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what it did to me.’
    ‘You ate a poisonous plant.’
    ‘So it was poisonous.’
    ‘Perhaps it was not. If I ask you to go to the hospital, you won’t, will you?’
    Blume avoided the doctor’s eyes.
    ‘This is a clinic. We specialize in urology, really. That is to say, a urologist whose brother’s a bishop has managed to persuade some nuns to run what is essentially a private practice . . .’
    ‘A friend of yours, I gather.’
    ‘A cousin, actually. The point is, here is no good. Will you allow me to make a few guesses and then a suggestion?’
    Blume propped himself up on his pillows. ‘Sure.’
    ‘You are reluctant to go to hospital,’ Bernardini paused to see if Blume would object. ‘I see. J’ai raison . About that. Well, that’s good inasmuch as it suggests you are feeling strong enough to resist good advice. But I will say at this point that you might simply drop down dead.’
    ‘As might you,’ said Blume.
    ‘As might I,’ agreed Bernardini, rubbing his hands in what seemed like eager anticipation of the moment. ‘I am also guessing that there is someone back in Rome you would prefer not to see, or be seen by. So my suggestion is that if you are planning to stay here in town for a few days, let me check up on you.’
    ‘No need. I can leave immediately. This very moment, in fact.’
    ‘No, Commissioner, that is not what I meant.’
    Blume sat back and regarded Bernardini levelly, allowing the silence between them to lengthen.
    ‘ Putain! I just called you Commissioner, didn’t I? Blume is not a common name. I looked up your medical records.’
    ‘As any conscientious doctor would do.’
    ‘So not a tax accountant after all.’
    ‘No. I am on leave.’
    ‘You work in the murder squad?’
    ‘ Squadra mobile , yes.’
    ‘It must be stressful. That would explain your poor health and cagey manner.’
    ‘Also explains the Nisi . . . that thing that makes my eyes watch out what’s going on nearby.’
    ‘Nystagmus. Except you better hope your enemies come at you from the left. Are you here about the missing girl?’
    ‘What missing girl?’
    ‘Ah!’ He winked and ran his thumb down his cheek. ‘I understand.’
    ‘No ah ! No, you don’t. I know nothing of any missing girl, Dottore.’
    ‘Call me Bruno.’
    ‘OK, Bruno. One thing, I’d prefer it if you didn’t mention to anyone . . .’
    ‘About the girl?’
    ‘No, I just said . . .’
    ‘About your mini-stroke?’
    ‘Not that either. Just that I am a cop. It raises some expectations, lowers many more.’
    ‘Oh, of course!’
    ‘You already have, haven’t you?’
    ‘No! I have said nothing. Rien .’
    Blume could see he had, but it made no difference. His five days of relaxation, during which time he had planned not to let anyone know what he did for a living, were not going to happen.

Chapter 5
    Niki Solito, up and about earlier than he liked, blew his nose long and hard into a snow-white cotton handkerchief. He folded it and its contents and placed them carefully in his left pocket. From his right pocket, he drew out a second handkerchief, this one a pale green, and dabbed his damp forehead. He folded and put away this handkerchief, too, double-checking it had gone into the correct pocket. He sat down, breathing heavily, on a rickety chair outside the gate lodge where he had expected to find Silvana, on what would have been the second morning of her Bach Flowers lessons. She would take it out on him, of course. She always did. She would blame him for the cancellation, say he had always been dead set against the idea, whereas in fact he had just never seen the point. Money was not a problem.
    He dropped his satchel onto the ground before him, opened it, and lifted out a small pile of freshly laundered handkerchiefs, which he placed on his lap. He then dug his hand back in and pulled out the black leather insulin kitbag. Inside there, he knew, everything was in place. He did not need that. Pulling it out had been