‘Sorry isn’t good enough.’ She waved her arms around dramatically. ‘I’ve told father… I’ve started packing up the house, throwing things out.’

Joe said: ‘Signora, surely you understand…’

She pushed back her chair and stood up. ‘You lied. You misled me.’

‘Signora Romano…’ I said. ‘We can’t let you go like this.’

‘Let me get you another brandy,’ Joe suggested.

‘No,’ she said. ‘No.’

I reached for her arm. ‘Signora, please!’

‘Get off me!’ she cried, so loudly that the electricity workers turned to look at us. ‘Get off! Leave me alone!’

She picked up her handbag and went, her heels tapping on the restaurant floor. She pushed through the saloon doors so violently they swung madly behind her. She’d hardly touched the brandy.

The envelope that contained the photographs still lay face down on the table.

42

‘Well, that went well,’ said Joe.

‘I feel awful… what she said about her father… About packing up the house…’

‘That’s not your fault.’

‘And the photographs really upset her, Joe.’

‘You couldn’t have predicted she’d react like that. Once she calms down, she’ll see that it’s not the end of the world.’

We ordered lunch and it was good, so some time passed before we left the restaurant. I felt as if a weight had been lifted from my shoulders now we’d made our plans clear to Signora Romano. Yes, her reaction had been even worse than expected but as Joe said, we needed to give her time. I’d let the dust settle then go to see her, make sure she was all right.

Joe and I came out of the restaurant laughing and talking, our arms linked, but our words died on our lips when we saw what had happened to the Fiat. Joe ran to it and I followed, dread like a knot inside me.

The back window was broken, little pieces of shattered glass lay inside and outside the car; a thick dent had been scoured into the metalwork along the passenger side, mud had been smeared on the boot; two letters scratched into the mud: VF.

‘What does that mean?’ I asked.

‘It’s short for “vaffanculo”,’ Joe said dourly. ‘Italian for “fuck off”.’

‘Who would have done this?’ I asked. ‘Who?’ I recalled Signora Romano storming out of the restaurant. ‘You don’t think she had anything to do with it?’

‘No,’ said Joe, ‘it will have been kids.’

He said this in the same tone he’d used when trying to reassure me about the dead cat. He didn’t believe it was kids any more than I did. I found myself looking around, looking to see if anyone was watching us. This didn’t feel random. It felt as if we were being targeted and that meant somebody was following us; someone was aware of everything we were doing.