Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

placed them outside the door. Then he opened a tiny window high on the wall, which did little to remove the fug of smoke but at least acted as mild reassurance that their respiration could continue for a few more minutes without one of them keeling over.
    Bruno was in a corner of the room. He seemed to have been pacing the place. He began jabbering about wanting his lawyer the moment Salvatore and Barbara entered. Salvatore saw from the Englishwoman’s face that she hadn’t the first idea what Daniele Bruno was saying.
    He considered the request for an
avvocato
. The presence of a lawyer could actually help them, he decided. But first Signor Bruno needed to be a little more shaken than he was.
    “DARBA Italia, signore,” he said to Bruno. He motioned to a chair and sat himself. Barbara Havers did likewise and her gaze went from him to Daniele Bruno to him again. He heard her swallow and he wanted to reassure her. Everything, my friend, is well in hand, he would have said.
    Bruno made his request for his lawyer again. He stated that Salvatore could not hold him. He demanded to be allowed to go. Salvatore told him that this would happen soon. He wasn’t under arrest, after all. At least not yet.
    Bruno’s eyes danced in his face. He took in Barbara Havers and clearly wondered who she was and why she was there. Barbara Havers helpfully added to his paranoia by taking a notebook and a pencil from her capacious shoulder bag. She settled into her chair, rested her right ankle on her left knee in a way that would have made an Italian woman pray for her sartorial salvation, and jotted down something, a perfect nonexpression expression on her face. Bruno demanded to know who she was. “
Non importa
” was Salvatore’s reply. Except . . . Well . . . She was here on a matter of murder, signore
.
    Bruno said nothing although his gaze skittered from Salvatore to Barbara to Salvatore. Interesting that he did not ask the victim, Salvatore thought.
    “Tell me about your employment with DARBA Italia,” Salvatore said to Bruno in a friendly fashion. “This is a company your family owns, no?” And when Bruno gave a head jerk of a nod, Salvatore said, “For which you, Daniele, are director of marketing, no?” A shrug in reply. Bruno’s fingers suggested he wanted to light another cigarette. That was good, Salvatore thought. Anxiety was always useful. “This company manufactures equipments that are used in medicine and in scientific research, I understand.” Another nod. A glance at Barbara. She was busily writing something, although God alone knew what since she wouldn’t have the first clue what he was asking the other man. “And I would suppose that whatever is sold must also be tested to ensure its quality.” Bruno licked his lips. “This is true, yes?” Salvatore asked. “There is testing, yes? Because I see from my list of employees—your brother Antonio gave this to us just”—he looked at his watch elaborately—“some three hours ago—that you have a quality control department that your brother Alessandro heads. Would Alessandro tell me that his job is to oversee the testing of the equipments you make at DARBA Italia, signore? Should I call him to ask him this question or do you know the answer yourself?”
    Bruno seemed to evaluate all possibilities attendant to giving a verbal reply. His jug ears reddened, like overlarge rose petals attached to his skull. He finally affirmed that the products made by DARBA Italia were indeed tested by the department overseen by Alessandro Bruno. But when Salvatore asked him how they were tested, he claimed that he did not know.
    “Then we will use our imaginations,” Salvatore told him. “Let us start first with your incubators. DARBA Italia makes incubators, no? I mean the sort of equipments used to grow things inside. Things that need a steady temperature and a sterile environment. DARBA Italia makes these, no?”
    Here Bruno asked once again for his
avvocato
to be summoned. Salvatore said, “But why is there this need, my friend? Let me bring you a
caffè
instead. Or some water? A San Pellegrino perhaps? Or a Coca-Cola? Perhaps a glass of milk? You were given lunch, no? A
panino
from the lunch trolley would have been correct . . . You want nothing? Not even a
caffè
?”
    Next to him, Barbara stirred on her chair. He heard her murmur, “
Venga, venga
,” and he stopped his lips from curving into a smile at her use of his language, however she meant