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have hired some guys to take him out.’
    â€˜But why would the prime minister call me if that’s what he suspected? Surely he’d try to keep that quiet?’
    â€˜Maybe he has no idea.’
    Both of them fell silent for a moment.
    â€˜Where are you phoning from?’ The chief sounded alarmed.
    â€˜The car.’
    â€˜Are you out of your mind?’
    â€˜What?’
    â€˜Shut up. Meet me in the usual place in an hour.’ Garramone hung up, and the empty line echoed back at him. Scamarcio felt suddenly hollow. He was getting tired of this. He couldn’t spend his life going up and down to Via Nazionale, couldn’t spend his life lying to his colleagues.
    The chief was waiting for him in the flat. There was no suit, today being Sunday — just a worn jumper and some dirty mustard cords. Scamarcio wouldn’t have thought his wife would allow him to go out like that; on the few occasions he had seen her, she was buttoned down and immaculate. Garramone pushed a package across the table towards him, saying nothing. A quick glance told Scamarcio that it contained a new mobile phone and SIM card.
    â€˜I don’t want our conversations to be overheard,’ said the chief. ‘I’ve been told not to trust the normal lines. I should have given this to you when we started.’
    Scamarcio took a seat. There was an overwhelming heaviness in his bones. He didn’t like the way this thing was progressing. Worse, he had a feeling that it couldn’t end well for either of them.
    â€˜Seems like Arthur had a benefactor.’
    â€˜How do you mean?’
    â€˜I talked to a friend of his who lives upstairs: it appears that someone bought him two apartments in Trastevere. The friend lives in the other flat.’
    Garramone pulled out a seat and sank into it. He crossed one leg over the other, and then uncrossed it.
    â€˜Did the friend know who?’
    â€˜Says he never told.’
    â€˜And your money is on Ganza?’
    â€˜Well, it’s a possibility.’
    â€˜It’s a possibility but he’s out of bounds for now. The PM was insistent — says that he made a marital indiscretion, and that’s as far as it goes.’
    â€˜So what is the prime minister looking for, exactly? Does he know who’s behind this death?’ Scamarcio got up and started pacing. ‘And if he does, why did he bother to call you?’
    The chief sighed, and yawned. The skin around his eyes was tight; it looked bruised. ‘He knows nothing — that’s why he called. But he clearly doesn’t put Ganza in the frame, for various reasons, and not just the retreat.’ He paused, leant forward a little, pushed the palms of his hands together.
    â€˜Look, just see where you get with these other lines, and then we can think about taking it back to Ganza. But I don’t want to do it just yet, not now.’
    Scamarcio’s mind turned on Garramone’s new position. Was what they were doing even legal? Could the PM really get a detective to do his bidding, unbeknownst to the chief of police? Was it even constitutional? He paused. Maybe the chief of police already knew about all this. It would be so much better for the both of them if he did.
    Scamarcio used the new mobile to call Forensics on his way home. Lately, everyone seemed to be working at the weekends, so there was a chance that Manetti would pick up.
    â€˜What do you want?’ He sounded like he hadn’t slept since they’d last met, which was always possible.
    â€˜Why does everyone seems to work Sundays now?’
    â€˜Need the overtime — the basic is so shitty.’
    â€˜I hear the same story from everybody.’
    â€˜You ask me, we all need to leave, get the hell out. This country has no future: we’re broke, we no longer produce anything useful, and we’ve got a bunch of corrupt cretins in charge.’ Manetti paused for breath. ‘The wife wants to go to