Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

he had never known, misery that he had seldom felt, a future stretching out in front of her that contained her job and nothing else. She hated him in that moment for what he’d brought her to. Her anger finally superseded her tears.
    He reached into his jacket pocket and brought out her passport. He handed it to her. She snatched it from him and grabbed her duffel.
    “Lock up when you leave” were her final words to him.

16 May
    LUCCA
    TUSCANY
    S alvatore Lo Bianco inspected his face in the bathroom mirror. The bruises were yellowing up nicely. He looked less beaten up and more like he was recovering from a bout with jaundice. In a matter of days, he would be able to see Bianca and Marco once again. This was good as his mamma was not happy about being denied the company of her favourite
nipoti
.
    He went to his car when he left the tower. It was a brisk walk in the fine spring air, and he stopped for
caffè
and a pastry on his way. He ate and drank quickly. He bought a copy of
Prima Voce
from the news vendor in Piazza dei Cocomeri. He glanced at its headline and its cover story. So far, he saw, Piero Fanucci hadn’t let the
E. coli
cat out of the bag.
    Relieved, he drove to Fattoria di Santa Zita, beneath an azure sky whose cloudlessness promised a day of heat on the alluvial plain where Lucca lay. Above in the hills, the trees offered great banks of shade that would keep the temperatures more pleasant, and along the dusty lane onto Lorenzo Mura’s property, the tree branches formed a pleasing, leafy tunnel. When he emerged from it, he parked near Mura’s winery. He heard voices from within the ancient stone structure. He ducked beneath the arbour’s drapery of wisteria and entered the shadowy place, where the scent of fermentation was like a fine perfume that tinctured the air.
    Lorenzo Mura and a younger foreign-looking man were beyond the tasting room and inside the bottling room. They were examining a sheaf of labels, prefatory to placing them on two or three score bottles.
Chianti Santa Zita
, the labels announced, but Mura didn’t seem pleased with the look of them. He was frowning as he spoke. The younger man was nodding.
    Salvatore cleared his throat. They looked up. Did the port wine birthmark that marred Mura’s otherwise handsome face grow darker? It looked so to Salvatore.
    “
’Giorno
,” he said. He’d heard them talking and followed the sound of their voices, he explained. He hoped that he wasn’t interfering.
    Of course, he was interfering, but Lorenzo Mura didn’t say that. Instead he spoke again to the younger man, whose pale skin and fair hair marked him as either English or, more likely, a Scandinavian who, like so many of his fellows, spoke Italian along with another two or three useful languages. The younger man—no name given and none required, Salvatore thought—listened and disappeared into the winery’s depths. For his part, Mura gestured to an open bottle near the labelling machine.
Vorrebbe del vino?
Hardly, Salvatore thought. It was far too early in the day for him to sip Chianti, appreciatively or otherwise. But
grazie mille
, all the same.
    Lorenzo apparently felt no such compunction about the hour. He’d been imbibing and so had his assistant. Two glasses stood nearby, still half-filled with wine. He picked up one of them and drained it. Then he said dully, “She’s dead. Our child dies with her. You do nothing. Why do you come?”
    “Signor Mura,” Salvatore said, “we would have these things move quickly but they can only move as fast as the process itself allows.”
    “And this means . . . ? What?”
    “This means that a case must be built. One builds it first and then moves to finish it with an arrest afterwards.”
    “She dies, she’s buried, and nothing happens,” Mura said. “And from this you tell me a ‘case’ is being built. I come to you directly when she dies. I tell you this is no natural death. But you send me away. So why are you here?”
    “I come to ask if you will allow Hadiyyah Upman to reside with you here at the
fattoria
until other arrangements can be made with her family in London.”
    Mura’s head jerked. “What does this mean?”
    “That I am in the midst of building a case. And when I have built it—which I must do with care—I will take the next step and I will not hesitate. But arrangements need to be made in advance and I have come to you in order to make them.”
    Mura studied his face as if trying to sift for truth