Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

best for last. He said nothing in reply. It was the least he could do to attain revenge. “The English police are sending a Scotland Yard detective.” Piero jerked his head at the television, at the recording they’d watched. “It seems they have no choice after the publicity.”
    Salvatore swore. This was not a development he’d anticipated. Nor was it a development he liked.
    “He’ll stay out of the way,” Fanucci told him. “His purpose, I’m told, will be to liaise between the investigation and the girl’s mother.”
    Salvatore swore again. Not only would he now have to attend to the demands of
il Pubblico Ministero
but he’d also have to do the same for a Scotland Yard officer. More exasperating calls upon his time.
    “Who is this officer?” he asked in resignation.
    “Thomas Lynley is his name. That’s all I know. Except for one detail you should keep in mind.” Fanucci paused for dramatic effect and, as their encounter had gone on quite long enough, Salvatore played along with him for once.
    “What’s the detail?” he asked wearily.
    “He speaks Italian,” Fanucci said.
    “How well?”
    “Well enough, I understand.
Stai attento
,
Topo
.”
    LUCCA
    TUSCANY
    Salvatore chose Café di Simo as their meeting place. In other circumstances, he might have met the parents of the missing child in the
questura
, but his preference generally was to save the
questura
for purposes of intimidation. He wished to see the parents as much at ease as he could possibly make them, and requiring them to come to the
questura
with its hustle, bustle, and inescapable police presence would not effect the degree of calm he wanted in them. Café di Simo, on the other hand, was rich in history, atmosphere, and delectable items from its
pasticceria
. It spoke not of suspicion but of comfort: a
cappuccino
or
caffè macchiato
for each of them, a plate of
cantucci
to be shared among all of them, and a quiet chat in the soothing side room with its panelled walls, small tables, and bright white floor.
    They did not come together, the mother and the father. She arrived alone, without her partner Lorenzo Mura, and the professor arrived three minutes later. Salvatore placed the order for their drinks at the bar and,
piatto di biscotti
in hand, led them to the back of the café, where a doorway gave onto the interior room and where, conveniently, no one else was sitting at present. Salvatore intended to keep things that way.
    “Signor Mura?” was how he politely asked about the signora’s partner. Odd, he thought, that Mura was not with her. In their earlier meetings, he’d hovered about like the woman’s guardian angel.
    “
Verrà
,” she said. He would be coming. She added, “
Sta
giocando a calcio
,” with a sad little smile. Obviously, Angelina Upman knew how it looked that her lover was off at a football match instead of at her side. She added, “
Lo aiuta
,” as if to clarify.
    Salvatore wondered at this. It didn’t seem likely that football—either played or watched or coached—would do much to help anyone in the situation, as she claimed. But perhaps an hour or two of the sport took Mura’s mind off things. Or perhaps it merely got him away from his partner’s understandable, unceasing, and probably frenzied worry about her daughter.
    She did not, however, appear frenzied now. She appeared deadened. She looked quite ill. The girl’s father—the Pakistani from London—did not look much better. Both of them were raw nerve endings and twisted stomachs. And who could blame them?
    He noted how the professor held out a chair for the signora before taking a seat himself. He noted how the signora’s hands shook when she put the
zucchero
into her espresso. He noted how the professor offered her the plate of
biscotti
although Salvatore had gently pushed it in his own direction. He noted the signora’s use of
Hari
in speaking to the father of her child. He noted the father wince when he heard her use this name.
    Every detail of every interaction between these two people was important to Salvatore. He had not spent twenty years of his life as a policeman only to escape knowing that family came under suspicion first when tragedy fell upon a member of it.
    Using a combination of his wretched English and the signora’s moderately decent Italian, Salvatore brought them as up-to-date as he wished them to be. The airports had all been checked, he told them. So had the train stations. So had the buses. The net of