Elizabeth George - Just One Evil Act

“What about it?”

“The conference that our microbiologist attended there. What was to prevent someone passing along to him a bit of this bacteria at the conference?”

“That was in April. She died weeks later.”

“ Sì , but he has a lab, does he not? He keeps it there . . . however it is kept: warm, cold, boiling, freezing. I do not know. He labels it as something, I do not know what. But as you say, he is the head of this lab so no one is likely to bother anything labelled with the professor’s own writing. When it comes time to use it, he takes it with him to Italy.”

“But this presupposes he knew everything from the first: that Hadiyyah would be kidnapped, that Angelina would come in search of her, that he himself would go to Italy . . . If he’d been wrong about anything—especially about any move made by any of the principals—the plan would have crumbled.”

“As it has done, no ?”

Lynley had to admit there was truth in this. He asked Salvatore what was next, although he had a feeling he already knew.

“I will pay a call upon the good professor. And in the meantime, I will have officers look into the work of all the people who attended that April conference in Berlin.”

LUCCA

ITALY

Salvatore decided not to have Taymullah Azhar come to the questura . He knew how quickly word would filter back to Piero Fanucci that he had done this. And while a conversation with the London professor had not been forbidden to him, he wanted any reports of what he did to go nowhere until he had more information. Once he’d directed Ottavia and Giorgio to look into the attendees at the Berlin conference, he set off for the anfiteatro . On his way, he phoned the London professor and told him in his very bad English to phone his avvocato.

They were waiting for him in the breakfast room of the pensione when Salvatore arrived. He asked where the child was. Had she gone back to Scuola Dante Alighieri?

She had not, he was told. After all, Azhar was anticipating a quick end to whatever matter had caused Salvatore to request his passport. Once clarity had been reached in this matter, they would depart as soon as they could. Sending her to school . . . ? This did not seem a reasonable idea since they would be leaving Italy so shortly.

Salvatore suggested two things at that point. The first was that adequate care for Hadiyyah needed to be arranged. The second was that he look closely at what Salvatore was about to show him.

He passed to the professor and his avvocato the copy of the card from Villa Rivelli . He watched closely as Azhar’s gaze fell upon it. There was nothing on his face. He turned the paper over to see if anything was written on the back of it, which Salvatore well recognised as a stalling tactic that gave him time to develop an explanation.

He said, “And so, Dottore ?” to Azhar and waited for Aldo Greco’s translation of what the London man would say. Aldo shifted his buttocks, grimaced, passed gas, pardoned himself, and took up the document for an examination. He read it and handed it back to Azhar. Before Azhar could speak, Greco asked what this thing was and how Salvatore had come by it.

Salvatore had no problem with revealing either bit of information. It was a copy of a greeting card, he said. It had been found at the location where Hadiyyah Upman had been held after her abduction.

The card itself or the copy? Greco asked shrewdly.

The card, of course, Salvatore told him, which was still in the hands of the carabinieri who’d been called to Villa Rivelli by the Mother Superior. In due time the original would be sent to be included with any other gathered evidence.

“Do you recognise this, Dottore ? It appears to be in your handwriting.”

Aldo Greco intervened at once. He said, “A handwriting expert has confirmed that, Ispettore ? Surely you yourself are no expert in such a matter.”

Salvatore said that, certo , an expert would be employed by the police if things came to that. He himself was there merely to ascertain the provenance of this greeting card.

“ Con permesso? ” Salvatore concluded. He indicated with a nod at Azhar that he would be delighted to hear the London man’s reply should his avvocato deem such a thing a reasonable request.

Signor Greco said to Azhar, “Go ahead, Professore .”

Azhar said that he did not recognise the card or the message upon it. As to the handwriting . . . It looked similar to his own, he said, but handwriting could be copied by someone with the expertise to do so.

“You know, of course, that there are ways to discern a forgery from a real document,” Salvatore told him. “There are experts in forgery—forensic experts—who spend all day doing such work. They look for special signs, marks of hesitation that the true writer of something would not make in the course of penning a note. You know this , sì ?”

“The professor is not an idiot,” Greco commented. “He has answered your question, Salvatore.”

Salvatore pointed out the word khushi . “And this?” he said to Azhar.

Azhar confirmed that it was his pet name for his daughter, something he had called her from the moment of her birth. It meant happiness , he explained.

“And this name khushi . . . you alone called her that?” And when Azhar confirmed that this was the case, “Just between the two of you?”

Azhar frowned. “I don’t . . . What exactly do you mean, Inspector?”

“I mean was this something said in private only?”

Azhar shook his head. “It was not a secret. Anyone who witnessed us together would know that this is what I call her.”

“Ah.” Salvatore nodded. It was nice to know in advance what direction Aldo Greco would take if things proceeded as he expected them to proceed. He took the copy of the card from Azhar and returned it to the manila envelope in which he’d carried it to the pensione . “ Grazie, Professore ,” he said.

In a movement that was nearly imperceptible, Azhar blew out a long breath. It was over, the expiration said, whatever “it” had been.

Aldo Greco, however, was not stupid. He said, “What else, Ispettore Lo Bianco?”

Salvatore smiled in acknowledgement of the attorney’s wisdom in this situation. He said to Azhar, “Now we speak of Berlin.”

“Berlin?”

Salvatore watched him closely as he nodded. “You told me there were many microbiologists in Berlin when you were there for your conference last month, vero ?”

“What has Berlin to do with anything?” Greco asked as he translated Salvatore’s words.

“I think the professore knows very well what Berlin has to do with, Dottore ,” Salvatore murmured.

“I do not,” Azhar said.

“ Certo , you do,” Salvatore said expansively, his voice quite pleasant. “Berlin is your alibi for the moment of your daughter’s abduction, no? You have insisted upon that from the very first, and I will say that everything you claimed about Berlin has proven itself to be God’s own truth.”

“Then . . . ?” Greco asked with a glance at his watch. Time was of the essence, he was saying. His own time was far too valuable to be spent beating round bushes.

Salvatore said, “Tell me, Dottore , about the nature of this conference once again.”

“What has this to do with the matter in hand?” Signor Greco demanded. “If, as you say, the professor’s alibi has been confirmed for the time of his daughter’s kidnapping—”

“ Sì, sì ,” Salvatore said. “But now we speak of other things, my friend.” And with a look at Azhar, “Now we speak of the death of Angelina Upman.”