‘No,’ Joe says, after three fake seconds’ thought.

‘What have you done – in beautiful Verona?’ Matt says conversationally.

‘Oh, you know. Relaxing by the pool in the villa, and in town,’ Joe says truthfully. It is nice to tell the truth, the same feeling as playing a trump card. See, it says. I’m not always a liar. He shakes his head. He’s got to get out of the mind-set that Matt knows him to be lying. He doesn’t. This is so routine to Matt. One interview of many. Joe doesn’t tell him about the bar. The first night. He will say it didn’t seem relevant if they ever find out. God, he can’t believe Frannie has put him in this position. That his past indiscretions against pricks with Vespa helmets might loom large.

‘What have you been doing over the past, say, twelve hours?’ Matt says. ‘Sightseeing? Drinking?’

‘We had a –’

‘You were out early-ish? This morning? Eleven?’

‘I …’ Joe hesitates.

‘I knocked,’ Matt says, looking Joe directly in the eye. ‘Early this morning.’

Joe puffs air into his cheeks. Matt won’t let him finish. ‘Yes,’ he says loudly. He takes a breath and speaks more quietly. ‘I was – I was taking the car back.’ He can’t lie. There’ll be cameras at the hire-car place, paperwork.

This is the sticky bit. He just wasn’t sure it would come up. Or wouldn’t come up so soon anyway.

‘Yes,’ Matt says, still staring at him. ‘And you are off home soon?’

‘The day after tomorrow. Avoid the queues.’

‘The queues right next to the airport,’ Matt says lightly. He very deliberately puts the pen down and looks at Joe. His eyebrows are drawn together, quizzical rather than suspicious. Joe is no good at this, can’t tell if Matt’s bluffing or genuinely confused. Cathy would know. Joe always says exactly what he thinks, and can’t read people who don’t.

The late-afternoon sun slants in through the window. Joe turns his face to it, trying to look unconcerned. It could be a musty police station in the UK. The signs are in Italian and the coffee – not offered to him, grazie – smells better, but that’s all.

‘Yes, by the airport,’ Joe says, looking back at Matt. ‘But isn’t it always better to get those things out of the way? Save some money – we didn’t need it for the last few days?’

‘So you would then get a taxi to the airport later?’ Matt says. His tone is neutral, his face impassive, but his words are incisive, like a firm, gripping handshake that won’t let go. Joe is drowning in these logical words. Of course he wouldn’t have taken the hire car back ordinarily.

‘Exactly,’ Joe says.

‘To save money?’ the prosecutor says with a wry smile.

‘Yes.’

‘And so last night, before you took the car back?’ Matt says. He upends the pen again.

Joe tries to turn his mind to the story he agreed with Frannie, but he’s no good under pressure. It’s why he prefers surgery to consulting. Surgery, for him, is stress-free. The patient unconscious, not looking at him, no expectant owners. He is alone. He is the hero, the father-figure, the God.