‘Sounds interesting,’ I say. I have no further questions, Your Honour, I think; I know nothing whatsoever about the law. The word ‘provocation’ has seeped into my brain, though, like cold mercury. What does he mean: the victim, male or female, asked for it? He’ll get his client off because the other person deserved it? I think about rape trials. About men like Jonas, in Tenerife, who choose how they operate with clear and careful minds, so those they abuse are led into muddied and confusing waters of their own, unable to get things straight no matter how many times they relive them. What sort of a witness would I be to his crime? Would Salvi tear me apart if he was the defence counsel for that particular male scum? I know the answer to this. That’s why I didn’t report it.

‘It could so easily have been a murder case,’ he says with a regretful sigh, as though he has thoroughly missed out. ‘Hey, did you know there was a murder here once, in one of the cloisters?’

‘No, I didn’t.’ Wine is not good for me, I think. I am definitely morose.

‘It was one of the monks,’ Salvi continues. ‘His throat was slit. Over there, I think.’ He turns and points with his thumb to the middle arch of the cloister behind him, across the courtyard, where the wisteria is heavy and weeping. ‘Struck down by one of his own.’

‘Another monk did it?’

‘Yes. The motive was never determined. Jealousy? The stir-craziness of being shut in here, no wine, no women. Who knows? Grim, though, eh?’ He grins. ‘Although it adds a certain magic to the place.’

‘Magic?’

‘Well, you know … mystery, tragedy, intrigue, a monk’s robe, steeped in blood, dragging across the flagstones … I love all that stuff.’

I take a deep glug of my wine. ‘You love tragedy?’

‘You know what I mean. Tragedy and the twists and turns of fate … it’s exciting.’ Salvi sits back in his chair like he has said a Great Thing. ‘So here we are, Prue,’ he adds, with a wink. ‘Lunching in a place of both abject beauty and downright ugliness.’

I’m horrified. I’m sure he is staring at my left cheek. I move my hand up to my face and rest my fingers on my nose so my palm covers my birthmark. God knows what state it’s in. I haven’t checked it since I left the flat and now it is burning in the sun under three layers of foundation and a thin coating of SPF 50.