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old. His parents brought him to her deathbed for a last goodbye to Nonna. She was dressed all in black, hands folded on her chest, a crucifix between her fingers. In the penumbra a shaft of sunlight made the hair on her face gleam. He bowed his head to please his mother and recited a random prayer, but he was worried all the while that Nonna would sit up in bed, and he couldn’t wait to get out of there …
    He woke up with a start. It was already nine o’clock. He got up, aching all over. Feeling impatient, he phoned Diotivede.
    â€˜Have you done the girl?’ he asked.
    â€˜I finished a short while ago.’
    â€˜Find anything?’
    The pathologist told him he had no news and confirmed what he’d already said before. The girl had been strangled and then violently bitten on the abdomen just after death, the teeth having penetrated rather deep. Nothing else.
    â€˜Shall we have lunch together?’ Bordelli asked.
    â€˜I’m too busy. I’ll have something delivered to the lab.’
    â€˜Ah, lovely.’
    â€˜Why do you say that?’ said the doctor, sounding offended.
    â€˜Oh, nothing, nothing.’
    â€˜My work is no different from any other, Bordelli. Why can’t you all get that through your heads?’
    â€˜You’re too touchy …’
    Diotivede hung up without saying goodbye, but Bordelli knew he would get over it soon enough. That was just the way the doctor was. He could joke about everything, but he wouldn’t tolerate even the slightest irony about his job.
    Bordelli put on whatever clothes he found within reach, shaved, and then got into his car to go to the office. The sky was clear, but a cold wind was blowing from the north. The kiosks were all plastered with giant headlines: SEVEN-YEAR-OLD GIRL MURDERED .
    When he got to headquarters the inspector sent Mugnai down to the bar across the street to fetch him a coffee. He felt very tired, and his thoughts were muddled, as if he hadn’t slept a wink all light.
    Late that morning Rinaldi came in to report the initial findings of the investigation into the murder of Valentina Panerai. They had questioned dozens of people who lived in the immediate area of the Parco del Ventaglio.
    â€˜We went door to door, Inspector. Nobody saw anything,’ Rinaldi said in an almost guilty tone.
    â€˜Carry on.’
    â€˜Of course, Inspector.’
    The policeman left in a hurry. Bordelli lit a cigarette and smoked it in front of the open window. He felt as if his feet were stuck in a bog. At a certain point his eye fell on the bottle of de Maricourt cognac he’d found in the olive grove, and he immediately thought of Casimiro. They’d talked a few days before, and the little man had said he would call again soon to tell him something important about that villa in Fiesole. He had seemed quite convinced and very agitated. The inspector had told him to forget about it, that it wasn’t very important at the moment, but to all appearances Casimiro had taken a liking to playing cop.
    â€˜I’m getting close now, Inspector,’ he’d said.
    â€˜Don’t do anything stupid.’
    â€˜I never do anything stupid.’
    Casimiro had hung up before Bordelli had a chance to reply, and the inspector hadn’t heard from him since then. It might not be a bad idea to pay him a call and tell him to stop playing spy.
    After their infamous evening together, Bordelli had even phoned the Fiesole police to find out whether anyone had reported the disappearance or killing of a Doberman, but there was nothing. It seemed quite strange.
    Although at that moment Bordelli’s thoughts were taken up with the murder of the little girl, this whole business had him worried. Especially as he hadn’t heard from Casimiro. Every so often the man with the black mark on his neck, who had looked out from the garden balustrade, came into his head. He was almost certain he had seen him before, but he