Holly arrived at my office the following day just as she had promised. It was the middle of the afternoon and I was heating the water for another mug of coffee when she burst in through the door.

‘Just in time,’ I said. ‘Would like a drink?’

‘No, thanks, Matt.’ She bounded over to the window and perched herself on the desk. ‘I had a nice cup of tea before I left the factory.’

Holly was tense. Though she swung her bare legs casually in an effort to appear relaxed, she was in fact trembling from her head to her toes.

‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.

‘Nothing.’ There was no evidence of conviction in her voice.

‘Something must be bothering you.’

She cleared her throat awkwardly.

‘I just wondered whether you’d had any ideas about how to get Richard away from Lyonesse Court.’

‘No, not really. What’s bothering me more is how we’re going to hide him if we ever do manage it.’

Holly gave a huge grin.

‘Well,’ she said, ‘you don’t need to worry about that any more. Hazel says we can keep him in her house.’

‘Who the hell’s Hazel?’

‘My favourite aunt. She’s absolutely great, Matt! She lives alone in a nice house in Eastbourne and it suddenly came to me, last night, that it would be the perfect place to hide Richard, so I gave her a ring, and she said she’d love to see us and we were perfectly welcome to use her place for a retreat.’

‘Really?’ I took my road atlas off the shelf, found the pages which covered the south-east coast and made a few calculations. ‘Eastbourne’s only about sixty miles from Margate. Do you think it’s safe being that close to Lyonesse Court?’

Holly waved a hand airily.

‘Oh, I’m sure of it. The best thing about Eastbourne is that it’s a far enough from Margate to be out of the Perfectionists’ reach, yet near enough to get Richard off the road before they notice he’s gone. I’ve already seen Daddy and booked myself a couple of weeks off work for this job. Are you free to come down to Kent and help me with it?’

‘When did you want to go?’

‘Tomorrow.’

‘For two weeks?’

‘Yes, if necessary.’

I sighed.

‘I’ll just check the diary.’ I flicked over a few pages. ‘Sorry, Holly. I can’t make it tomorrow. I have to be in Acton with a client. And Friday’s out as I’m in court.’

Her eyebrows rose.

‘Really, Matt?’

‘Oh, it’s only as a witness …. Look, Monday seems to be free at the moment. How would that suit you?’

Holly pouted.

‘I suppose it will have to do. I’ll just have to let Daddy know that my holiday won’t start until Monday. By the way, the Mercedes won’t be any use to us as there isn’t room for three in it. How’s Andy getting on with your Golf?’

‘He hasn’t been able to do anything. He’s pretty sure the car’s a write-off, but he has to wait for until my insurers to send one of their engineers to confirm it.’

‘Oh.’ Holly seemed to be disappointed.

‘Of course, there’s always the Corsa,’ I said, to encourage her.

‘That’s no good. It’s got four doors.’

‘What’s wrong with that?’

‘If we put Richard in the back of it, what’s to stop him simply letting himself out again?’

I smiled.

‘Oh, I think I can fix that, Holly. I’ll see you Monday. What time would you like be collected? Ten thirty?’

‘No. Make it ten, Matt – and bring a pair of pyjamas and a dressing gown for Richard. Buy them wherever you get your own stuff and put them on my account.’

It was well past dawn when I stumbled into the Albergo Valentino. Dodging the staff, I tottered upstairs, fell on the bed and remained there for the rest of the morning.

After a very late lunch, I paid Lucia’s bill and told Gabriella that she had booked out. The girl was panting for an explanation, but I couldn’t even be bothered to invent one. Instead, I asked her for some notepaper and wrote a letter to the Fiat garage in Chieti Scalo in which I told that their car had suffered an accident and enclosed a map to show them where they’d find it. Then, having fulfilled my obligations, I got  taxi to the airport and flew back home to England.

It felt good to be in Wembley once again. It didn’t seem to have changed much during my absence. Mrs Guest caught me in the garden, made me tell her where I’d been, and then brought me up-to-date with everything the neighbours had done while I had been away.

Leaving her with some difficulty, I drove to Athelstan House and discovered an enormous pile of post behind the office door. It contained, however, nothing of significance, so I made a mug of coffee, carried it to the desk by the window, put my feet up and leaned back in the chair.

It was now nine-thirty in Harrow, so it must be ten-thirty in Pisa. The Perfectionists would have been up for hours. I took out my notebook and dialled the number of Palazzo Marinelli.

‘Pronto,’ said a voice – a female voice.

‘Buongiorno,’ I said. ‘May I speak to Riccardo Fisher, please?’

There was a pause and a whispered discussion away from the phone, then she came back to me.

‘I am sorry, but Signor Fisher is not available.’

‘This is very important,’ I said. ‘I need to speak to Signor Fisher urgently.’

‘Who is calling, please?’

It was my turn to hesitate while I wondered who I should be.

‘It’s Henderson – Kevin Henderson.’

‘One moment, Signor Henderson.’

After a further consultation with some distant colleague, the receptionist returned.

‘Signor Henderson, you must telephone our English headquarters if you wish to speak to Signor Fisher.’

