‘Not good.’ Luigi scowled and shook his head. ‘It is not right.’

‘I don’t understand. What isn’t right?’

‘You don’t know about this boat, this so-called Angelo del Mediterraneo?’

‘No.’

‘Pah.’ For a moment it looked as if Luigi might spit on the floor. His mood had changed. ‘She’s a rich man’s plaything. A superyacht. But I can tell you she’s no angel, she brings immigrants. Hundreds of them.’

‘From where?’

‘From out there on the sea. They set out in little boats and wait to be rescued. The Angelo comes along, picks them up and brings them here. I don’t like it. We don’t like it. There are too many. They’re leeches. They’re coming to steal our jobs and to rape our women.’

‘I see.’ Holm peered down into his coffee cup. All of a sudden the drink tasted bitter. ‘Where is she now, the Angelo?’

‘Out there somewhere. She came in last week. You should have seen them. The women with their heads covered, the men with that look in their eyes. They’re not clean, I can smell them from here, I wish—’

Holm didn’t wait to hear what Luigi wished for. He took out the coins again and threw several onto the counter. As he reached the door Luigi had switched to Italian and Holm didn’t have to hear any more.

As he walked back to the car he recalled the stories he’d read about refugees crossing the Med. They attempted the journey in small rubber boats that were entirely unsuited to an open sea voyage. With fifty or a hundred people in each craft they were often found in a pitiless state. If, that is, they were found at all. The boats easily capsized and over the last few years thousands of refugees had drowned.

He reached the car and leaned in the passenger window. Javed had reclined the front seat and lay dozing.

‘Wake up,’ Holm said. ‘Get out that app of yours that tracks nautical traffic and see where our missing vessel is. She’s called the Angelo del Mediterraneo.’

‘Huh?’ Javed blinked and screwed his eyes up for a second. He put the seat back upright and looked past Holm and pointed to the dock. ‘No need, boss.’