Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

said. “
Gli dai uno sguardo?
”
    In bed, Carlo was wordless. If he heard what Salvatore had said about the photos, he gave no indication. His eyes were fixed on something beyond Salvatore’s shoulder and, when Salvatore turned, he saw it was a clock on the wall. The poor fool was watching time pass, it seemed, counting the moments till the worst of his suffering ended.
    Salvatore exchanged a glance with Lynley. The Englishman, he saw, looked as doubtful as Salvatore felt.
    “
Voglio aiutarti
,” Salvatore said to Carlo. “
Non credo che tu abbia rapito la bambina, amico
.” He brought the first of the tourist photographs onto the screen of his laptop. “
Prova
,” he murmured. “
Prova, prova a guardarle.
”
    If Carlo would only try, he himself could do the rest. Just look at the pictures, he silently told the young man. Just move your gaze to the computer screen.
    He went through the entire set in vain. Then he told the addict they would try again. Did he want water? Did he need food? Would another blanket help him through this terrible time?
    “
Niente
” was the first thing the young man said. Nothing would help him in the state he was in.
    “
Per favore
,” Salvatore murmured. “
Non sono un procuratore.
Ti
voglio aiutare, Carlo
.”
    This was what finally got through to him: I am not a prosecutor, Carlo. I want to help you. To this, Salvatore added that nothing the young man said at this point was being taken down and nothing he said would go into a statement that he would be forced to sign while he was in extremis. They—he and this other officer from London sitting next to your bed, Carlo—were looking for the man who’d kidnapped this child and they did not think Carlo was that man. He had nothing to fear from them. Things could not get worse if he spoke to them now.
    Carlo shifted his gaze. It came to Salvatore that the addict’s pain made movement difficult, and he changed the position of the laptop, holding it on a level with the young man’s face and slowly going through the pictures again. But Carlo said nothing as he looked at them, merely shaking his head as Salvatore paused each one in front of his gaze and asked if there was anyone he recognised as having been with the little girl.
    Again and again, the addict’s lips formed the word
No
. But finally his expression altered. It was a marginal change, to be true, but his eyebrows made a movement towards each other and his tongue—the colour of it nearly white—touched his scaly upper lip. Salvatore and Lynley saw this simultaneously, and both of them leaned forward to see what picture was on the screen. It was the photograph of the pig’s head at the
bancarella
selling meats to the citizens of Lucca. It was the photograph in which Lorenzo Mura was making a purchase just beyond the pig’s head.
    “
Conosci quest’ uomo?
” Salvatore asked.
    Carlo shook his head. He didn’t know him, he said, but he had seen him.
    “
Dove?
” Salvatore asked, his hope stirring. He glanced at Lynley, and he could see that the London man was watching Carlo closely.
    “
Nel parco
,” Carlo whispered. “
Con un altro uomo
.”
    Salvatore asked if Carlo would recognise the other man he spoke of seeing with Lorenzo Mura in the park. He showed the addict an enlargement of the picture of the dark-haired man behind Hadiyyah in the crowd of people. But Carlo shook his head. It wasn’t that man. A few more questions took them to the fact that it also wasn’t Michelangelo Di Massimo with his head of bleached hair. It was someone else, but Carlo didn’t know who. Just that Lorenzo and this other, unnamed man had met, and when they met, the children whom Lorenzo coached in private to improve their football skills were not present. They had been earlier, running about the field, but when this man showed up, all the children were gone.
    VICTORIA
    LONDON
    The next time Mitchell Corsico got in touch, it was by phone. This was a case of thank-God-for-very-small-favours, though, because the tune he was singing when Barbara took the call was the same tune he’d been singing the last time she’d spoken to him. Things were ramped up at this point, though.
The
Sun
, the
Mirror
, and the
Daily Mail
had begun investing some rather significant money in following the kidnapping tale by means of placing boots on the ground in Tuscany. There was competition to get new angles every day, and Mitchell Corsico wanted his own.
    Tiresomely, though, he was back