Elizabeth George - Just One Evil Act

She said, “Right. But what’s this doing to help us sort out—”

“ Aspetti ,” he told her. He pulled from a pen and pencil holder a highlighting marker. He used it to draw her attention to the name of every department head on the list of employees. Bernardo. Roberto. Daniele. Alessandro. Antonio. She frowned at the highlighted names and said, “So? I mean, I see that these blokes run the show and yeah, okay, their last names are all the same so they must be related, but I don’t get why we aren’t—”

He used a red pen to draw a square round the first initial of each name. Then he wrote them out on a sticky pad. Then he unscrambled them into DARBA. “ Fratelli ,” he said, to which she said, “Brother.” This word he knew and he said, holding up his hand to illustrate what he meant: “ Sì. Sono fratelli . Con i nomi del padre e dei nonni e zii. Ma aspetti un attimo, Barbara .”

He went to the other side of his desk, where upon a corner lay a stack of files comprising some of the materials he’d amassed on the death of Angelina Upman. From these he pulled out the photographs from the Englishwoman’s funeral and burial. He leafed through them quickly and found the two he wanted.

These he placed on top of the list of employees. “Daniele Bruno,” he told Barbara Havers.

Those fine blue eyes widened as they took in the pictures. In one of them Daniele Bruno was speaking earnestly to Lorenzo Mura, one hand on his shoulder and their heads bent together. In the other, he was merely a member of the squadra di calcio who had attended the funeral to show their support to a fellow player. Barbara Havers gazed at these pictures, then she set them to one side. As Salvatore had assumed she would, she took up the employee list and found Daniele Bruno’s name. He was the director of marketing. Like his brothers, he doubtless came and went from his family’s business with no one wondering where he was going or why.

“Yes, yes, yes!” Barbara Havers cried. She soared to her feet. “You’re a bloody genius, Salvatore! You found the link! This is it! This is how!” And she grabbed his face and kissed him squarely on the mouth.

She seemed as startled as he was that she had done this because an instant afterwards, she backed away. She said, “Christ. Sorry, mate. Sorry , Salvatore. But thank you, thank you. What d’we do next?”

He recognised sorry but nothing else. He said, “ Venga ,” and indicated the door.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

Daniele Bruno was stowed in the interview room closest to Salvatore’s office. During the time he’d been waiting, he’d managed to fill the space with enough cigarette smoke to asphyxiate a cow.

Salvatore said, “ Basta! ” as he and Barbara Havers entered. He strode to the table and removed from it a packet of cigarettes and an overfull ashtray. He placed them outside the door. Then he opened a tiny window high on the wall, which did little to remove the fug of smoke but at least acted as mild reassurance that their respiration could continue for a few more minutes without one of them keeling over.

Bruno was in a corner of the room. He seemed to have been pacing the place. He began jabbering about wanting his lawyer the moment Salvatore and Barbara entered. Salvatore saw from the Englishwoman’s face that she hadn’t the first idea what Daniele Bruno was saying.

He considered the request for an avvocato . The presence of a lawyer could actually help them, he decided. But first Signor Bruno needed to be a little more shaken than he was.

“DARBA Italia, signore,” he said to Bruno. He motioned to a chair and sat himself. Barbara Havers did likewise and her gaze went from him to Daniele Bruno to him again. He heard her swallow and he wanted to reassure her. Everything, my friend, is well in hand, he would have said.

Bruno made his request for his lawyer again. He stated that Salvatore could not hold him. He demanded to be allowed to go. Salvatore told him that this would happen soon. He wasn’t under arrest, after all. At least not yet.

Bruno’s eyes danced in his face. He took in Barbara Havers and clearly wondered who she was and why she was there. Barbara Havers helpfully added to his paranoia by taking a notebook and a pencil from her capacious shoulder bag. She settled into her chair, rested her right ankle on her left knee in a way that would have made an Italian woman pray for her sartorial salvation, and jotted down something, a perfect nonexpression expression on her face. Bruno demanded to know who she was. “ Non importa ” was Salvatore’s reply. Except . . . Well . . . She was here on a matter of murder, signore .

Bruno said nothing although his gaze skittered from Salvatore to Barbara to Salvatore. Interesting that he did not ask the victim, Salvatore thought.

“Tell me about your employment with DARBA Italia,” Salvatore said to Bruno in a friendly fashion. “This is a company your family owns, no?” And when Bruno gave a head jerk of a nod, Salvatore said, “For which you, Daniele, are director of marketing, no?” A shrug in reply. Bruno’s fingers suggested he wanted to light another cigarette. That was good, Salvatore thought. Anxiety was always useful. “This company manufactures equipments that are used in medicine and in scientific research, I understand.” Another nod. A glance at Barbara. She was busily writing something, although God alone knew what since she wouldn’t have the first clue what he was asking the other man. “And I would suppose that whatever is sold must also be tested to ensure its quality.” Bruno licked his lips. “This is true, yes?” Salvatore asked. “There is testing, yes? Because I see from my list of employees—your brother Antonio gave this to us just”—he looked at his watch elaborately—“some three hours ago—that you have a quality control department that your brother Alessandro heads. Would Alessandro tell me that his job is to oversee the testing of the equipments you make at DARBA Italia, signore? Should I call him to ask him this question or do you know the answer yourself?”

Bruno seemed to evaluate all possibilities attendant to giving a verbal reply. His jug ears reddened, like overlarge rose petals attached to his skull. He finally affirmed that the products made by DARBA Italia were indeed tested by the department overseen by Alessandro Bruno. But when Salvatore asked him how they were tested, he claimed that he did not know.

“Then we will use our imaginations,” Salvatore told him. “Let us start first with your incubators. DARBA Italia makes incubators, no? I mean the sort of equipments used to grow things inside. Things that need a steady temperature and a sterile environment. DARBA Italia makes these, no?”

Here Bruno asked once again for his avvocato to be summoned. Salvatore said, “But why is there this need, my friend? Let me bring you a caffè instead. Or some water? A San Pellegrino perhaps? Or a Coca-Cola? Perhaps a glass of milk? You were given lunch, no? A panino from the lunch trolley would have been correct . . . You want nothing? Not even a caffè ?”

Next to him, Barbara stirred on her chair. He heard her murmur, “ Venga, venga ,” and he stopped his lips from curving into a smile at her use of his language, however she meant it.

“No?” he said to Bruno. “So we proceed for now. It is only information we need from you, signore. There is, as I told you, a small matter of murder.”

“ Non ho fatto niente ,” Daniele Bruno said.

“ Certo ,” Salvatore assured him. No one, after all, was accusing him of doing anything. His answers to their questions were all that was sought. Certainly, he could answer questions about DARBA Italia, no?