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sure.’
    He followed her retreating back as she headed for the kitchen. It lay behind a wide annexe that opened onto an oak table and chairs. He caught a glimpse of stainless-steel cabinets and expensive tiling. He heard the clinking of glasses, liquid being poured, and ice broken, and then she was back again with a tumbler of something clear — maybe water, maybe vodka.
    She reclaimed the seat opposite and started taking tentative sips, as if she wasn’t quite sure whether she wanted the drink after all. They sat in silence for several moments.
    â€˜I think he had a patron,’ she said eventually. Scamarcio’s thoughts had been elsewhere.
    â€˜A patron?’ Perhaps her Italian was letting her down. The word didn’t quite make sense to him.
    â€˜A sponsor — someone who looked after him, gave him money.’
    He leaned forward slightly, trying to lock eye contact. ‘He or she must have been a very generous sponsor.’
    Ms Santa nodded slowly and pulled at the dry tips of her hair scraped into the ponytail. ‘He never told me this, you understand. It was just a feeling I had. I got the sense that if I asked too much, it would all be over — that if I wanted to keep this place, I had to accept the way things were, and not pry.’ She paused. ‘So I never asked, and he never told, and it all ticked over just fine.’ She paused again. ‘Until now.’

7
    He stands on the terrace of the villa near Radda. It is the end of summer, and only the smallest wisp of red still clings to the horizon. As the light bleeds from the sky, he feels the day’s heat rise up from the earth, and hears the gentle murmur of the cypresses as they shift in the breeze. He is reluctant to go inside; he would prefer to stand here longer, tasting the air, swimming awhile in the musk of roses, the scent of Mediterranean pine.
    From inside, Lucioli shouts: ‘I think they’re here. There are cars on the drive.’
    As if in confirmation, he hears the crunch of tyres on gravel, the slam of doors. He wills himself inside.
    Lucioli is standing in the light, drink in hand.
    â€˜You sure this makes sense?’ he asks him for the third time that day.
    â€˜The banks are on our backs, Pino. Of course it makes sense. We need cash; they need a home. It’s what they call a symbiotic relationship.’
    â€˜But it’s afterwards I’m worried about — the repercussions.’
    Lucioli sighs, and runs a hand through his hair. ‘Without these guys, there is no afterwards.’
    The door opens, and two men step into the room. He feels his breath catch, feels it freeze in his lungs.
    â€˜I bet you never thought you’d see us again.’
    They move towards him, almost in sync, but he just stands motionless, suddenly severed from the world.
    Uninvited, they put their arms around him, enfolding him in an iron embrace. ‘Pino, our Pino.’
    Lucioli says afterwards that he looked like he’d seen a ghost.
    â€˜ I NEED TO speak to Ganza.’
    â€˜That’s not possible,’ said the chief. He sounded tired and depressed, as though he wanted to escape — to take the car and get the hell out of Italy.
    â€˜Why not?’
    â€˜Because he’s not to be disturbed. Besides, he’s in the retreat. We can’t just go waltzing in.’
    Scamarcio felt a knot of anger burn in his gut. ‘You know that’s not how these things work!’ Was the chief losing it? For now, Ganza was their chief suspect; their only suspect.
    â€˜Don’t talk to me like that.’
    He took a breath, trying to count to five. ‘It’s just that he’s crucial to the whole investigation.’ Then, as an afterthought: ‘Obviously.’
    â€˜But he was in the retreat when Arthur died.’
    It was as if Garramone had forgotten his training, and Scamarcio was there to drag him back to rational reality. ‘For all we know, he could