We sipped our coffee. We didn’t look at one another. We didn’t say another word for ages.

Later that morning, Joe came to find me with the car keys in his hand. He said he was going to drive into Porta Sarina to pick up some tools from his friends.

I said: ‘Okay.’

He hesitated, as if he was about to ask if I’d like to go with him.

‘I’ll stay here,’ I said. ‘I’ll take a look in the bedrooms, see if I can find the painting.’

‘Okay,’ Joe replied. He hesitated again.

‘Go on,’ I said. ‘I’ll lock the gates after you.’

I watched the Fiat drive away, following its progress up the hill via a column of dust that rose through the scrubby trees and prickly pear cacti at the side of the track. I watched until I couldn’t see it any more, then I locked the gates and wandered back towards the villa, through the dappled shade of the dipping trees.

I saw a little black and white cat crouching in the undergrowth, a skinny, sore eyed little thing. I crouched down and called to her, but she wouldn’t come near me.

Upstairs in the villa, shafts of sunshine fell through the bedroom windows, making slanting oblongs of light on the dusty floors. I searched each room in turn, pulling aside dust sheets and looking in wardrobes and drawers. The master bedroom was by far the largest and grandest room, with a huge four poster bed, an elaborate rug on the floor, exquisite furniture, a marble fireplace and gilt-framed mirrors on the walls. In the far corner, a heavy curtain hung on a rail. Behind it, I suspected, was the alcove where Anna’s mother used to pray for the souls of her lost children. I didn’t want to touch the curtain, but I made myself reach out to draw it back. At the last instant, before my fingers touched the fabric, a spider scuttled from its folds and dropped onto the floor. It felt like a warning and I stepped away. It was possible the painting was in the alcove, but I wouldn’t look, not now, while I was alone, knowing the photographs of the three dead children were hung in that corner.