Lynley glanced at his watch. It was seven twenty-eight in the morning. What on earth was she doing in Belgravia? he wondered.

  She crossed the lawn to him. She looked horrible. Not only was she more thrown together than usual, but she also seemed to have spent an entire night without sleep. She said to him, “They have Azhar.”

  He blinked. “Who?”

  “The cops in Lucca. They’ve taken his passport. He’s being detained. He doesn’t know why.”

  “Is he being questioned about something?”

  “Not yet. He just can’t leave Italy. He doesn’t know what’s going on. I don’t know what’s going on. So how do I help him? I didn’t know what else to do. I don’t speak Italian. I don’t know their game. I don’t know what’s happened.” She took three paces along the flowerbeds before she swung round and said abruptly, “C’n you ring them, sir? C’n you find out what’s happening?”

  “If they’re detaining him, it’s obviously because they’ve got questions about—”

  “Look. Right. Whatever. I know. For what it’s worth, I’ve told him to ring the embassy. And to get a solicitor, just in case. I’ve told him that. But there must be something more I c’n do. And you know these blokes and you c’n speak Italian and you c’n at least . . .” She punched a fist into her palm. “Please, sir. Please. It’s why I’ve come from Chalk Farm. It’s why I couldn’t wait till you got to work. Please.”

  He said, “Come with me,” and took her to the house. Inside the dining room, he saw that Denton was already laying another place for breakfast. Lynley thanked him, poured two cups of coffee, and told Barbara to serve herself some eggs and bacon from the sideboard.

  “Already eaten,” she said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Chocolate Pop-Tart and a fag.” She cocked her head at the sideboard and added, “Anything nutritious’ll probably put my system into shock.”

  “Humour me,” he told her. “I don’t wish to eat alone.”

  “Sir, please . . . I need you to . . .”

  “I’m completely aware of that, Barbara,” he said steadily.

  Reluctantly, she spooned herself some scrambled eggs. She added to this two rashers of bacon. She got into the spirit of things with four mushrooms and a piece of toast. He followed her lead and then joined her at the table.

  She said with a nod to his newspapers, “How d’you read three bloody broadsheets every morning, for God’s sake?”

  “I take the news from The Times and the editorials from The Guardian and The Independent.”

  “Seeking balance in life?”

  “I find it’s wise to do so. The overuse of adverbs in journalism these days is becoming something of a distraction, though. I don’t like to be told what to think, even surreptitiously.”

  They locked eyes at this. She broke away first, scooping up some of her scrambled eggs and piling them up on a portion torn from her toast. She chewed quite a bit. Swallowing, however, did not appear easy for her.

  Lynley said, “Before I make the call to Inspector Lo Bianco, Barbara . . . ?” He waited for her gaze to meet his. “Is there anything you want to tell me? Anything I need to know?”

  She shook her head.

  “You’re certain?” he said.

  “Far ’s I know,” she told him.

  So be it, he thought.

  BELGRAVIA

  LONDON

  For the first time in her life, Barbara Havers cursed the fact that she had no language other than English. While it was true that she’d had moments of desire to learn a foreign tongue—most of them having to do with understanding what the cook at her local curry house was really yelling about the lamb rogan josh before he slopped it into a takeaway container—for the great majority of her life she’d had no need of one. She had a passport, but she’d never used it to go anywhere a foreign tongue was spoken. She’d never used it at all, in fact. She only had it on the off chance that a heretofore unknown Prince Charming might show up unexpectedly in her life and wish to take her on a luxury Mediterranean holiday in the sun.

  But now, watching Lynley as he spoke to Chief Inspector Lo Bianco in Lucca, she tried to pick up anything she could. She listened hard for words she might recognise. She tried to read his face. From the words, she only picked up names: Azhar, Lorenzo Mura, Santa Zita—whoever the hell that was—and Fanucci. She thought she also heard Michelangelo Di Massimo mentioned as well as information, hospital, and factory, for some reason. Most of what she learned came from Lynley’s face, which grew graver as the conversation continued.

