Bruno stepped away from the car and called in on his radio. He spoke little but listened intently, shielding his left ear against the roar of traffic on the banked and cambered curve of the motorway above. When he returned to the patrol car, his face was blank.

‘It’s not a Merc,’ he said, slamming the door shut and shivering.

Nando looked at him askance.

‘I know, it’s an Audi. So what?’

‘That conversation we just had?’

‘About Curti?’

Bruno did not look at him, just sat staring ahead at the blue Audi saloon.

‘Just don’t mention it, that’s all. When they get here.’

‘When who gets here?’

Bruno slammed his open palm loudly on the dashboard.

‘We never discussed the matter, all right? We don’t give a shit about football.’

‘But that’s all I do give a shit about! That and my birds. Oh, and Wanda, of course.’

‘That a new purchase?’

‘Wanda’s my wife!’

‘Oh, right.’

Right! Worked as a PA for some lawyer downtown. Nando did not deign to reply. A heavy silence fell.

‘That car is registered in Lorenzo Curti’s name,’ Bruno remarked quietly. ‘There’s a man sitting in the driving seat. It’s hard to tell in this light, but he looks quite a bit like the photographs and TV footage I’ve seen of Curti. Quite tall, slim, a well-trained beard, salt-and-pepper hair.’

‘Did you talk to him? Why did he stop?’

Bruno opened the window a fraction and cocked his head as though listening.

‘You know those knives they use for splitting blocks of Parmesan cheese? Well, they’re not really knives, more like triangular chisels. Thick, sharp and very rigid.’