Thursday morning. I had been getting dressed when the phone went. It was Mauro. I found the news more confusing than surprising.

‘Salati’, I heard him say, ‘committed suicide.’

I thought it was him telling me his take on the Riccardo case. It sounded like a statement about what had happened to the young boy. But his voice was urgent and it was barely morning.

‘What?’ I said.

‘Umberto Salati. He’s committed suicide.’

‘Are you sure?’

‘I heard it from a friend.’ Mauro told me the news. They had found Umberto outside his condominium early this morning. He had sky-dived from the top floor.

I kept hearing myself say I couldn’t believe it.

‘I heard this morning’, Mauro said, ‘when I was out buying the paper. Someone at the edicola told me.’

‘Is it public yet? Is it on the news?’

‘The radio said at six that a dead body had been found. They haven’t formally identified it.’

‘So how do you know it’s him?’

‘Because this guy seemed to know the details. He said Salati had jumped.’

‘I can’t believe it. You’re sure it’s Umberto Salati?’

‘Like I say, it hasn’t been confirmed. What are you going to do?’

‘He lives in Via Pestalozzi, doesn’t he?’

‘By the cittadella.’

‘I’ve got to go. Thanks Mauro.’

I threw the phone on the bed and finished getting dressed. It was freezing. I pulled on a jumper and went to put on the coffee.

Salati had committed suicide. Umberto Salati had jumped and I was the one who had pushed him to the edge. I had tried to break him and I had succeeded nicely. I don’t normally feel guilt because I live, if I may say so, a pretty clean life. But now I felt guilt like an ice-cube in the heart. If it was true that Umberto was dead, I knew I was to blame.

It was still early and after last night’s rain the sky was a slightly lighter grey than yesterday. I slugged the coffee and headed out towards the cittadella. The city was still asleep, just the odd bike or moped heading off to work.

As I got closer, though, there were people running towards Via Pestalozzi. It made me impatient to get there first and I started walking more quickly. There were carabinieri at either end of the street holding back people with microphones.

‘Is it true?’ I asked a man with a camera on his shoulder.

‘Don’t know.’

‘What’s the official line?’

‘They’ve found a body.’

‘Has someone tried to call him?’ I didn’t even need to mention Salati’s name.

‘No reply.’

I moved towards the carabinieri.

‘What’s happened?’ I asked.

‘There’s been a suicide.’

‘Have they identified the body?’

‘No.’

The carabinieri didn’t like privates muscling in, but I had to try. I showed them my licence but it didn’t make any difference. I got the usual, dead-pan brush-off.

There was nothing to do. I went and sat in the bar at the corner of Via Solferino. Other journalists started turning up. Someone from La Gazzetta, one of the staff reporters from the local radio station, the local Rai guy.

Carabinieri kept coming and going. The first reliable confirmation we got was when one of the neighbours emerged from the condominium.

He was immediately besieged by the journalists and he seemed to enjoy the attention.

‘Is it true it’s Umberto Salati?’ one of the journalists asked.

‘It’s unbelievable. Poor man. I had no idea he was, no idea he might…’

‘Could you identify who it was?’

‘Umberto,’ he said, hearing the question for the first time. ‘He was on his back, but his head was, it was horrible.’

I looked beyond the crowd. I had to get to the site, but it was still cordoned off. I had already shown my badge to the blank carabiniere this end of the street, so I did three sides of a rectangle, walking along Solferino to the Stradone, along that to Passo Buole so that I came at the street from the other end. An officer held up his hand as I approached.

‘Forbidden,’ he said.

‘I live here.’

‘What number?’

‘Seventeen.’ I pointed at a building and the carabiniere fell into step with me, expecting to accompany me to my door just to make sure. He kept looking back every few steps to check that no one else had ducked under the thin plastic ribbon.

I walked slowly knowing I would be allowed to pass only once. After they had realised I didn’t live here, I would be hounded away with a choice insult. I slowed down even more as I came to the middle of the street. There was an ambulance, two carabinieri Alfa Romeos, and an unmarked car that was so badly parked it could only be the plainclothes.

Outside the block at number eight were men in white overalls taking measurements in the courtyard. I crouched down, pretending to be doing up my shoe-laces and saw between the various ankles a man’s face.

The chin was unnaturally far from the shoulder. The yellowing moustache was red. I tilted my head and saw the con torted features of Umberto Salati: the thick hair, the round cheeks. It looked like he was asleep.

I had an involuntary intake of breath. Seeing it like that didn’t leave much doubt about life and death.

I pretended that I had forgotten my keys and slinked away from my escort. I still couldn’t believe it.

I tried to think straight. I had been in the game long enough to know that something was suspicious. This had something to do with Riccardo. Whatever had started a couple days ago had caused Umberto Salati to jump. Or had persuaded someone to push him. Because it was always like this. A case was never just a case. It became many, each one knocking into the next. What I had assumed was a cold case had become suddenly hot. A bit of gentle sport had become dangerous.

I felt under threat myself, as if I were somehow responsible for what had happened. I was often tense on a case, but I never felt, like now, that I was somehow at the centre of it. It might even have been my aggressive openness the night before that had unhinged Salati.

I hated not being at the scene of the crime. If this really was a murder, every minute was precious. You needed to stop people moving. You couldn’t let them into or out of the building. You had to do everything quickly: take statements, swabs, photographs, measurements, record number plates, request phone records, dust every handle and button in the building. I didn’t trust the officials to be anything like thorough enough.

‘What are you doing?’ The voice made me jump and I stood up quickly. ‘Castagnetti?’ The voice sounded surprised.

It was Dall’Aglio. He had the same uniform as the young boy who had been escorting me, but he looked much older. ‘You shouldn’t be here. I’m going to have to move you on.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said wearily.

‘What are you doing here anyway? I know you’re quick, but this isn’t even public knowledge yet.’

‘Tip-off.’

‘Always a tip-off, eh?’

I looked at him, trying to work out if he was malleable. ‘Was it really suicide?’

‘I can’t answer that, you know the rules.’

‘What time did it happen?’

‘There will be an official announcement later today.’

‘What floor was he on?’

Dall’Aglio didn’t say anything, but subtly put his index finger vertically upwards.

‘Top?’

He nodded.

I looked at Dall’Aglio. We had been out for a drink together a couple of times but now he was in uniform and this was different. It was pointless to throw more questions his way.

‘OK,’ I said, ‘OK. See you around.’

I walked a little further on and took out my binoculars. There was a row of trees shielding the building from the street. I moved further on to see the building better. It was a six-storey block. It looked elegant and large. Through the brass and glass doors you could see the dark banisters. The lighting was low. It looked typical for this chic part of town: large awnings overhanging balconies laden with leafy plants.