I thanked the nuns and set off again, out of the scented sweetness of the convent gardens and into the stink of the marshland. I went as fast as I could, jogging along the track past the electricity station, the zing of the charge in the air hurting my teeth. The sun was high now, the heat oppressive. I should have put on sunscreen; the skin on my face and shoulders was burning, I could feel the damage being done to the cells.

I was worried that Joe would be worried about me: I’d been away for a while now, but I figured he’d still be tied up with the police, making sure Francesco was all right. I was so close to the Romano’s house that it seemed crazy not to go there. I had no plan of what I would say to Matilde Romano when I saw her, but I wanted to look her in the eye and ask her what had happened to Gina Accardi, and if she lied to me, I would know, and if she told the truth, then I’d know too. One way or another, I’d know if Gina had gone to Australia, or if those lonely bones lying in the mud at the back of the villa were hers.

In the distance, through the distortion of the heat shimmer, I could see the narrow house perched on the marshland by itself, the house where Matilde Romano and her father lived. A long, low car was parked outside with an old yellow sign on its roof. The taxi. Good. That meant Matilde was home.

It would be quicker to shortcut across the marsh. I stepped off the track and regretted it at once as my feet sank and green-grey slime clotted around my ankles. The air was thick with mosquitoes competing for my burning skin, my blood. I staggered on through the marsh, drawing great gasps of breath, heat thick as soup. The half liquid land on either side of me was evaporating, the air above its surface seething. Steam rose from the greasy ponds where the mosquito larvae grew, the smell, the very air was moist and foul. In the distance, the thin house shimmied grotesquely like a mirage in a nightmare.

As I came closer, I saw that rubbish had been dumped behind the house as well as in front of it. Black plastic bags and boxes were heaped high. It smelled like death.