‘Yes, yes! Give it to me! Give it to me hot and hard!’

King Antonio perched naked on his throne, sweating, groaning, imploring. Then his expression changed to one of alarm, almost of fear.

‘Oh my God, it’s coming! Ah! Oh! No, I can’t! It’s too big! It’ll tear me apart! Please God, I can’t take it!’

At the last moment, just when he knew from the pangs below that he was about to do himself a serious injury, his sphincter relaxed that crucial millimetre or so. After that there were only the gasps, tears and moans, followed by a triumphal flush and the glowing sense of absolute fulfilment.

Next came an invigorating shower, but Tony emerged totally uninvigorated. After a moment’s reflection, he swallowed six paracetamol tablets washed down with water gulped from the hand-basin tap. They wouldn’t do his liver any good, particularly given his rigid regime of a bottle of bourbon a day, but at least they would ease the vicious headache that had been with him since he awoke.

Straightening up, he caught sight of himself in the mirrored door of the bathroom cabinet. The reflected image was a shock. His forehead was swollen to twice its normal size and, when he touched it, proved very sensitive. Tony immediately thought about malignant cysts, but the thing definitely hadn’t been there the day before, so a bruise seemed the more likely solution. The skin was a rainbow in shades of pink, red, purple, blue and black, but didn’t seem to be broken.

He walked through to the bedroom, trying to calm down and get the situation into perspective. It was all part of the job, after all. Being the top investigatore privato in Bologna was tough work, but somebody had to do it.