Brunetti moved back to the cordoned area, where he saw three or four people. ‘Were any of you here when it happened?’ he asked.

Heads turned away, eyes glanced at the ground. ‘Did you see anything at all?’ he added, asking, not pleading.

A man at the back peeled himself away and started across the campo. Brunetti made no effort to stop him. As he stood there, the others dissolved until there was just one person left, an old woman who held herself upright only with the help of two canes. He knew her by sight, though she was usually in the company of two mangy old dogs. She balanced her right cane against her hip and beckoned him towards her. As he approached, he saw the wrinkled face, the dark eyes, the white bristles on her chin.

‘Yes, Signora?’ he asked. ‘Did you see something?’ Without thinking, he addressed her in Veneziano rather than Italian.

‘There were some Americans here when it happened.’

‘How did you know they were Americans, Signora?’ he asked.

‘They had white shoes and they were very loud,’ she answered.

‘When it happened?’ he insisted. ‘Were you here? Did you see?’

She took her right cane and lifted it to point in the direction of the pharmacy on the corner, about twenty metres away. ‘No, I was over there. Just coming in. I saw them, the Americans. They were walking this way, from the bridge, and then they all stopped to look at the stuff the vu cumprà had.’

‘And you, Signora?’

She moved her cane a few millimetres to the left. ‘I went into the bar.’

‘How long were you in there, Signora?’

‘Long enough.’

‘Long enough for what?’ he asked, smiling at her, not at all annoyed by her oblique answer.

‘Barbara, the owner, after about eight, she takes all the tramezzini that haven’t been sold, and she cuts them up into little pieces and puts them on the counter. If you buy a drink, you can eat all you want.’