Three horrible hutments, arranged in a rough triangle, formed a kind of shabby hamlet, not one to feature in a tourists’ guidebook. What distinguished these from Probus’ lair was that each had a couple of beaten-up chairs outside for admiring the view or making it easier to shout abuse at the sky. Each had a washing line. No man who cultivates a reputation as a dangerous long-term pest pegs out his smalls. So a couple of the Claudius women were in view, one slowly hanging up limp garments, another seated in a dispirited pose on the steps of what was probably her home. Her cowed demeanour suggested she was not allowed to use the chairs. On a nearby patch of ground, some tousled children were kicking a bucket about; I counted four though from the racket there could be others.

The girl with the laundry had the thin body of a child of fourteen and the face of someone two or three decades older. Pain lurked in her eyes. It would stay there. She had seen things she would never forget but she was never going to share them. Her drab dress was short, shapeless, frayed, a grey piece of rag that looked older than she was. Nonetheless, she wore a string of crude stone beads and even a bangle that could pass for gold for a pawnbroker who was ninety and short-sighted. Some man who wanted to signify she had a lot to be grateful for had given her those. She should have thrown them back and got free of him.

Surprisingly, the women did not take offence that I had stepped out of the undergrowth. It did not mean they would be helpful.

‘The name’s Falco. I’m looking for Nobilis.’ No surprise at that, it seemed. ‘I think I took a wrong turn. You’re . . . ?’

‘Plotia,’ said the one with laundry. ‘You want Nobilis?’ She nodded to the centre shack. I had the impression it was empty. ‘Gone away.’

‘Beach holiday at Baiae?’

‘Gone to visit his grandma.’

‘Is that a joke? I hear he’s a tough nut.’ Plotia just stared.

I walked closer. After the incident with Fangs, I looked around, in case there were other guard-dogs. Reading my thoughts, Plotia said, ‘We never have animals.’ Her gaze flickered; she stated sombrely, ‘Well not for long.’

I swallowed. Petronius once told me that pathological murderers tend to start their killing sprees while they are children. Find a man who takes prostitutes off the streets as a personal vocation, and he’ll probably have a set of neat jars with his childhood collection of dissected rats. I had suggested all boys are curious about dead animals. Petro said most just pick them out of the gutter; we don’t trap them on purpose and deconstruct them. Most of us don’t eviscerate our own pets.

‘What is your connection to the Claudii?’ I asked the women.