Amy and Matt seem even more tense than usual the following morning, as they attempt to pack and restore the holiday house to some sort of order. I decide to get out of their way and go and see if the Carabinieri have made any progress. I take a taxi into town. First, though, I check in at the local hotel – Dr Virgili knows the owner and put in a word for me, so at least I have a room for a couple of nights while Bethany is in hospital. It’s round the corner from the stazione di polizia, so I walk over. A woman in her fifties is sitting at the reception and behind her I can see two police officers reading the paper, their boots on the desk, paper cups of coffee next to them. A radio crackles and splutters and a bluebottle makes small thumps as it hits the windowpane. There’s no sign of Martelli, but I suppose he could be on his rounds or having a day off.

‘Prego?’

‘I’m looking for Maggiore Ruggieri and Capitano Biondi,’ I tell her. I say it’s in connection with Bethany Flowers.

‘Aspetti qui,’ she says, and heaves herself to her feet.

She knocks on an office door, and a moment later Ruggieri comes out and gestures for me go inside.

‘Signor Flowers, please have a seat.’

I sit in front of his desk, or at least the one he’s borrowed while he’s on loan here. In the strip lighting, his eyes look even paler, and I notice that his fine nose is slightly bent, as if it had once been broken. He looks like Rupert Everett might, if he played football.

‘The rest of your family go home, no?’

‘Yes, they’re heading off later this morning.’

‘And your sister – how is she?’

‘She needs a brain scan. Look, have you got anywhere? Who did this to her?’

There’s a knock and Biondi elbows his way in, carrying three espressos.

I take one of the paper cups and thank him. He pulls a plastic pot of UHT milk out of his trouser pocket and hands it to me, as if he knows I’m not man enough to drink it black.

‘We go back to Grosseto,’ says Ruggieri.

‘What?’ I nearly spill my coffee. ‘You’ve only been here twentyfour hours.’

‘If it is a drunk during the Ferragosto, we have no hope to find him,’ the Maggiore tells me. ‘As I say you before – there is no CCTV, there are no witnesses, only Agente Martelli and his colleague, Pianozzi, on duty; a lot, a lot of people here. But I think, this is not what happen.’

The coffee without the milk is too hot and scalds my tongue. I set the cup down.

‘What about Carlo Donati?’