Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

was followed by a boy not much older, and both of them were followed by Hadiyyah. The little girl—whom Salvatore called Bianca—began chattering excitedly, and it came to Barbara that she was speaking about her. She concluded whatever she was saying by speaking to Barbara directly with “
Mi piacciono le Sue scarpe rosse
,” to which Salvatore fondly told her that “
La signora non parla italiano, Bianca
.”
    Bianca giggled, covered her mouth with her hands, and said to Barbara, “I like the shoes red of you.”
    Hadiyyah laughed at this and corrected her with “No! It’s ‘I like your red shoes,’” after which she said to Barbara, “Her mummy speaks English, but sometimes Bianca mixes the words up ’cause she
also
speaks Swedish.”
    “No problem, kiddo,” Barbara told her. “Her English is bloody good compared to my Italian.” And to Salvatore she added, “That’s right, eh?”
    He smiled and said, “
Certo
,” and gestured her towards the kitchen. There he greeted his mother who was in the midst of making dinner. It looked as if she was expecting a horde of foot soldiers. There were large trays of drying pasta on the worktops, a huge vat bubbling with sauce on the stove, the aroma of some kind of roasting meat coming from the oven, an enormous salad standing in the middle of the table, and green beans sitting in a large stone sink. Salvatore kissed his mother hello, saying, “
Buonasera, Mamma
,” which she waved off with a scowl. But the look she cast him was one of fondness, and she said to Barbara, “
Spero che abbia fame
.” She nodded at the food.
    Barbara thought,
Fame?
Famous? No. That couldn’t be right. Then she twigged.
Famished
. She said, “Too bloody right.”
    Salvatore repeated, “‘Too bloody right,’” and then to his mother, “
Sì, Barbara ha fame. E anch’io, Mamma
.”
    Mamma nodded vigorously. All was right with her world, it seemed, as long as anyone entering her kitchen was hungry.
    Salvatore took Barbara’s arm then and indicated she should come with him. The children stayed behind with Mamma in the kitchen as Barbara followed Salvatore up the stairs, where a sitting room comprised the floor above them. At one side of the room, an old sideboard tilted on the uneven stone floor. There, Salvatore poured himself a drink: Campari and soda. He offered Barbara the same.
    She was strictly an ale or lager girl, but that didn’t appear to be on offer. So she went for the Campari and soda and hoped for the best.
    He indicated the stairs and began to climb. She followed as before. On the next floor was his mamma’s bedroom along with a bathroom making a bulbous extension out from the ancient tower. The next floor held his own room, the floor above it the room she shared with Hadiyyah. It came to Barbara at this point that she and Hadiyyah were sharing the room belonging to Salvatore’s two children, and she said to him, “Sod it, Salvatore. We’re sleeping in your kids’ room, aren’t we? Where does that leave them?” He nodded and smiled at this. He said, “Sod it,
sì
,” and continued upward. She said, “It would help if you spoke better English, mate,” and he said, “English,
sì
,” and still he climbed.
    They came out at last upon a rooftop. Here Salvatore said, “
Il mio posto preferito, Barbara
,” and indicated with a sweeping gesture the entirety of the place. It was a rooftop garden with a tree at its centre, surrounded on all sides by an ancient stone bench and shrubbery. At the edge of the roof, a parapet ran along all four sides of the tower, and to this parapet Salvatore walked, his drink in his hand. Barbara joined him there.
    The sun was setting, and it cast a golden glow upon the rooftops of Lucca. He pointed out various areas to her, various buildings that he quietly identified by name as he turned her here and there. She understood not a thing he said, only that he spoke of his love for this place. And there was, she admitted, a lot to love. From the top of the tower, she could see the twisted, cobbled medieval streets of the town, the hidden gardens that were barely visible, the ovoid shape of the repurposed amphitheatre, the dozens of churches that dominated the individual tiny neighbourhoods. And always the wall, the amazing wall. In the evening, with a cool breeze now blowing across the great alluvial plain, it was, she had to admit it, like a slice of paradise.
    She said to him, “It’s gorgeous. I’ve never even been