He started the car and they were on their way back to the questura when her mobile rang. When she said into it, “Inspector? Thank God,” he reckoned it was Lynley ringing her. From her earlier call to the London detective, he knew she’d asked him about the Upmans. He hoped for her sake that Thomas Lynley had discovered something that would relieve her anxiety.
That was not the case. She cried out like a wounded animal, saying, “Bloody hell, no! Florence? That’s not far from here, is it? Let me send her to you. Please, sir. I’m begging. They’ll find her. I know it. Mura will tell them I took her and they’ll look for me and how the hell hard will it be for them to find me, eh? They’ll take her away and I won’t be able to stop them and it’ll destroy Azhar. It’ll kill him, Inspector, and he’s been through enough and you know it, you know it.”
Salvatore glanced at her. It was odd, he thought, her passion for this case. He’d never encountered a fellow cop with such a fierce determination to prove anything.
She was saying, “Salvatore took us to DARBA Italia like I said. But all he did was get us in to see the managing director and that was it. He picked up a bloody list of employees but he didn’t ask a single question about E. coli and there’s no time to go at things this way. Everything hangs in the balance. You know this, sir. Hadiyyah, Azhar, everyone’s at risk here.”
She listened to something Lynley was saying. Salvatore glanced at her. He saw tears sparkling on the tips of her eyelashes. Her fist pounded lightly on her knee.
She handed him the mobile phone, finally, saying unnecessarily, “It’s Inspector Lynley.”
Lynley’s first words were said on a sigh. “Ciao, Salvatore. Che cosa succede?”
But instead of telling the London man about their visit to DARBA Italia, Salvatore sought some clarification. He said, “Something tells me, my friend, that you have not been completely honest with me about this woman Barbara and her relationship to the professor and his daughter. Why is this, Tommaso?”
Lynley said nothing for a moment. Salvatore wondered where he was: at work, at home, out questioning someone? The London man finally said, “Mi dispiace, Salvatore.” He went on to explain that Taymullah Azhar and his daughter Hadiyyah were neighbours of Barbara Havers, in London. He said that she was quite fond of them both.
Salvatore narrowed his eyes. “What means this fond?”
“She’s close to them.”
“Are they lovers, Barbara and the professor?”
“Good God, no. It isn’t that. She’s jumped off into some deep water, Salvatore, and I should have told you when she showed up over there, when you first rang me about her.”
“What has she done? To be in this deep water, I mean.”
“What hasn’t she done?” Lynley said. “Just now she’s gone to Italy without leave from the Met to do so. She’s determined to save Azhar in order to save Hadiyyah. That’s it in a nutshell.”
Salvatore glanced at Barbara Havers. She was watching him, a fist pressed to her mouth, her eyes—such a nice blue they were—fixed on him like a frightened animal. He said to Lynley, “Her greater interest is the child, you are saying?”
“Yes and no,” Lynley told him.
“Meaning what, Tommaso?”
“Meaning that she’s telling herself her greater interest is the child. As to the reality? That I don’t know. To be honest, my fear is that she’s blinded herself.”
“Ah. Mine is that she sees things too clearly.”
“Meaning?”
“She may have proved me as lacking as Piero Fanucci when it comes to seeing the truth, my friend. I have spoken to the managing director of DARBA Italia. He is called Antonio Bruno.”
“Good God. Is he indeed?”
“He is indeed. I’m on my way to discuss this with Ottavia Schwartz. If I hand this phone back to Barbara Havers, will you tell her please that things are well in hand?”
“I will do. But, Salvatore, Hadiyyah’s grandparents have landed in Florence. They’ll be on their way to Lucca to fetch her. The child doesn’t know them. But she does know Barbara.”
“Ah,” Salvatore said. “I see.”
LUCCA
TUSCANY
All he said to her was “Barbara, you can trust Salvatore,” but she wasn’t prepared to trust a soul. What she needed to know was how long it might take for the Upmans to get from Florence to Lucca. Would they come by train? Would they hire a car? Would they arrange for an Italian driver? No matter how they did it, she needed to get to the pensione in Piazza Anfiteatro in advance of them, so she told Salvatore to take her there. She told him in English, but he seemed to understand from pensione, Piazza Anfiteatro, and the repetition of Hadiyyah’s name.
