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cut him short. 'I think we should stop right there, don't you?' There was no point going down that road: it was a discussion they had had a thousand times before and it invariably ended with the cynical observation - one of his favourites - 'If all women aren't bitches, how come all men are sons of bitches?'
     
     
     
    8 p.m.: Michele Ferrara's apartment
     
     
    The evening news broadcasts on the local and regional TV channels had not given much prominence to the murder. They had simply stated the facts, without jumping to any conclusions. The journalists must be desperate for leads, and for the moment were keeping things vague. Some had even managed to get through to Ferrara's home phone - for some time now, he had arranged for calls to be transferred to him from Headquarters - only to be greeted by the answer machine. He and Petra had decided today that from now on they would only answer once they knew who the caller was.
    Ferrara wanted to avoid his wife being subjected to any more intimidation.
    Meanwhile, Petra had responded by making one of his favourite dishes for dinner: pappa col pomodoro. She put it on the table with a bottle of Rosso di Montalcino from the Antinori vineyards. It was a sign that, for her, life went on. They just had to be more careful.
    'Why don't you go and stay with your parents for a while?' he asked as they ate. He knew it was useless, but he had to try. He would much rather she were well away from danger.
    'Because I've only just seen them and because they can cope perfectly well by themselves. You can't.' 'Come on, Petra, you know I—'
    'Listen, Michele. What happened today isn't pleasant, but it's your job, right? You chose it, and I knew that when I married you. If we can't do anything about it, let's not do anything. If you can do something, let's do it. As far as I'm concerned, the only thing I can do is be there for you, and that's what I'm going to do.'
    'It won't be easy, you know. And I don't want to feel as if I'm under any more pressure than I ought to be. This is a situation where my nerves need to be even steadier than usual. I have to take things very carefully, step by step. I can't afford any false moves. Above all, I need to keep a clear head. Knowing you're worried doesn't help.'
    'Do you think I'd be any less worried in Baden-Baden? Don't be ridiculous, Michele. And the only pressure you're under right now is finishing your mash before it gets cold!'
    Ferrara filled the two glasses almost to the brim with the excellent wine.

 
    8.40 p.m.: Eurostar 9450, between Florence and Bologna
     
     
     
    I must go.
    Cthulhu is calling my mind.
    I must go.
    Cthulhu wants my mind.
    I am going.
     
    The words of the old book were dancing in front of Valentina's eyes, becoming blurred. She was tired: it had been a long, incredible day and it had really knocked her out.
    The train sped on through the darkness, wrapped in the mists of the Apennines. She was sitting comfortably in a first-class carriage: ignoring her protests, Mike Ross had insisted on upgrading her second-class ticket.
    Mike Ross. He had been a revelation. They had met by chance on an internet chat room a few weeks earlier and today she had seen him for the first time. They had arranged to meet in Greve, where he was doing research for his newspaper. She'd liked him, in an odd kind of way. Even those cold, piercing eyes of his had fascinated her.
    Yes, she'd liked him, and that gave her conflicting emotions. Would he be her salvation? Would she ever find the courage to tell him everything? Could she trust him?
    What a day!
    It had started with that half-made decision - she was never sure of anything, that was her curse - to take an additional course at the University of Florence, some sixty-odd miles from where she lived. If she did finally make up her mind, she'd probably have to find a room there and leave Bologna, which might be a good thing.
    An American stranger, Florence, black magic . . . And how would Cinzia