  He finally said, “Chiaro, Salvatore. Grazie mille. Ciao,” which told her the conversation was ending.

  Barbara felt only dread when he rang off, but the dread didn’t stop her. “What?” she asked. “What?”

  “It appears to be E. coli,” he said.

  Food contamination? she thought. Food? She said, “How the bloody hell did she die of food poisoning in this day and age? How does anyone die of food poisoning now?”

  “Evidently, it was an enormously virulent strain, and the doctors didn’t recognise what it was because she reported being ill earlier due to her pregnancy. That’s what they initially thought they were still dealing with: a more serious version of morning sickness. Once they believed they had that sorted, they did other tests and those were all negative.”

  “What sort of tests?”

  “Cancers, colitis, other diseases. Colon and bowel. There was nothing, so they assumed she’d picked up a bug of some sort, as people do. They gave her a course of antibiotics as a precaution. And that’s what killed her.”

  “Antibiotics killed her? But you said E. coli . . . ?”

  “It was both. Evidently with E. coli—at least with this strain of it, as far as I can tell from what Salvatore said—antibiotics cause a toxin to be produced. Shiga, it’s called. It finishes off the kidneys. By the time the doctors realised from Angelina’s symptoms that her kidneys were going, it was too late to save her.”

  “Bloody hell.” Barbara took this all in, and what seeped slowly into her consciousness was the fact that her body was relaxing for the first time in twelve hours and her mind was chanting, Thank God, thank God, thank God, thank God. Food poisoning ultimately leading to death, as unfortunate as it was, did not mean . . . what she did not want it to mean.

  She said, “It’s over, then.”

  Lynley gazed at her long before he said, “Unfortunately, it isn’t.”

  “Why not?”

  “No one else is ill.”

  “But that’s good, isn’t it? They dodged the—”

  “No one, Barbara. Anywhere. Not at Fattoria di Santa Zita—that’s the land Lorenzo Mura owns—not in any surrounding village, and not anywhere in Lucca. No one, as I said. Anywhere. Not in Tuscany. Nor in the rest of Italy. Which is one of the reasons the doctors didn’t recognise what they were dealing with immediately.”

  “Should I be following this?”

  “When E. coli’s involved, it’s generally referred to as a breakout. Do you see what I mean?”

  “I see that this was an isolated case. But like I said, that’s good, isn’t it? That means . . .” And then she indeed saw what it meant, as clearly as she saw Lynley regarding her. Her mouth went dry. She said, “But they’d be checking everywhere for the source, right? They’d have to do that to prevent anyone else from getting infected. They’d be looking at everything Angelina ate and . . . Are there animals at this fattoria place?”

  “Donkeys and cows, yes.”

  “Could the E. coli have come from them? I mean, don’t animals pass this stuff on in some way? Aren’t we talking about . . . you know . . .”

  “Evidently cattle are a reservoir for the bacteria, and it passes through their
system. Yes. But I don’t believe there will be evidence of E. coli at Fattoria di Santa Zita, Barbara. Neither does Salvatore.”

  “Why not?”

  “Because no one else who ate there is ill. Hadiyyah, Lorenzo, even Azhar in the immediate days after Hadiyyah was found.”

  “So maybe it’s . . . Does it incubate or something?”

  “I’m vague on the details, but the point is someone there would have fallen ill by now.”

  “Okay. Let’s say she went for a walk. Let’s say she got too near to a cow. Or let’s say she . . . P’rhaps she got it somewhere else. In town. At the marketplace. Visiting a friend. Picking something up off the road.” But even Barbara could hear the desperation in her voice, so she knew Lynley would clock it, as well.

  “We go back to no one else being ill, Barbara. We go back to the strain itself.”

  “What about the strain?”

  “According to Salvatore”—with a nod at his mobile phone lying by his plate—“they’ve never seen anything like it. It’s to do with the virulence. A strain this virulent can take out an entire population before they identify its source. But that population falls ill quickly, in a matter of days. The health authorities become involved, and they begin looking at anyone else who might have seen a doctor or ended up in casualty with similar symptoms. But as I said, no one else has been ill. Not before Angelina. Not after Angelina.”

