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résistance was the gold-plated wooden bed, with a headboard inlaid with fanciful squiggles. On top of it was a great pile of clothes removed from the drawers. Bordelli rummaged through them. Underpants, vests, socks, all fine brand-name stuff. Beside the window was a small writing table with a black marble top and a rather fancy Leica camera on it. It was clear the killer hadn’t committed the murder during a robbery.
    The two drawers of the desk had already been rifled through, like everything else. Papers large and small lay scattered across the floor: old bills, money orders to be filled out, empty envelopes, stamps. Nothing of importance.
    He cast a 360-degree glance around the room. Hanging on the wall above the headboard of the bed was a print of a Quattrocento Christ inside a thick frame of black wood. Bordelli lifted it off of its hook to look behind it, and something fell on to the pillow. Setting the picture down, he picked up a small stack of black-and-white photographs held together by a broad rubber band. There was even a small envelope with the negatives. The first photo was of a beautiful girl in a bikini, very young, with long black hair. She was standing, leaning back against a door jamb and smiling innocently. On the whole, a rather provocative picture. She had a very beautiful body, if a little immature. But she wasn’t far from her full flowering. Bordelli brought the photos into the light and removed the rubber band. There were twelve in all. The dark young girl was as beautiful as the sun. Three of the shots showed her in a bikini; in a few others she was wearing a very short dress revealing two magnificent legs; and in a couple of others her breasts could be seen behind her folded arms. In the background, a few corners of Badalamenti’s flat were recognisable.
    Written on the back of each snapshot was a name: Marisa . He wondered why Badalamenti kept them hidden. Putting the rubber band back around them, he put the photos in his pocket and resumed sifting carefully through everything, with no results. At last he gave up and went into the sitting room, the last to be searched. It was a rather spacious room, with large red terracotta tiles and floral curtains that dragged along the floor.
    Between the sofa and the black leather armchairs was a low glass table that Badalamenti must not have cleaned very often. The only other piece of furniture was an unsightly modern glass-fronted cabinet full of glasses and bottles. The inspector opened both doors to have a better look. Cognac, whisky, Spanish brandies, all expensive stuff. Below, next to the glasses, was a tin can of the sort used for varnish. He grabbed it and pried off the lid with his house keys. It had grey putty inside. What the hell was a can of grey putty doing with the drinking glasses? He put the can back in its place and glanced at his watch. It was almost one o’clock, and he was starting to feel hungry. He would resume his search calmly after lunch.
    He went down into the street with the intention of walking over to the Osteria di Santo Spirito for a panino and a glass of red. Then he changed his mind. He got in his Beetle, drove through the centre of town and parked the car in the inner courtyard of police headquarters. The sky had clouded over, and it felt a little less cold outside. After spending all morning holed up in that ghastly apartment, he felt like walking for a while in the open air.
    Crossing Viale Lavagnini, he slipped into the Trattoria da Cesare, where for many years he’d been eating almost daily. As he entered he greeted the owner and waiters with a nod and exchanged a few quips with them. It was almost like being among family.
    The inspector never sat at a table. His place was in the kitchen with the Apulian cook, Totò, where he had his very own stool. He considered it a privilege, and probably would have made a stink if anyone else were ever granted permission to enter that paradise of splashing sauces and drums