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but there was no suggestion that they posed him a threat. It was impossible to say for sure, of course, for it would have been simplicity itself for one of them to hide a gun or a knife beneath their towel, but Milton’s instincts had not been triggered by any of them. He took a final look to the left and the right and then stepped down from the stone wall of the promenade, onto the burning hot duckboards and then into the warm, soft, give of a sandy path through the stones.
    He followed the path to the main beach and then kept going down to the sea. He was wearing the flip-flops and he took them off and stepped into the wash, deep enough so that the warm water could lap up at his calves. He took off the shirt, too, mopping his face and then stuffing it into the pocket of the cargo shorts. To the left, until it disappeared in the autumn heat haze, the beach swept away in a slight curve towards steep cliffs. To the right was the rocky breakwater and the seawall on which the restaurant had been constructed. Fishermen perched on the wall, their hopeful lines cast out before them. Milton turned back, scanning the beach again. He could see the sunbathers better from this direction, some of them sheltering under colourful parasols. Further back, he could see the parking lot where he had left his Ducati, the obscene green of a golf course that catered to tourists with pockets deep enough to afford a round, and then, at the back of it all, the gentle climb of brown and green uplands and the mountains beyond.
    Milton’s eye was drawn to one of the sunbathers. She was lying on her stomach, her dark hair tied up in a bun that rested in the nape of her neck. Her skin was as brown as a nut, garlanded with little droplets of perspiration, the sun blazing down hard onto her.
    Milton went across.
    “Good afternoon.”
    She was topless, her breasts pressed down beneath her chest. She looked up, her eyes obscured by a large pair of sunglasses. Milton’s shadow fell over her back. She was wearing a red bikini that contrasted with her darkened skin and she was lying on a pastel coloured beach towel.
    “Signor Smith.”
    He felt her shaded eyes on his body, the tightly packed muscles of his stomach. It might have been that or perhaps she had seen his litany of scars: the knife wound in his side, the bullet hole in his clavicle, the evidence of his motorcycle accident on his legs.
    “It is hot, yes?”
    “Very.”
    He sat down next to her. The sun was burning hot.
    “Too hot for an Englishman?”
    “Almost,” he said, deciding not to tell her of the time he had spent in the deserts of the Middle East. This was hot. They had sweltered.
    “Why did you want to see me?”
    “I told you. You are a pretty—“
    She snorted, waving the compliment away. “I don’t think so, Signor. You want to know about Ernesto and the others.”
    “Only if it is safe for you to talk about them.”
    She laughed again, a bitter laugh. “Safe? Of course it isn’t safe. This is the mafia, Signor Smith. Worse, it is the Camorra . I have become too involved with them to ever be safe. Safety is for other people.”
    “What happened?”
    “How did I become involved?” she asked. He nodded. “My father was an important man in the organisation. He was Ernesto, before Ernesto was Ernesto. Do you understand?”
    “Yes.”
    “I doubt that you do.”
    Milton looked away discreetly as she arranged her bikini top around her, and then she sat up and took a bottle of water and a packet of cigarettes from her bag. She took a long draught of the water and offered the bottle to Milton. He drank.
    “My father was shot by a rival. His killer, too, was killed. I was involved in the family business long before it happened. I was seeing a man, too, a capo.”
    “And where is he?”
    She smiled at him. “He is dead. They are all dead.”
    She tore the packet open, took a cigarette and offered the packet to Milton. He took one, held it between his lips and ducked his head