Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

interminable exchange of Italian between Garibaldi and Lo Bianco in the reception area of the
questura
, they all decamped to Lo Bianco’s office. Salvatore indicated that Barbara was to accompany them and she did so, although she hadn’t the first clue what was going on and Rocco Garibaldi, his perfect English notwithstanding, did not enlighten her. Once inside the office, the unimaginable happened in very short order. Salvatore showed Bruno’s lawyer the television film, followed by the list of employees from DARBA Italia, followed by what appeared to be a report that she highly suspected was the autopsy information from Angelina Upman’s death. What else could it be since Garibaldi read it, frowning and nodding meditatively?
    All of this Barbara watched in a welter of nerves. She’d never seen a cop play his hand in this manner. She said, “Chief Inspector . . .” quietly and in appeal, then, “Salvatore . . .” then, “Chief Inspector,” although she didn’t know how the hell she could stop him aside from physically backing him into a corner, tying him to his desk chair, and gagging him.
    She hadn’t the first clue about what had passed between Salvatore and Bruno in the interview room. She’d picked out various words among the Italian being flung about, but she hadn’t been able to put together much. She’d heard
DARBA Italia
over and over, as well as
E. coli
and the word
incubatrice
. She’d seen Daniele Bruno’s growing agitation, so she had some hopes that Salvatore was putting the thumbscrews to him. But throughout the interview, Salvatore had looked like a man in need of an afternoon siesta. The bloke was casual to the point of virtual unconsciousness. Something had to be going on beneath those hooded eyes of his, Barbara thought, but she had no idea what it was.
    At the end of his reading, Garibaldi spoke again to Salvatore. This time, he brought Barbara into their conversation by saying, “I am asking the
ispettore
to allow me to see my client, Detective Sergeant Havers.” This, Barbara thought, was what a UK solicitor would have done in the first place, and just when she’d got to the point of accepting that things were different in Italy when it came to police work, they became more different still.
    Salvatore made no move to take Garibaldi to his client in the interview room. Instead, he had Daniele Bruno brought to them. This was irregular but she was willing to wait to see how things would proceed from there. She got no comfort at all when within less than five minutes Garibaldi gave a formal little from-the-waist dip to Salvatore, said, “
Grazie mille
,” put his hand on Bruno’s arm, and led him from the premises. It happened so quickly that she didn’t have time to react other than to swing round to Salvatore and cry, “What the bloody hell?” to which he smiled and gave that Italian shrug of his.
    She cried, “Why did you let him
go
? Why did you show him that TV film? Why did you tell him about DARBA Italia? Why did you give him . . . Oh, I know he would’ve got to see everything eventually, at least I think he would’ve because God knows I haven’t a clue what goes in this country, but for God’s sake you could have pretended . . . you could have suggested . . . But now he knows your hand—which, let’s face it, is bloody empty—and all he has to do is to tell Bruno to keep his mug plugged from now till the end of time because all we have is supposition anyway and unless you blokes practise some very strange form of justice over here
no
one is going to gaol based on supposition, and that includes Daniele Bruno. Oh, bloody hell why don’t you speak English, Salvatore?”
    To all of this Salvatore nodded sympathetically. For a moment, Barbara thought he actually understood, if not from her words then from her tone. But then, maddeningly, he said, “
Aspetti, Barbara
.” And with a smile, “
Vorrebbe un caffè?
”
    “No, I do not want a cup of bloody coffee!” she fairly shouted at him.
    He smiled at this. “
Lei capisce!
” he cried. “
Va bene!
”
    To which she said with sagging shoulders, “Just tell me why you let him go, for God’s sake. All he has to do is ring up Lorenzo Mura and we’re cooked. You see that, don’t you?”
    He gazed at her, as if some kind of understanding would come from a close reading of her eyes. She found herself getting hot under his scrutiny. Finally, she said, “Oh, sod it,” and dug her packet of Players from her