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every three minutes. Six in all. Sergi had turned the hot water tap full on, the room was filled with steam … And yet the turtles hadn’t moved.
    Objects speak. Death is in the details.
    Sandra’s eyes clouded over again, and for a moment she was afraid she was going to faint.
    De Michelis came in. ‘Aren’t you feeling well?’
    At that moment, Sandra understood everything. ‘The gas fire!’
    ‘What?’ De Michelis didn’t understand. But she had no time to explain.
    ‘Sergi! We have to get him out of there right now!’
    A fire engine and an ambulance were parked outside the building. The ambulance was there for Sergi.
    He was already unconscious when they entered the bathroom. Luckily for him, they had been in time. On the pavement in front of the building, Sandra showed De Michelis the image of the little tank with the dead turtles, trying to reconstruct the sequence of events.
    ‘When we arrived, Sergi was trying to start the gas fire.’
    ‘That imbecile could have snuffed it at any moment. There were no windows: the firemen said the bathroom was saturated with carbon monoxide.’
    ‘Sergi was trying to reconstruct the condition of the room. But think about it: it happened only this morning, while the man was having his shower.’
    De Michelis frowned. ‘I’m sorry, I don’t understand.’
    ‘Carbon monoxide is a product of combustion. It’s odourless, colourless and tasteless.’
    ‘I know what it is,’ the inspector said ironically. ‘But can it also fire a gun?’
    ‘You know the symptoms of carbon monoxide poisoning? Headache, dizziness, and in some cases hallucinations and paranoia … After being exposed to the gas while shut in the bathroom, Sergi was raving. He was talking about cranberries, saying things that didn’t make any sense.’
    De Michelis grimaced: he didn’t like it. ‘Listen, Sandra, I know where you’re going with this, but it won’t stand up.’
    ‘The father was also shut in that bathroom before he started shooting.’
    ‘It can’t be proved.’
    ‘But it’s an explanation! At least admit the possibility that it happened like this: the man breathed in the monoxide, he’s confused, hallucinating, paranoid. He doesn’t faint straight away, the way Sergi did. Instead, he comes out of the bathroom naked, grabs the gunand shoots his wife and son. Afterwards he goes back in the bathroom, and it’s only then that the lack of oxygen makes him lose consciousness and he falls, hitting his head.’
    De Michelis folded his arms. His attitude exasperated her. But she was well aware that the inspector could never support such a farfetched theory. She had known him for years, and she was sure he’d be only too pleased if the responsibility for these absurd deaths was down to something other than human volition. But he was right: there was no proof.
    ‘I’ll tell the pathologist. They can do a toxicological test on the man’s body.’
    Better than nothing, Sandra thought. De Michelis was a scrupulous man, a good policeman, she liked working with him. He was crazy about art, which for her was an indication of sensitivity. As far as she knew, he had no children and when he went on holiday with his wife they always tried to visit as many museums as possible. He maintained that every work of art contained many meanings and that discovering these meanings was the task of those who admired them. That was why he was not the kind of policeman who would be content with a first impression.
    ‘Sometimes we’d prefer reality to be different. And if we can’t change things, then we try to explain it to ourselves in our own way. But we don’t always succeed.’
    ‘No, we don’t,’ Sandra said, and immediately regretted it. What he had said certainly applied to her, but she wouldn’t admit it.
    She turned to leave.
    ‘Listen, I wanted to say …’ De Michelis ran his hand through his grey hair, looking for the most appropriate words. ‘I’m sorry about what happened to you. I