The judge’s voice seemed to be coming from a great distance. The words “life imprisonment” boomed hollowly in Claire’s ears. Her notepad fell to the floor with a soft rustle and her head dropped into her hands.

Cordelia immediately put her arm round Claire, comforting her, a complicated mixture of emotions bringing her close to tears. She glanced up to the dock, where Jackie was being led away to begin her sentence. Then she turned back to Claire and murmured softly, “It’s all over.”

Claire raised her head. There were no tears, just a coldness in her eyes that had not been there before. She gazed over at the empty dock and slowly said, “No, Cordelia. It’s only just begun.”

1

Cavallino, Italy, January 1990

Death would be a welcome release. That was her first conscious thought. Behind her eyes, a dull pain throbbed. It seemed as if an iron band constricting her forehead were being slowly, continuously tightened. Her throat was so dry that it felt as though she were forcing down a lump of cold potato each time she swallowed. The last time her stomach had been as bad as this was on a long ferry crossing in a force ten gale. A sheen of sweat covered her body. She stirred tentatively and wished she hadn’t. Her limbs were stiff and aching; her legs and feet in particular protested. Bloody grappa, she thought. Bloody, bloody grappa.

She forced herself out of the camper van’s double berth and stumbled to the stove. The coffee pot was sitting ready. She had known before she went out the previous evening exactly how she’d feel now and had taken precautions. She turned on the gas and headed straight for the van’s shower compartment. Under the stream of warm water, she gradually began to feel less like the living dead. Two mugs of coffee later, her body began to feel restored. She pulled on a pair of sweat pants, a sweatshirt, and a pair of trainers and emerged into the daylight.

New Year’s Day had brought a watery sun to the grassy grove quartered by pine trees that had been her home for the last eight months. For most of the year it was a thriving campsite, choked with the caravans and tents of northern Europeans determined to extract the maximum return from the delights of the Veneto and the Adriatic. But now, in the off-season, the only vehicle left was the one from which she carried out her limited tasks as on-site watchdog and caretaker. She jogged slowly round the ten-hectare site, checking that all the toilet blocks, shops, and restaurants were still properly locked up and shuttered.