‘Your children?’

‘Sure. He was always talking to them about the importance of the family, of looking after your own, of loyalty.’

‘Did he think Ricky was still alive?’

She paused. ‘I don’t think so. I think he knew he was never going to find him. But he was looking for him, trying to work out what had happened.’

‘You’re sure about that?’

‘What?’

‘That he was investigating Ricky’s disappearance?’

‘Sure. He told me about it at the funeral.’

‘On Tuesday?’

She nodded. ‘We were standing beside each other at the burial and he whispered to me about his desire to sort everything out once and for all. Umberto liked the idea of playing the hero. He felt like he had to avenge those who had insulted his family. He got very worked up when talking about it.’

I listened to her as she spoke. She talked with precision and speed and I imagined she was a strict mother.

‘Have you thought,’ I said slowly, ‘that the reason Umberto was keen to find Ricky was merely this: he wanted his mother’s money and wanted to confirm his brother’s death. He didn’t want to share the jackpot with anyone else.’

She looked at me closely with her eyes almost shut. ‘I thought exactly the same thing. I can’t pretend I didn’t.’

‘And now that Umberto’s dead, it makes a big difference to your family.’

‘Finding Ricky?’ She laughed, amused at the optimism.

‘But it does, doesn’t it?’

She stopped laughing and looked at me seriously.

‘It makes a difference financially doesn’t it?’ I said again. ‘Your mother-in-law died and left an estate. Now your husband is dead and your boys might be millionaires.’

‘Sure. Sure it does. It makes a difference to my boys.’

‘If Ricky can be proved to have died prior to Silvia Salati,’ I wanted to make sure she knew the situation, ‘then Umberto inherits the whole of his mother’s estate. And now he’s dead, your children might be very wealthy. If it was the other way round, half of what Umberto was expecting goes up in smoke.’ I paused.

‘Of course it does, I’ve just said it does. Is there anything else you want?’

Her warmth had gone and she was preparing to usher me out.

‘Do you think the two are linked?’ I said, standing my ground.

She was shaking her head nervously, like a horse being badly handled. It was as if she didn’t want to think about the implications.

‘And last night,’ I said, ‘where were you?’

‘I was here, with the children.’

‘Are they in?’

She put a hand on my chest. ‘Keep them out of this. They’re mourning their father.’

I left her there and apologised for the disturbance.

I was sitting in the bar opposite the carabinieri barracks watching my hands move from force of habit. My thumb and forefinger took the corner of a sugar sachet and shook it before ripping it open and emptying the contents into the piping black coffee. My right hand took up the spoon and stirred it.

Every morning millions of us perform exactly the same gestures learnt from observation. Having a coffee is as ritualistic as taking communion and I couldn’t do it any differently to anyone else.

I stretched over to a next-door table and picked up the morning’s edition of La Gazzetta. Even the news was ritualistic. The way the whole Salati case was reported followed a tried and trusted path: the reporter used the same phrases that are used every time a murder is committed. This was the ‘Salati Giallo’. They never missed a chance to churn out the old giallo label. That word – meaning both ‘yellow’ and ‘thriller’ – makes dark crimes sunlit and exciting. In this charming country, even death is made sumptuous.

I read the rest of the paper. There were the usual stories: left-wing extremists scribbling threatening graffiti under the houses of union leaders and politicians; something about the motor show preparations; an article about the discovery of archaeological remains in the suburbs which would slow up the work on the metro; a visiting academic from Spain was compared to half a dozen people I had never heard of.

This is where all the carabinieri came for refreshment throughout the day. Dall’Aglio was late for our appointment and was immediately dismissive of my insistence on locating Salati’s keys.

‘Even supposing what you say is true,’ he whispered in the crowded bar, ‘why would a person keep the keys? If Salati was pushed, gravity was the only killer. If you haven’t got a murder weapon, the keys are as close as you’ll get. It’s like having a hot gun in your pocket. No one would have kept hold of them.’

‘Unless the murderer was under the impression that Salati’s keys were of importance, that they might lead to evidence which was even more incriminating.’

‘Like what?’ Dall’Aglio said impatiently.

‘Maybe Salati was investigating his younger half-brother’s disappearance when he was murdered. The murderer might have kept the keys in the hope of destroying any discoveries which Salati had committed to paper.’

‘It sounds very far-fetched to me.’

‘Everything’s far-fetched until it becomes fact,’ I said quickly. I knew I was clutching at straws, but Dall’Aglio didn’t seem concerned to clutch at anything. ‘There are other possibilities,’ I went on. ‘They took the keys, for whatever reason, and then realised what you have just said: that they were a smoking gun. So they ditched them.’

‘You want my men to find a bunch of keys which could be anywhere between here and Potenza. How do you expect us to do that?’

I shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But until they turn up, you won’t get a conviction in this case.’

‘I don’t mean to be disparaging, Castagnetti,’ Dall’Aglio said, ‘it’s just that I don’t see what, practically, I can do to test your theories. We’re talking about a case in which not only do we not have any leads to the murderer, we honestly don’t even know if there was a murder at all.’

I was impatient. When something needs doing, I like to get it done. I don’t mind Dall’Aglio, he’s a hard-working, honest official, not something there’s exactly a surplus of. But he’s a stubborn, officious official. He has to justify every action to his superiors and that makes him more cautious than a blind dog crossing the motorway.

‘When was the autopsy?’ I changed tack.

‘They did it yesterday.’

‘Who?’

‘Garrone I expect. I’ll check.’

I stood up and bowed sarcastically.

I would have to approach it from the other side. Slip something to the press to put pressure on him, or else hire some staff myself. I could have done with two dozen men to command like Dall’Aglio had. He could comb a field quicker than he could comb his hair.

I walked down the street and asked myself why I bothered. I always say it’s the money, but if that was the case, I would hire staff and we could film every infidelity this side of Reggio. That’s a racket if ever there was one. But like I said, I don’t do infidelity. It’s no different to blackmail in the end and you end up selling your pics to the highest bidder.

So it’s more than just the money. I go through all this dirt because I’m fed up with everyone settling for appearances, fed up with conceitedness and menefreghismo. I’ve had it with the good life, the luxuries and the reputations that no one wants to offend. I don’t think my line of work is anything special. It’s usually grubby and aggressive. It’s fraught and frustrating. But it’s honest. It’s a bit like gardening: you’re never quite sure what’s going to come up, you work hard and keep guessing, just trying to keep things alive. And once in a while you can sit back and think you might have made a tiny corner of the world a better place.

I walked towards the Ponte di Mezzo. The river was a furious torrent now. All the snow in the mountains was melting and the river was surging through the city. The water curled and crashed only a few centimetres below the arches of the bridges, speeding away towards the Po with its cargo of tree trunks and drowned animals. The noise was so loud that you could barely hear anything else. The water was pounding under the bridge, speeding past but keeping exactly the same shape, the same frenetic rolls and whirlpools.