and power of her faith. He tried to wipe his mind clear of familiarity with the sweeping glory of the interior and wondered to what lengths he would go if he had but one chance in his lifetime to stand inside Basilica San Marco, and to do so he had to stand in a queue for an hour under the afternoon sun.

He turned to his right to consult the angel on the bell tower of San Giorgio, and together they decided. ‘I’d do it,’ Brunetti said and nodded in affirmation, much to the discomfiture of the two scantily clad girls who sat between him and the window of the boat.

He went directly to Signorina Elettra’s office, which was, as he expected to find it, even hotter than it had been the day before. Today it was her blouse that was yellow, but she still seemed entirely untouched by the heat.

‘Ah, Commissario,’ she said as he came in, ‘I’ve found your Signor Gorini.’

‘Speak, Muse,’ Brunetti said with a smile.

‘Signor Gorini, who is forty-four, according to the information on his carta d’identità,’ she began, sliding a sheet of paper towards him, ‘was born in Salerno where, from the age of eighteen to twenty-two, he was a seminarian with the Franciscan fathers.’

She looked up, pleased. Brunetti smiled in return, equally pleased.

‘Then, for a period of four years, there is no sign of him, until he reappeared in Aversa, working as a clinical psychologist.’ She glanced at Brunetti to see that he was following. He nodded encouragingly.

‘While he was living there, he married and had a son, Luigi, who is now sixteen.’ She flicked a speck of dust from the page before consulting it again.

‘After he had been in practice – though I think that word is notional – in Aversa for five years, he was discovered to have neither a licence nor a degree in psychology, nor, so far as the ULSS authorities could determine at the time, any training in psychology whatsoever.’

‘What happened to him?’

‘His practice was closed and he was fined three million lire. But the fine was never paid because Signor Gorini removed himself from Aversa.’

‘And the wife? And the son?’

‘It would seem neither of them ever heard from him again.’

‘Obviously, he was better suited to the cloistered life,’ Brunetti permitted himself to say.

‘Clearly,’ she agreed and shifted the paper aside to uncover another.

‘He next came to the attention of the authorities eight years ago, when it was discovered that the centre he was running in Rapallo, which specialized in helping integrate refugees from Eastern Europe into the workforce, was merely a kind of hostel where he allowed immigrants to live while they went out to work at jobs he found for them.’

‘And in exchange?’

‘In exchange, they gave him 60 per cent of their salaries, but they were at least given a place to live.’

‘Meals?’

‘Don’t be absurd, Dottore. He was also helping to introduce them to the experience of living in a capitalist society.’

‘Every man for himself,’ Brunetti said.

‘Dog eat dog,’ she replied, then added, ‘Though in this case one hopes that is not true. They could cook in this place where they lived.’

‘At least that,’ Brunetti said. ‘What happened?’

‘One of the women went to the Carabinieri. She was Romanian, so she could make herself understood. She told them what was going on, and they made a visit to the centre. But Signor Gorini was not to be found.’

‘Did he use his own name all this time?’ Brunetti asked.

‘Yes, he did,’ she said. ‘And apparently that was fine.’

‘Lucky for you that he did use it,’ he said, then, seeing her response, quickly added, ‘Though I’m sure it would have made no difference to you if he’d used another one. It just would have taken longer.’

‘Minimally,’ she said, and Brunetti believed her.

‘And since then?’ he asked.

‘There was no trace of him for a few years, and then five years ago he set up a practice as a homeopathic doctor, this time in Naples, but,’ and here she looked up and shook her head in open astonishment, ‘after two years someone checked his application file and discovered that he had never studied medicine.’

‘What happened?’

‘The practice was closed.’ That was all she said. Perhaps it was not a crime in Naples to practise medicine without a licence.

‘Two years ago,’ she continued, ‘he changed his residence to the address you gave me, but he is not the person in whose name the rental contract is written.’

‘Who is that?’

‘A woman named Elvira Montini.’

‘Who is?’

‘Who works