“Carmelo. How are you?”

“Hi, Guido, not too bad. And you?” He had a deep voice, with a slight Sicilian accent. Hearing him on the phone, without knowing him, you’d have imagined a tall, stocky man, with a paunch. Tancredi was only about five and a half feet tall, with rather long hair, always unkempt, and a thick black moustache.

We quickly got through the civilities, and then he said he needed to see me. On a work-related issue, he hastened to add. My work or his? Mine and his, in a way. He wanted to come to my office, with someone. He didn’t say who this someone was, and I didn’t ask him. I told him we could meet after eight, when I’d be alone in the office. That was fine, and we left it at that.

They arrived about eight-thirty. Everyone had already left, and I went to open the door.

Tancredi was with a woman about thirty, or a bit more. She was nearly six feet tall, had her hair tied in a ponytail, and was wearing discoloured jeans and a worn leather jacket.

A colleague of Tancredi’s, I thought, even though I’d never seen her before. The typical masculine style of a policewoman from the street crimes squad or the drugs squad. She must have screwed up and now she needed a lawyer. By the look of her – the look of someone you wouldn’t want to mess with – my guess was that she’d beaten up a suspect or someone brought in for questioning. It happens, in carabinieri barracks and police stations.

I showed them into my office, and Tancredi did the introductions.

“Avvocato Guido Guerrieri…” I held out my hand, expecting to hear something like “Officer So and So” or “Inspector Whatshername”. Tancredi didn’t say that.

“… this is Sister Claudia.”

I looked at Tancredi, then looked at the woman again. He had the barest hint of a smile, as if relishing my surprise, but she wasn’t smiling. She held out her hand, looking me straight in the eyes, with a strangely fixed expression. It was only then that I noticed the very small wooden crucifix she was wearing around her neck, hanging from a thin leather cord.