“She didn’t go to Italy last November.”
“Well someone did. And on her passport.”
“That’s not possible.”
“Believe me, Mr. Ward. In my line of work, you suss out pretty fast that anything’s possible.”
He looked disturbed by the information. That was good. It meant he would be inclined to cooperate. His glance went from Barbara to the corridor behind him. They stood in the small square entry of the flat, where a mirror on one wall reflected a pricey-looking piece of modern art on the other. It was all lines and squiggles suggestive of nothing. But even at that, it did look as if the painter had known what he was doing, although Barbara couldn’t reckon why this should be the case.
She said, “Mr. Ward . . . ? I’m short on time here. D’you want to rouse her from her beauty whatevers, or do you want me to do the honours?”
He said, “Just a moment, then,” and told her to wait in the sitting room, which he called the reception room like some estate agent getting ready to sell the place. This was just off the corridor and like the entry, it was hung with a plethora of modern paintings and decorated with furniture that bore the look of Bathsheba’s distinctive design style. On tables here and there were framed photographs, and Barbara sauntered over to give them the eye as Hugo Ward disappeared to fetch his wife.
She saw that the pictures were of the happy, extended Ward family: the two adult children and their spouses, a winsome grandchild, the beaming paterfamilias, the devoted second wife hanging upon him. They were in various poses on various occasions, and they all reminded Barbara of a quotation that she couldn’t identify but knew that Lynley could have: Someone was protesting too much. In this case it was all about Aren’t we a happy, handsome group? She gave a snort, turned away, and saw that Hugo Ward had come to the reception room’s door.
“She’ll see you when she’s dressed and had her coffee,” he said.
“I don’t think so,” Barbara told him. “Where is she?” She crossed the room and went into the corridor, heading towards three closed doors. “Bedroom’s this way?” she said. “Since it’s just us girls, she won’t be showing me anything I don’t own myself.”
“You bloody hang on!” Ward demanded.
“Love to but you know the situation with time and tide. Is it this door?”
She opened the first that she came to as Hugo Ward blustered behind her, protesting every inch of the way. The first room was a study, beautifully appointed. She gave it a look, clocked more paintings and even more family photos, and went on to the second door, which she opened, singing out, “It’s wakey-wakey time. Early bird, the worm, and you know the rest.”
Bathsheba was sitting up in bed, a cup of coffee on the table next to her, and three newspapers spread out across the covers. So much for her having been asleep, Barbara thought. She eyed Hugo Ward and said, “Naughty, naughty. It’s not nice to lie to the rozzers, you know. Gets right up our noses, that does.”
He said, “Sorry,” to Bathsheba. “She charged in, darling.”
“I can see that,” Bathsheba replied tartly. “Honestly, Hugo. Would it have been too difficult . . . ?” She tossed a paper to one side and reached for her dressing gown.
Barbara said to Hugo Ward, “It’ll be just us girls, like I said,” and closed the door in his face. She could hear him engaged in more blustering on the other side.
Bathsheba rose from the bed and worked her way into her dressing gown. She said to Barbara, “I’ve told you what I know, which is absolutely nothing. The fact that you’ve come to my home before dawn—”
“Open the curtains, Bathsheba, and have a surprise. Sun’s up, birds are twittering, and the worms are dead worried.”
“Very amusing. And you know what I mean. You’ve come at a deliberately ungodly hour to rattle me and there’s nothing to rattle. This might be how the London police are used to operating, but it is not how I am used to operating, and believe me, I’ll be talking to someone about you and your methods the moment you leave.”
“Fine. I stand warned. My timbers are shivering. Now we can talk.”
“I have no intention of—”
“Talking to me? Oh, I think you’ll reconsider that one. You lied to me. I don’t like that as a general rule. When a kid’s been kidnapped, I like it even less.”
“What in God’s name are you talking about?”
“You’re in this up to your earlobes. Hadiyyah’s been missing in Italy for more than a week, and since you were in on things with your sister from the get-go—”
“What?” Bathsheba peered at Barbara as if trying to take a reading from her face. She shoved her hair behind her ears and strode to a dressing table, where she sat on its stool. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“That particular kite’s going nowhere this time.” Barbara leaned against the bedroom door and gave Bathsheba a long and steady look. She said, “You lied to me about not having seen Angelina in donkey’s years. You wrote emails to Hadiyyah pretending to be her dad, all nicely set up from University College by who the hell knows. And you gave your sister your passport to travel to Italy last November when she left Azhar.”
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“As it happens, Angelina’s given you up. On all fronts.” This last was a lie. The business about the passport was a long shot. But Hugo’s denial that his wife had been out of the country was helpful in the matter, so as far as Barbara was concerned, a good bluff was in order.
Bathsheba said nothing for a moment. Anyone with a true knowledge of how the police worked would have asked then and there for her solicitor, but in Barbara’s experience people so seldom did. This had always been remarkable to her. In their position, she’d shut it in an instant until she had an attorney alternately massaging her temples and holding her hand. She said, “So?” to Bathsheba Ward. “Want to explain?”
