Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

“What’re you talking about? You better not be playing me.”
    “The Italians have the cause of death. They’re not saying officially what it is. They don’t want the papers getting a whiff of it because they don’t want to start a panic. Either among the people or in the economy. Is that enough for you?”
    His gaze shifted from her to a balloon seller to her again. “Could be,” he said. “What’s the cause?”
    “A strain of
E. coli
. A super strain. A deadly strain. The worst there is.”
    His eyes narrowed. “How d’you know this?”
    “I know it because I know it, Mitchell. I was there when the call came through from the rozzers.”
    “‘Came through’? Where?”
    “DI Lynley. He got the word from the chief investigator in Lucca.”
    Mitchell’s eyebrows locked. He was, she knew, evaluating her words. He wasn’t a fool. Content was one thing. Meaning was another. The fact that she would bring Lynley into anything at all was raising his warning hairs.
    He said, “Why would you be telling me? That’s what I’m wondering.”
    “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”
    “Not to me.”
    “Bloody hell, Mitchell. You know
E. coli
comes from food, don’t you?
Contaminated
food.”
    “So she ate something bad.”
    “We’re not talking about a single vinegar crisp, mate. We’re talking about a
supply
of food. Who knows what? Spinach, broccoli, minced beef, tinned tomatoes, lettuce. For all I know it got baked into her lasagna. But the point is, if the word gets out, that whole industry in Italy takes a hit to the solar plexus. A whole section of their economy—”
    “You can’t be suggesting there’s a lasagna industry.”
    “You know what I mean.”
    “So maybe she had a burger somewhere and a worker went to the loo and didn’t wash his hands before stacking on the tomatoes?” He shifted his weight from one cowboy-booted foot to the other and pushed his Stetson farther back on his head. He was garnering one or two curious glances from people who looked to be seeking whatever violin case or other receptacle in which they were supposed to deposit appreciative ten-pence pieces for his costuming, but there weren’t many of those since, in Leicester Square, far more interesting sights existed than the one presented by a London man in a cowboy get-up. “And anyway, the fact that only one person died . . . That pretty much supports the idea, doesn’t it? One person, one burger, one bad tomato.”
    “With this bloke, whoever he was, and assuming they even serve burgers in Lucca, Italy—”
    “Christ. You know what I mean. The burger’s an example. Say it was a salad. What about that salad with tomatoes and that Italian cheese and whatever that green crap is they put on it? That leafy bit.”
    “I look like I would know that, Mitchell? Come on, I’m giving you a significant heads-up on a story that’s going to break in Italy at any moment, only
you
now have the edge because, believe me, the cops and the health blokes over there aren’t about to release it and cause a stampede away from Italian products.”
    “So you say.” But he wasn’t a fool. “Why’re you into this anyway, Barb? This got to do with . . . ? Where’s our Love Rat Dad these days?”
    There was no way she wanted him anywhere near Azhar. She said, “Haven’t spoken to him. He went to Lucca for the funeral. I expect he’s back now. Or still there with the kid, getting her packed. Who the bloody hell knows? Listen, you can do what you want with this story, mate. I think it’s gold. You think it’s lead? Fine, don’t run it. There’re other papers who’d be happy to—”
    “I didn’t say that, did I? I just don’t want this to be another bomb like the other.”
    “What d’you mean, ‘bomb’?”
    “Well, let’s face it, Barb, the kid was found.”
    Barbara stared at the man. She wanted so badly to punch his Adam’s apple that her fingernails clawed at the skin of her palms. She said slowly as her blood pounded so hard in her head that she thought she would soon see stars, “Too right, Mitch. That was a blow for your lot. So much better to have had a corpse. Mutilated, too. That would move those copies right off the newsstand.”
    “I’m only saying . . . Look, this is an ugly business. You know that. Fact is, you and I wouldn’t be talking in the first place if you thought it was anything else.”
    “If we’re talking ugly, Italian cops and Italian politicos in bed with each other is bloody