‘Above all, no money.’

Bruno yawned again, staring sightlessly at the neat rows of identical six-storey apartment blocks now sliding past the car like packaged goods on a conveyor belt.

‘Well, he’s got problems in that department.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘This tax scandal.’

‘Tough. Why should he pull the club down with him? And now they say that half the sponsors are going to pull out to avoid the risk of being tainted if the case ever comes to court.’

‘Which it won’t.’

‘Of course not, but that doesn’t help us. The damage has already been done. We’re just…’

It was then that they saw the car parked at the roadside, its emergency blinkers flashing. Nando braked hard, swerving sharply to the right in a controlled skid, and pulled up behind it.

‘Blow job,’ he said.

‘Or breakdown,’ Bruno replied. ‘I’ll go and check.’

He stepped out into the freezing February night. For some reason, the cold seemed colder here than it had in Bolzano, harder and seemingly obdurate. Maybe it was the humidity seeping down from the Po delta, he thought, or more likely the pollution. Average winter temperatures were a good ten degrees lower up north, but there the air was bone-dry and crystal clear. Still, spring would soon be here, and he was home. That was all that mattered.

The illegally parked vehicle was a blue Audi A8 luxury saloon. Bruno automatically noted down the licence number. That was about all he could make out in the glare from the patrol car’s headlights behind. The headrests on the front seats made it impossible to see whether there was anyone in the car. Bruno walked round to the passenger side and peered in through the window, then rapped sharply on the glass. There seemed to be a man sitting in the driving seat, but he did not respond and the door was locked.

Bruno was about to return to the patrol car for a torch when the full beams of a van coming in the other direction bathed the interior of the Audi in light. The illumination lasted only a few moments, but it was enough. The driver of the Audi was sitting quite still. The expression on his face suggested that he was struggling to achieve some trivial but impossible task, like drawing out the plosive ‘p’ into a long dying murmur.