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an almost unnatural silence. So much so that the Marshal was startled by a large wet leaf that brushed his shoulder and fell to the ground with a soft pat. The damp earth was deep in rotting yellow, red and brown leaves which nobody must ever have tried to clear away. The Marshal trod through them round to the back of the building. There was a swimming pool there but it had no water in it. A lot of the tiles were missing and it, too, was strewn with fallen leaves.
    The silence was suddenly broken by a trill of music, followed by a pause and then a tune played very softly. The music came from a ground-floor room where the shutters and the window were open. The Marshal walked towards it and stood looking in. It was the kitchen. It was large and had a wooden table in the middle surrounded by straw-bottomed chairs. On one of these a fair-haired young man sat playing the flute. When he saw the big, uniformed man in dark glasses he continued playing, staring at him all the while. The Marshal stood there staring back, his huge eyes taking in everything, from the young man's expensive-looking skiing sweater to the water coming to the boil on the cooker.
    'Can I help you?'
    The young man was still playing. It was someone else who had spoken, someone who had come round the side of the building and joined the Marshal outside the window. A second young man, little more than a boy, thin and brown-haired, dressed in jeans and an old tweed jacket.
    'I saw your car,' he stated when the Marshal turned to look at him, but the statement had the tone of a question.
    'I'm making routine enquiries,' the Marshal said, 'regarding the owner of this villa, Signora Hilde Vogel. Do you know her?'
    'No. I rented through an agency. They put an advert in The Times.'
    'In the . . .?'
    'The Times. The London newspaper.'
    'I see. You're English. How long have you been here?'
    'Almost a year. I paint.' He seemed to consider this an ample explanation since he added nothing further. The young man in the kitchen was still playing, watching them quizzically over his flute.
    'A friend of yours?' the Marshal asked, indicating the musician.
    'No. He's just arrived here. His name's Knut. He's from Norway. I don't know anything about him except that his English isn't up to much.'
    'Does he speak Italian?'
    'I've no idea. Would you like me to ask him?'
    'Yes.'
    The English boy had a certain diffidence which might be taken for politeness, but despite a strong accent and imperfect grammar he spoke Italian with a languid assurance that the Marshal found almost insolent though he couldn't have explained exactly why. He was talking to the flautist now, but the latter only shook his head very slightly and went on playing.
    'Ask him if he knows the owner of this villa,' persisted the Marshal.
    This time the music stopped and the young man said something and shrugged his shoulders before resuming his playing.
    'No, he rented through the agent, as I did.'
    'Which of you is John Sweeton?'
    'I'm John Sweeton,' replied the English boy, correcting the Marshal's pronunciation.
    The Marshal took out his notebook.
    'And Graham . . .' He couldn't get his tongue round the surname but John Sweeton put in immediately:
    'Graham didn't stay much more than a couple of weeks, though he arrived in July about the same time as Christian. He paid up the rest of the rent on his room according to the contract and then went off to Greece.'
    'Who's Christian?' The name wasn't on the Captain's list of tenants.
    'I don't know his surname. He's staying here on and off.'
    'Is he here now?'
    'No, he isn't.'
    'When do you expect him back?'
    'I've no idea. He comes and goes as he pleases like the rest of us.'
    The Marshal was beginning to feel out of his depth and was inclined to agree with his colleague. A right funny bunch.
    'He did say he was coming back?'
    'Why should he say anything? His things are still here so I presume he'll be back, that's all.'
    'Why doesn't he have a contract like the rest of