‘Thank you.’

‘Prego.’

I made a note on the pad and dialled Holly’s work number.

‘Good morning,’ I said. ‘It’s Matt.’

‘Where are you?’ Her voice was strained.

‘In Station Road.’

‘Is Richard with you?’

I took a deep breath.

‘I’m afraid not.’

‘Where is he, then?’

‘I think he’s in Margate.’

‘You think? You only think?’

‘Holly,’ I said, ‘could we meet and have a talk about things, please?’

‘Stay exactly where you are, Matt. Don’t move. I’ll come to you.’

Half an hour later, she was sitting on the chair opposite my desk, staring at me and twiddling her hair. Was it my imagination, or had Holly grown even more beautiful during my absence?

‘So,’ she said, ‘you think the Perfectionists have taken Richard back to Lyonesse Court.’

‘That’s what the people in Pisa told me.’

‘He hasn’t changed his mind about them, then?’

‘Not from what I saw, Holly.’

She frowned.

‘Well, Matt, you’ve certainly demonstrated that you have the ability to find Richard. You’ve even managed to get him away from the Perfectionists for a while. The problem is – he’ll always want to go back to them till he’s deprogrammed.’

‘If he’s brainwashed as you say, yes, I suppose he will.’

She sighed.

‘It’s a hard job making a member of a cult see the error of his ways. Generally, it’s a specialist’s job. I suppose you don’t know any deprogrammers, do you?’

I shook my head.

‘No.’

‘Neither do I.’

‘Aren’t there any in your Baptist Church?’

‘Oh, no. I’m afraid it’s up to us.’

‘Us?’ Even as she spoke, it flashed through my mind that by “us” she meant “you”.

Holly smiled.

‘It’s alright, Matt. I’ve got a book out of the library that tells us exactly how to do it.’

I bit my lip.

‘I’m not sure about this. Mucking about with people’s minds is uncharted territory to me.’

‘You never object to giving advice to your clients, do you?’

‘No.’

‘Well, then, all I want you to do is give some advice to Richard.’

This sounded better. I grinned.

‘Oh, I could do that, Holly.’

‘See, Matt, it’s easy. But first we have to get him away from Lyonesse Court.’

And then a thought occurred to me.

‘What if he refuses to come with us?’

Her smile grew even broader.

‘Well, we’ll just take him anyway, Matt.’ A wild look entered Holly’s eye which worried me a lot.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, ‘but I can’t possibly advise you to get involved in kidnapping.’

Her expression softened into one of hurt innocence.
‘We’re not going to kidnap him, Matt. What I’m saying is that Richard, after all that he’s been through, needs to go on a retreat – somewhere nice and quiet – where he can think things over without distraction.’

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘but what you choose to call “going on a retreat”, the counsel for the prosecution will almost certainly describe as abduction.’

Holly seemed quite unconcerned.

‘Then he’d be wrong, wouldn’t he?’

I sighed and changed the subject.

‘Would you like a cup of coffee?’

She wrinkled her nose.

‘No, thanks.’

‘I do – desperately.’ I got up, trotted over to where the electric kettle sat on top of the refrigerator and turned it on.

‘Holly,’ I said.

‘Yes, Matt?’

‘Don’t you think you ought to accept that you’ve lost Richard and move on?’

She stared, as if seeing me for the first time.

‘You still don’t understand, do you? Listen very carefully, please. I can accept that I’ve lost Richard. People do lose those they love – it’s just one of those things. What I can’t accept is Richard’s loss. He’s not himself, Matt. You didn’t know him before he got mixed up with the Perfectionists. If you had, you’d understand exactly why we can’t leave him in their clutches.’

‘I think we can, Holly. It’s his choice, not yours.’

She gritted her teeth. I’d never seen her look so determined.

‘How many times do I have to tell you, Matt? He’s been brainwashed. He can’t make rational decisions for himself any more, so it’s up to us to make them for him until he’s been rehabilitated.’

‘You may be right, Holly, but you can’t ignore the law.’

She gave a sinister chuckle.

‘That’s really funny – coming from a man who thinks nothing of breaking into people’s houses in the course of his work.’

I felt my cheeks burn

‘That’s different. I only do it when I have to and I always leave the place exactly as I found it. I never do any harm.’

‘And we’re not going to do any harm Richard. On the contrary, we’re going to do him good! If the law says it’s okay for a cult to cart him away and brainwash him but it’s wrong for us to rescue him and restore him to normality, then the law’s an absolute ass.’

I nodded.

‘I’d prefer to get Richard’s permission for your plan, though.’

‘I know, Matt. So do I, but we can’t always have what we want, can we?’

‘No, I suppose not,’ I said, secretly hoping that we could.

Holly smiled with pleasure.

‘I knew you’d see it my way. Now, give this retreat idea a bit more thought, please, and I’ll meet you here at three o’clock tomorrow to discuss it further. Okay?’

‘Okay.’

She left, and I sat alone in the office, wondering why I’d let her involve me in such a ridiculous business.

