Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

visiting the churches and
palazzi
.
    Salvatore found Fanucci admiring a mass of wisteria, which overhung an ancient stone trough that was filled with water lilies. He turned from the sight of branches dipping low with clusters of purple flowers as Salvatore approached him on the gravel path.
    Piero was smoking a thick cigar, newly lit. He regarded Salvatore with an expression that managed to mix personal sorrow with professional anger. The anger, Salvatore thought, was real. The sorrow, he reckoned, was not.
    “Talk to me, Topo” comprised Fanucci’s opening remarks. He flicked some ash from his cigar onto the path. He ground it into the
sassolini
with his foot. “You and the lovely Cinzia Ruocco have been meeting,
no
? You have an earnest talk with her in Piazza San Michele, and why do I suspect the two of you discuss matters from which you were told to step away? What has this to do with, Salvatore?”
    Salvatore said, “Of what importance is Cinzia’s speaking with me? If I wish to meet a friend for a
caffè
—”
    Fanucci held up a minatory finger. “
Stai attento
,” he snapped.
    Salvatore did not appreciate the threat implied in being spoken to in such a way. He’d had quite enough of Fanucci. He felt his temper rise. He sought to control it. He said, “I see the unfortunate death of this woman Angelina Upman as suspicious. My job is to look at things when they seem suspicious. To me, there is a connection here.”
    “Between what, may I ask?”
    “I think you know.”
    “Between the kidnapping of this woman’s child and her own death? Bah.
Che sciocchezza!
”
    “If that is the case, then the only fool will be me. So what difference does it make that I speak to Cinzia about how this unfortunate woman died? I would think it pleases you anyway, to have her dead.”
    Fanucci’s face reddened. His lips moved round the cigar and Salvatore could see his teeth clamp down. He, too, was trying to hold on to his temper. It was, he knew, only a matter of moments before one of them let loose.
    “What is that supposed to mean, my friend?” Fanucci asked.
    “It means that now this story of her death takes over the headlines.
Poor Mamma of Kidnap Girl Dead in Her Sleep.
And this turn of events directs the spotlight away from the kidnapping and away from Carlo Casparia at long last. It means that now you can release poor Carlo back into his life, which—as we both know, Piero—you were going to have to do quite soon anyway.”
    Fanucci’s eyes narrowed. “I know nothing of the sort.”
    “Please, do not think me a stupid man. You and I have been acquainted far too long for that. You know you have been wrong about Carlo. And since you cannot bear to be wrong, you have refused to release him. For then you would have to face scrutiny and commentary in the press, and this is something you cannot abide.”
    “You dare to insult me this way, Salvatore?”
    “The truth is not an insult. It is merely the truth. And to this truth, I would have to add with due respect that, in your position, an inability to face one’s errors is a very dangerous quality to possess.”
    “As is jealousy,” Fanucci snapped. “Professional or personal, it robs a man not only of his dignity but also of his ability to do his job. In all of your thinking and
respecting
, Salvatore, have you ever once considered this?”
    “Piero, Piero. Do you see how you try to alter our conversation? You wish to make it about me when it should be about you. You have wasted time and resources trying to mould what few facts you had into a case you could build against Carlo. Then when I would not accompany you down this ridiculous path you were determined to walk, you brought in Nicodemo, who would.”
    “And this is how you see things?”
    “Is there another way?”
    “
Certo
. For your jealousy blinds you to the facts in front of you. It has done so from the moment this little English girl disappeared from the
mercato
. This has always been your weakness, Topo. This jealousy of yours infects all that you do.”
    “You propose that I am jealous of what?”
    “You are a man broken by his divorce, living back at home with his mamma, no other woman willing to abide you. And we must ask what it must do to your manhood to see someone else—someone like me, so ill formed, so repulsive to look upon—
still
with women eager to be bedded. Bedded by me, a veritable toad. And on top of that, to have this same toad order your replacement in an