Once inside the pensione itself, she took a few breaths. It was essential, she thought, not to panic Hadiyyah. It was also essential to work out where the bloody hell she was going to take her. Out of Lucca seemed best, some obscure hotel on the edge of town. She’d seen plenty of them on her route in from the airport as well as on her route to and from DARBA Italia. She’d have to rely on Mitch Corsico to help her out with this manoeuvre, though. She didn’t want to do it as she was loath to give him access to Hadiyyah, but there wasn’t much choice.
She ran up the stairs. Signora Vallera, she saw, was cleaning one of the bedrooms. She said, “Hadiyyah?” to the woman, who gestured to the bedroom that Barbara and the child were sharing. Inside, Hadiyyah was sitting at the small table by the window. She looked completely forlorn. Barbara’s determination hardened. She would get both Hadiyyah and her father back to London.
“Hey, kiddo,” she said as brightly as she could. “We’re going to need a change of scenery, you and me. Are you up for that?”
“You were gone a long time,” Hadiyyah told her. “I didn’t know where you went. Why didn’t you tell me where you were going? Barbara, where’s my dad? Why doesn’t he come? ’Cause it’s like . . .” Her lips trembled. She finally said, “Barbara, did something happen to my dad?”
“God, no. Absolutely not. Like I said, kiddo, and I cross my heart on this one, he’s gone out of Lucca on some business for Inspector Lo Bianco. I came over from London because he asked me to, to make sure you didn’t worry about where he went.” It was, even without a stretch, the basic truth about what was going on.
“C’n we meet him somewhere, then?”
“Absolutely. Just not quite yet. Just now, we need to pack our things and skedaddle.”
“Why? ’Cause if we leave, how’ll Dad find us?”
Barbara dug out her mobile and held it up. “Won’t be a problem,” she said.
She wasn’t as confident as she sounded. She’d hoped the trip out to DARBA Italia would have put the nails in someone’s coffin. But it hadn’t done, and now she was faced with the big What Next? Corsico was going to have to be appeased, and in the meantime she was going to have to find a place for herself and Hadiyyah that would allow her access to what was going on with the case at the same time as it protected them from the tabloid journalist’s discovery as well as the discovery of Hadiyyah’s maternal grandparents. She thought about all this as she gathered up her things and shoved them higgledy-piggledy into her duffel. After making sure that Hadiyyah was packed up as well, she clattered down the stairs with the little girl following. At the foot of them, she found Salvatore waiting.
Her first thought was that he intended to stop her. But she soon discovered that she was wrong. Instead, he negotiated payment with Signora Vallera, picked up Hadiyyah’s suitcase and Barbara’s duffel, and nodded towards the door. He said, “Seguitemi, Barbara e Hadiyyah,” and he walked outside. He didn’t take them to his car, however. Instead, he headed out of the amphitheatre on foot and wound his way through the narrow medieval streets. These led into the occasional unexpected piazza ruled over by one of the city’s ubiquitous churches, past shuttered buildings where the occasional opened double doors gave glimpses of hidden courtyards and gardens, and along the fronts of businesses just reopening after the
day’s break for lunch and rest.
Barbara knew there was no point in asking where they were going, and it was some way along the route before it occurred to her that Hadiyyah’s youthful Italian would probably serve the purpose perfectly. She was about to ask the little girl to make the enquiry of Salvatore Lo Bianco, when he stopped at a narrow structure many floors tall and set down the duffel and the suitcase.
He said to them, “Torre Lo Bianco,” and fished in his pocket to produce a key ring. Barbara got the Lo Bianco part, but it wasn’t until he opened the door with the key and called out, “Mamma? Mamma, ci sei?” that she twigged this was his mother’s home. Before she could clarify this or protest or say anything at all, an elderly woman with well-coiffed grey hair appeared from an inner room. She wore a heavy apron over a black linen dress, she was drying her hands on a towel, and she was saying, “Salvatore,” in greeting and then in a different tone, “Chi sono?” as her dark eyes took in Barbara first and then Hadiyyah, partially hidden behind her. She smiled at Hadiyyah, which Barbara took for a good sign. She said, “Che bambina carina,” and bending to put her hands on her knees, “Dimmi, come ti chiami?”