I was sleeping peacefully, dreaming, for some strange reason, about an orange elephant, when the alarm went off. I thumped a hand on the clock, picked it up and peered at the time. It was twelve forty-five.

Yawning uncontrollably, I climbed out of bed, dressed, and staggered along the corridor to Lucia’s room. Before the hour was two, we were back at the villa in the valley.

For the journey from Albergo Valentino we had the benefit of a full moon shining brightly from a cloudless sky, but now the steep hillside behind the house hid it from our view, leaving us in darkness. Lucia, in the passenger seat, watchedwith quiet amusement as I uncoiled the washing line and hacked it in half with my penknife.

I wound up one half of the line and looped it over my shoulder. Taking the remaining half, I tied one end to an olive tree which grew beside the villa’s boundary wall and threw the rest over.

‘What you do?’ demanded Lucia.

‘I’m going to climb over and get Richard.’

‘What shall I do?’

‘Could you wait here in the car, please, and be ready to take care of Richard when he comes? We don’t know what condition he might be in.’

She nodded thoughtfully. I climbed the olive tree until I was level with the top of the wall, swung across onto it, and looked around. No lights showed at the villa and everything seemed peaceful in the grounds.

Testing the strength of the washing-line, I lowered myself to the ground carefully and set off towards the silhouetted house. Stumbling across the gardens, I eventually tripped up some steps and collided with the villa.

I ran my hands over the walls until they encountered the shutters of one of the downstairs windows. Levering my knife behind them, I released the catch. I used the same procedure on the window behind, opened it, and climbed through. Inside, I waited and listened. Since all was silent, I felt it was now safe enough to switch on my pen-light. This revealed an ornate dining room. I left it by an equally ornate doorway and entered a hall.

Here, wide stairs led up to the first-floor landing, where I was faced by a choice of route. To the left was a closed door; to the right, a corridor. I tried the handle of the door. It wasn’t locked, thus indicating that Fisher was not inside.

I turned and walked along the corridor, gently testing each handle until I reached a door which was locked. Concluding that this was Fisher’s prison, I felt for the keyhole and was pleased to discover a key already in it. I turned it slowly, stepped through the doorway, and re-locked the door from the inside.

 Flashing my pen-light around the room, I saw Fisher covered with a blanket and asleep on a bed – at least, I hoped he was only asleep. There was a nasty bruise beneath his left eye and his lips were puffy. I knelt beside him.

‘Richard,’ I whispered, ‘wake up.’

He groaned and stirred.

‘Richard. Wake up, but keep quiet.’

‘Who’s there?’

‘It’s Matt – Matt Allen.’

He sat up.

‘So, they got you too.’

‘No, I’ve come to rescue you. Put some clothes on.’

Rather unsteadily, he rose from the bed and dressed. While he was putting his clothes on, I pushed his bed to the window and opened the shutters. Taking the washing line off my shoulder, I tied an end to a leg of the bed and threw the remainder out of the window. It hit the ground with more noise than I’d expected. Fisher, tying his shoelaces, stopped and looked up at me.

‘What was that?’

‘Just arranging our escape, Richard. Climb down this rope, please, and wait for me at the bottom.’

He finished tying his laces, rose and came over to the window.

‘Rope?’ he squawked, when he picked it up. ‘This is only string, Matt! It won’t take my weight!’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, heaving him out of the window, ‘it’s much stronger than it looks.’

Behind us, the door handle rattled.

‘What’s going on in there?’ demanded a distinctly Scottish voice. ‘Answer me, Richard!’

There was a short pause.

‘Hey!’ he shouted. ‘Where’s the key?’

I looked out the window, but could see no sign of Fisher.

‘Are you there, Richard?’ I called.

‘Yes.’

‘On the ground?’

‘Yes.’

‘Good.’

I heard a fist thump against the door as I swung myself over the windowsill.

‘Let me in!’ yelled Alex.

More voices arrived and joined with the Scot’s wail to form a chorus of despair. I slid down the line and found Fisher in the dark waiting to go.

‘Which way, Matt?’ he hissed.

‘This way,’ I said, stumbling into a flower bed and sprawling among the geraniums.

Fisher was polite enough to refrain from comment as he hauled me upright.

‘Thanks,’ I said, and made a second attempt to cross the lawn.

In the villa behind us, lights appeared in the windows and we heard the sound of incomprehensible bellowing. I ran into the boundary wall and felt around for the other half of the washing line.

‘Here, Richard,’ I whispered, ‘climb up this rope -’

‘It’s still only string, Matt.’

‘Whatever it is, climb it, and drop down on the other side of the wall. Watch out for the olive tree though.’

With a shove from behind, Fisher hauled himself over the wall. I followed, found him in the darkness, and led the way to the car. As we approached, Lucia opened the door and stepped forward.

‘Ciao, Riccardo,’ she said. ‘How you are?’

‘Fine, thanks,’ he said, peering into the night. ‘Who are you?’

‘Lucia.’

‘Lucia? What are you doing here?’

‘I come to help,’ she said, taking hold of Richard’s arm and assisting him into the back of the Multipla.

