‘Urban renewal?’ he asked Bambola by way of greeting.

His answer was a curved gleam of teeth, like a secondary light suddenly flashing on beneath the main beam of his turban. ‘Sì, Commissario,’ Bambola said. ‘Sergio’s down with summer flu, and he asked me to take over while he’s sick.’ With a cloth so white it could have been an extension of his turban, he took a swipe at the bar and asked what he could offer them.

‘Two coffees, please,’ Brunetti said.

The Senegalese turned away and busied himself with the machine. Unconsciously, Brunetti prepared himself for the familiar clanks and thumps of Sergio’s technique as he prised loose the handle that held the used coffee grounds, banged it clean, then flipped the lever that would fill it with fresh coffee. The noises came, but muted, and when he glanced at the machine he saw that the wooden bar on which Sergio had been banging the metal cup for decades had been covered with rubber stripping that effectively buffered the noise. The name of the machine’s maker, ‘Gaggia’, had been liberated from the accumulation of grime and coffee stains that had obscured it since Brunetti had first come to the bar.

‘Will Sergio recognize the place when he comes back?’ Vianello asked the barman.

‘I hope so, Ispettore. And I hope he likes it.’

‘The case?’ Vianello asked with a nod of his chin in the direction of the pastries.

‘A friend found it for me,’ Bambola explained and gave it an affectionate swipe with the towel. ‘Even keeps them warm.’

Brunetti and Vianello did not exchange a look, but the long silence with which they greeted the barman’s explanation had the same effect. ‘Bought it for me, Ispettore,’ Bambola said in a more sober voice, emphasis heavy on the first word. ‘I have the receipt.’