Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

‘Dad and I are divorcing’ or ‘Dad’s dropped dead in his office this morning’ or anything for that matter. Point is, she’s done a successful runner, I’ve told the professor as much, and if there’s more to be done, I don’t know what it is and he’ll need someone else to do it.”
    “He told me you managed the last name. Angelina’s mother. Ruth-Jane Squire.”
    “Hardly a difficult feat. He probably could have managed that much himself.”
    “In possession of that and other details—addresses, birthdates, and whatnot—you and I both know that a blagger can go miles: banks, credit cards, postal boxes, mobile phone records, landline records, passports, driving licences. But you still say there was no trail?”
    “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” Doughty told her. “I might not like it, the professor certainly doesn’t like it, and you might not like it, but that’s how it is.”
    “Who’s Bryan, then?”
    “Who?”
    “I heard Emily mention Bryan. Is he your blagger?”
    “Miss . . . Havers, is it?”
    “Excellent memory, mate.”
    “Bryan is my tech expert. He did the more detailed work on the laptop from the little girl’s room.”
    “And?”
    “The result’s the same. The child used it. The mother did not. Which is to say there was nothing on it that could have been deemed remotely suspicious.”
    “Then why did someone wipe it clean?”
    “Perhaps to muddy the waters, to make it look as if there was something on it that needed to be removed. But there wasn’t. Now.” Doughty had been sitting but he got to his feet and his intention was clear: Farewells were in order and hers was the job of making them. “You’ve had your five minutes. I’ve a wife at home and a dinner to eat, and if you’ve a wish for a longer natter with me, it’s going to have to take place at another time.”
    Barbara eyed him. There had to be something else, if not here then elsewhere. But aside from sliding burning slivers of bamboo beneath Dwayne Doughty’s fingernails, she reckoned she’d got all she could from the man. She took a Biro from her bag and opened her chequebook.
    At this, Doughty held up his hand. “Please. It’s on the house,” he said.

15 April
    LUCCA
    TUSCANY
    H e decided that the encounter between them could happen most easily in a
mercato
. There were enough of them in and around Lucca, and the best took place inside the colossal wall that encircled the oldest part of the town. Piazza San Michele’s
mercato
was a now-and-then occurrence, mad with Lucchese from neighbourhoods beyond the wall who wandered in through one of the great gates for a day of browsing through stalls selling everything from scarves to wheels of cheese. But Piazza San Michele was also the central point of the walled city, making an escape from the place fraught with problems. That left him with a choice between either the
mercato
in Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi not more than a stone’s throw from escape through Porta San Pietro, or the decided insanity of the
mercato
that stretched the distance from Porta Elisa to Porta San Jacopo.
    When he thought about these latter two
mercati
, his final decision had to do with the atmosphere and with what sort of people tended to frequent each of them. Corso Giuseppe Garibaldi attracted tourists, along with a more well-heeled kind of shopper, and its offerings appealed to those with ready cash to hand over for its delicacies. Because of this, he found that the family did not shop often in this place. So he was left with the other.
    This other
mercato
stretched along the narrow, curving lane of Passeggiata delle Mura Urbane, which backed right up to the looming mass of the city’s wall. Frequenters of the place had to elbow between one another, and in doing so they had to avoid stepping on barking dogs and encountering beggars at the same time as they attempted to make their demands of
lo venderebbe a meno?
heard above the din of conversations, arguments, musicians playing for a handout, and people shouting into their mobile phones. Indeed, the more he thought about it, the more he realised that this
mercato
in Passeggiata delle Mura Urbane was actually perfect. Anything could happen unnoticed in the place, and it had the additional advantage of being quite close to the home on Via Santa Gemma Galgani, where every Saturday the family met for lunch. On nice days, such as this one, that lunch was served in the garden just a portion of which he’d been able to