‘Are we going back to Pisa?’

She cleared her throat awkwardly.

‘Matteo will tell you,’ she murmured.

The darkness could not conceal her intense embarrassment.

‘Yes,’ I said, ‘I will. But can I do it later? The main aim at the moment is to get away from Corbett.’

I let out the clutch and shot down the lane rather faster than was wise.

‘Riccardo,’ said Lucia, in the back, ‘did those people hurt you?’

‘Hardly at all. They kept trying to persuade me to go back to work for my old company, but I wouldn’t do it. And that made them angry, but, no, they didn’t hurt me much, Lucia.’

‘You are very brave,’ she said.

As we rounded a bend, the headlights lit up a stationary white van stretched across the road and completely blocking our path. I braked sharply, wrenched the steering wheel over, and began to make a three point turn. There wasn’t really enough width to perform the manoeuvre, but I was doing my best when a pair of headlights came up from behind and prevented any further movement.

‘Come, Riccardo,’ said Lucia, opening a rear door, ‘we must go now. Addio, Matteo, and … I am very sorry.’

She took her rucksack from the back and jumped out, closely followed by Fisher. As I watched them go, my own door was snatched open and two men in white suits dragged me out of the car, flung me against a stone wall and held me there. A third man stepped from the night into the light of the headlights. It was Rossi, and in his hand there was a knife. He raised it and placed its point against my chest.

‘Thank you, Matteo,’ he said.

‘Thank you for what?’

‘Thank you for bringing Riccardo back to us,’ he leered.

He snapped some orders in Italian at one of the men holding me, who let go of my arm, climbed into the Multipla, and backed it out of the way of the car at the rear. When this had passed and pulled up behind the white van, the man returned the Multipla to its original position.

‘This will stop you following us,’ said Rossi, stabbing his knife into each of its tyres in turn.

With a word in Italian to the man still gripping my arm, Rossi leapt into the white van and disappeared into the night. His colleague threw me to the ground, jumped into the second car and roared after him. I picked myself up from the road, dusted myself down, and began the long walk back to Potenza.

Arriving in Largo Duomo, we took up positions on the steps of the cathedral in the shade offered by one of the walls. Lucia leaned back and studied those who passed by in a deliberately casual manner, while I peered at the world through the eye-holes I’d cut out of my newspaper.

Here we remained for the rest of the morning, apart from an occasional move to dodge the sun in its journey around the piazza, but we didn’t see anyone who looked like a kidnapper – or anyone looking like a kidnapper’s victim.

At midday, Lucia waltzed off to the shops with a fistful of my money, returning, a little later, with loaves and mortadella which she proceeded to hack into baguettes on the cathedral’s steps. Then we washed them, and a fair amount of Potenza’s dust, down our throats with the local red plonk. And, while we ate, the square around us emptied as the more sensible section of the city’s population retired for their midday siesta.

‘Should we move on?’ I asked after lunch. ‘To be perfectly honest, I can’t imagine that Richard’s kidnappers are the sort who visit cathedrals.’

‘Sì, Matteo,’ she said and rose to her feet.

We meandered onwards, through a shop-lined street which, eventually, opened into another ancient piazza surrounded by ochre-coloured buildings. On one side of the square was the arcade of a large theatre; on another, a church which was even larger than the cathedral we’d just left. Its enormous doors were carved all over with what appeared to be scenes of ancient life. Lucia nudged me.

‘They are stories from the Bible,’ she said.

Only the mass of cars parked in the centre of the piazza spoilt the atmosphere of timelessness. If you could ignore them – and, believe me, you couldn’t – you might be a time-traveller making a journey of five hundred years into the past. For the moment, however, Lucia and I headed for the shade of the theatre.

Squeezing through the jumble of cars, I was surprised to see a British number plate, for this was an area a long way off the tourist trail. And, what was even more worrying, the vehicle was a black BMW. Seizing Lucia’s arm, I hurried her across the cobbles and into to the shade.

‘What is wrong?’ she asked.

‘That car.’ I nodded in its general direction. ‘It’s the sort that Corbett drives. Could you stay here and watch it, please? I’ll go back to the hotel and get the Multipla, then we can follow it. If anyone goes to the BMW, make a note of them. Whatever you do, though, don’t let them see you. If these people are who I think they are, you don’t want to annoy them.’

She smiled and seated herself elegantly upon a nearby empty bench.

‘Sì, Matteo, but you must not leave me for long.’
‘I promise I’ll be as quick as I can.’

When, eventually, I arrived at Albergo Valentino, Gabriella Marchesi was outside, sweeping the car park. Seeing me approach, she paused in her work and smiled.

‘You have quarrelled with Signorina Marchesi?’

‘No, Gabriella. I’ve only come to get the car.’

‘A pity,’ she said, frowning as she saw me go to the Multipla and unlock its door.

She was still watching as I drove from the car park and gave a little wave as I went round the bend. It was as I entered Potenza’s one-way system that I realised Lucia still had the map. In next to no time I was utterly lost and it was much later than I’d intended when I eventually arrived in the piazza where Lucia was standing guard.

