Brunetti was lying on the beach when the phone rang, his arm placed across his eyes to protect them from the sand stirred up by the dancing hippos. That is, inside the world of his dreams, Brunetti lay on a beach, his location no doubt the result of a fierce argument with Paola some days before, the hippos a holdover from the escape he had chosen from that argument, joining Chiara in the living-room to watch the second half of Fantasia.

The phone rang six times before Brunetti recognized it for what it was and moved to the side of the bed to reach for it.

‘Si?’ he asked, stupid with the restless sleep that always followed unresolved conflict with Paola.

‘Commissario Brunetti?’ a man’s voice asked.

‘Un momento,’ Brunetti said. He put down the receiver and switched on the light. He lay back in bed and pulled the covers up over his right shoulder, then looked towards Paola to see that he hadn’t pulled them away from her. Her side of the bed was empty. No doubt she was in the bathroom or had gone down to the kitchen for a drink of water or, if the argument still lingered with her as it did with him, perhaps for a glass of hot milk and honey. He’d apologize when she came back, apologize for what he’d said and for this phone call, even though it hadn’t woken her.

He reached over and picked up the phone. ‘Yes, what is it?’ he asked, sinking down low in the pillows and hoping this wasn’t the Questura, calling him from his bed to go to the scene of some new crime.

‘We’ve got your wife, sir.’

His mind went white at the juxtaposition of the opening remark, certainly the sort of thing every kidnapper has ever said, with the use of ‘sir’.

‘What?’ he asked when thought returned.

‘We’ve got your wife, sir,’ the voice repeated.

‘Who is this?’ he asked, anger surging into his voice.