Though there was an occasional round-up and examination of documents, the vu cumprà had never attracted sufficient official attention to become the subject of one of Vice-Questore Patta’s ‘crime alerts’, which meant there had never been a serious attempt to address the patent illegality of their presence and their profession. They were left to ply their trade virtually untroubled by the forces of order, thus avoiding the bureaucratic nightmare that would surely result from any serious attempt to expel hundreds of undocumented aliens and return them to Senegal, the country from which most of them were believed to come.

Why then a killing like this, one that had the stamp of the professional all over it?

‘How old do you think he was?’ Brunetti asked for want of anything else to say.

‘I don’t know,’ Rizzardi answered with a puzzled shake of his head. ‘It’s hard for me to tell with blacks, not until I get inside them, but I’d guess in his early thirties, maybe younger.’

‘Do you have time?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Tomorrow afternoon, first thing. All right?’

Brunetti nodded.

Rizzardi leaned over and picked up his bag. Hefting it, he said, ‘I don’t know why I always bring this with me. It’s not as if I’m ever going to have to use it to save anyone.’ He thought about this, shrugged, and said, ‘Habit, I suppose.’ He put out his hand, shook Brunetti’s, and turned away.

Brunetti called to the technician who had taken the photos, ‘When you get him to the hospital, would you take a couple of shots of his face from different angles and get them to me as soon as you’ve got them developed?’

‘How many prints, sir?’

‘A dozen of each.’

‘Right. By tomorrow morning.’

Brunetti thanked him and waved over Alvise, who lurked just within earshot. ‘Did anyone see what happened?’ he asked.