“Hadiyyah,” Hadiyyah said, and when the woman said, “Ah! Parli italiano?” Hadiyyah nodded. Her “un po’” produced another smile from the woman.
“Ma la donna, no,” Salvatore told her. “Parla solo inglese.”
“Hadiyyah può tradurre, no?” Salvatore’s mother replied. She spied the duffel and the suitcase, which Salvatore had left on the doorstep. “Allora, sono ospiti?” she said to her son. And when he nodded, she held out her hand to Hadiyyah. She said, “Vieni, Hadiyyah. Faremo della pasta insieme. D’accordo?” She began to lead Hadiyyah farther into the house.
Barbara said, “Hang on. What’s going on, Hadiyyah?”
Hadiyyah said, “We’re staying here with Salvatore’s mum.”
“Ah. As to the rest?”
“She’s going to show me how to make pasta.”
Barbara said to Salvatore, “Ta. I mean grazie. I c’n at least say grazie.”
He said, “Niente,” and went on a bit, gesturing towards a stone stairway that climbed up what was clearly a tower as well as being the family home.
Barbara said to Hadiyyah, “What’s he saying, kiddo?”
Hadiyyah said over her shoulder to Barbara, “He lives here, too.”
LUCCA
TUSCANY
In the way of all things Italian, they had to eat first. Barbara wanted to deal at once with the list of employees Salvatore had brought with him from DARBA Italia, but he seemed as intent upon having a meal as his mother was intent upon serving one. He did make a phone call, however, speaking to someone called Ottavia. Barbara heard DARBA Italia mentioned and then the name Antonio Bruno several times. From this she took hope that someone at the questura was checking into something. This made her doubly eager to get out of Torre Lo Bianco, but she learned that no one put Salvatore and his mamma off their food. It was simple enough: roasted red and yellow peppers, cheese, several kinds of meat, bread, and olives, along with red wine and, afterwards, more Italian coffee and a plate of biscuits.
Then Salvatore’s mamma began bringing forth the ingredients for Hadiyyah’s experience in homemade pasta, and Salvatore and Barbara left the tower. Once outside, she saw that the building was indeed a bona fide tower. There were others in the town whose shape she’d clocked without really taking in what they were as they’d long ago been converted to shops and other businesses that disguised their original purpose. This one, though, was unmistakable, a perfect square soaring into the air, with some kind of greenery draping over the edges of the roof.
Salvatore led the way back to the car. In very short order, they returned to the questura. He parked, said, “Venga, Barbara,” and Barbara congratulated herself on her budding understanding of the language. She went with him.
They didn’t get far. Mitchell Corsico was leaning against a wall directly across the street from the questura, and he did not look like a happy cowpoke. Barbara saw him the same moment that he saw her. He came in their direction. She walked more quickly, in the hope of getting into the building before he reached them, but he wasn’t about to be played for a fool a second time. He cut her off, which in effect cut Salvatore off as well.
“Just what the bloody hell is going on?” he demanded hotly. “D’you know how long I’ve been waiting for you? And why aren’t you answering your mobile? I’ve rung you four times.”
Salvatore looked from her to Mitchell Corsico. His solemn gaze took in the journalist’s Stetson, the Western shirt, the bolo tie, the jeans, the boots. He seemed confused, and who could blame him? This bloke was either dressed for a costume party or he was an evacuee from the American Wild West via time machine.
Salvatore frowned. He said, “Chi è, Barbara?”
She ignored him for the moment, saying to Mitch as pleasantly as she could, “You’re going to cock things up if you don’t leave immediately.”
“I don’t think so,” he said. “The leaving part, I mean. I don’t think I’ll be leaving. Not without a story.”
