‘She’s not.’

‘So who are you?’

‘I’m looking into your,’ I wasn’t sure how to say it tactfully, ‘into your father’s disappearance.’

‘You going to find my father?’

I made a non-committal noise.

‘I almost hope you don’t find him alive.’

‘Why’s that?’

‘Because the thought that he’s still out there and, I don’t know, never wanted to see me…’

It made sense. If Riccardo was alive, he clearly didn’t care about her. When children are treated that way, they learn to reciprocate.

‘There’s no evidence that he’s dead,’ I said.

‘You mean you think he’s still alive?’

‘I doubt that very much. I think it’s very unlikely your father is still alive. But it is possible.’

‘And is my mother a suspect?’

‘Everyone’s a suspect.’

‘Except me.’ It sounded like she was smiling and I tried to imagine what she looked like.

‘You were two, right?’

‘Two and a bit.’ She laughed at herself. ‘I still say it like I’m proud of that extra bit.’

‘And when did your mother meet Giovanni?’

‘I don’t know. They’ve been together as long as I can remember. 1997 I think.’

‘And your uncle, Umberto. Do you see him much?’

‘Hardly at all. He calls occasionally. If he’s in the area he’ll drop in.’

‘He and your mother don’t see eye to eye?’

‘Umberto doesn’t see eye to eye with anyone.’

‘What does that mean?’

‘He only sees his own reflection.’

‘Says who?’

‘I do. He’s so vain he looks in the shop windows to check himself out. I’ve seen him do it.’ She paused. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t help myself being sharp with people. I’m, it’s like, I don’t know whether my father’s alive, whether my mother or my uncle were…’

‘What?’

‘Responsible.’ There was silence down the line.

‘You don’t know about your grandmother, do you?’

‘What?’

I waited, wondering whether the truth was a kindness or cruelty. ‘She died.’

‘Is that what all this is about? Nonna Silvia died? Is that it?’ She sounded as if she were losing control.

‘I’m sorry it’s me having to tell you this. She was buried this morning.’

There was a gasp and then the line went quiet. It sounded as if the girl was beginning to cry.

‘Listen, I’m driving. I shouldn’t even be talking on the phone. I’m going to do what I can to find out about your father. Just let me ask you one question. Have you ever been contacted by someone out of the blue?’

‘How do you mean?’ I could hear her sniffing.

‘Have you ever had any phone calls from a man wanting to talk to you out of the blue? Anyone ever hang around outside your school or write you letters? That sort of thing?’

‘No.’

‘All right, never mind.’

Back in my office I took out the white phone book. There was only one Massimo Tonin. The address was in a village on the banks of the Po.

When I got there, the villa looked grand. It was set back from the road by an avenue of poplars. There was a black iron gate and an intercom in a booth off to the right.

I peered through the iron railings to the side. There was a small lodge behind the main house. I guessed that was where they kept the domestics. It was getting dark and I could just make out a man clearing leaves from a ditch.

‘Hey,’ I shouted at the gardener.

The man looked up.

‘I’m looking for Massimo Tonin.’

He walked towards me, leaning his rake on the fence. He had a good-looking, weathered face with deep-blue eyes. He must have been in his fifties, but his bare arms looked strong and muscular. He had the rugged appearance of someone who spent most of his life outdoors.

‘Who are you, Mister?’

‘Castagnetti.’

‘What do you want?’

‘A chat with Massimo Tonin.’

The gardener came back a few minutes later.

‘Ring the buzzer, Mister,’ he said, ‘Mr Tonin will speak to you there.’ He pointed at the glass cage.

I stepped back and held the buzzer for long enough to appear rude. Eventually there was a click as someone picked up the phone from inside.

‘Who is it?’ said a lazy, disinterested voice.

‘Castagnetti, private investigator. You Massimo Tonin?’

‘I am. What do you want?’

‘A chat with you.’

‘We’re talking aren’t we?’

‘This isn’t how I talk,’ I said, staring at the eyeball behind the glass.

‘Why don’t you tell me what you want to talk about.’ The voice sounded distant.

‘I’m investigating the disappearance of Riccardo Salati’, I said, ‘and I have a funny notion he was your son.’

The man didn’t say anything.

‘I spoke to your granddaughter this afternoon.’

Tonin again didn’t say anything. I wanted to see his face, to see what his reactions were at the mention of Riccardo’s daughter. He hadn’t denied anything yet, which was a start.

Eventually he spoke very softly. ‘You’re right,’ he said, ‘this isn’t the way to talk about this. This is a delicate matter. Can I suggest we meet in my office at eight tomorrow morning? It’s in Via Farini.’

I grunted my assent and the line went dead. ‘Delicate’ was good. I assumed he was talking about the sex, not the disappearance.

I stared at the grill pondering whether to push the buzzer again. I watched the gardener who had gone back to his ditch. I wandered over towards him, as close as I could get, and shouted through the railings.

‘What’s Mr Tonin’s job?’

‘What’s that?’ the gardener said.

‘What does the big man do?’

‘He’s a lawyer. Retired now. Says he’s retired, but still goes in most days from what I can see.’

‘And you’ve worked with him long?’

‘Thirty years.’

‘Shouldn’t you be retiring soon?’

‘You saying I look old?’ The man smiled with a boyish glint in his eye. He dropped the smile suddenly and looked at me closely. ‘What’s this about?’

‘I’m investigating the disappearance of a boy from way back. You ever heard of Riccardo Salati?’

‘Means nothing to me. Was he one of Tonin’s clients?’

‘You could say that.’

It was dark now and the fog was like the inside of a damp duvet. I walked back to the car and flicked on the lights. They only made everything murkier. I could barely see the ditches either side of the road and drove slowly, only glimpsing the bends by the sudden disappearance of the roads.

Back in the office I phoned Dall’Aglio to get a bit of background on Lo Bue.

‘Lo Bue?’ Dall’Aglio said when I gave him the name.

‘Yeah, he owns a hotel out in Rimini. You ever heard of him?’

‘No. But I can run some checks.’

‘Do it.’ I said. ‘He owns a hotel called Hotel Palace. No guests for most of the year, so what he does with the space is anyone’s guess.’

‘Could be anything,’ Dall’Aglio said wearily. ‘Brothel, immigrant dive. Have you been there?’

‘Went round this afternoon. No one about but a bruiser and his boys.’

‘And Lo Bue’s the owner?’

‘I think so.’

‘I’ll find out.’ Dall’Aglio hung up.

I looked at the phone and wondered why Dall’Aglio was being so helpful. He usually lent a hand if he could, but he pleaded busy nine times out of ten.

I got up and looked out of the window of my office. I could see the entrance to the deli. Even in this cold, the door was open and coloured plastic ribbons acted as a threshold. I guess it saved on their refrigeration costs. I could see all the tortelli and cappelletti displayed on cardboard trays in the window.

Food is the fuel of this city. It’s not just the cheeses and hams, it’s all the sophisticated engineering that goes with them: the bottling machines, the slicing machines, the percolating machines – all are beautifully designed in those drab buildings along the Via Emilia.

Something had been bothering me all day and I couldn’t work out what it was. It’s worse not knowing why, because then I start going through all the things that might be bothering me and I’m there all afternoon: staring out of the window, unable to get out of my seat because there’s so much to do. I get like that sometimes. I speed around like a maniac for a few days, and then one comes along and I can’t even swing my feet out of bed.