“Then why don’t I have the recording?”

“Because that security camera has been broken for the past week and we’re still waiting for them to come fix it, that’s why.”

Rocco nodded. “And the same way you know that fact . . .”

“. . . everyone else knows it, too, Dottor Schiavone. That corner hasn’t been covered by the video cameras for the past week. If you only knew the things the inmates have been writing on the walls there!”

Rocco ran back the video. “You approach the brawl . . . Here you pick up the keys . . . You grab them and you hit Oluwafeme in the back of the head.”

“That’s right. I figured that with the keys in my hand, the punch would be more effective. I mean, that guy is big.”

“And in fact you can see the Nigerian is staggering after you hit him. A little unfair, to hit him like that, don’t you think?”

“Desperate times, desperate measures, right?”

The video continued. “There, now you’ve subdued them, you take Erik into custody . . .”

“That’s right . . . we were just taking him away when—”

“When Marini and Abela start shouting, attracting your attention because they’ve just found Cuntrera dead. You can only see the back of one of them, and you head straight over in that direction. Here, on the right of the screen.”

“But how did Cuntrera die, anyway?”

“Of homesickness.”

The giant panda didn’t get the joke.

“I was just kidding. Someone gave him an injection of some kind . . .”

“And no one else saw?”

“Strike you as strange, too, Tolò?”

HE’D TYPED INTO THE SEARCH ENGINE: “ESCORT AOSTA.” A website had come up with lots of photographs and cell phone numbers of beautiful women. All with their faces blocked out. But their breasts, their legs, and their lingerie could have aroused a corpse.

But are these photographs real? Alessandro Martinelli, warden of the house of detention of Varallo, was wondering. Maybe they’d just copied them out of fashion magazines, and then you went to the appointment and found yourself face-to-face with a skeletal junkie or, even worse, a transsexual. He lingered over one girl who seemed really promising. It listed her cell phone and three other photos of the woman, still with her face blocked out, in various poses. But she was never naked. Always fully dressed, maybe just a glimpse of breast, a bit of thigh. She was in the Top Escort category.

Expensive stuff. Hundreds and hundreds of euros. And maybe she was worth every cent. He read her profile.

Ciao, I’m not for just anyone, only for a discerning, refined customer. Time to spend and generous gifts should be among your virtues. I don’t reply to anonymous messages. At my place or in third-party offices. Seriously, though, only write me if you’re interested. My time is precious to me. But wait and see, you won’t be sorry that you called. The only risk is that you might fall in love with me, with my lips, with my breasts, with my theighs.