Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

the road.
    From all this, Barbara reckoned that wine tasting went on at Fattoria di Santa Zita, and she discovered soon enough that she was not wrong. Perhaps a quarter of a mile along the unpaved lane, she came to the driveway into the
fattoria
. Not much farther and she saw an ancient barn with a heavy arbour of wisteria draping lavender flowers towards a scattering of rustic tables and chairs.
    The doors to the barn were open, and Barbara parked close by in the space designated for tasters. She crossed the gravel and then the flagstone terrace where the tables stood. It was dim in the barn, so when she went inside, she paused for her eyes to adjust to the change in light.
    She expected to see Lorenzo Mura, but she did not. What she saw was a roughly hewn bar set up with wineglasses, a display of the wines ostensibly made on the property, a basket of savoury biscuits, and four wedges of cheese contained beneath a glass dome on a cutting board. The air was so fragrant with the scent of wine that she reckoned she could get tipsy just by breathing deeply. She did so and her mouth watered in anticipation. A glass of wine wouldn’t have gone down half bad, and she wouldn’t have minded a few pieces of cheese either.
    A young man emerged from a cavernous room beyond the tasting area, where Barbara could see three stainless steel vats and row upon row of empty green bottles. He said, “
Buongiorno. Vorrebbe assaggiare del vino?
” and she stared at him uncomprehendingly. Apparently, he read this for what it was because he switched to English, which he spoke with what sounded like a Dutch accent. He said, “English? Would you like to try some Chianti?”
    Barbara showed her police identification. She was there to speak to Lorenzo Mura, she said.
    “Up at the villa” was his reply. He waved towards the interior of the barn, as if the villa could be accessed from there. He went on to explain how to get to the place. Drive or walk, he told her, it wasn’t far. Follow the road, curve past the old farmhouse, go through the gates, and then you’ll see it. “He might be on the roof,” he told her.
    “You work for him, I s’pose?” Barbara said. He looked to be somewhere in his twenties, probably a European student having a spring-through-summer work/study/play in Italy. He said that he did, and when she asked if there were more of his ilk about the property, he said no. He was the only one working on the farm at present, aside from the blokes who were working on the farmhouse and the villa.
    “Been here long, then?” she asked.
    He’d arrived only the week before, he told her. She scratched him from her list of potential suspects.
    She went by foot the rest of the way to the villa. She noted the size of the operation that Lorenzo Mura had going at the
fattoria
. Not only did vineyards fall down a hillside overlooking a rather stupendous view of mountain villages, more vineyards in the distance, and other farms, but olive groves promised a source of income from oil, and cattle grazing near a stream far below suggested beef products as well.
    An old farmhouse was under renovation, and so, it seemed, was the villa when she finally came to it. It sat at the top of a sloping lawn, and scaffolding covered the sides of it. On the roof swarmed half a dozen men. They were in the process of removing its tiles, which they were tossing to the ground three floors below them. This was a noisy business, accompanied by enormous clouds of dust as well as a great deal of shouting in Italian. Over the shouting music played at a volume sufficient for most of Tuscany to hear quite easily. It was old rock ’n’ roll sung in English: Chuck Berry was asking Maybellene why she couldn’t be true.
    One of the workers clocked her approach, for which she was grateful since she didn’t think she’d be capable of outshouting Chuck. This man waved and disappeared from view for a moment. Into his place stepped Lorenzo Mura.
    He stood, backlit by the afternoon sun, arms akimbo, as Barbara approached the villa. She wondered if he would recognise her from their meeting in London the previous month. Apparently he did because he descended the rickety scaffolding quickly and, in her opinion, with insufficient care. By the time she reached the area in front of the building’s great loggia, he was coming round the side of the place and his expression didn’t indicate that the red carpet was about to be unrolled.
    He spoke first, saying, “Why