‘It’s him, trust me. Teresa Tonin phoned her son to say that Umberto Salati had been round. She told him Salati knew everything. He knows about the boy, she must have said, he knows about the bastard.’

I got up.

‘Where are you going?’

‘I’m going to have a chat with Sandro.’

It wasn’t hard to find where the city’s only Alessandro Tonin lived. I watched the flat for over an hour before a man came out.

I recognised him from the photographs. Facial hair in thin lines, long hair, expensive clothes.

I followed him to a hairdresser’s salon, one of the spacious, expensive salons in the city centre.

I watched from outside and saw him hand over his coat and bag to a girl. He sat himself down to read a magazine.

I looked up at the 1950s board above the shop. I called Pagine Gialle and asked for the number of the place. They gave me the number immediately. I dialled it and saw a girl pick up the phone. She had a short white coat and coffee-coloured tights.

‘Can I help?’

‘I’m an investigator,’ I said. ‘I’m standing outside your salon. The man who just walked in, the guy with long curls, he’s under investigation. He just handed you his bag and jacket. I’m going to walk into your salon in thirty seconds. I’m going to show you my badge and you’re going to take me to the cloakroom. You understand?’

‘You sure do talk quick,’ she said in a whisper.

‘What’s your name?’

‘Sveva.’

‘Sveva? OK,’ I hung up and walked between cars.

She smiled at me as I walked in.

‘Hello stranger,’ she said as if she were greeting an old friend. I looked at her legs as she led me to the back of the salon.

‘In here,’ she said as we went through two doors. She led me into a small cloakroom. We were pushed close together by the shoulders of the clients’ thick coats. ‘First show me your badge,’ she said.

I pulled out my licence.

‘But you’re private.’

‘Same thing. Still trying to keep scum off the streets.’

She looked at me with a come-on smile. ‘You’ve got me into a cupboard under false pretences. You don’t even look like an investigator.’

‘You wanted a trilby and a magnifying glass?’

‘No, it’s just you look so normal.’

‘Thanks,’ I said, not sure it was a compliment. At least it was an improvement on comments about my swollen face. ‘Show me his bag.’

‘What’s he done?’ She passed me a leather shoulder bag and ripped off a sticker.

I pulled out his diary and spun the pages. I looked at dates and appointments but nothing stood out. A set of keys were in there.

‘How long’s he in for?’ I asked the girl.

‘He’s having highlights. Could be an hour.’

‘Highlights?’ I shook my head. The guy was one of the peacocks. ‘Is there a back way out?’

She nodded and opened the door to the cloakroom. ‘Out there.’

I put the keys in my pocket and walked out the back. There was a dirty white door that looked out on to a courtyard car park. I followed the driveway back to the main road and went to the key cutters in Via Sauro.

‘I need the whole bunch done. I’ve got fifty for you if you can do it in ten minutes.’

The man looked up at me like he wasn’t used to being rushed. But he took the keys and fixed the first one into his vice. He pressed a button and the large metal box began to whine. Metallic dust flew off. Once the new key was done, the man went back over it, his hand rising and falling with the contours of the key’s canines. He put the key by the counter and started with the next one.

Once he had done all eight he lined them up on the counter. I picked them up and compared them to the originals. The only difference was that the old were cold, the new warm. I blew a bit of dust off them.

‘That’ll be fifty euros,’ the man said, proud of his profession.

‘Thank you.’ I put the note on the counter.

I retraced my steps and let myself in the back door to the salon. I went into the cloakroom where a girl I hadn’t seen before was hanging a coat. She looked shocked to see me.

‘Sveva around?’ I asked.

She relaxed and said she was out front. I dropped the keys back into Sandro’s bag and walked out the front way. The smell changed as I opened the door back into the salon. It smelt of expensive soap. The music was on loud, though you could only just hear it above the drone of driers.

Sandro had rectangles of aluminium foil in his hair. He was reading a magazine. Even in this bright light his tan looked dark and perfect. He had cold, blue eyes.

I walked past him and nodded at the girl I had seen before.

‘Ciao cara,’ I said to Sveva as I walked out the door.

I walked over to Umberto Salati’s block of flats on Via Pestalozzi. The carabinieri cordon had gone now and I could stroll up to the outside gate without being stopped. I took out the eight keys and tried them one by one.

‘What are you doing?’

I straightened up and saw a man watching me. ‘I’m trying to get these keys to work,’ I said.

The man looked at me with suspicion. ‘Who are you?’

I evaded the question. ‘I found a bunch of keys near here. I heard on the news that Umberto Salati’s had been lost, so I thought I would just check here to see if they were his.’

‘You found a bunch of keys? Let me have a look.’

I didn’t pass them over. ‘Listen, friend, I’ve been hired by the family to work out what really went on here.’ It was stretching the truth only a little bit. The man seemed nonplussed, so I pulled out my ID.

The man stepped back and watched me trying the keys one by one. ‘Mind if I try the inside door?’ I asked, expecting the man to click open the outer gate. But he stood his ground, and asked to look at the keys. I couldn’t see the harm and handed them over. The man looked at them one by one.

‘None of these are ours,’ he said. ‘Try if you like.’

He pulled the gate open and I walked up to the main door. I tried all the keys but none of them worked.

I straightened up and looked at the man again. He had the sort of face that looked distrustful.

‘Who lives on the ground floor this side of the building?’ I asked casually.

‘That’ll be the Veronesi.’

‘Are they in?’

‘They’re always in. If you want to talk to them though, I suggest you go back outside and ring their bell.’

I nodded at the man and walked back outside to the main gate. I found the Veronesi name on the buzzer. I pressed the button and an elderly voice came on.

I explained that I needed to ask him a couple of questions. The gate clicked open. By the time I was back at the inner door there was a short, bald man in slippers opening it for me.

‘Come in. You’ll want to know about the night Salati died? There’s nothing I haven’t already said to the police and the press. We came home early, ate, watched television and went to bed. Salati is five floors up. We very rarely saw him.’

‘On good terms?’

‘Formal niceties, nothing else.’

He had led me into a dark flat. It was in the shade of trees and balconies and felt claustrophobic. But its doors opened on to the small garden outside where Salati had been found dead. The man’s wife was sitting on one of the armchairs.

‘Anything else about that night?’

‘Nothing.’

‘But you heard him hit the ground?’

The man looked at his wife and shook his head.

‘You’re deep sleepers?’

‘No, we’re not. But we didn’t hear him…’ The woman trailed off, not wanting to describe what had happened.

‘What did you hear?’

‘Nothing. The rain was so loud you could barely hear anything anyway.’

The woman interrupted him. ‘We heard the cat tinkling around outside.’

‘How can you hear a cat?’

The man thumbed at his wife. ‘She’s a bird-lover and doesn’t like old Jemima killing the birds. So she put a small bell on her collar to warn them off.’