Pleased to see she was still in the same position, I drove up in front of the theatre and opened the door for her to hop in.

‘Where have you been?’ she demanded. ‘I was very worried, Matteo.’

‘I’m sorry. You’ve got the map, so I got lost. Has anyone come to the car?’

‘No.’

‘Then we must watch and wait.’

‘But you cannot stay here,’ she said. ‘Park over there, Matteo, in the shadow of the church.’

I did as she said. We settled ourselves down into the seats of the Multipla and prepared for a very long wait.

I had only closed my eyes for a moment – or so it seemed – when Lucia poked me in the ribs.

‘Matteo!’ she hissed. ‘Wake up!’

‘What’s the matter?’

‘Look at the car!’

I rubbed my eyes and peered around. Two men I didn’t recognise were at the doors of the BMW. One took out a key and unlocked it, both got in and drove away. Immediately, I started up the Multipla’s engine and followed them – at as great a distance as I dared allow.
We left the centre of the town and entered its southern outskirts, descending a winding road which went down into a deep valley. There was a river at the bottom which we followed for a while. Soon we came into an area of new, and rather depressing, housing estates. A little later, our road turned sharply away from the river.

Now the BMW picked up speed as it left the town behind. It took a left-hand bend – and disappeared. For a while I continued along the road, but there was no sign of the car. I found an empty gateway, turned, and drove back – much slower.

It was at the bend where we’d last seen the BMW that Lucia noticed a narrow lane leading off the main road. We’d missed it at first because it was partially obscured by trees. I turned up the track, proceeding cautiously. As we drove past the gates of a villa, Lucia cried out.

‘Look, Matteo! There is the black car!’

It was parked at the top of the drive which led up to the great house, but I couldn’t stop at such a conspicuous place. I continued along the track and, when it widened, pulled in.

‘What shall we do now?’ asked Lucia.

‘Well,’ I said, ‘the probability is that Richard’s inside that villa, so I shall -’

‘We,’ interrupted Lucia.’

‘We shall come back here tonight and get him out. But first I need to get a good rope. Do you have climbing shops in Italy?’

Lucia frowned in deep thought.

‘In the North, perhaps, among the Alps. I have never seen such shops in either Bologna or Pisa.’

‘The thing is,’ I said, ‘Richard and I will have to do some climbing tonight, so we need a rope we can rely on. A washing line won’t do.’

Lucia shook her head slowly.

‘We can look in Potenza, Matteo. There is nowhere else ….’

So we did, but all that the shops had to offer was a blasted washing line. I had no choice – I bought it.

We left Chieti in a rush and, heading east, it wasn’t long before a thin blue segment of Mediterranean Sea was visible through a hollow of the hills.

The road crossed over a motorway, then suddenly doubled back on itself to join it. We’d paused at a tollbooth, paid for the privilege of using the Autostrada Adriatica, then headed into the sun.

For most of the journey, our route was too far from the sea to provide any scenes of interest and at the end of two hours of utter boredom, Lucia instructed me to leave at the next exit.

‘You will see a sign for Foggia, Matteo, but do not go into the town. We go round it.’

‘And then what?’

Lucia gave a shudder.

‘Do not ask.’

‘Why not? What’s wrong?’

The girl frowned and refused to give me answer.

We found Foggia sitting in the centre of a great, empty plain, but this fact didn’t become apparent until we’d driven past it. Thereafter, the land stretched ahead of us, dry, dusty, and as flat a pancake. Across the horizon wriggled a wave of purple mountains.

‘Do we keep straight on?’ I asked.

‘Sì,’ said Lucia, somewhat tensely.

We crossed a couple of rivers and, for a while, the fields around us were greener, yet however far we travelled, the mountains seemed no nearer.

‘Hungry?’ I asked.

The girl nodded.

‘We must stop at Ascoli Satriano,’ she said. ‘Is not on this road, Matteo. Turn left at the next cross-roads.’

I did so, and soon we careered into the central piazza of a sun-baked market town. Parking the Multipla on the shady side of the square, we climbed out, stretched our arms and legs, and stumbled into what was probably the only restaurant for miles.

Lucia grabbed the waiter and ordered spaghetti Bolognese for us because, she said, it reminded her of home. Then, after the meal, we relaxed over a bottle of wine. When it was empty we returned, with reluctance, to our original route.

The mountains were close now – oppressively so – and our road rose steeply into their foothills. No sign of tree or bush, the earth was stripped away to expose bare, white rock.

‘This is not Bella Italia,’ murmured Lucia, chiefly to herself. ‘Is another place – more ugly, less friendly.’

‘I know. I can see now why whoever it was that kidnapped Richard brought him here. Whichever way you look, there’s nothing – absolutely nothing. Surely no-one would come here unless they had to.’

Lucia nodded and buried her nose in the atlas. Suddenly, she shivered and pointed out of the window towards a lowering peak.

‘Matteo! Look at that mountain! The map say it is Monte Vulture!’

