Ruggieri looks at his watch and uncrosses his legs. ‘Signor Flowers, we leave now. We hope that your sister is well soon. If she remembers anything, then you can call to me.’

He gives me his card and holds out his hand. I shake it, because I don’t know what else to do, what else to say.

I walk across the road to the promenade, heading for the taxi rank at the far end. Although it’s still early, a few Italians have already settled themselves on sun-loungers, angling parasols over their tanned bodies. There’s a cool breeze from the sea; any other time, this would beat my usual morning of instant, hunched over a computer screen in a hot, dark studio.

I’m certain Bethany was attacked. Of course it might have been a random drunk, but could it have been someone else? I’ve got to get this right – bringing us all together on holiday in Italy hasn’t worked; my family are still barely speaking to each other. I have to find out who did this to my sister, to us. Plus, I want my sister well enough to answer some hard questions.

If it was someone who knew Bethany, they would have been able to follow her without suspicion. Joe Hart. Ruggieri said he’d already eliminated him from his inquiries, but I can’t be certain. Was it Joe in the piazza on the evening of the festa? And the night before he was supposed to have left, they had a huge row.

When the taxi drops me off at the port, I spot my family leaning against the people-carrier, looking hot and fed up. The ferry hasn’t turned up yet – running on Italian time – and there’s a jumble of cars clogging the road in the semblance of a queue. Sweat is trickling down my back. I wipe my face with my T-shirt, trying not to expose my scars.

‘How’s Bethany?’ asks Amy, as soon as I approach them.

I don’t want to admit I haven’t gone to see her yet. ‘Just been talking to Ruggieri,’ I say. ‘The Carabinieri are dropping her case. They’re probably on the speedboat back to Grosseto as we speak.’

‘What? Why? They can’t do that!’

‘They say she was drunk and fell and hit her head on a sharp stone.’ I say it in a sarcastic tone, but my sister and brother-in-law don’t react the way I expect.

Amy’s face, crumpled with worry, seems to smooth, the way an iron chases the wrinkles from a shirt.

‘Oh,’ she says.

‘Why aren’t we getting on the ferry?’ asks Theo, scuffing his toe in the sand and sending clouds of dust into the air.

‘Wouldn’t surprise me,’ Matt says.

‘I’m bored,’ Lotte says. Her cheeks are flushed pink from the heat.