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still taking medication?’ That evening Salazar had arrived with a bee in his bonnet. He had separated some files out from the rest, and now he put them down on the desk.
    â€˜Let me just check,’ said the sister, turning the computer screen in her direction.
    â€˜I particularly want to know who’s being given morphine,’ he added.
    â€˜All except 148.’
    â€˜Doesn’t he need it?’
    â€˜He’s already been given the regulation amount. It’s a rule. The patients need to bear witness to Christ’s suffering on the cross…’ the nurse explained, as though reciting by rote.
    â€˜Of course,’ murmured Salazar, running a hand thoughtfully through his hair. At that same moment he saw the woman from the evening before, going towards the exit. She was wearing a blue handkerchief tied beneath her chin, with a tuft of fair hair protruding from it on to her forehead. She was a hard-featured woman, with narrow eyes above high cheekbones. She walked with a firm, proud step, as though powered by some secret rage. One hand was in her pocket, the other on the strap of her shoulder bag. Salazar opened the file of patient 148: Marco Bonardi lived at Via Cornelia 327, in Monte Spaccato. He was looked after by his daughter Chiara.
    It was he, no. 148, who seemed the most alert. One afternoon Salazar had found him propped up on his elbows, apparently looking out of the window. The nurse came up to lay him down flat on his back again, explaining to Salazar that it was spasms of pain that caused him to adopt that unusual pose. Sometimes he would talk out loud, eyes wide open, but empty, staring out on to the darkness of delirium. Yet every so often it seemed to Salazar that those eyes would flash – in alarm, perhaps – as though he had recognised him as someone he knew. He was the old man who was visited by the woman with the rosary. All in all, Salazar was more suspicious of her than of him. He’d kept a close eye on her, evening after evening. Her grief was somehow too self-assured; too falsely spontaneous, allowing the onlooker to sense a certain calculated detachment even in the way she said her prayers. Nor did the rosary she handled so distractedly look right in her hands: they were fine hands, educated hands, which seemed almost to think when they touched things or tucked that rebellious tuft of fair hair back into her handkerchief. Because he had to start somewhere, the inspector decided to find out more about Chiara Bonardi.
    The next evening, the woman seemed to be waiting for him at the vending machine on the ground floor; or at least she didn’t immediately move away when she saw him approaching. She was sipping a cappuccino, warming her hands on the hot plastic beaker. Visiting time was just over. The relatives were filing out, a silent crowd of them thronging the entrance hall with its artificial plants. A smell of cooking wafted along the corridors. Salazar went up to the vending machine, put in a coin and pressed the button for an espresso.
    â€˜Good evening, might I have a word?’
    â€˜By all means.’
    â€˜Our paths crossed some days ago. I am a pilgrim priest. I’m in charge of the patients in the palliative care unit.’
    â€˜I know,’ she said quickly, hiding her mouth behind her beaker.
    â€˜We hold prayer vigils, we help the sisters and give a general hand with the running of the place.’
    The woman nodded, a flicker of impatience visible on her face.
    â€˜I know what a pilgrim priest is,’ she said with a strained smile, as though trying to be polite. She looked at the crucifix on Salazar’s jacket.
    â€˜We are also here to help the families. We know that these are difficult times. But life must go on, and there are so many problems. Is there anything that I can do for you? Have you children who need collecting from school? Elderly relatives who need looking after? Anything else that I could