Zen nodded. Sanchez-Valdes shook his head and sighed.

‘The fact is, dottore, that for a variety of reasons which we have no time to analyse now, this little city state, whose sole object is to facilitate the spiritual work of the Holy Father, is the object of an inordinate degree of morbid fascination on the part of the general public. People seem to believe that we are a mediaeval relic which has survived intact into the twentieth century, rife with secrecy, skulduggery and intrigue, at once sinister and colourful. Since such a Vatican doesn’t in fact exist, they invent it. You saw the results when poor Luciani died after only thirty days as pope. Admittedly, the announcement was badly handled. Everyone was shocked by what had happened, and there were inevitably delays and conflicting stories. As a result, we are still plagued by the most appalling and offensive rumours, to the effect that John Paul I was poisoned or suffocated by members of his household, and the crime covered up.

‘Now a prince is not a pope, and Ludovico Ruspanti no Albino Luciani. Nevertheless, we have learned our lesson the hard way. This time we’re determined to leave nothing to chance. That is why you’ve been invited to give us the benefit of your expert opinion, dottore. Since Ruspanti died on Vatican soil, we are under no legal obligation to consult anyone whatsoever. In the circumstances, however, and so as to leave no room for doubt in anyone’s mind, we have voluntarily decided to ask an independent investigator to review the facts and confirm that there were no suspicious circumstances surrounding this tragic event.’

Zen glanced at his watch.

‘There’s no need for that, Your Excellency.’

Sanchez-Valdes frowned.

‘I beg your pardon?’

Zen leaned forward confidentially.

‘I’m from Venice, just like Papa Luciani. If the Church says that this man committed suicide, that’s good enough for me.’