  “I still don’t see how that’s such a bad thing. I don’t see why Azhar’s been detained unless . . .” Again that steady gaze upon her. She read the grim nature of it, but she read something else, and she wanted more than anything in her life not to be able to understand that look. She said lightly, “Oh, I see. They’re keeping Azhar in Lucca because they don’t want him to pass it on to someone else, I expect. If he’s got it in him—like dormant or something—and he brings it back to London . . . I mean, he could be a modern-day Typhoid Mary, eh?”

  The look on Lynley’s face was unchanging. He said, “It doesn’t work that way. It’s not a virus. It’s a bacteria. It’s—if you will—a microbe. A quite dangerous microbe. You do see where this is leading, don’t you?”

  She felt her face going numb. “No. I . . . I don’t, actually.” All the time, however, her brain was pounding inside her skull, a chant of Oh my God, Oh my God.

  Lynley said, “If no source can be found at the fattoria itself or in the food supply that Angelina had access to both there and in Lucca and anywhere else she might have gone and if she remains the sole person infected, then where this all leads is to someone putting his hands on a virulent strain of the bacteria and putting it into Angelina’s system. Through her food is the most obvious means.”

  “But why would someone . . . ?”

  “Because someone wanted her dangerously ill. Someone wanted her dead. You and I both know that’s where all this is leading, Barbara. That’s why Azhar has been asked to turn in his passport.”

  “You can’t possibly think that Azhar . . . How the bloody hell was he supposed to do it?”

  “I think we also both know the answer to that.”

  She pushed away from the table although she wasn’t sure where she was intending to go. She said, “He has to be told. He’s under suspicion. He has to be told.”

  “I expect he knows already.”

  “Then I’ve got to . . . We’ve got to . . .” She brought her knuckles to her mouth. She considered everything: from the moment Angelina Upman had taken her daughter from London the previous November to where they were now with Angelina dead. She refused to believe what was lying in front of her like a dead dog on the path she was hiking. She said, “No.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  “I have to—”

  “Listen to me, Barbara. What you have to do now is to take yourself out of this at once. If you don’t do that, I can’t help you. Frankly, I don’t think I can help you as it is although I’m trying.”

  “What’s that s’posed to mean?”

  Lynley leaned forward. “You can’t think Isabelle is unaware of what’s been going on, of what you’ve been up to, of whom you’ve seen, of where you’ve been. She knows it all, Barbara. And if you don’t begin walking the straight and narrow this very moment—here, now, and right in this room—the jeopardy you’ll be facing could cost you everything. Am I being clear? Do you understand?”

  “Azhar didn’t kill her. He had no reason because they’d made peace and they were going to share Hadiyyah and . . .” It was Lynley’s face that cut off her words. Even beyond what she herself knew about Azhar and about what he’d done to bring about his daughter’s kidnapping and to position himself to be there in Italy when she was “found,” it was the compassionate sympathy in Lynley’s face that did her in. All she could say was “Really. He couldn’t.”

  “If that’s the case,” Lynley replied, “Salvatore Lo Bianco will sort it all out.”

  “And in the meantime . . . What the bloody hell do you suggest I do?”

  “I’ve made the suggestion: get back to work.”

  “That’s what you would do?”

  “Yes,” he said steadily. “In your position, that’s what I would do.”

  She knew he was lying when he said it, though. For the one thing Thomas Lynley would never do was desert a friend.

  LUCCA

  TUSCANY

  Salvatore Lo Bianco received the request for a meeting not from il Pubblico Ministero himself but from Piero Fanucci’s secretary. She rang his mobile and brusquely instructed him to go to the Orto Botanico, where he would find the magistrato waiting for him. “He wishes to have a private word with you, Ispettore,” was how she put it. “Now?” was how Salvatore responded. “Sì, adesso,” she replied. Signor Fanucci had arrived at work that morning in something of a state, and a few phone calls both made and received by him had heightened that state. It was her suggestion that Ispettore Lo Bianco leave at once for the botanical gardens.

