‘What are the figures?’ asked Angus. The taxi had now reached Murrayfield and was driving past a row of solid suburban villas; talk of abduction against such a background seemed to him to be inherently improbable; but then, he reminded himself, many crimes, even the most horrendous ones, took place in circumstances of banality.

‘Oh, I can’t recall them exactly,’ said Antonia. ‘Surprisingly high, though. Mostly women, I’m afraid, being abducted by men.’ She looked accusingly at Angus, as if he was in some way complicit in the crime.

‘I doubt if any man would dare abduct Irene,’ said Angus.

Domenica looked displeased. ‘I don’t think that we should talk lightly about this,’ she said. ‘A neighbour is missing, after all.’

Angus looked shame-faced. ‘We couldn’t really have cancelled,’ he said. ‘The tickets were bought, the villa made ready, every thing …’

‘No, you’re quite right,’ said Domenica. ‘Life has to go on. So I suggest that we try to put it out of our minds for the time being and hope that when we return Irene will be safely restored to Scotland Street and all will be well.’

The taxi sped on. Angus looked out of the window, his eyes drawn to the sky above the rooftops of Corstorphine. The sky, he thought, is like the sea; now that we have mastered it, it links us to the most remote of places. He had often thought that of the sea when he found himself on the shore – marvelling at the idea that it was all one body of water; that there was no interruption, nothing more solid than water standing between him and the furthest limits of distant continents. That made him believe that the seas do not separate us, but link us; and so too did the sky, now that we could slip into long tubes of metal and hurtle our way through the air to remote places of our choosing. So India was not a world away, but only seven hours, and Italy was virtually next door – three hours, if that; the time that one might take for a walk in the Pentlands.

He closed his eyes, feeling the morning sun warm upon his face. And it was the same sun that would greet him when they stepped off the plane in Pisa, he thought, although there, somehow, it would seem so much more reliable, so much friendlier. The Scottish sun was so easily distracted from its task, so quick to think of excuses not to shine, so reticent in conferring its favours.

He opened his eyes to see Antonia watching him. She was smiling. ‘I do hope that you find inspiration in Italy, Angus,’ she said.