Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

fished in his pocket to produce a key ring. Barbara got the Lo Bianco part, but it wasn’t until he opened the door with the key and called out, “
Mamma? Mamma, ci sei?
” that she twigged this was his mother’s home. Before she could clarify this or protest or say anything at all, an elderly woman with well-coiffed grey hair appeared from an inner room. She wore a heavy apron over a black linen dress, she was drying her hands on a towel, and she was saying, “Salvatore,” in greeting and then in a different tone, “
Chi sono?
” as her dark eyes took in Barbara first and then Hadiyyah, partially hidden behind her. She smiled at Hadiyyah, which Barbara took for a good sign. She said, “
Che bambina carina
,” and bending to put her hands on her knees, “
Dimmi, come ti chiami?
”
    “Hadiyyah,” Hadiyyah said, and when the woman said, “
Ah! Parli italiano?
” Hadiyyah nodded. Her “
un po’
” produced another smile from the woman.
    “
Ma la donna, no
,” Salvatore told her. “
Parla solo inglese
.”
    “
Hadiyyah può tradurre, no?
” Salvatore’s mother replied. She spied the duffel and the suitcase, which Salvatore had left on the doorstep. “
Allora, sono ospiti?
” she said to her son. And when he nodded, she held out her hand to Hadiyyah. She said, “
Vieni, Hadiyyah. Faremo della pasta insieme. D’accordo?
” She began to lead Hadiyyah farther into the house.
    Barbara said, “Hang on. What’s going on, Hadiyyah?”
    Hadiyyah said, “We’re staying here with Salvatore’s mum.”
    “Ah. As to the rest?”
    “She’s going to show me how to make pasta.”
    Barbara said to Salvatore, “Ta. I mean
grazie
. I c’n at least say
grazie
.”
    He said, “
Niente
,” and went on a bit, gesturing towards a stone stairway that climbed up what was clearly a tower as well as being the family home.
    Barbara said to Hadiyyah, “What’s he saying, kiddo?”
    Hadiyyah said over her shoulder to Barbara, “He lives here, too.”
    LUCCA
    TUSCANY
    In the way of all things Italian, they had to eat first. Barbara wanted to deal at once with the list of employees Salvatore had brought with him from DARBA Italia, but he seemed as intent upon having a meal as his mother was intent upon serving one. He did make a phone call, however, speaking to someone called Ottavia. Barbara heard DARBA Italia mentioned and then the name Antonio Bruno several times. From this she took hope that someone at the
questura
was checking into something. This made her doubly eager to get out of Torre Lo Bianco, but she learned that no one put Salvatore and his mamma off their food. It was simple enough: roasted red and yellow peppers, cheese, several kinds of meat, bread, and olives, along with red wine and, afterwards, more Italian coffee and a plate of biscuits.
    Then Salvatore’s mamma began bringing forth the ingredients for Hadiyyah’s experience in homemade pasta, and Salvatore and Barbara left the tower. Once outside, she saw that the building was indeed a bona fide tower. There were others in the town whose shape she’d clocked without really taking in what they were as they’d long ago been converted to shops and other businesses that disguised their original purpose. This one, though, was unmistakable, a perfect square soaring into the air, with some kind of greenery draping over the edges of the roof.
    Salvatore led the way back to the car. In very short order, they returned to the
questura
. He parked, said, “
Venga, Barbara
,” and Barbara congratulated herself on her budding understanding of the language. She went with him.
    They didn’t get far. Mitchell Corsico was leaning against a wall directly across the street from the
questura
, and he did not look like a happy cowpoke. Barbara saw him the same moment that he saw her. He came in their direction. She walked more quickly, in the hope of getting into the building before he reached them, but he wasn’t about to be played for a fool a second time. He cut her off, which in effect cut Salvatore off as well.
    “Just what the bloody hell is going on?” he demanded hotly. “D’you know how long I’ve been waiting for you? And why aren’t you answering your mobile? I’ve rung you four times.”
    Salvatore looked from her to Mitchell Corsico. His solemn gaze took in the journalist’s Stetson, the Western shirt, the bolo tie, the jeans, the boots. He seemed confused, and who could blame him? This bloke was either dressed for a costume party