The two patrolmen were taking the shortest way back into the city centre, along the state highway that parallels the A14 autostrada from Ancona and the Adriatic coast, looping through the unlovely dormitory suburbs to the north of Bologna to connect with the spinal cord of the A1. There was little traffic about, so when a huge eighteen-wheeler overtook them aggressively by running the orange signal at an intersection it made quite a statement.

‘Let’s take that cocksucker,’ Nando said, reaching for the siren and lights.

Bruno laid a hand on his arm.

‘Calm down. There’s some German name on the front end and the trailer has Greek plates. Probably on his way north from Bari out of his mind on amphetamines, pulled off the autostrada to have his personal needs attended to by a colleague of that young lovely we spotted back there. Okay, he was blatantly disrespecting us, but do you really want to spend hours of overtime this evening finding an interpreter, phoning whichever consulate is involved, and then dealing with the lawyer his firm will hire, not to mention the mountains of paperwork? We’ve had enough aggravation for one day.’

‘All right, all right!’

Nando sounded peeved.

‘You’re right about Curti, though,’ Bruno added in a conciliatory tone.

‘That stinking parmigiano! As far as he’s concerned, Bologna’s just another glitzy status toy like his yachts and his whores and his villa in Costa Rica. The only thing he couldn’t buy was his hometown club. Sorry, Lorenzino, Parma FC is not for sale. No problem, he just jumps in his Mercedes, drives a few exits south on the A1 and buys the red-and-blues instead. But he doesn’t give a damn about us!’

‘You’re right. The fans could forgive almost anything else, but there’s no sense of passion, no deep commitment.’