Beyond the last few hairpin turns, on an elevated plain suspended over the bottom of the valley, lay the settlement of Travenì. It was a village ensconced in the hollow formed by a surrounding ring of peaks. Its homes, built in the alpine style, were made of stone and wood; the scent of resin emanated from tidy stacks of wood outside every door. The style of the buildings changed near the small area that constituted the town center, where the buildings were taller, pastel-colored, with Nordic-looking attics, ivy for Christmas decorations, and red bows on the balconies. Along the high street were some traditional diners and restaurants, as well as a grocery store and two coffee shops. Teenagers milled about in packs outside the pub, nursing glasses of mulled wine with their snowboards tucked under their arms; the ski slopes weren’t far. There was also room for a pharmacy and a couple of high-end clothing stores for tourists.

The owner of the tractor had left Massimo and his car in the town’s main square, refusing the money the stranger kept trying to press on him. He’d raised an arm in salutation and honked once as he drove off. Massimo had looked around. The settlement was like a scene from a postcard except for several leaflets pinned to the noticeboard outside the town hall, announcing a meeting at the school gym that night: the valley’s residents were invited to assemble in protest against the construction of a new ski resort. Massimo recalled the construction site he’d seen earlier on one of the mountains, and the trees that had been cleared. Even here, far from the city, it seemed there was no peace to be had.

He hadn’t had too much trouble finding his squad; the body had been discovered just outside the town, close to the Austrian border. There was a dirt road that led there through screes and groves of low pine trees. The police had already restricted access to the area with roadblocks on either side of the road, an officer meticulously recording the license plates of every passing car and the features of those curious faces that leaned out to try and catch a glimpse of what was going on.

That was the officer Massimo had shown his badge to, and whom he’d asked about Superintendent Battaglia. Shortly thereafter, he’d ended up in the bog he was still struggling through.

At least his boss was no longer paying attention. He was talking to an old woman who was bundled up in a thick coat that almost reached her feet. She was hard to miss: her hair, styled in a bob with bangs, was dyed a synthetic shade of red that clashed with the gentle, harmonious hues of their surroundings. She was pointing at something in a ditch that led into the woods, while Battaglia nodded.