Elizabeth George - Just One Evil Act

Salvatore appeared to think about this at great length, as far as Barbara could tell. He jotted a few notes on a legal pad, and he paced to the window where he made a phone call from his mobile in a very hushed voice. For all Barbara could tell he was ringing somewhere for takeaway Chinese, and when he at last finished the call, she had a suspicion she wasn’t far from the truth.

More Italian ensued during which she caught E. coli mentioned and the word magistrato dozens of times. So was Lorenzo Mura’s name. So was Bruno’s and Angelina Upman’s.

From this, all Barbara could work out was that a deal was being reached. Garibaldi said to her, “We have an understanding, Detective Sergeant,” at which point he stood and shook Lo Bianco’s hand. But what the understanding was remained a mystery until Salvatore made yet another phone call, followed by their return to the interview room where Daniele Bruno sat expressionlessly at the table, clearly waiting to hear about whatever deal had been struck between Garibaldi and Lo Bianco.

The deal became apparent very soon. A knock on the door heralded a police technician, and he carried with him a large plastic container of equipment, which turned out to be of an electronic nature. This he began to unpack upon the table as the rest of them watched.

He began a lengthy explanation to Bruno of what comprised all the items on the table, but in this instance, Barbara required no translation. She recognised them well enough along with the deal that Lo Bianco and Garibaldi had worked out.

Daniele Bruno would tell them everything. That much was certain. But he would also meet with Lorenzo Mura, and when he did so, he would wear a wire.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

The clatter of feet on a stone floor and cries of “Papà! Papà!” greeted them when they returned to Torre Lo Bianco that evening. A little girl was running from the direction of the kitchen, and she was followed by a boy not much older, and both of them were followed by Hadiyyah. The little girl—whom Salvatore called Bianca—began chattering excitedly, and it came to Barbara that she was speaking about her. She concluded whatever she was saying by speaking to Barbara directly with “ Mi piacciono le Sue scarpe rosse ,” to which Salvatore fondly told her that “ La signora non parla italiano, Bianca .”

Bianca giggled, covered her mouth with her hands, and said to Barbara, “I like the shoes red of you.”

Hadiyyah laughed at this and corrected her with “No! It’s ‘I like your red shoes,’” after which she said to Barbara, “Her mummy speaks English, but sometimes Bianca mixes the words up ’cause she also speaks Swedish.”

“No problem, kiddo,” Barbara told her. “Her English is bloody good compared to my Italian.” And to Salvatore she added, “That’s right, eh?”

He smiled and said, “ Certo ,” and gestured her towards the kitchen. There he greeted his mother who was in the midst of making dinner. It looked as if she was expecting a horde of foot soldiers. There were large trays of drying pasta on the worktops, a huge vat bubbling with sauce on the stove, the aroma of some kind of roasting meat coming from the oven, an enormous salad standing in the middle of the table, and green beans sitting in a large stone sink. Salvatore kissed his mother hello, saying, “ Buonasera, Mamma ,” which she waved off with a scowl. But the look she cast him was one of fondness, and she said to Barbara, “ Spero che abbia fame .” She nodded at the food.

Barbara thought, Fame? Famous? No. That couldn’t be right. Then she twigged. Famished . She said, “Too bloody right.”

Salvatore repeated, “‘Too bloody right,’” and then to his mother, “ Sì, Barbara ha fame. E anch’io, Mamma .”

Mamma nodded vigorously. All was right with her world, it seemed, as long as anyone entering her kitchen was hungry.

Salvatore took Barbara’s arm then and indicated she should come with him. The children stayed behind with Mamma in the kitchen as Barbara followed Salvatore up the stairs, where a sitting room comprised the floor above them. At one side of the room, an old sideboard tilted on the uneven stone floor. There, Salvatore poured himself a drink: Campari and soda. He offered Barbara the same.

She was strictly an ale or lager girl, but that didn’t appear to be on offer. So she went for the Campari and soda and hoped for the best.

He indicated the stairs and began to climb. She followed as before. On the next floor was his mamma’s bedroom along with a bathroom making a bulbous extension out from the ancient tower. The next floor held his own room, the floor above it the room she shared with Hadiyyah. It came to Barbara at this point that she and Hadiyyah were sharing the room belonging to Salvatore’s two children, and she said to him, “Sod it, Salvatore. We’re sleeping in your kids’ room, aren’t we? Where does that leave them?” He nodded and smiled at this. He said, “Sod it, sì ,” and continued upward. She said, “It would help if you spoke better English, mate,” and he said, “English, sì ,” and still he climbed.

They came out at last upon a rooftop. Here Salvatore said, “ Il mio posto preferito, Barbara ,” and indicated with a sweeping gesture the entirety of the place. It was a rooftop garden with a tree at its centre, surrounded on all sides by an ancient stone bench and shrubbery. At the edge of the roof, a parapet ran along all four sides of the tower, and to this parapet Salvatore walked, his drink in his hand. Barbara joined him there.

The sun was setting, and it cast a golden glow upon the rooftops of Lucca. He pointed out various areas to her, various buildings that he quietly identified by name as he turned her here and there. She understood not a thing he said, only that he spoke of his love for this place. And there was, she admitted, a lot to love. From the top of the tower, she could see the twisted, cobbled medieval streets of the town, the hidden gardens that were barely visible, the ovoid shape of the repurposed amphitheatre, the dozens of churches that dominated the individual tiny neighbourhoods. And always the wall, the amazing wall. In the evening, with a cool breeze now blowing across the great alluvial plain, it was, she had to admit it, like a slice of paradise.

She said to him, “It’s gorgeous. I’ve never even been out of the UK, and I never thought I’d ever be standing in Italy. But I’ll say this: If someone or something drags one out of one’s local chippy and into a foreign country, Lucca’s not a bad spot to end up.” She hoisted her glass to him and to the place. “Bloody beautiful,” she said.

He said, “Bloody right.”

She chuckled at this. “ Bene , mate. I think you could learn to speak the lingo without that much trouble.”

“Sod it,” he said happily.

She laughed.

LUCCA

TUSCANY

The ringing of her mobile phone awakened Barbara. She grabbed it up quickly and glanced at the other bed in the room. Hadiyyah was sleeping peacefully, her hair tumbling on the pillow around her. Barbara gave a look at the incoming number and sighed.

“Mitchell,” she said by way of greeting.

“Why’re you whispering?” was his hello.

“Because I don’t want to wake Hadiyyah, and what the bloody hell time is it?”

“Early.”

“I twigged.”

“I knew you were quick. Get outside. We’ve things to discuss.”

“Where the hell are you?”

“Where I always am: across the piazza at the café, which, by the way, is not yet open and I could do with a coffee. So if Signora Vallera wouldn’t be crushed by the thought of your stealing out into the dawn with a cup for me—”