Elizabeth George - Just One Evil Act

“I have nothing more to say. Angelina may have ‘given me up,’ as you put it—and one wonders where you police get your colourful use of language, frankly—but as far as I know I’ve committed no crime and neither has she.”

“Travelling on someone else’s passport—”

“I have my passport. It’s in a strongbox in this very flat and, shown a court order, I’ll be more than delighted to share it with you.”

“She would have posted it back to you as soon as she was safe. She would have taken her own with her but travelled on yours.”

“If that’s what you think, I daresay you have ways to uncover this. So phone up border control. Phone up customs. Phone up someone. Ring the Home Office. I couldn’t care less.”

“This whole bit about disliking her . . . You didn’t, did you? You don’t. Because if you did, why would you help her?” Barbara considered her own question in light of what she’d learned about the Upman family. There was little enough to go on, but one glaring detail explained a lot. “Unless,” she said, “it was about getting her away from Azhar. A Pakistani rolling round your sister’s knickers? Your parents certainly didn’t like this. What about you?”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If Angelina was stupid enough to involve herself with a Muslim—”

“And several other blokes at the same time, as it happens,” Barbara told her. “Did she tell you that? Or did she just tell you that she’d seen the light and had to get away from the ‘filthy Paki.’ That’s what your dad called him, by the way. What did you call him?”

But Bathsheba was looking at her oddly, Barbara saw. She was looking like a woman who’d just had a bit of a surprise sprung upon her. Barbara went back over what she’d just said to sort out what this surprise might have been, and she excavated it quickly enough in the idea of Angelina’s other involvements. She said, “Esteban Castro was one of her lovers. So was a bloke called Lorenzo Mura. She’s with him now. Lorenzo. That’s where she was going. She told you that, didn’t she? No? You didn’t know it? How could you not know it? You told me yourself that she’d probably be with a man.”

Bathsheba didn’t reply. Barbara thought about this. She thought about twins and how these particular twins had grown up hating the whole idea of twinship. She considered how hating the idea of twinship could morph into hating the other twin herself. If that was the case—that Bathsheba indeed hated Angelina—then it stood to reason that she would help her only if she saw Angelina’s flight as worsening her position in life and not helping it. And if Angelina had known this . . .

“She didn’t tell you about Lorenzo Mura, did she?” Barbara said. “Or about Esteban Castro either. Neither of whom, by the way, is the least little bit like your Hugo out there.” With a tilt of her head, she indicated the rest of the flat beyond the door.

Bathsheba stiffened. “Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”

“Come on, Bathsheba,” Barbara said. “Angelina’s had a string of drop-dead men from the get-go. Look Castro up on the Internet if you don’t believe me. Look up Azhar and check out how he’s come along in the last ten years. And now she’s got Lorenzo Mura, who looks like someone Michelangelo would have sculpted. While you’ve got poor Hugo with that Adam’s apple the size of Yorkshire and a face like—”

She surged to her feet. “That’s enough!” she shouted.

“And he’s getting old fast, I expect. Which means sex isn’t what it used to be. Meanwhile your sister—”

“I want you out of here this instant!” Bathsheba said.

“—is getting her field plowed regularly. With a lot of skill. One man after the next and sometimes three at once—think of that, three!—and she doesn’t care whether they marry her or not. Did you know that? She doesn’t care.” Barbara had no idea about this last point, but she did know the likelihood that Bathsheba’s marriage was the only card she held that gave her the edge over her twin. She concluded with, “You didn’t know any of that, though, did you? You wouldn’t have lifted a hand to help her leave Azhar if you’d had a clue she was really running to another man. This one’s not married, by the way. But I expect that’ll change soon enough.”

“Get out of here,” Bathsheba said. “Bloody get out .”

“She uses everyone, Bathsheba,” Barbara told her. “Too bad you didn’t know it at the time.”

FATTORIA DI SANTA ZITA

TUSCANY

The film crew had been at Lorenzo Mura’s home for an hour by the time Lynley arrived in the company of both Chief Inspector Lo Bianco and the public minister Fanucci. Fanucci hadn’t been enthusiastic about Lynley’s attendance, but when Lo Bianco pointed out to him that the reassuring presence of the liaison officer from the British police might go far to keep the parents of the missing girl calm, Fanucci acquiesced to Lynley’s going along. He would, of course, remain in the background at all times, Fanucci said pointedly.

“ Certo, certo ,” Lo Bianco muttered. No one wanted to hear the opinion of the British police in this matter of the missing child, Magistrato.

At Fattoria di Santa Zita, they were welcomed by the telecronista , a sveltely dressed young woman who looked as if she’d come to television journalism via the catwalks of Milan so beautifully turned out was she. Bustling round with lights, cables, cameras, and makeup were the rest of the crew from the television news. They were unloading a van and readying an area in front of the old barn where Lorenzo Mura made his wine. There, a table of bread, cheese, biscuits, and fruit had been hospitably laid on for the crew. A table and chairs had also been set up on a terrace, wide stones overhung with wisteria coming into bloom. There had evidently been much discussion about this: the telecronista loving the location for its suggestion of springtime delicacy and the lighting man hating it for the complications it created in having to deal with shadows at the same time as he maintained the colour of the hanging blooms.

Fanucci strode to the location and gave it his approval. No one had asked for this, and no one apparently cared when he gave it. He said a few sharp words to a hapless young woman with a makeup case. She scurried off, returned with a third chair for the table. He sat here, apparently not intending to move from that point forward, and he indicated to her with an abrupt gesture that she was to see to his face with her powder and brushes. She did so, although it remained to be seen what she would make of his facial warts.

In the meantime, establishing shots were being taken by the cameraman: the vineyards falling off down the hillside, the donkeys grazing in a paddock beneath ancient olive trees, a few cattle down by a stream at the bottom of the hill, the many farm buildings. During this, the telecronista saw to her makeup in a hand mirror and applied a coat of spray to her hair. She finally said, “ Sono pronta a cominciare ,” to indicate her readiness to begin. But obviously, nothing was going to happen until Fanucci gave his nod of approval.

While they were waiting for this to happen, Angelina Upman came out of the winery. Lorenzo Mura was with her, speaking quietly. Taymullah Azhar followed, keeping his distance. Lorenzo seated Angelina at the table with Fanucci, and he bent to her and continued speaking. She looked much more fragile than on the previous day, and Lynley wondered if she was managing to eat or to sleep at all. He wondered the same about Azhar, who didn’t look much better than the mother of his child.

Fanucci didn’t speak to either one of them. Nor did he speak to Mura. His interests apparently lay only in the filming of the report for the nightly newscast. Anything that needed to be communicated from the police to the parents could come, apparently, from Lo Bianco or from Lynley. It seemed this included sympathy for their situation.