the door, a dog started to bark.

‘It’s the police,’ Brunetti said in as kindly a voice as he could muster. ‘That’s what I told your mother.’

‘That wasn’t my mother: it’s Zinka.’

‘And what’s your name?’

‘Lucia,’ she said.

‘Lucia, do you think you can open the door and let us in?’

‘My mother says never to let anyone into the apartment,’ the girl said.

‘Well, that’s a very good thing for her to tell you,’ Brunetti admitted, ‘but it’s different with the police. Didn’t your mother tell you that?’

It took a long time for the little girl to answer. When she did, she surprised him by asking, ‘Is it because of what happened to Signor Araldo?’

‘Yes, it is.’

‘It’s not about Zinka?’ There was a note of almost adult concern in her voice.

‘No, I don’t even know who Zinka is,’ Brunetti said, telling the truth.

At last he heard a key turn and the door opened. Standing in front of him was a girl who might have been eight or nine. She wore blue jeans and a white cotton sweater: she was barefoot. She stood a bit back from the door and looked at them with open curiosity. She was pretty in the way of little girls.

‘You don’t have uniforms,’ was the first thing she said.

Both men laughed, which seemed to convince the girl of their good will, if not of their profession.

Brunetti saw a motion at the end of the corridor, and a woman wearing a blue apron stepped out from one of the rooms. She had the potato body of an Eastern European and the round face and wispy pale hair that often went with it. He read it in an instant: she was illegal, working there as a maid or a babysitter, but even fear of the police could not keep her from coming out to make sure the child was safe.

Brunetti took out his wallet and removed his warrant card. He held it out to the woman and said, ‘Signora Zinka. I’m Commissario Brunetti, and I’m here to ask questions about Signor Fontana and his mother.’ He watched to see how much she understood. She nodded but did not move. ‘I am not interested in anything else, Signora. Do you understand?’ Her posture seemed to grow less rigid, so he stepped aside, still outside the door, and indicated Vianello, who stood beside him, also careful to remain in the hallway. ‘Nor is my assistant, Ispettore Vianello.’

Silently, she took a few hesitant steps in their direction. The child turned to her and said, ‘Come on, Zinka. Come and talk to them. They won’t hurt us: they’re policemen.’

The word stopped the woman’s forward motion, and the look that swept her face suggested that life had taught her to draw different conclusions about the behaviour of the police.

‘If you don’t want us to come in, Signora,’ Brunetti began, speaking slowly, ‘we can come back later this afternoon, or whenever you tell us Lucia’s mother will be home.’ She took another step closer to the child, though Brunetti had no idea of whether she was seeking or offering protection.

He looked down at the child. ‘What school do you go to, Lucia?’

‘Foscarini,’ she said.

‘Ah, that’s nice. My daughter went there, too,’ he lied.

‘You have a daughter?’ the little girl asked, as if this were not something policemen were meant to have. Then, as if this would catch him out, she asked, ‘What’s her name?’

‘Chiara.’

‘That’s my best friend’s name, too,’ the girl said, smiling broadly, and stepped back from the door. With surprising formality, she said, ‘Please come in.’

‘Permesso,’ they both said as they stepped inside. It was then that Brunetti became aware of the air conditioning, which fell on him with a sudden chill after the heat of the day.

‘We can go to my father’s office. That’s where he always takes visitors if they’re men,’ she said, turning away from them and opening a door on the right. ‘Come on,’ she encouraged them. Vianello closed the door to the apartment, and the two men followed the child down the chilly hall. At the entrance to the office, Brunetti said to the woman, ‘It would help us if we could talk to you, too, Signora, but only if you’re willing. All we want to know about is Signora Fontana and her son.’

The woman took another small step towards them and said, ‘Good man.’

‘Signor Fontana?’

She nodded.

‘You knew him?’

She nodded again.

The child went into the room and said, this time drawing the last word out, ‘Come on, silly.’ She crossed the