Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

Voce
over to him. He scanned the story. Scotland Yard, a detective inspector in Lucca to act as liaison with the parents of the girl, more information about those parents, dismissive remarks about British policing from that idiot Fanucci, and a carefully worded statement from Chief Inspector Lo Bianco indicating cooperation between the two police forces. There was an accompanying photo of the English detective in conversation with Lo Bianco. They were in front of the
questura
in Lucca, Lo Bianco’s arms crossed on his chest and his head lowered as he listened to something the Englishman was saying to him.
    He passed the tabloid back to Di Massimo. He felt rather irritated with him. He hated having his time wasted, and if he’d had to come from the centre of town to Campo dei Miracoli merely to see something that he could have seen by stopping at the nearest
giornalaio
and purchasing a copy of the newspaper, he was going to be more irritated still. Thus he gestured rudely at the paper and said, “
Allora?
” in a way that indicated his impatience. To underscore this, he got up and paced the distance to the farthest wall. “This cannot be a surprise to you, Michelangelo. She’s missing. She’s a child. She’s gone without a trace. She’s British.” The implication was obvious: Of course the English coppers were going to stick their fingers into this pie he and Di Massimo were baking. Had Di Massimo expected something less?
    “Not the point,” Di Massimo said. “Sit down. I don’t want to raise my voice.”
    He waited till his order had been complied with before he went on. “This man and Lo Bianco . . . they came to my
calcio
practice the other day.”
    He felt a sudden shift in his equilibrium. “And they
talked
to you?” he asked.
    Di Massimo shook his head. “They thought—I expect—that I did not see them. But this”—he tapped the side of his nose—“has a talent for knowing when the cops are present. They came, and they watched. Less than five minutes. Then they were gone.”
    He felt a momentary surge of relief and said, “So you do not know—”
    “
Aspetti.
” Di Massimo went on to say that the two men had come to see him on the previous day, interrupting his appointment with his
parrucchiere
in the midst of having his blond locks maintained.
    “
Merda!
” This was the worst possible news. “How in God’s name did they find you?” he demanded. “First at
calcio
and then this other? How the hell did they find you?”
    “How does not matter,” Di Massimo said.
    “Of course it matters! If not to you, then to me. If they’re on to you . . . If they’ve found you already . . .” He felt panic rising. “You swore to me enough time had passed. You said that no one would connect you to this matter of the girl.” He thought rapidly, trying to see what other connections were possible for the police to make. For if they’d found Michelangelo Di Massimo within a week of the girl’s disappearance, how much longer would it be till they found him as well? “This has to be taken care of,” he said. “Now. Today. As soon as possible.”
    “Which is why you and I are meeting, my friend,” Michelangelo told him. He looked at him levelly. “I find that it’s time. We’re clear on that, yes?”
    He nodded once. “I know what to do.”
    “Be hasty about doing it, then.”
    FATTORIA DI SANTA ZITA
    TUSCANY
    Lynley wasn’t entirely honest with Lo Bianco about speaking to Lorenzo Mura. He also wanted to talk to Angelina. So with the chief inspector’s blessing on the matter, he drove out to the
fattoria
. It appeared to be a busy day at the place, with all evidence saying that, one way or another, life had to go on.
    Workmen were crawling about the ancient farmhouse that was part of the property, some of them unloading tiles clearly meant for the roof, others of them carrying heavy boards into the structure, still others banging about inside the building with their hammers ringing in the air. At the winery, a young man was within, offering tastes of Lorenzo’s Chianti to five individuals whose bicycles and discarded rucksacks indicated a spring cycling tour through the verdant district. Lorenzo stood at the fence of a paddock not far beyond the tall hedge that separated the old villa from the business end of the
fattoria.
He was speaking there to a bearded, middle-aged man, and as Lynley approached them, he saw this individual take a white envelope from the back pocket of his