“I have nothing more to say. Angelina may have ‘given me up,’ as you put it—and one wonders where you police get your colourful use of language, frankly—but as far as I know I’ve committed no crime and neither has she.”
“Travelling on someone else’s passport—”
“I have my passport. It’s in a strongbox in this very flat and, shown a court order, I’ll be more than delighted to share it with you.”
“She would have posted it back to you as soon as she was safe. She would have taken her own with her but travelled on yours.”
“If that’s what you think, I daresay you have ways to uncover this. So phone up border control. Phone up customs. Phone up someone. Ring the Home Office. I couldn’t care less.”
“This whole bit about disliking her . . . You didn’t, did you? You don’t. Because if you did, why would you help her?” Barbara considered her own question in light of what she’d learned about the Upman family. There was little enough to go on, but one glaring detail explained a lot. “Unless,” she said, “it was about getting her away from Azhar. A Pakistani rolling round your sister’s knickers? Your parents certainly didn’t like this. What about you?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. If Angelina was stupid enough to involve herself with a Muslim—”
“And several other blokes at the same time, as it happens,” Barbara told her. “Did she tell you that? Or did she just tell you that she’d seen the light and had to get away from the ‘filthy Paki.’ That’s what your dad called him, by the way. What did you call him?”
But Bathsheba was looking at her oddly, Barbara saw. She was looking like a woman who’d just had a bit of a surprise sprung upon her. Barbara went back over what she’d just said to sort out what this surprise might have been, and she excavated it quickly enough in the idea of Angelina’s other involvements. She said, “Esteban Castro was one of her lovers. So was a bloke called Lorenzo Mura. She’s with him now. Lorenzo. That’s where she was going. She told you that, didn’t she?
No? You didn’t know it? How could you not know it? You told me yourself that she’d probably be with a man.”
Bathsheba didn’t reply. Barbara thought about this. She thought about twins and how these particular twins had grown up hating the whole idea of twinship. She considered how hating the idea of twinship could morph into hating the other twin herself. If that was the case—that Bathsheba indeed hated Angelina—then it stood to reason that she would help her only if she saw Angelina’s flight as worsening her position in life and not helping it. And if Angelina had known this . . .
“She didn’t tell you about Lorenzo Mura, did she?” Barbara said. “Or about Esteban Castro either. Neither of whom, by the way, is the least little bit like your Hugo out there.” With a tilt of her head, she indicated the rest of the flat beyond the door.
Bathsheba stiffened. “Exactly what is that supposed to mean?”
“Come on, Bathsheba,” Barbara said. “Angelina’s had a string of drop-dead men from the get-go. Look Castro up on the Internet if you don’t believe me. Look up Azhar and check out how he’s come along in the last ten years. And now she’s got Lorenzo Mura, who looks like someone Michelangelo would have sculpted. While you’ve got poor Hugo with that Adam’s apple the size of Yorkshire and a face like—”
She surged to her feet. “That’s enough!” she shouted.
“And he’s getting old fast, I expect. Which means sex isn’t what it used to be. Meanwhile your sister—”
“I want you out of here this instant!” Bathsheba said.
“—is getting her field plowed regularly. With a lot of skill. One man after the next and sometimes three at once—think of that, three!—and she doesn’t care whether they marry her or not. Did you know that? She doesn’t care.” Barbara had no idea about this last point, but she did know the likelihood that Bathsheba’s marriage was the only card she held that gave her the edge over her twin. She concluded with, “You didn’t know any of that, though, did you? You wouldn’t have lifted a hand to help her leave Azhar if you’d had a clue she was really running to another man. This one’s not married, by the way. But I expect that’ll change soon enough.”
“Get out of here,” Bathsheba said. “Bloody get out.”
“She uses everyone, Bathsheba,” Barbara told her. “Too bad you didn’t know it at the time.”
FATTORIA DI SANTA ZITA
TUSCANY
The film crew had been at Lorenzo Mura’s home for an hour by the time Lynley arrived in the company of both Chief Inspector Lo Bianco and the public minister Fanucci. Fanucci hadn’t been enthusiastic about Lynley’s attendance, but when Lo Bianco pointed out to him that the reassuring presence of the liaison officer from the British police might go far to keep the parents of the missing girl calm, Fanucci acquiesced to Lynley’s going along. He would, of course, remain in the background at all times, Fanucci said pointedly.
“Certo, certo,” Lo Bianco muttered. No one wanted to hear the opinion of the British police in this matter of the missing child, Magistrato.
At Fattoria di Santa Zita, they were welcomed by the telecronista, a sveltely dressed young woman who looked as if she’d come to television journalism via the catwalks of Milan so beautifully turned out was she. Bustling round with lights, cables, cameras, and makeup were the rest of the crew from the television news. They were unloading a van and readying an area in front of the old barn where Lorenzo Mura made his wine. There, a table of bread, cheese, biscuits, and fruit had been hospitably laid on for the crew. A table and chairs had also been set up on a terrace, wide stones overhung with wisteria coming into bloom. There had evidently been much discussion about this: the telecronista loving the location for its suggestion of springtime delicacy and the lighting man hating it for the complications it created in having to deal with shadows at the same time as he maintained the colour of the hanging blooms.
