‘What language did you speak?’ he asked, turning back to face Nicola Mantega.

‘Italian, of course.’

‘Not Calabrian dialect?’

The witness hesitated just a moment before answering.

‘Dialect? Signor Newman is an American lawyer. How could a man like that know the dialect?’

‘Answer the question.’

‘We spoke Italian.’

‘Newman spoke it fluently?’

Mantega shrugged.

‘For a foreigner.’

‘So how did he learn Italian?’

‘I have no idea.’

‘You didn’t discuss it?’

‘Certainly not.’

‘Didn’t you think it unusual? And perhaps mention it? Some flattering comment…’

‘I really didn’t think about it. This wasn’t a personal relationship! As I keep telling you, it was strictly business. Maybe he took lessons before coming out here. What do I know?’

Zen stared at him in silence for a moment.

‘That’s precisely what I’m trying to determine.’

Nicola Mantega’s appearance was of a classic Calabrian type, with thick, lustrous black hair, a crumpled, oval face that barely contained all the troubles it had seen, a florid moustache and an expression of terminal depression.

‘Let’s just go back over that final phone call,’ Zen said. ‘You rang Signor Newman at ten thirty-two on the Tuesday morning…’

‘It was some time that morning, yes.’

‘It was at the time I stated. Newman hired a mobile phone and we have obtained a copy of the records. What we don’t have is a transcript of what was said, but you have stated that you told him that some new factors had arisen regarding final arrangements for the film project, and that you needed to meet again. You then suggested that he come to dinner at your house at seven that evening, but he never turned up.’

‘Exactly.’

‘Nor did he return to his hotel that night. In short, he was almost certainly kidnapped on his way to that meeting at your villa, Signor Mantega. An arrangement which only he and you knew about.’