Inspector Lynley 18 - Just One Evil Act

than merely acquainted with Taymullah Azhar.
    Lo Bianco watched him closely as he spoke. He nodded and seemed appeased by all of this. He said knowingly, “Ah, your UK tabloids,” in a fashion that indicated Italy did not itself suffer from the same sort of gutter journalism that went on in England, but then he relented and said, “Here, too,” and he went to his desk, where, from a briefcase, he brought out a paper called
Prima Voce
. Its front page, Lynley saw, bore the headline
Dov’è la bambina?
It also featured a picture of a man kneeling in the street somewhere in Lucca, his head bent and a hand-lettered sign reading
Ho fame
in his hands. For a crazy moment, Lynley thought this was a form of strange Italian punishment akin to being held in the stocks for public ridicule. But the man turned out to be the only person of interest the police had come up with: an inveterate drug user called Carlo Casparia who had seen Hadiyyah on the morning of her disappearance. He’d been in for questioning twice, the second time at the request of
il Pubblico Ministero
himself. This man, Piero Fanucci, had become convinced that Carlo was involved in the child’s disappearance.
    “
Perché?
”
    “At first because of the drugs themselves and his need to purchase more. Now because he has not been in the
mercato
to beg since the girl disappeared.” Lo Bianco produced a philosophical expression. “
Il Pubblico Ministero?
He thinks this is an indication of guilt.”
    “And you?”
    Lo Bianco smiled, seeming pleased at having been read by his fellow detective. “I think Carlo does not wish to be further harassed by the police and, until this matter is settled, will not return to the
mercato
where he can be easily picked up for more questions. But you see, it is an important matter to the
magistrato
—and to the public—that progress be made. And this questioning of Carlo, it looks like progress. You will see that for yourself, I think.”
    What he meant by this last statement became clear when Lo Bianco suggested Lynley meet the public minister. He was in Piazza Napoleone—“Piazza Grande, we call it,” he said—which was not far, but they would drive. “The privilege of the police,” he said, for few vehicles were allowed within the city’s wall, where most people either walked, rode bicycles, or took the tiny buses that scooted along with virtually no sound.
    In Piazza Grande, they entered an enormous
palazzo
converted—like the vast majority of such buildings in Italy—into a use far removed from its original one. They climbed a wide stairway to the offices of Piero Fanucci. They were shown into his office without ado by a secretary whose surprised “
Di nuovo, Salvatore?
” indicated this was not Lo Bianco’s first visit to the magistrate that day.
    Piero Fanucci, the public minister in charge of the investigation and, as was customary in Italy, the man who would ultimately prosecute the case, did not look up from the work upon which he was intent when Lo Bianco and Lynley entered. Lynley recognised this move for what it was, and when Lo Bianco shot him a look, he lifted one shoulder an inch. It was not necessary, this gesture told Lo Bianco, that he be welcomed to Italy with open arms.
    “
Magistrato
,” Lo Bianco said, “this is the Scotland Yard officer, Thomas Lynley.”
    Fanucci made a noise somewhere between his nose and his throat. He shuffled papers. He signed two documents. He punched a button on his phone and barked at his secretary. In a moment she entered and removed from in front of him several manila folders, replacing them with others. He began to look through them. Lo Bianco bristled.
    “
Basta, Piero
,” Lo Bianco said. “
Sono occupato, eh?
”
    At this declaration, Piero Fanucci looked up. Clearly, he was not in a mood to care particularly about how busy the chief inspector might be. He said, “
Anch’io,
Topo
,” and in response Lynley saw the chief inspector’s jaw set, either at being called “mouse” by the public minister or at the man’s lack of cooperation. Then Fanucci directed his gaze at Lynley. He was ugly beyond measure, and he spoke without the slightest attempt to ensure that Lynley understood his Italian, which was heavily accented, dropping endings off the words in the manner of the southern part of the country. Lynley picked up the gist more by the man’s tone than anything else. Either because he felt it or because he found it useful, outrage was what