“I gave you a story. And you’ve had your bloody picture of Hadiyyah.” Barbara shot a glance at Salvatore. For the first time she was thankful that he spoke practically no English. No one would conclude that Mitchell Corsico—dressed as he was—was a journalist. She needed to keep things that way.
Corsico said, “That pony isn’t about to gallop. Rod wasn’t chuffed by the winsome photo. He’s running the story but only because it’s our lucky day and no politician got caught in a car behind King’s Cross Station last night.”
“There’s nothing more, Mitch. Not just now. And there’s not going to be more if my companion here”—she didn’t dare use Salvatore’s name and clue him in that he was part of the discussion—“works out who you are and what your living is.”
Mitch grabbed her arm. “Are you threatening me? I’m not playing games with you.”
Salvatore said quickly, “Ha bisogno d’aiuto, Barbara?” And he clutched onto Corsico’s hand tightly. “Chi è quest’uomo? Il Suo amante?”
“What the bloody hell . . . ?” Corsico said. He winced at the strength of Salvatore’s grip.
“I don’t know what he’s saying,” Barbara said. “But my guess is that if you don’t back away, you’re going to find yourself in the nick.”
“I helped you,” he said tersely. “I got you the bloody television film. I want what you know and you’re double-crossing me and there’s no way in hell—”
Salvatore twisted Mitch’s hand sharply away from Barbara’s arm, bending the fingers back so far that Corsico yelped. He said, “Jesus. Call Spartacus off, all right?” He took a step back, massaged his fingers, and glared at her.
She said quietly, “Look, Mitchell. All I know is we went to a place where they make equipment for scientists. He talked to the managing director there for less than five minutes, and a list of employees is what we came up with. He’s carrying the list in that envelope he’s holding. And that’s all I know.”
“Am I supposed to get a story out of that?”
“Christ, I’m telling you what I know. When there’s a story, I’ll give it to you but there isn’t a story yet. Now you’ve got to leave and I’ve got to think of some bloody way to explain who you are because, believe me, once he and I”—with a jerk of her head at Salvatore—“walk into the questura, he’s going to fetch a translator and give me a proper grilling and if he twigs that you’re a you-know-what, we are cooked. Both of us. Do you understand what happens then? No breaking story at all, and how’s your mate Rodney going to feel about that?”
Finally, Mitchell Corsico hesitated. His gaze flicked to Salvatore, who was watching with an expression that combined distrust with calculation. Barbara didn’t know what the Italian was thinking, but whatever he was thinking, his face seemed to support what she was claiming. Corsico said to Barbara in an altered tone, “Barb, this better not be bollocks.�
��
“Would I be that stupid?”
“Oh, I expect you would.” But he backed off, showing upheld empty hands to Salvatore. He said to Barbara, “You answer your mobile when I ring you, mate.”
“If I can, I will.”
He turned on his booted heel and left them, striding towards the café near the railway station. Barbara knew he’d wait there for some sort of word. He owed his editor a Big Story in exchange for this jaunt to Italy, and he wasn’t going to rest until he had one.
LUCCA
TUSCANY
Salvatore watched the cowboy walk off, his long strides made seemingly longer by the straight-legged jeans and the boots he wore. They made an odd couple, this man and Barbara Havers, Salvatore thought. But the nature of attraction had always been something of a mystery to him. He could understand why the cowboy might be attracted to Barbara Havers with her expressive face and fine blue eyes. He couldn’t, on the other hand, understand at all what would attract Barbara Havers to him. This would be the Englishman who had first accompanied her to see Aldo Greco, however. The avvocato had spoken of him, using the term her English companion or something very like. Salvatore wondered what that term really meant.
Bah, he thought. He had no time for these considerations, and of what import were they? He had work to do, and it wasn’t for him to work out the details of a couple’s interaction on the street. Enough that the cowboy had taken himself elsewhere so that he could put Barbara Havers into the picture of what was going on.
He knew she was confused. Everything that had happened at DARBA Italia was a source of anxiety for her. She’d expected him to make a clear move that would take them in the direction she wanted to go: an arrest of someone who was not Taymullah Azhar. He was doing that, but he lacked the words to tell her that things were moving along.
Just One Evil Act il-18 Page 72
