‘What, nothing?’

‘No identity card. No passport.’

‘Well, we don’t all carry our passports around with us.’

‘But this man speaks Italian with an accent. He is a foreigner.’ He added in a low, horrified voice, ‘I think he’s English.’

‘So was my mother,’ Minnie said sharply. ‘It’s not a hanging crime.’

‘But he has no papers,’ Rico said, returning to the heart of the matter. ‘And he won’t say where he’s living, so he’s probably sleeping in the streets. Very drunk.’

‘And he was fighting Charlie?’

‘No, they were on the same side-I think. It’s hard to be sure because Charlie’s drunk too.’

‘Where is he?’

‘In a cell, with this other fellow. I think he’s afraid of him. He won’t say a word against him.’

‘Does “this fellow” have a name?’

‘He won’t give his name, but Charlie calls him Lucio. I’ll take you to him.’

She knew the way to the cells by now, having come here so often to help her relatives, who were as light-fingered as they were light-hearted. Even so, she was aghast at the sight of her young brother-in-law, seated lolling against the wall, scruffy, bruised and definitely the worse for wear.

Rico vanished to find the key, which he’d forgotten to bring. Minnie stood watching Charlie, wishing he didn’t look so much like a down-and-out. But his companion was even worse, she realised, as though he’d fought ten men.

Tall, muscular, unshaven, he looked strong enough to deal with any number of opponents. Like Charlie he wore a badly torn shirt and his face was bruised, with a cut over one eye. But, unlike Charlie, he didn’t look as if it were all too much for him. In fact, he didn’t look as though anything would be too much for him.

So this was Lucio, a thoroughly ugly customer, brutal, with huge fists to power his way through the world-a man used to getting his own way by the use of force. She gave a shudder of distaste.