I considered it out of the corner of my eye, while trying to keep on the road. It‘s sinister outline made it obvious why it had such a name and I said a silent prayer that the car wouldn‘t break down as we passed it.

The road continued up through a white-bleached landscape until it slipped over a col and spiralled down the other side into a miserable region of dust and rock.

‘Goodness,’ I said. ‘You’d think we were on the surface of the moon.’

‘This was once called the Garden of Europe,’ said Lucia.

I found it hard to believe her.

‘What? When was that?’

‘Many years ago, Matteo – before the people cut down all their trees and the soil was washed away.’

I stared around at the ghastly landscape. Could it really have supported a healthy population? We hadn’t seen a soul for ages. Suddenly I felt immensely depressed at the short-sightedness of men. Yet, round a bend, we came across evidence that still humanity clung to life here. On a ridge between two valleys was a town, and our road ran straight towards it.

‘That is Potenza,’ said Lucia.

‘Are you sure?’

‘Sì, Matteo. There is nowhere else.’

Parched with thirst, we stopped at a roadside bar on the edge of town. The local folk were surprised to see strangers, but Lucia walked straight up to the counter and ordered coffee for me and an orange juice for herself. We carried the drinks outside to the shade of an umbrella.

‘Thanks, Lucia,’ I said. ‘I couldn’t have managed without you.’

She looked embarrassed.

‘Is not difficult to buy coffee,’ she said.

‘No, I’m talking about the whole trip. I wouldn’t have got this far on my own. In fact, I’d have got lost immediately I’d set foot outside Pisa.’

Lucia blushed.

‘Is nothing,’ she said, with a careless wave of the hand.

It took a while to recover from the journey, but, later than we realised, we drove into Potenza and took lodgings at the Albergo Valentino. Gabriella Marchesi, the youngest of the owner’s four daughters, booked us in, after which we strolled around the town.

I didn’t sleep well that night. The air was too hot, the mosquitoes too busy, and the bed too uncomfortable. The following morning, I crawled down to breakfast and found Lucia relaxed and sitting at a little table on the terrace. She looked fresher than ever and greeted me with a smile and a wave.

‘Ciao, Matteo.’

I groaned.

‘Ciao, Lucia.’

‘Where do we look for Riccardo today?’

‘Don’t know. Wait a minute.’ I thumped my head with a fist in an effort to make my brain work, but it made no difference. ‘No, sorry, I still have no idea.’

‘Do not hurt yourself,’ she said, unfolding a street plan of Potenza. ‘Look at this map. La Signora Marchesi lend it to us.’

She shifted crockery and stretched it over the table.

‘That’s very kind of her,’ I said, ‘but we’re hardly likely to see Richard in the street.’

‘Maybe he escape from the cowboys and come here by himself.’

‘Then he wouldn’t have left us a message. He’d have gone straight back to Palazzo Marinelli.’

Lucia wrinkled her brow.

‘What you think has happened, Matteo?’
‘I would say that he’s been kidnapped again.’

‘Who would do that?’

‘Well, Dan Corbett was in the area and he’s an extremely dangerous man, Lucia.’

Her mouth dropped open.

‘You tell Bonny and me he is your friend. You say you play games with Daniele Corbett, no?’

I sighed.

‘Yes, but that was when I couldn’t tell you the truth. Corbett’s actually head of security where Richard works and he’s probably out here to stop him passing on their company secrets to the wrong people.’

‘Like the Lucky Strike Gang?’

‘Yes.’

She frowned at me. I would have loved to have known what was going through her mind. She didn’t look particularly happy, but, on the other hand, she didn’t seem angry either – which was surprising.

‘I’m sorry I lied,’ I said. ‘Does this change things, or will you still help me find Richard?’

‘If Daniele Corbett is as dangerous as you say, it is even more important to get Riccardo away from him. We are here, Matteo,’ she said, pointing to a street on the map. ‘Let us go here, to Largo Duomo. It is the centre of Potenza. We must look for him and for Riccardo there.’

‘Alright,’ I said, relieved that she seemed to understand the situation.

Lucia refolded the map, tucked it in her handbag, rose and left the terrace. I swilled down a cup of cold coffee and ran after her.

I caught up with the girl as she marched through the hall. Gabriella teetered overhead on a pair of wobbly steps as she tried to dust the ceiling.

‘Buongiorno, Signor Allen,’ she called. ‘Have a nice day.’

‘Buongiorno, Gabriella. I hope that you have a nice day too.’

She scowled.

‘Is never nice here, Signor Allen. Is always the same – work, work, work. No time to go out. What you do this morning?’

‘We thought we might have a look at the town centre,’ I said.

Gabriella climbed down the steps and came up close to me.

‘Is nothing to see in Potenza. Tomorrow I take you to Napoli. Is more interesting, no?’

‘No!’ barked Lucia, grabbing hold of my hand and dragging me out of the door. When we were well away from Albergo Valentino, she stopped and turned to me.

‘That girl is no good,’ she hissed.

‘I thought she was quite nice, Lucia.’

‘Signorina Marchesi has fantasies, Matteo. Do not encourage them.’

