As the carriage jarred over several sets of points and began to run in alongside the platform Zen left the compartment and squeezed through the line of people waiting in the corridor.

‘In a big hurry, eh?’ remarked a sour-looking woman.

‘Some people always have to be first, and just too bad for everyone else.’

The platform was packed with passengers who had been waiting for hours. As the train slowed to a halt they stormed it like assault troopers, intent on winning a seat for the long haul down to Naples and beyond. Zen struggled through them and out to the station concourse. The phones were all in use. At the nearest a tired-looking, poorly dressed woman was repeating ‘I know… I know… I know ’ over and over again in a strident, unmodulated country voice. Zen waved his identity card at her.

‘Police. This is an emergency. I need to use this phone.’

He took the receiver from the woman’s unresisting hand and dialled 113.

‘This is Commissioner Aurelio Zen. No, Zen.?,?,?. No O. That’s right. Attached to the Ministry of the Interior. I’m calling from the Stazione Termini. There’s been a train job. They ran off towards Via Prenestina. Get a car off now and then I’ll give you the descriptions. Ready? The first was about twenty. Height, one sixtyish. Short dark hair, military cut so possibly doing his service, dark-green leather jacket with twin zippered flaps, faded jeans, dark brown boots. The other slightly taller, longer lighter hair, moustache, big nose, brown leather jacket, new jeans, red, white and blue running shoes, carrying a green plastic sports bag with white lettering “Banca Popolare di Frosinone”. He’s got a small automatic, so be careful. Got that? Right, I’ll leave a full report with the railway police.’

He hung up. The woman was gazing at him with an air of cautious fascination.

‘Was it a local call?’ he asked.