Matilde Romano would know. She’d been in the thick of the events here in Sicily while Anna was in Rome. She’d been in touch with Anna and was supposed to have been acting as a go-between for Anna and Gina. But Matilde didn’t like me, it sounded as if she’d hated Gina and despite all her protestations, she’d been a terrible friend to Anna.

There must be someone else who could help. I wracked my brains until I remembered. There’d been a clue in Anna’s diary. She’d mentioned several times that she’d asked Matilde to go to the convent. If that was where Gina had been lodging, then there was a chance that someone there might still remember.

62

Instead of going on towards the villa, I diverted down the tiny path that led to the beach. The sand was clean, covered with tiny holes where the rain had punctured it. I took off my trainers and hooked my fingers into their heels. The beach was empty apart from a single dog walker and two figures, a long way ahead of me, walking along the narrowest arc of the beach across the sand. I raised my hand to my eyes to shield them from the sun. The figures were moving away from me. One was a woman and she had a small child with her; a boy. They seemed familiar.

I hurried after them but by the time I reached the far end of the beach, I’d lost sight of them; it was as if they’d disappeared.

To my right, the road led into Porta Sarina. To my left, it went back out towards the billboard junction. Directly ahead of me, on the other side of the road, was the track leading through the marshland to the electricity station, the café and the Romanos’ house.

It was also the road that led to the convent.

I dusted the sand from the soles of my feet, put my trainers back on and set off along the marsh road. The flatlands were strewn with rubbish thrown from the windows of passing cars: food detritus, plastic bottles, disposable nappies. Crows shimmered in the heat – sharp, black mirages – as they tore apart the carrion. The turrets and cables and pylons of the electricity station towered over the marsh; giant silver gatekeepers. There was a stronger, underlying stink too, one that caught on the back of my throat. I kept going, the soles of my shoes sticking to the melting surface of the road, until the electricity station loomed close and there was a small sign pointing down a track. It said: Convento S. Ciara.

I followed the track into a clump of trees obscured from the road by the electricity works. Amongst them was a small, neat building. A fountain trickled into a stone basin at the front and a statue of the Virgin Mary stood beside the door.