Elizabeth George - Just One Evil Act

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.

In short order, Signora Vallera returned. She had with her a registration book in which her guests filled out their names, their street addresses, and—should they wish—their email addresses as well. She also had with her a comment card with which each of her rooms was supplied in order that she might better meet the needs of her guests in the future.

Salvatore thanked her and took these things to a breakfast table beneath one of the front windows that the signora had been washing. He sat and unfolded from his pocket the copy of the card that Captain Mirenda had sent to him. He began with the reception book and he went on to the comment card on which Taymullah Azhar had thanked Signora Vallera for her great kindness to him during his stay, adding that he would have changed nothing about the establishment other than the reason that had necessitated his stay within its walls.

It was the comment card that Salvatore found most useful. He set it next to the copy of the card from Captain Mirenda. He took a deep breath and began his perusal of first one, then the other. He was not an expert, but he did not need to be one. The handwriting on each was identical.

CHALK FARM

LONDON

Barbara Havers stormed home after her seventh frantic phone call to Taymullah Azhar produced nothing more than the previous six, his recorded voice asking her to leave a message. This one time, though, she left nothing. “Azhar, ring me at once” had got her nowhere. That being the case, she knew he wasn’t planning to answer or he was already on his way to Italy.

When word had come from Lucca, that word had gone to Lynley’s mobile. Barbara had seen him take the call, and she had clocked the quick alteration in his face. She had also seen him glance at her before he left the room.

She followed. She saw Lynley do what she expected he would do: He made his way to Isabelle Ardery’s office.

None of this was good. And nothing that had preceded it was good, either.

For two days, Bryan Smythe had reported that all his attempts to hack into SO12’s records had been unsuccessful. He’d declared that he’d gone at the problem every which way to Sunday, but with regard to SO12, the Met was impenetrable. Certainly, he could get into personnel records and the PNC wasn’t exactly a problem requiring an IQ above the level of Einstein’s. But when it came to documents under the protection of the anti-terrorist squad . . . Forget about it, Sergeant. It’s impossible. This is national security we’re talking about. These blokes work hand in glove with MI5, and they aren’t about to leave gaps in their system.

Barbara didn’t believe him. There was something in his voice that told her something else was up.

He went on to declare briskly that as he’d done everything he could and as he couldn’t help her and as he’d shown good faith in at least making every possible attempt at fulfilling her wishes, he wanted all his backup information that she was carrying round with her returned to him.

It was the briskness that gave him away. But “It doesn’t work that way, Bryan” didn’t get her far.

“You’re in this deep and so am I and what I suggest is that we protect each other” was his immediate reply.

That was all he would say. But the fact that he would say it when she was the person holding the information that would land him in gaol suggested that he was holding information about her as well, and it wasn’t of the nature that Doughty’s was: just filmed documentation of her innocent visits to the man.

She said sharply, “What’s going on, Bryan?”

He said, “Give me the memory sticks and I’m happy to share on that subject.”

“Are you actually trying to blackmail me?”

“Go to bed with thieves and don’t complain when they steal your jimjams,” he replied evenly. “In a word—or three—things have changed.”

“Then I’ll ask again: What’s going on?”

“And I’ll say the same: Return my backup system.”

“You can’t be claiming you have only one system, Bryan. Bloke like you? You wouldn’t make a mistake like that.”

“That’s hardly the point.”

“Then what is the point?”

“The point is the mistakes you’ve made, not those that you’d like to assign to me. Full stop.”

That was his final word. What was left to her was to decide if he was bluffing on the subject of her alleged mistakes. In his position, she would have bluffed her way to hell and back. But in his position, she also would have reckoned that the information on his memory sticks could be copied endlessly so what was the advantage to him in demanding their return?

And what did it matter since he had to know that she couldn’t return his backup. Do that, and her leverage over him was gone. She said, “I’m holding on to what I’ve got till you manage our little SO12 problem. I don’t believe that you can’t do it, and I don’t believe you’re friendless in the area of hacking, either. You can’t do it, you know someone who can. So get on the blower—or however else you contact your techno mates—and find a bigger genius than yourself.”

“You aren’t hearing me very well,” he told her. “I do that, and I’m finished. But here’s what you ought to look at more closely: So are you. Am I being clear? I change those tickets, you’re finished, Sergeant. You hang on to my backup files, you’re finished as well. You’re as good as finished anyway and so am I, but the only thing that proves it is the backup system, which—in your possession, mate —also proves you’re finished. Because it proves what I’ve already told them and how much clearer am I going to have to be with you, eh? I’m doing what I do for a living which, let’s face it, is illegal as hell. But what you’re doing is not what you’re supposed to be doing for a living and the bloody gaff is bloody blown so if you have any bloody sense, you’re going to give me the memory sticks and you’re going to make sure that no one else has a copy of what’s on them.”