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Costanza Donati. Tell her I sent you and ask her if she’s remembered anything else other that what she told me yesterday—which was nothing, but she was pretty agitated. Anybody going in or out of here by car or on foot, other than the people who live here, including the ones they never think to tell you about, postman, delivery, you know the form. Anybody hanging around in the last few days, and. . . .’ He drew the younger man away from the doorway and murmured, ‘Ask if she ever saw the victim going in or out with a man.’
    The carabiniere clattered off down the stone stairs. The marshal tapped on the open door.
    ‘May I?’
    She was sitting on a big, white covered sofa, intent on examining a box in her lap. A shaft of sunlight from the open window made red glints on her smooth dark head and glittered in the gold chain running through her fingers. The door that opened on the bedroom was closed now. The trail of stuff through this first room had been cleaned up after the forensics people had finished.
    She looked up but didn’t speak. She was wearing a dark blue T-shirt, a cotton skirt, and brown leather sandals. The marshal noticed that her long dark hair hung loose down her back today and that, without the swollen red eyes, she was even prettier than he’d thought.
    ‘What about the jewellery? You’re sure there’s nothing missing?’
    She was twining the gold necklace round her fingers.
    ‘It’s all here.’
    ‘You never know, your sister might have bought herself something nice, something valuable.’
    ‘She couldn’t have. She had no money.’
    He stood looking down at her. Her long fingers were opening and closing on the necklace. It wasn’t just a chain, it was wider and as delicately worked as lace and a jewelled cross hung from it. She could easily break it with her nervous hands. Still, at least she wasn’t crying. . . .
    ‘No money at all? I suppose, this being your parents’ house, she lived here for free and you told me yesterday she worked, that you drove the little boy to summer school yesterday because your sister had to work.’ He spoke gently, chose his words, hoping to avoid another flood of tears.
    ‘She’s working on her doctoral thesis in Chemistry and she helps out in the registrar’s office at the university sometimes at busy times. They’re busy now because enrolments started in July but she only does a few hours a week. She had no money for buying jewellery.’
    ‘What about a present from a boyfriend? A ring, even. They may have quarrelled and he took it away because the purchase could be traced, you see, perhaps through a credit card. Did she wear a ring?’
    ‘No. Can I keep this? I want to keep it. Daddy gave it to her for her First Communion.’
    Her face flushed on the instant she said it. Tears welled up.
    ‘Of course. You want something to remember her by. You don’t have to explain. Consider it yours, but just leave it here for the moment. It will no doubt all be yours once this investigation’s over.’
    ‘I don’t want anything else.’
    ‘You think about it later. I’m sure your sister would have wanted you to have them, or your mother, perhaps. They look like very nice pieces. Are those real diamonds there?’
    ‘Of course they’re real, and I don’t want any of them! I’m not interested in jewellery!’
    ‘Try not to get agitated. Breathe deeply.’
    She did as she was told, lifting up her face, keeping her big dark eyes fixed on him, appealing for help.
    ‘That’s right. Deeply and slowly. I have to ask you questions, but there’s no hurry. If you get too upset or tired, we’ll stop and carry on tomorrow. All right?’
    She nodded, her fingers still clutching the necklace, her gaze still fixed on him, thick dark lashes fringing the unblinking eyes. . . .
    ‘All right. Tell me a little about yourself.’ The upsetting bits would have to be dealt with a bit at a time, at long intervals. ‘You were looking after your little nephew yesterday.