Free The Bad Samaritan by Robert Barnard Page A

understand? They speak my language.”
    â€œOf course, of course. Now—I think it’s time for bed for you, my lad.”
    Rosemary noticed that Paul’s tone had become fatherly—and fatherly as if towards quite a young child. Yet he knew Stanko was married with a child of his own. Somehow his reaction was not unlike her own to Stanko’s air of well-meaning bewilderment.
    In bed later on Paul said, “you know, I’ve been thinking, and I think the personal touch is called for here. I think we should go to Gianni’s for lunch.”
    Rosemary frowned.
    â€œI suppose it’s the best we can do. Gianni is a dear, of course, but we can hardly pretend that we’re regular customers.”
    â€œGianni gives me a little of the respect he would give to one of his own priests,” said Paul, amusement in his voice. “I don’t expect him to offer the boy a job, but he could wise us up on the best avenues of approach.”
    â€œThat’s true. I’ll give Stanko the run of the cupboards and the deep freeze for his lunch and we’ll go out. It seems ages since we had lunch out together.”
    â€œYou think I was right about his lying low while he’s here?”
    â€œVery much so. There are eyes watching us—cat’s eyes.”
    â€œIt’s sad for the lad to be cooped up.”
    â€œOh rubbish, Paul: Think what he’d be if he was in Sarajevo or Gorazde. And he knows that, poor man, only too well . . . . Oh, and thanks, Paul.”
    He looked at her in astonishment.
    â€œYou didn’t think there was any question of my handing him over or showing him the door, I hope, Rosemary?”
    â€œNo,” she said, not entirely truthfully. “But I’m just saying ‘thank you’ to some body, some thing, for having married me to a man who wouldn’t consider doing that.”
    The next day they went to Gianni’s late on, leaving behind a Stanko who looked much better—less hungry, more relaxed—and was anxious to be useful around the house. They suggested it was best if he didn’t answer the door or the telephone. Gianni’s was an unpretentious but warm and inviting trattoria off the Ilkley Road. It was moderately full with lunchtime eaters when they arrived at one fifteen, to a genial but respectful welcome from Gianni himself. By the time they had had their soup and pasta it was two o’clock, and most of the customers had disappeared back to work.
    â€œYou not like something else? Ice-cream? Zabaglione? Coffee?” Gianni enquired.
    â€œTwo coffees, please—cappuccino,” said Paul. “And we would like a word with you if you have a moment.” Gianni nodded, apparently pleased and flattered, and five minutes later he came back with the coffee and sat himself at their table.
    â€œHow can I ’elp? You want to come over to the Cat’olics, like a lot of your priests and politicians?”
    â€œNot this week, maybe next,” said Paul. They all chuckled. Gianni was a genuinely devout Catholic.
    â€œWoman priests! What an atrocity!” He saw a look in Rosemary’s eyes, and quickly said, “But we don’t quarrel, eh?”
    â€œI’m sure we won’t,” said Paul, ever the conciliator. “I’m sad about the priests, but you’re welcome to the politicians. What wewant is advice. We want to know—” he looked around him and lowered his voice—“how to go about finding a job in the catering or hotel trade for someone who . . . who doesn’t have all the necessary paper work.”
    Gianni shot him a quick, suspicious glance, but seemed reassured by the clerical collar which Paul had taken care to wear. It was a useful piece of superstition and seemed to work even though Paul had his wife with him.
    â€œForgive me. One ’as to be careful.”
    â€œOf course. We’re trying to be.”
    â€œNot