Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

and baggage claim—scores of tour guides awaited their charges, while jostling crowds appeared to be bargaining with illegal taxi drivers offering quick trips to the Leaning Tower.
    Luckily, she didn’t need to do anything other than look for her ride to Lucca, and he was as easy to spot as an albino chimpanzee at the zoo. Despite being in Italy—the veritable home of
la moda
—Mitchell Corsico was garbed as usual. He’d eschewed the fringed jacket—probably because of the heat—but the rest of him was vintage Wild West. For her part, Barbara had set aside slogan-bearing tee-shirts in favour of tank tops, anticipating exactly what she found the moment they stepped from the arrivals hall: blistering heat.
    Mitch was on his mobile when Barbara glimpsed him among the hordes. He continued on his mobile as he led her to his hire car. Barbara caught only snatches of his conversation as she hauled her duffel along behind him. It was mostly along the lines of “Yeah . . . Yeah . . . The interview’s coming . . . Hey, it’s in the diary, Rod. What more can I say?” When he ended the call, he said, “Lard arse,” in apparent reference to his editor. At that point, they’d reached the side of a Lancia, and Barbara was sweating profusely.
    She squinted in the bright sunlight and muttered, “What’s the sodding temperature in this place?”
    Mitchell gave her a look. “Get a grip, Barb. It’s not even summer.”
    Their route to Lucca consisted of a terrifying drive on the
autostrada
, where speed limits appeared to be mere suggestions that the Italian drivers chose to ignore. Corsico seemed to be in his element. Any faster, Barbara reckoned, and they’d be airborne.
    As he drove, he informed her that the first story had run in
The Source
that morning, in case she hadn’t had time to pick up a copy at the airport. He’d moulded it, he said, along lines that would generate a dozen follow-up stories. He hoped she appreciated that, by the way.
    “What’s that mean, exactly?” Barbara asked him. “What sort of follow-up stories’re we talking about? How’d you write the first one?”
    He glanced at her. Someone passed them in a blur of silver. He increased the Lancia’s speed and wove round a lorry. Barbara increased her grip on the side of her seat. He said, “The usual format, Barb. ‘This
E. coli
situation is either a cover-up by the Italians to avoid tanking their economy while the source is being searched out among all the products they sell, or it’s a deliberate poisoning by a suspect unnamed . . . with an upcoming charge of murder in sight. Stay tuned.’”
    “As long as you keep away from Azhar.”
    He looked at her, his expression disbelieving. “I’m on a story. If he’s part of it, he’s part of it, and I’m putting him into it. Let’s get something straight, you and me, now we’re working hand in hand: You don’t climb into bed with a journalist and expect him not to want to feed the beast.”
    “You’re mixing your metaphors,” she informed him. “I’d think that’s a very bad thing for a writer. Or am I stretching things to actually call you a writer? And who said we’re working hand in hand?”
    “We’re on the same side.”
    “Doesn’t sound like that to me.”
    “We both want to get to the truth. And anyway, like I said, Azhar’s name’s already come up.”
    “I made it bloody well clear—”
    “You can’t be thinking Rod Aronson would let me hang round Lucca on the strength of some pregnant Englishwoman keeling over in Tuscany. The UK reader needs a hell of a bigger hook than that.”
    “And what? Azhar’s become the hook? Goddamn it, Mitchell—”
    “He’s part of the story, like it or not, darling. For all I know, he probably
is
the story. Bloody hell, Barb, you should be glad I’m not going after the kid.”
    She grabbed his arm, digging her fingers into it. “You stay away from Hadiyyah.”
    He shook her off. “Quit interfering with the driver. We get in a crash and
we’re
the next story. And anyway, all I’ve done so far is go the route of ‘By the way, our good professor of microbiology is assisting the police with their enquiries, and we all know what that means, don’t we? Wink, wink. Nudge, nudge.’ Rod wants an interview with the bloke. You’re going to be my route to that.”
    “I’ve given you what you’re getting from me,” she told him. “Azhar’s not on the table. I’ve told you that from the very first.”
    “Look. I