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mugger?’
    â€˜Didn’t give us much — it was late at night, near his place. Two of them, apparently, well built, both in balaclavas. Roman accents.’
    â€˜Any chance I could have a look at the report?’
    â€˜No problem. I’ll put it up on the network.’
    Scamarcio felt his nerves triggered, like someone had broken the electric current surrounding his defences. ‘Can you email it? I’m out the office for the next few days.’
    â€˜No worries.’ Filippi paused for a beat. ‘What’s all this about? It seems odd to me you’re interested in a dead renter on my patch. Even odder that he’s a dead renter who just happens to have been mugged.’
    Scamarcio laughed gently. ‘Oh, it’s nothing. Just something I said I’d follow up for a friend. He knew the vic, and wanted to know what happened to him.’
    â€˜Strange friends you have.’
    There was a shout — an indication of sudden movement — from somewhere in the background of Filippi’s office. It sounded like something was going down in Sunday-morning Trastevere.
    â€˜Scamarcio, I’ve got to go. One other thing: check out the neighbours, if you want. There’s another one of them in the flat above. Came down to find me last time I was there, crying and wailing, but I didn’t have the time, so I just put her on the backburner. If you want to talk to her, you’d be doing me a favour getting her off my back. Name was Sanchez, or something like that.’
    What did he mean by ‘another one of them’? But Filippi had already hung up.

6
    WHATEVER HAD BEEN going down in Trastevere was a long way from Arthur’s street. The alleyway was quiet. There was a bar on the corner, and Scamarcio caught a warm waft of coffee grounds and fresh baking over the usual undercurrent of decaying sewage pipes and stale alcohol. Through the window he spied a couple of old guys at the counter and an even older guy behind the bar. Sky News was on mute in the background: the PM was dressed down in casual clothes, showing Putin around Portofino — another uncomfortable alliance in Europe.
    The door to Arthur’s building was locked. He scanned the buzzers and found a Santa, but not Sanchez. He tried it, but there was no response. He tried again, and eventually a voice came on.
    â€˜Who is it?’
    â€˜I’m from the police, a colleague of Mr Filippi. He sent me to see you. Is it OK if I come up?’
    There was a pause.
    â€˜I’m sorry, I’m not dressed. I just need five minutes.’
    Instinct kicked in. Perhaps she was having second thoughts — maybe she wanted to flee?
    â€˜That’s OK. I can wait in the sitting room while you get dressed. It’s cold down here.’
    A sigh: ‘Second floor.’ The voice was low and gravely, and Scamarcio got it then: Filippi had meant another gay man, this time a trans. The door buzzed open and he pushed his way in. Old cigarette smoke coated the air, and he saw the police tape flicker in the draught from downstairs as he passed Arthur’s doorway. The body was gone now, safely in the morgue waiting for the ME. The ME was next on Scamarcio’s list, but he didn’t know how to work it — it really would be a breach of protocol as far as Filippi was concerned.
    Miss Santa was waiting for him on the second floor, wrapped in a tired-looking kimono, its red and green silk depicting a lizard poised to strike. She extended a hand. Her eyes, ringed and puffy, still bore traces of last night’s make-up, and her dark hair was dried out and broken yet greasy at the roots. Scamarcio would have put her at over forty, and would have been in no doubt as to her original gender.
    â€˜I’m sorry that you catch me like this. I worked late last night.’
    She headed back into the flat, and Scamarcio followed. He caught a blast of perfume, newly applied.
    She gestured him to a sofa in the