Elizabeth George - Just One Evil Act

“Does it actually matter what I see?”

“I’m sorry. But things’ll wait, won’t it? She’ll wait, won’t she?”

There was silence. Then he said in that maddening, well-bred fashion of his, “‘Things’? ‘She’?”

Barbara realised she was heading in the absolutely wrong direction. She said hastily, “Never mind. Not my business at all. Can’t think why I even said . . . except I’m worn out with worry and I can see it’s best that you’re there and I’m here and if I only knew how—”

“Barbara.”

“Yeah? What? I mean I know I’m babbling and it’s only because I know you’re cheesed off and you’ve a right to be because I bollocksed things properly this time but it was only because—”

“ Barbara. ” He waited on his end for her silence. Then he said, “There’s nothing to report. When there is, I’ll ring you.”

“Is he . . . ? Are they . . . ?”

“I’ve not met Angelina Upman. I’ve spoken to Azhar. He’s as well as he can be, under the circumstances.”

“What’s next? Who d’you talk to? Where d’you go? Are the cops there handling things? Are they letting you—”

“Do my job?” he interrupted pointedly. “Such as it is, yes. And, believe me, it’s going to be limited. Now is there anything else?”

“S’pose not,” she said.

“Then we’ll speak later,” he told her and rang off, leaving her to wonder if he actually meant it.

She shoved her mobile in her bag. She’d made the call from the Met canteen, where the only option to keep her nerves in check had been consuming a muffin the size of Gibraltar. She’d gobbled it down like a stray dog keeping a handout secret from the rest of the pack. She’d washed it on its way with huge gulps of tepid coffee. When this didn’t work to calm her savage breast—she should have tried music, she admitted—then she’d given in to phoning Italy. But there was no satisfaction available from Lynley, she realised. So she faced either eating a second muffin or coming up with something else to soothe herself.

She hadn’t heard from Dwayne Doughty. She told herself that the reason for this had to do with her having employed him for less than twenty-four hours. But a voice within her demanded to know how long it could possibly take for the man to make certain Taymullah Azhar had indeed been in Berlin during the time his daughter had gone missing from Lucca. She herself could have done it in an hour or two of tracing his movements and confirming all reports of his presence. And she would have done it, using the Met’s resources, had she wished to risk another blot on her copybook. But with Superintendent Ardery’s eyes upon her and DI Stewart doubtless making daily reports on the level of her cooperation as part of his team, she had to be careful. Whatever she did, she had to do it on her time and without the resources of the Met.

Luckily her mobile phone wasn’t one of the Met’s resources. She couldn’t be faulted for using it while taking a break. Nor, she reckoned, could she be faulted for using it while making a visit to the ladies’ in order to answer a pressing call from nature.

She went there next. Carefully, she checked to see all the stalls were empty. She punched in Mitchell Corsico’s number.

“Brilliant job” was what she told him when he barked his greeting with a harried “Corsico,” designed to illustrate how busy a man he was down there in the journalistic gutters.

“Who’s this?” he asked.

“Postman’s Park,” she told him. “Watts Memorial. I wore fuchsia, you wore Stetson. Are you going to Italy?”

“I wish.”

“What? The story’s not big enough for you lot?”

“Well, she isn’t dead, is she?”

“Bloody hell! You lot are a sodding group of—”

“Save it. It’s not me making this decision. What d’you think? I have that kind of power? So unless you’ve got something more to give me . . . I mean aside from the Ilford end of things, which the higher-ups are beginning to like for a few more front pages.”

Barbara went icy. “What Ilford business? What’re you on about, Mitch?”

“What I’m ‘on about’ is the other dimensions of the story. What I’m ‘on about’ is your convenient failure to mention your own involvement in what’s going on.”

“What the hell? What kind of involvement?”

“The kind that ended up with you in a street brawl with Professor Azhar’s parents. Let me tell you, mate, this whole ‘abandoned second family in Ilford’ part of the story has given it legs over here.”

Barbara’s iciness rendered her nearly incapable of rational thought. All she was able to say in reply to this was “You can’t go that way. There’s a kid. Her life’s on the line. You have to—”

“That,” Corsico told her, “would be your part of the equation. My part is the story. My part is readership. So while the kidnapping of a cute kid sells papers—you won’t get an argument from me on that score—the kidnapping of a cute kid whose dad has a secret second family willing to talk—”

“They’re not a secret. And they won’t be willing.”

“Tell that to the kid. Sayyid.”

Barbara thought frantically. She had to keep him from thrusting upon Azhar the humiliation of a public exposé of his tortuous personal life. She could only imagine how it would play out in The Source should Mitchell Corsico score an interview with Azhar’s son. It was unthinkable that this might happen, not only because of Azhar himself but also because of Hadiyyah. Focus needed to be maintained on her, on her abduction, on the search, on the Italians themselves, on whatever was going on in Italy.

She said, “All right. I see your point. But there’s something you might want to know about our end of things. I mean the Met’s end of things.”

“And that would be what?”

“That would be DI Lynley.” She hated to do it, but she had no other choice that she could see. “DI Lynley’s gone over. He’s the liaison officer.”

Silence at Mitchell Corsico’s end. Barbara could almost hear the wheels turning in his mind. He’d been angling for an interview with the inspector since the moment Lynley’s wife had been murdered on the front steps of their home. Pregnant, just returned from shopping, looking for her keys to unlock her front door. Accosted by a kid with a gun who’d shot her for the fun of it and rendered her brain-dead. With the inspector left in the position of having to decide to take her off the machines keeping their baby alive. If Corsico wanted a story that would go the distance, Lynley was the story. Both of them knew it.

She said, “The press office here’ll be making the announcement, but you can make it in advance, if you want. And you know what this means, I expect. He’ll be liaising with the parents, but he’ll have to talk to the press and answer their questions. The press means you. And answering questions means an interview. The interview, Mitch.”

“I see where you’re heading. I won’t lie about it, Barb. Lynley’s a bloody decent angle and he always will be. But the fish I’m frying—”

“Lynley is the story.” Barbara heard her voice rise with impatience and urgency. “Mention Lynley’s name to your higher-ups and you’re on the next plane to Italy.” Which, she added, was where she needed him: pursuing the story there, feeding details to his editor here, whipping up in the UK reading public a frenzy about what was being done to find an appealing little British girl.

“And I will,” Corsico said. “No worries on that score. But first things first, and the first is the kid.”

“That’s what I’m trying to—”

“I don’t mean the kid Hadiyyah,” he cut in. “I mean the other. Sayyid.”