We couldn’t sleep in the villa that night, not with the smell of smoke clinging to every wall and the downstairs waterlogged. Neither Joe nor I had the energy or inclination to drive back to the hotel in Porta Sarina. Instead, we collected some bedding and took it over to the stables. Joe made a nest for us on the mezzanine, in the old hayloft. I got into the sleeping bag and pulled it as tight as I could around my neck. We’d left all the villa’s doors and windows open. The kittens could come and go as they pleased.

The birds were fluttering and the mice were scampering and I was worried about everything. I couldn’t sleep for the churning of my mind. Holding onto the villa wasn’t worth it, I thought. Nothing was worth this; this risking of people’s lives, for what? A dream? A fantasy? I should have listened to Signora Romano. I should have heeded her warning. I should have realised when the emails pinged into my phone earlier that whoever it was who was conducting this campaign against us meant business. They weren’t going to give up. Were we really going to persist until something terrible happened? Until someone died?

I lay quietly until I heard Joe snoring, then I climbed out of the sleeping bag, wrapped it around my shoulders, climbed down the ladder and wandered back into the gardens. I meant to find somewhere quiet to sit and listen to the sea and think.

The moon had moved across the sky and the clouds were breaking apart. Moonlight dimmed the stars, but shone on the villa, outlining it in silver, picking out its features. I walked towards it and then stopped, caught my breath.

Someone else was in the garden. A man was standing at the side of the old swimming pool, an old man, his shoulders slumped, pyjama bottoms held up by a string tied around the waist, clogs on his feet. From the shape of the head, the protruding ears, I knew it was Gabriele Arnone. His little goat stood beside him, attached to her leash.

For a moment, I stood paralysed. I didn’t know what to do. If I ran to wake Joe, the old man might wander off. He might go into the villa or he might trip and fall into the empty pool, or the sea. I certainly couldn’t leave him while I went all the way up the hill to fetch Irma. He was frail and vulnerable, but still I was afraid of him. He had killed people; at least three people, maybe more. He had probably killed Matilde Romano’s mother. He had probably murdered her and left her face down on that dreadful marshland close to the Romanos’ thin, family home.