  Salvatore swore but he cooperated. The fact that phone calls had been made by Fanucci and received by him suggested he was on the trail of something. The fact that he had followed these phone calls with a demand for Salvatore’s presence suggested he was on the trail of what Salvatore himself was up to.

  The botanical gardens were inside the wall of the old city, on its southeast edge. In the month of May, they were flourishing, and where flowers had been planted, they were gloriously abloom. Very few people were within the garden’s walls, however. At this hour, the Lucchese were themselves at work, while tourists generally stuck to visiting the churches and palazzi.

  Salvatore found Fanucci admiring a mass of wisteria, which overhung an ancient stone trough that was filled with water lilies. He turned from the sight of branches dipping low with clusters of purple flowers as Salvatore approached him on the gravel path.

  Piero was smoking a thick cigar, newly lit. He regarded Salvatore with an expression that managed to mix personal sorrow with professional anger. The anger, Salvatore thought, was real. The sorrow, he reckoned, was not.

  “Talk to me, Topo” comprised Fanucci’s opening remarks. He flicked some ash from his cigar onto the path. He ground it into the sassolini with his foot. “You and the lovely Cinzia Ruocco have been meeting, no? You have an earnest talk with her in Piazza San Michele, and why do I suspect the two of you discuss matters from which you were told to step away? What has this to do with, Salvatore?”

  Salvatore said, “Of what importance is Cinzia’s speaking with me? If I wish to meet a friend for a caffè—”

  Fanucci held up a minatory finger. “Stai attento,” he snapped.

  Salvatore did not appreciate the threat implied in being spoken to in such a way. He’d had quite enough of Fanucci. He felt his temper rise. He sought to control it. He said, “I see the unfortunate death of this woman Angelina Upman as suspicious. My job is to look at things when they seem suspicious. To me, there is a connection here.”

  “Between what, may I ask?”

  “I think y
ou know.”

  “Between the kidnapping of this woman’s child and her own death? Bah. Che sciocchezza!”

  “If that is the case, then the only fool will be me. So what difference does it make that I speak to Cinzia about how this unfortunate woman died? I would think it pleases you anyway, to have her dead.”

  Fanucci’s face reddened. His lips moved round the cigar and Salvatore could see his teeth clamp down. He, too, was trying to hold on to his temper. It was, he knew, only a matter of moments before one of them let loose.

  “What is that supposed to mean, my friend?” Fanucci asked.

  “It means that now this story of her death takes over the headlines. Poor Mamma of Kidnap Girl Dead in Her Sleep. And this turn of events directs the spotlight away from the kidnapping and away from Carlo Casparia at long last. It means that now you can release poor Carlo back into his life, which—as we both know, Piero—you were going to have to do quite soon anyway.”

  Fanucci’s eyes narrowed. “I know nothing of the sort.”

  “Please, do not think me a stupid man. You and I have been acquainted far too long for that. You know you have been wrong about Carlo. And since you cannot bear to be wrong, you have refused to release him. For then you would have to face scrutiny and commentary in the press, and this is something you cannot abide.”

  “You dare to insult me this way, Salvatore?”

  “The truth is not an insult. It is merely the truth. And to this truth, I would have to add with due respect that, in your position, an inability to face one’s errors is a very dangerous quality to possess.”

  “As is jealousy,” Fanucci snapped. “Professional or personal, it robs a man not only of his dignity but also of his ability to do his job. In all of your thinking and respecting, Salvatore, have you ever once considered this?”

  “Piero, Piero. Do you see how you try to alter our conversation? You wish to make it about me when it should be about you. You have wasted time and resources trying to mould what few facts you had into a case you could build against Carlo. Then when I would not accompany you down this ridiculous path you were determined to walk, you brought in Nicodemo, who would.”