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Signora?’ he asked, not for an instant suggesting that he might be interested in considering it, even if she had.
    â€˜I spoke to the Romanian woman the morning of the murder,’ she said.
    â€˜I fear the same is probably true of Signora Battestini,’ the lieutenant said, no doubt thinking it a clever thing to say.
    â€˜I also took her to the train station.’
    That caught his interest. He put both hands on the front of his desk and leaned towards her,as though he wanted to leap across the desk and squeeze a confession from her. ‘What?’ he demanded.
    â€˜I took her to the train to Zagreb. That is, the one that passes through Villa Opicina. She would have to change in Zagreb for the train to Bucharest.’
    â€˜What are you talking about? Are you saying you helped her?’ He half stood, then lowered himself back into his chair.
    She didn’t deign to answer his question and, instead, repeated, ‘I’m saying that I took her to the station and helped her buy a ticket and a seat reservation for the train to Zagreb.’
    He said nothing for a long time, studying her face, perhaps considering what he had just heard. He surprised her by saying, ‘You’re Venetian,’ as though it were part of some case he had begun to make against her. Before she could ask what he meant by that, he went on, ‘So have you just recovered from amnesia and come in to tell us all this, after three weeks?’
    â€˜I’ve been out of the country,’ she answered, surprised to hear the guilt in her voice.
    He pounced. ‘Without a phone or a newspaper?’
    â€˜In England, taking an intensive language course. I decided not to speak Italian at all,’ she explained, omitting mention of phone conversations with her lover. ‘I got back last night and didn’t find out about it until this morning.’
    He changed theme, but the suspiciousness remained in his voice. ‘Did you know her, this Romanian?’
    â€˜Yes.’
    â€˜Did she tell you what she had done?’
    Signora Gismondi willed herself to keep her patience. It was the only weapon she had. ‘She didn’t do anything. I met her in the morning, just outside the apartment. It’s directly across the
calle
from mine. She was locked out, and the old woman was upstairs.’
    â€˜Upstairs?’
    â€˜At her window. Flori was out in the street, ringing the doorbell, but the old woman wouldn’t let her in.’ Assunta Gismondi raised the first finger of her right hand and waved it slowly back and forth in the air in front of her, imitating the gesture she had seen the Battestini woman make.
    Scarpa said, ‘You called her “Flori”. Was she a friend of yours?’
    â€˜No. I used to see her from the window of my apartment. Occasionally we waved to one another or said simple things. She didn’t speak Italian at all well, but we understood one another.’
    â€˜What sort of things did she tell you?’
    â€˜That her name was Flori, that she had three daughters and seven grandchildren. That one of her daughters worked in Germany, but she didn’t know where, in what city.’
    â€˜And the old woman? Did she say anything about the old woman?’
    â€˜She said that she was difficult. But everyone in the neighbourhood knew that.’
    â€˜Did she dislike her?’
    Losing her patience for an instant, Signora Gismondi shot back, ‘Everyone who knew her disliked her.’
    â€˜Enough to kill her?’ Scarpa asked greedily.
    Signora Gismondi smoothed the fabric of her skirt across her knees, brought her feet together neatly under her, took a breath, and said, ‘Lieutenant, I’m afraid you haven’t been paying attention to what I’ve been telling you. I met her on the street in the morning. The old woman was at the window, waving her finger at her and refusing to let her in. I took the woman – Flori – I took her to a