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of Perugia are at your disposal. Eager to obey, my men await only your commanding word to spring into action. Your reputation of course precedes you, and the prospect of serving under your leadership has been an inspiration to us all. Who has not heard of your brilliant successes in the Fortuzzi and Castellano affairs, to name but two? And who can doubt that you will achieve a no less resounding triumph here on Umbrian soil, earning the heartfelt thanks of all by succeeding where others, less fortunate or deserving, have failed? The city of Perugia has a long and historic relationship with the capital, of which your posting here is a concrete symbol. My men will, I am sure, wish to join with me in bidding you welcome.’
    There was a feeble flutter of applause from the group of senior officials assembled in the Questore’s spacious top-floor office, all discreetly modern furniture, rows of law books, and potted plants. Aurelio Zen stood in their midst like a Siamese cat dropped into a cage full of stray dogs: tense and defiant, his eyes refusing to meet those fixed on him with expressions of more or less successfully concealed mockery. They knew what he was going through, poor bastard! And they knew that there was absolutely nothing he could do about it.
    Salvatore Iovino, their chief, a corpulent, vivacious fifty-year-old from Catania, had given a masterly performance. Fulsome and vapid, laden with insincere warmth and hidden barbs, his speech had nevertheless left no legitimate grounds for complaint. He had spoken of Zen’s ‘reputation’, without actually mentioning that his abrupt departure from the Rome Questura in 1978 had been the subject of the wildest rumours and speculations throughout the force. The two cases he had mentioned dated from the mid-seventies, underlining Zen’s lack of recent operational experience. He had referred to the transfer as a ‘posting’, thus emphasizing that it had been imposed on him by the Ministry, and had called it a symbol of the historic relationship between Rome and Perugia, a relationship consisting of two thousand years of bitterly resented domination.
    ‘Thank you,’ Zen murmured, lowering his head in a proud and melancholy gesture of acknowledgement.
    ‘And finally,’ the Questore continued, ‘let me introduce Vice-Questore Fabrizio Priorelli.’
    Iovino’s bland tone did nothing to prepare Zen for the glare of pure hostility with which he found himself transfixed by Priorelli. The Questore’s next words followed an exquisitely judged pause during which the silence in the room assumed a palpable quality.
    ‘Until today he was handling the Miletti case for us.’
    Iovino laughed weightlessly.
    ‘To be perfectly frank, that’s one of the many problems your unexpected arrived has caused us. It’s a matter of protocol, you see. Since Fabrizio outranks you I can’t very well make him your second-in-command. Nevertheless, should you wish to consult him he has assured me that despite his numerous other duties he is in principle at your disposition at all times.’
    Once again Zen murmured his thanks.
    ‘Right, lads, lunch!’ the Questore called briskly. ‘I expect you’re about ready for it, eh?’
    As the officers filed out Iovino picked up the phone and yelled, ‘Chiodini? Get up here!’ Then he turned pointedly away and stood gazing out of the window until there was a knock at the door and a burly man with a bored brutal face appeared, at which point the Questore suddenly appeared to notice Zen’s existence again.
    ‘I’ll leave you in Chiodini’s safe hands, dottore. Remember, whatever you need, just say the word.’
    ‘Thank you.’
    As they walked downstairs Zen studied his escort: hair closely cropped on a head that looked muscle-bound, ears cauliflowered, no neck to speak of, shoulders and biceps that formed one inflexible block, the ‘safe’ hands swinging massively back and forth. Chiodini would be the one they sent for when old-fashioned