‘Capretta,’ murmured Gabriele.

‘It’s Vito’s uncle,’ Valentina whispered, her eyes glistening. ‘Francesco tried to steer around him, he did his best.’

‘I know he did,’ I said. ‘Are you okay, Valentina? Did you hurt yourself?’

‘I’m okay.’

Gabriele’s wet old eyes swivelled from one of us to the other. A crust of spit had dried in the corner of his lips. His skin was waxy and yellow, he looked dreadful.

‘Help will be here soon, Signor Arnone,’ I whispered. I took hold of one of his big hands. It was cold. His breathing was laboured.

Valentina repeated the reassurance in Italian. The old man didn’t seem to understand either way, but he was calm.

‘Francesco couldn’t help but hit him,’ Valentina whispered again. ‘It wasn’t his fault!’ She beckoned me closer. Her eyes were frantic. She whispered over Gabriele’s big head, ‘He’s been drinking grappa. He took the bottle after Vito beat him.’

‘I know,’ I said, ‘it’s okay, try not to worry.’

Joe came over to us. Francesco was behind him, his hands hanging limp by his side.

‘The ambulance is coming,’ Joe said, ‘and the police.’ He held my eye meaningfully. ‘We don’t all need to be here when they come.’

I gave a small nod of understanding.

He bent low and carefully took the weight of the old man from Valentina. ‘I’ll look after Signor Arnone. You go back to the villa with Edie,’ he told her. ‘Take Francesco. He needs you.’

‘Tell the police it wasn’t Francesco’s fault,’ Valentina said. ‘Tell them he did his best! Tell them—’

‘Don’t worry,’ said Joe. ‘I’ll take care of everything.’

Francesco, Valentina and I squashed into the fishy car. We set off, heading jerkily along the road back towards our headland, when the first thunder cracked the sky like a sledgehammer. We all jumped and Valentina began to mutter something that sounded like a prayer. She was sitting in the front, beside me, her arms around her belly, her eyes closed. Francesco, behind, had one hand on his mother’s shoulder. From time to time, he sniffed and wiped his face with the back of his hand.

I kept the car in second gear and we puttered along barely faster than walking pace as the first fat spots of rain began to fall. I couldn’t work out how to turn on the windscreen wipers. Raindrops exploded on the windscreen. We were approaching the Arnone cottage. I was leaning so far forward that my sore nose was almost pressed against the windscreen.

‘Careful!’ Valentina cried.

I hit the brake hard and stalled the car. Rain was spotting onto the road, turning it black.

Walking towards us, hurrying through the downpour was a figure; an elderly woman – Irma Arnone. One hand was held to her eyes. The headlight was blinding her.