‘I’m sorry,’ I said and we continued the walk in silence.

I walked round the farmhouse cautiously and found Lucia was standing in front of the door with a look of relief on her face.

‘Are you sure that it’s empty?’ I asked.

She nodded. ‘Sì, Matteo.’

It wasn’t that I doubted the girl, but I felt it was safest to give the door a shove for confirmation. It didn’t move and even a couple of firm blows had no effect. Lucia watched with worried concern, as if half expecting someone to come out and rebuke us.

‘Perhaps,’ she said, ‘the police have locked up the house and then gone away?’

‘It does rather look like that. We’d better find a way to get in.’

I made another circuit of the building, looking for a means of entry, with Lucia following like a little lost lamb, but the rear door was locked and all of the windows were tightly shuttered.

‘What a pity,’ she sighed. ‘Is no way in, Matteo.’

‘Well, we shall have to see, won’t we,’ I said, given my attention to a pair of weather-worn shutters at the rear of the farmhouse. ‘Could you kindly keep guard for me, please?’

She gave a gasp of horror as I took out my penknife, slid the blade behind a shutter, found the catch and released it. Repeating the process with the window behind, I pushed it open and climbed through.

‘Is it still clear?’ I asked.

‘Sì.’

‘Then come inside, Lucia.’

With the natural reticence of a woman in a white skirt who’s unused to burglary, she clambered over the windowsill. I closed the shutters behind her and, in total darkness, we groped our way across the room. A sudden cry came from Lucia as she cannoned into a wall.

‘Matteo,’ she called, ‘there is a light switch here.’

I heard a click, but nothing happened.

‘But it does not work, Matteo.’

‘We’ll have to open the shutters, Lucia. If anyone sees you and asks, tell them that we are squatters.’

‘Squatters?’ She rolled the strange word around on her tongue, greatly improving its pronunciation. ‘What are squatters, Matteo?’

‘People who take over someone else’s house.’

‘Oh, you mean occupanti abusivi.’

‘Yes, more than likely.’

We went round opening all the windows in what turned out to be the living room. The fresh sunlight fell upon a scene of dereliction. Window panes were either missing or covered in mould, plaster crumbled from the walls and, most worrying for us, was the evidence of violence. Furniture had been flung in all directions and maroon stains on the floor couldn’t be mistaken for anything other than dried blood. Lucia gasped.

‘Riccardo may be hurt,’ she said, averting her gaze.

I took her hand to comfort her.

‘It’s more likely come from the cowboys’ own injuries. Now, let’s be systematic about this search and start at the top of the house.’

She nodded and dutifully followed me up the stairs. We began with the room at the far end of the landing, but even after opening up its windows and shutters, we found only old blankets and dirty clothes. The next room was much the same. But, as we were leaving, Lucia stopped and went back to the window.

‘Look, Matteo!’ she cried.

I joined her and saw, scratched into the grime on the pane:

VADO A POTENZA.

‘Does it mean anything?’ I asked.

‘It say: I go to Potenza. Potenza is a town in Basilicata – is the south of Italy.’ She frowned. ‘Is very long way from here, Matteo.’

‘Richard must have written this,’ I said. ‘Good for him. He’s done it again.’

With raised spirits we shut up the house and left it as we’d found it. Lucia was so happy, she sang all the way back to Ristorante del Monaco. I went straight to Signor Togliatti and paid our bill while Lucia piled the luggage into the back of the Multipla. I found her waiting for me in the passenger’s seat.

‘Which way to Potenza?’ I asked.
Lucia tutted.

‘I do not know, Matteo. Is foreign country for me.’

I was disappointed by her ignorance of Italian geography, but tried not to let it show.

‘I suppose we should start by going south,’ I speculated

‘No. Start by going to a shop. We must buy a map, Matteo.’

Reluctantly agreeing with her, I drove to the station and bought a road atlas from the bookstall on its platform. Back at the car, Lucia snatched it from me and opened it up on the bonnet.

‘We are here,’ she said, marking a place with one finger and flicking over a few pages, ‘and here is Potenza.’

‘Look for a route between the two which will take the least time to travel.’

She looked up at me and frowned.

‘There are many roads to chose from, Matteo, and I do not know which will be quickest.’

Over her shoulder I could see that the geography of Southern Italy was all a bit of a muddle.

‘What about that road there?’ I said, pointing at a line of blue which ran parallel to the eastern shore.

‘Is the Autostrada Adriatica. Maybe it is good.’ She shrugged her shoulders with that expressiveness which only an Italian can achieve. ‘Maybe no.’

‘Well, we won’t waste any more time wondering about it. Let’s go.’

She shrugged once again, shut the atlas and climbed into the Multipla. I got in beside her, started the engine, and turned to ask for directions. Lucia pointed dramatically to the left.

‘We go east, Matteo!’

At midnight, beneath a sliver of moon and an indigo sky, Lucia and I carried our rucksacks out of Ristorante del Monaco and loaded them into the back of the Multipla.

