I tried to call Tonin on his phone but it was permanently off. He had probably had journalists and friends calling him all morning, and he had given up answering.

It took under an hour to get to his house. The gate was as foreboding as ever. There were a couple of photographers hanging around outside. They said they had been ringing the intercom all morning with no joy.

I walked up to the thing and held the buzzer for long enough to appear rude again. No answer. I rang again, holding the buzzer for a good ten seconds.

‘Who is it?’

‘Castagnetti.’

‘Haven’t you had enough?’

‘Not quite. There are a few loose ends, and you’re one of them.’

‘Meaning?’

‘I thought it only polite to tell Elisabetta of her father’s fate in person. Before she reads it in my report or, more probably, in the papers. I’m driving there now.’

‘So?’

‘I wondered if you wanted to come.’

The line went quiet. It would have sounded like he was laughing, but the pauses between breaths were too long. It sounded like he was shuddering plenty of tears. I felt almost sorry for the man. The carabinieri had arrested his wife and were searching for his son’s body. His other son, the man he thought was his son, was probably another man’s. The girl in Rimini was the last thing he had left in the world.

We didn’t talk until we were past Bologna. After an hour of silence I started making small talk, asking about his favourite food. He replied almost absent-mindedly, telling me about how he loved seafood, how his parents were from near Venice and used to cook anything they pulled out of the sea.

‘My favourite’, I said, watching the road disappear underneath us, ‘is cotolette. When I was growing up I spent some time with my aunt and uncle, and she used to make the most incredible cotolette.’

‘Veal or pork?’ he asked

‘Veal,’ I said, as if it were obvious. ‘Do you like cotolette?’ I turned to look at him but he was staring ahead, narrowing his eyes.

He must have realised where I was going because he sighed as if I were forcing him to betray his wife one last time.

‘Did your wife ever make cotolette?’ I asked gently.

‘She did,’ he said formally, like he was already in court.

‘Traditional way?’ I asked. ‘Flour, egg and breadcrumbs?’

‘Sure,’ he said. ‘And a bit of lemon.’

‘And how did she thin out the fillets?’

I turned to look at him quickly. He had closed his eyes. ‘The usual way,’ he whispered. ‘She uses a batticarne.’

‘OK,’ I said, trying to make it easier. ‘It might be nothing.’

The batticarne was the size of an auctioneer’s gavel. It was the little metallic hammer used to thin out meat. One side was usually smooth and the other slightly spiked.

We didn’t speak again until we got to Via dei Caduti. I left Tonin in the car and walked up to the palazzo.

‘Who is it?’ said a young voice when I had rung the buzzer.

‘Elisabetta? It’s Castagnetti.’

‘No one’s in,’ she said.

‘I came to see you.’

‘About what?’

‘Can I come in?’

The gate clicked open and I walked up to the flat. The sun was coming through the windows and bouncing off the light walls.

‘It’s about your father.’

She nodded.

‘They’re searching a farm up in the mountains. It’s possible something might turn up. I thought you should know.’

She smiled.

‘Are you on something?’ I asked.

‘How do you mean?’

‘You look spaced.’

‘I’m fine. I just, I just want to know, you know? I’ve always had this terrible thought that, that he had, sort of, left me here on purpose.’ She wiped away a tear with the back of her thumb. ‘I’m glad it might not be true.’

‘It’s probably not true,’ I said gently. ‘Something else came up.’

‘Like?’

‘Your father’s father. He wants to meet you.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘Ricky, your father, was what they used to call a love child.’

She frowned. She started shaking her head but was smiling like she didn’t get it. I explained it all, about Tonin and the Salati woman. About Riccardo and his half-brothers, Umberto and Sandro. I told it all to her straight.

‘So this Tonin man is my grandfather?’

‘He says he is.’

‘How do you mean?’

‘He might be your grandfather. But if I were you I would do the tests.’

She looked at me with a face I’ve seen before: disappointment that the world might be so mean. I had to disappoint her further.

‘There’s something else you should know. This man, Massimo Tonin, is a lawyer. He might be able to look after you, but he might not. His wife and son are in custody.’

It was too much for the teenager and she broke down again. I realised I was breaking everything to a girl who needed her family around her and a branch of it was sitting in my car.

‘He’s outside if you want me to bring him in.’

‘Who is?’

‘Your grandfather.’ I went out on to her balcony and pointed out my car. Tonin was sat there like a dog on a summer’s day, his forlorn eyes longing for someone to let him out. I motioned with my head and he was at the buzzer in a flash.

When he came in, she didn’t say anything but just looked at him.

‘Elisabetta,’ I said, ‘this is Massimo Tonin.’

She laughed nervously.

‘I’m so, so sorry I haven’t…’ he stammered.

‘What?’ she said.

Tonin was stumbling over lines he must have rehearsed in his head for years. ‘I’m sorry all this is my fault. Your father – I didn’t even know him as a son, not until the end of his life, and all I did was try to help him. But your grandmother, she insisted I never see you. She thought I was responsible, my family was responsible, for your father’s disappearance.’

She looked at me for confirmation of what he was saying.

‘Silvia’, Tonin said, looking at me, ‘knew that my family were involved in Ricky’s disappearance. She said so to me. She had nothing to prove it, and I didn’t believe her until you, Castagnetti, came along this week. She said that if I ever went near her family again, Elisabetta included, she would denounce us.’

‘How did she know?’

‘I don’t know how, but she was convinced Teresa or Sandro had done something terrible.’

Tonin looked at his granddaughter and seemed to change. ‘I am your grandfather,’ he said. It was the first time I had seen him smile since we had met. ‘I understand if you distrust me, and you would be right to be angry at all the pain I have, inadvertently, caused you.’ He was on a roll now, holding her hand. ‘But I’ve prayed for you for years, I’ve thought about this moment thousands of times…’

I walked away. I figured they had been apart so long, they could do without someone taking notes now they were finally together.

I went outside and looked for a bar. There was a place just opposite that was busy with the football crowd. They had all assembled to watch the highlights from the day’s games and were shouting insults at players they didn’t like.

My phone started ringing. It was Dall’Aglio.

‘We’ve found something.’

‘Go on.’

‘One of the dogs has turned up something.’

‘And?’

‘It’s just a few bones.’

‘Human?’

‘We’ll be doing tests.’

I took it all in. It had to be Riccardo. It couldn’t be anyone else. When you go looking for a body and you find one, the identification is just a formality and Dall’Aglio knew it.

Poor boy. Murdered because he spent too much of other people’s money. Hidden in the hills, forgotten by everyone except his elderly mother.

‘There’s something else,’ Dall’Aglio said. ‘We ran checks on Bocchialini and Teresa Tonin. It turns out they both spent big in the autumn of ’95. He bought a car in cash, and she put down the deposit for her son’s flat.’

‘Cash?’

‘Isn’t it always?’

‘Split it fifty-fifty,’ I said under my breath.

‘Something else,’ he said. ‘One of the fireflies…’