At about the time that the blue Audi A8-covered in a tarpaulin, with the driver’s body still behind the wheel-was being winched on to a low-loader for transport to the police garage, Aurelio Zen and his phantom double were deep underground somewhere in the wilds of Tuscany.

It had been a long day, a long month, indeed a long life, thought Zen. Or maybe it was his double who had these thoughts. It had never been established whether he could think, but the question was of no real importance. The essential point was that unlike Zen, whom he outwardly resembled in every last detail, he had no feelings. Perhaps this explained why he looked so disgustingly hale and hearty. There might be a few silver tints in the lustrous black hair, a heightened tautness of skin over bone here and there, but these merely added to his general air of distinction and maturity. Here, one felt, was a man who had lived and learned much, and now, in full command of this accumulated experience, was in charge of his life like an accomplished horseman of his mount, not striving fretfully to dominate and control, but serenely conscious of and responsive to every eventuality.

It was difficult not to envy such a man, although he showed no more hint of possessing any sense of superiority than the Matterhorn-or indeed of having any feelings at all.