Fanucci strode to the location and gave it his approval. No one had asked for this, and no one apparently cared when he gave it. He said a few sharp words to a hapless young woman with a makeup case. She scurried off, returned with a third chair for the table. He sat here, apparently not intending to move from that point forward, and he indicated to her with an abrupt gesture that she was to see to his face with her powder and brushes. She did so, although it remained to be seen what she would make of his facial warts.
In the meantime, establishing shots were being taken by the cameraman: the vineyards falling off down the hillside, the donkeys grazing in a paddock beneath ancient olive trees, a few cattle down by a stream at the bottom of the hill, the many farm buildings. During this, the telecronista saw to her makeup in a hand mirror and applied a coat of spray to her hair. She finally said, “Sono pronta a cominciare,” to indicate her readiness to begin. But obviously, nothing was going to happen until Fanucci gave his nod of approval.
While they were waiting for this to happen, Angelina Upman came out of the winery. Lorenzo Mura was with her, speaking quietly. Taymullah Azhar followed, keeping his distance. Lorenzo seated Angelina at the table with Fanucci, and he bent to her and continued speaking. She looked much more fragile than on the previous day, and Lynley wondered if she was managing to eat or to sleep at all. He wondered the same about Azhar, who didn’t look much better than the mother of his child.
Fanucci didn’t speak to either one of them. Nor did he speak to Mura. His interests apparently lay only in the filming of the report for the nightly newscast. Anything that needed to be communicated from the police to the parents could come, apparently, from Lo Bianco or from Lynley. It seemed this included sympathy for their situation.
After Fanucci examined himself in the makeup artist’s mirror, they were given his approval to begin. The telecronista did her part first, reciting the salient details of Hadiyyah’s disappearance in the rapid-fire Italian that everyone on television in the country seemed to employ. She did so with one of the olive groves as her background. It was wisely chosen, serving as a nice contrast to the rust-coloured suit she wore.
Lynley didn’t try to follow her reportage, aside from listening for names. Instead, he watched the interactions among Lorenzo, Angelina, and Azhar.
Men were by nature territorial, Lynley thought, and Angelina was the territory upon which each of these men had staked a claim. It was interesting to Lynley to see how each of them demonstrated this: Lorenzo by standing behind Angelina’s chair, his hands on her shoulders, and Azhar by ignoring the other man entirely and folding a handkerchief into Angelina’s hands should she need it when the time arrived for them to make their appeal to the television viewers.
When the telecronista had completed her introduction to the piece, the scene shifted. The cameraman moved to the winery, where lights had already been set up. After a few words with the telecronista, he focused his lens on Fanucci.
Fanucci’s was, it seemed, the fire-and-brimstone section of the report. His speech was as rapid-fire as had been the telecronista’s, but Lynley caught enough to know that it was filled with threats and imprecations. The malefactor would be found and when he was . . . They had a person of interest to whom they were speaking and he would reveal . . . Anyone who was found to know anything that they had not yet transmitted to the police . . . The law did not sleep . . . The police did not sleep . . . If anything further happened to this child . . .
Next to him, Lynley heard Lo Bianco sigh. He took a packet of chewing gum from his jacket pocket, offering it first to Lynley, who demurred. With a piece for himself, Lo Bianco walked away. Fanucci in action, it seemed, was more than he could bear to watch.
When the public minister had completed his remarks, he jerked his head to indicate that the story was now to move to Angelina Upman and Taymullah Azhar. He rose from the table and walked to position himself behind the cameraman. There he stood like a prophet of doom.
The first movement came from Lorenzo Mura, who took himself out of the picture. There wa
s no need to confuse the viewing public. It was enough for people to know that in front of them on their television screens were the parents of the missing girl. To throw in the complications of Angelina Upman’s private life here in Italy seemed unnecessary. On the other hand, thought Lynley, seeing Lorenzo Mura on the screen might jog another kind of memory in the mind of a viewer. He walked over to Lo Bianco to suggest this to the chief inspector. Lo Bianco heard him out and didn’t disagree.
Taymullah Azhar and Angelina Upman made their appeal. They did so in English—Azhar, of course, having no Italian—and it would be translated with a voice-over recording in advance of the night’s broadcast. What they said was simple. It was what any parent in the same situation would have said: Please give our daughter back to us. Please don’t hurt her. We love her. We will do anything to have her returned unharmed.
Lynley saw Fanucci snort at the we will do anything, which—although spoken in English—he evidently understood. Clearly, then, the public minister judged it ill-advised to throw an offer like that into the vast maw of an unidentified television audience. There were people out there who well might lead the parents on a merry chase when they heard such an offer: “Hand over a bundle of ransom money and watch us run you into the ground with false information about your child.” Fanucci strode over to Lo Bianco’s other side and said something to him tersely. Lo Bianco looked noncommittal.
Finally, it was over. At the table, Azhar said something quietly to Angelina, his hand on her wrist. Angelina pressed his handkerchief to her eyes, and he brushed her hair off her cheek. The cameraman caught this tender gesture on tape at the direction of the telecronista. Lorenzo Mura saw it all, scowled, and left them to each other.
Just One Evil Act Page 24