Another prolonged outburst of coughing was the only reply, ending in a loud sneeze. The other man took Zen by the arm.

‘Come, you’re unwell! We’ll go back.’

‘No, no, it’s nothing.’

Aurelio Zen made a visible effort to get a grip on himself.

‘You were saying that I don’t understand wine. That’s true, of course. But what I really don’t understand is the reason why I have been summoned here in the first place.’

His host smiled and raised one eyebrow.

‘But the two are the same!’

He turned and strode off down the paved alley between the bins. The darkness closing in about him, Zen had no choice but to follow.

The instruction to attend this meeting at the Rome residence of the world-famous film and opera director, whose artistic eminence was equalled only by the notoriety of the rumours surrounding his private life, had come in the form of an internal memorandum which appeared on his desk at the Ministry of the Interior a few days earlier. ‘With respect to a potential parallel enquiry which the Minister is considering regarding the Vincenzo case (see attached file), you are requested to present yourself at 10.30 hrs on Friday next at Palazzo Torrozzo, Via del Corso, for an informal background briefing by…’

The name which followed was of such resonance that Giorgio De Angelis, the one friend Zen still had in the Criminalpol department, whistled loudly, having read it over Zen’s shoulder.

‘Mamma mia! Can I come too? Do we get autographs? I could dine out on this for a year!’

‘Yes, but who’ll pay the bill?’ Zen had murmured, as though to himself.

And that was the question which posed itself now, but with renewed force. The celebrity in question clearly hadn’t invited Zen to his palazzo, scene of so many widely reported parties ‘demonstrating that the ancient tradition of the orgy is still not dead’, merely to show off his wine collection. There was a bottom line, and the chances were that behind it there would be a threat.