‘Yes,’ said Zoltan. ‘My greatest treasure. But I am not going to sell you to him. I will keep the best for myself.’

In the end Amy was too tired to fight and the next day, wearing the ill-fitting yellow dress, she was loaded with Grace into the back of a canvas-sided military truck. The truck was part of a small convoy made up of two other trucks and an open car that moved slowly out of Terranova southward down the coast road. They travelled at a snail’s pace and had to make frequent stops as one or other of the vehicles broke down.

Zoltan rode alongside on a big white horse, his Samoan lieutenant at his side on an even bigger horse. Zoltan had his bad arm in a sling and seemed frustrated by the slow progress they were making and frequently lost his temper and shouted at members of his team. As well as the crewmen from the ship some local men had joined them: fierce-looking bandits wearing long black stocking caps. Amy had noticed them watching her and Grace, and asking questions, no doubt curious as to who they were.

The lorry was full of packing crates and, as much as for something to do as anything else, Amy tried to open one of them, working away at the nails with a cutlery knife she had stolen from the hotel.

After a couple of hours she managed to loosen the lid enough to prise it back and look inside.

She found a row of oil paintings and a marble bust that looked like it might be Roman.

She was just showing the contents to Grace when they felt the truck rock on its springs and she looked round to see one of the local men climbing over the tailgate.

He was clutching a bottle of wine and appeared to be drunk.

‘Buon giorno!’ he said and offered them a wobbly bow.

He smiled at Grace. ‘Come sì chiama?’ he said, and Grace shrugged.

‘What does he want?’ she said, turning to Amy.

‘I don’t know,’ Amy replied. ‘I think perhaps he wants to know your name.’

‘I am Grace Wainwright, from England,’ said Grace. ‘And I do not wish to be here.’

The man laughed and mimicked her thin, frightened voice, and then he patted his chest. ‘Mi chiamo Salvatore,’ he said and offered her some of his wine, nearly falling over as the truck lurched around a bend.

‘No, thank you,’ said Grace, pushing the bottle away. Again Salvatore laughed and copied her.

‘Please,’ said Grace. ‘Please, go away.’

The truck suddenly braked and they were all thrown forward. Salvatore fell in a heap on the floor, laughing like a madman. Grace tried to hide behind the packing cases.