The old woman had presumably left something: a house, maybe a few savings. Her heirs would be more interested in finding Riccardo dead than alive. Someone, and it was probably Umberto Salati, would be hoping I could prove as much. That way there was one less person with whom to share the estate. Not that that made much sense if the widow died poor.

I headed towards the centre of town. The damp claustrophobia of Padanian fog sucked the colours off the city. It felt isolating because you couldn’t see more than a few metres ahead. The place felt so humid that even the cobbles seemed to sweat.

I tried to walk on tiptoe to move my stubborn, busted ankle. It always got worse in winter. The weather seemed to stiffen it up and I spent my time drawing circles with the toes of my foot, trying to loosen up the rigid scar tissue. It had happened a long time ago. Someone had tried to give me a foot massage with a security door. I didn’t walk for a while.

I looked at the blurred people coming towards me through the fog. Women in egg-shaped fur coats. Men with pencil goatees. Orange buses and elderly cyclists.

It was a strange city. It had been transformed since I was a boy. There used to be old eccentrics living in town, the descendants of families who had lived in a particular borgo since Maria Luigia was Duchess. Children played football in the cobbled backstreets. There had been artisans: the carpenters and cobblers and tailors. Now, though, everyone had moved to the suburbs. In the centre there were only clothing boutiques and phone-dealerships selling glinting handsets made you- know-where. The rest were banks and legal offices and various ‘authorities’.

But somehow the city had retained its charm. It was cut in half by a river and that meant you could only reach the other side by using one of half a dozen narrow bridges. They became arteries where you saw friends and friends of friends. It was a city small enough for coincidences to happen and where everyone had some sort of connection to everyone else.

That was why I liked this time of year. It was the only season when the place offered anonymity. Visibility was reduced to twenty or thirty metres, and for once you could limp around without fear of being recognised. This was the only time you could really go about your business unseen.

Not that I really understand what my business is. I have no company, no headed notepaper, no staff. I don’t advertise. Now I think about it, I don’t even know how Crespi got hold of me.

But I’m always busy. There’s always employment for someone who lives off the dirt. And I do the dirtiest: fraud, missing persons, anti-mafia, omicidio. The only thing I don’t do is infidelity. I don’t mean in my private life, because there’s no one there to be unfaithful to. I mean I don’t snoop with a telephoto, trying to prove that people are putting it about. I don’t do it because it’s sordid and sad and – like the fog – it’s all the same.

But that’s how I got started in this line. That’s how everyone starts off. Marina, an old friend of mine from way back, thought her husband was cheating on her. She said she was certain of it, said she wouldn’t even trust him to put out the rubbish any more. He denied it until he was red in the face, swore on his blessed mother’s life that he would never betray her. He used to get furious with her, said she was demented.

She was telling me about it one day and I just offered to find out. As soon as I said it she was gripping my hand, pleading with me to give her back a bit of certainty in her life. She said she would arrange to go away one weekend and we would see what happened. Half an hour after her man had dropped her at the station he was unbuckling another woman’s bra.

Before I knew what was happening, every cuckold in Emilia-Romagna wanted my help. That’s how I discovered I had a talent for something useful. I could give people the truth. I found I had a talent for getting to the heart of things, for finding out about what had been hidden or covered up. I had a half-decent radar for deceit. People began to bring their injustices to me, perhaps because they sensed it was a subject I understood. They brought me their terrors and their tragedies. ‘Where is my wife?’ they would plead, or ‘Who killed my daughter?’ I never understood why they asked me. Maybe they asked everyone and I was the only one who offered to help.

And I don’t know why I did. At the beginning it might have been kindness, looking into troubles because some people seemed to have an unfair amount of them. I listened to their stories and asked questions in return. Question after question until someone didn’t want to reply.

But it’s not kindness any more. I’ve seen what polite people can do and I don’t trust politeness or kindness any more. It’s just a job and I do it for the money. And I take the money because the costs are so high: after a few months in this line you lose trust in everything. When you’ve seen that much betrayal and deception, you can’t trust what you see, let alone what you don’t. Everyone becomes a suspect. Mauro says that’s why I’m no good with women. I always look for a motive, and when someone says they’re in love, that they’re living without an ulterior motive, I worry about what they’re really up to.

I waited for a pause in the traffic to cross the road. Cars loomed out of the damp cottonwool air and sped past. I felt my ankle throbbing and leaned on my right instead.

I decided to go and look at Salati Fashions and turned into Via Cavour. It was there on the right on the way to the Battistero.

Through the shop window I could see a man who looked like the proprietor. Salati must have been mid-fifties. He had a thick grey moustache which covered the top of his mouth. It was yellowing on the right-hand side so I assumed he was a smoker. He looked thick set, like he had rounded out in recent years.

I watched a couple walk into the shop and Salati was on them, offering help, pulling hangers off the rails. I watched the way the man smiled at the young couple. He put his head on one side, a move that made him look as manipulative as a six-year-old in plaits.

The couple left the shop and I heard Salati offer them a curt buongiorno as if he were saying get lost. I walked through the door before it had sprung shut.

‘Umberto Salati?’

‘Yes.’

‘I’m Castagnetti. I’m a private investigator.’

Salati hesistated and tried to get his eyebrows to touch. ‘You’re the person who’s going to verify,’ he paused out of delicacy, ‘as to the status of my brother, is that right?’

‘It is.’

‘He’s already hired you?’

‘Crespi? This morning.’

‘Tell me your name again.’

‘Castagnetti.’

He looked aggrieved.

‘What did he tell you?’

‘Nothing.’

‘How did he find you?’

‘I didn’t ask.’

He clicked his tongue and walked around the shop shuffling hangers. He looked nervous. ‘You know someone is trying to pretend Riccardo is alive?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘The mourning notices in the paper today… there was one from Riccardo.’ He must have seen me perk up, because he quickly tried to damp down any excitement. ‘Riccardo’s not alive,’ he said, holding my stare. ‘Someone wants us to think he is, but he’s long gone, I’m afraid.’

‘So why would someone pay to publish a mourning notice in the newspaper?’ I asked.

He shrugged. ‘That’s your job.’

‘When did she die?’ I asked quietly.

‘Friday.’ He looked up at me as if trying to work out why I had asked.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said quietly.

Salati sighed. ‘At least we saw it coming.’

In my line, I thought, it’s always coming. Only difference is, I’m supposed to do something about it. I looked up at Salati and he looked tired. I knew what it was like to lose a parent because I lost both a long time ago. Salati was in a bleak place.