Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

remotely recognisable. Then he picked up his phone and punched in a number. He turned his back, spoke in a hushed voice, and made some sort of arrangement, since his next action was to rise from his chair and tell them they were to follow him. At least, that was what Barbara worked out from his words since Salvatore trailed him into the bowels of the building.
    Things happened far too quickly for Barbara’s liking after that. The receptionist took them to a conference room where a mahogany table in the centre was accompanied by ten leather chairs. He said something to Salvatore about the
direttore
, which she took to mean that the managing director of DARBA Italia was the person they were going to see. That person showed up perhaps five minutes into their wait. He was beautifully suited and equally well mannered but clearly curious about the police showing up on his professional doorstep.
    She caught only his name: Antonio Bruno. She waited for more. There was very little. Salvatore spoke, and she strained to pick up
E. coli
from among the flood of Italian that came from him. But nothing in Antonio Bruno’s expression indicated he was listening to a tale of anyone’s death by any substance that DARBA Italia might have provided. After an exchange of seven minutes’ length, the managing director nodded and left them.
    She said to Salvatore, “What? What’s he doing? What’d you tell him?” although she knew it was useless to expect an answer. But her need to know overrode her ability to reason. She said, “Do they have
E. coli
? Do they know Lorenzo Mura? This has nothing to do with Azhar, does it?”
    To this, Salvatore smiled regretfully and said, “
Non La capisco
.” Barbara reckoned she knew what that meant.
    The return of Antonio Bruno didn’t clarify anything. He came back to the conference room with a manila envelope, which he handed over to Salvatore. Salvatore thanked him and headed for the door. He said, “
Andiamo, Barbara
,” and to Antonio Bruno with a courtly little bow, “
Grazie mille, Signor Bruno
.”
    Barbara waited till they were outside to say, “That’s
it
? What’s going on? Why’re we leaving? What’d he give you?”
    From all of this, Salvatore seemed to understand the last question, for he handed over the manila envelope, and Barbara opened it. Inside was only a list of employees, organised by each of the company’s departments. Names, addresses, and telephone numbers. There were plenty of them, dozens. Her heart sank when she saw them. She knew, then, that Salvatore Lo Bianco was engaged in the slog of an investigation: He would look into each person listed among the employees of DARBA Italia. But that would take days upon days to accomplish, and they didn’t have days before the Upmans arrived.
    Barbara needed results and she needed them now. She began to consider how best to get them.
    LUCCA
    TUSCANY
    For the first time, Salvatore Lo Bianco thought that the woman from London might actually be correct. He could tell when she began a passionate discourse that she had no idea why they were leaving DARBA Italia so abruptly and he certainly didn’t have the English to tell her. But he managed “
Pazienza, Barbara
,” and it appeared that she understood. Nothing happened quickly in Italy, he wanted to tell her, save the rapidity with which people spoke the language and the speed with which they drove their cars. Everything else was a case of
piano, piano
.
    She was tumbling through words he did not understand. “We don’t have the time, Salvatore. Hadiyyah’s family . . . The Upmans . . . These people . . . If you only understood what they intend to do. They hate Azhar. They’ve always hated him. See, he wouldn’t marry her once he got her pregnant and anyway the fact that he got her pregnant and he’s a Pakistani and they’re . . . God, they’re like something out of the Raj, if you know what I mean. What I’m trying to say is if we—I mean you—have to go through every single one of those names on this list”—she waved the manila folder at him—“by the time we do that, Hadiyyah will be lost to him, to Azhar.”
    He recognised, naturally, the repetition of names: Hadiyyah, the Upmans, and Azhar. He recognised, also, her agitation. But all he could say was “
Andiamo, Barbara
,” with a gesture at the car that was steaming in the day’s heat.
    She followed him, but she didn’t give up talking despite the many times he said with much regret, “
Non