I started the engine and drove away as quietly as I could. There was little traffic on the streets of Chieti and nothing at all on the road to Rome until, suddenly, flashing red and blue lights appeared in the rear view mirror.

‘Keep calm,’ I said. ‘The police are after us.’

Lucia gasped, but the lights shot past us and disappeared into the night. Wondering whether we would run into a traffic accident, I continued cautiously, but there were no more lights until we rounded a bend near the farmhouse and saw beams of red and blue flashing across the landscape.

‘They come from the farmhouse,’ said Lucia.

I hesitated, then gritted my teeth and turned up the track. My companion turned to look at me.

‘Matteo,’ she said, ‘is this a good idea?’

‘It’s too soon to say, but, if anyone asks, tell them that we’re inquisitive passers-by.’

We arrived at the house to find a cluster of emergency vehicles around the door. Fortunately, all their occupants were inside the building. While we sat and wondered what to do, the front door opened and four men came out. They were paramedics and, between them, they carried two stretchers. On each lay a man in the clothes of a cowboy.

‘Ask them what’s going on,’ I said, pushing Lucia out of the car.

A policeman, walking behind the paramedics, saw the girl and ran forward, shouting and waving his arms. Immediately, Lucia scrambled back into the Multipla.

‘We must leave,’ she said.

‘Why? What did the policeman tell you?’

‘He say, go away!’

‘Alright.’ Not ungratefully, I reversed down the track.

I drove back to Chieti with my mind churning over the things we’d seen. Lucia, too, was unusually quiet.

‘What do you think happened to the Lucky Strike Gang?’ I asked.

‘I do not know and I do not care. I only worry about Riccardo. We did not see him. Perhaps he hurt those men and got away.’

‘Perhaps. I don’t know Richard any better than you, but the Richard I knew – or thought I knew – wouldn’t have harmed them. On the other hand, did I know the real Richard?’

Lucia snorted.

‘I am sorry, Matteo, but you have confused me.’

‘Confused myself, too,’ I confessed.

Arriving at Ristorante del Monaco, we tiptoed inside with our rucksacks and retired to our rooms for what little remained of the night. The following morning, we upset Alberto by being extremely late downstairs for breakfast. Over begrudged coffee, we sat and discussed the next move.

‘We shall have to go back to that farmhouse,’ I said. ‘We haven’t got any chance of finding out what’s happened to Richard unless we can see inside.’

‘The police will not let us inside, Matteo. You saw them there.’

‘Yes, that’s a real problem. You’ll have to distract them at the front door while I go round the back and climb in a window.’

She pouted beautifully.

‘I do not know how to distract people.’

‘It’s not difficult. Just talk to them.’

Lucia frowned.

‘I do not know what to say.’

‘Ask them questions,’ I said. ‘Anything will do. You know, the sort of things that distract you. I’m sure you’ll think of something.’

‘I am not so sure as you.’

‘Look,’ I said, ‘I only need ten or fifteen minutes undisturbed in the house. It’s not long.’

‘Is short time to you, Matteo, but is long time for me.’

‘Don’t worry,’ I said, draining my cup, ‘you’ll be fine.’

She looked at me sadly and heaved a great sigh. I gave her a grin to cheer her up and took her outside to the beastly Multipla. We got in and headed for the farmhouse. I drove a little past the end of the farm track, turned and parked, ready for a quick getaway. We got out, walked back to the track and followed it up to the house. As we approached the front door, I pulled Lucia behind a bush.

‘I’ll go round to the back,’ I hissed. ‘Wait for five minutes, then knock at the door and make sure that you keep whoever answers talking for another fifteen. Okay?’

Her little face looked up at me.

‘I am sorry, Matteo, but I have not thought of anything to ask yet.’

‘Well, think of something now.’

She was silent for a while.

‘I will say: I am lost. Please tell me the way to Chieti.’

‘Won’t they wonder why you’re walking in the country when you’re dressed for the town?’

She shrugged.

‘Maybe. Perhaps I could say: I was in the car of my boyfriend. We argued, then he put me out of the car and left me.’

‘That’s much better. In fact, it’s brilliant. You’re a great liar, Lucia.’

She flushed with modest pride.

‘Thank you. I am ready now, Matteo. Go and find out what has happened to Riccardo.’

I left the cover of the bush, took a wide circuit round a ruined barn, and entered the edge of a pine wood. Here I paused to get my bearings, then continued, taking a diagonal line to arrive where the stonework had crumbled at the rear of the building. In less than a minute there was a faint and hesitant knock from the other side of the building. I waited to hear for a response, but there was nothing but the sound of the wind in the pines. Then came a second knock, louder this time, but still nobody answered.

Minutes passed in silence, then came a high-pitched wail.

‘Matteo, no-one is here!’

The taxi driver stared open-mouthed in disbelief.

‘Che?’

‘Follow that car, please!’ I repeated, a little louder for the man’s benefit.

‘Cosa vuole?’ he sneered.

I mimed the action of someone driving after the disappearing kidnapper. The taxi driver responded with a mime which implied I was mad, threw his crisp bag out of the window, and roared from the car park in a cloud of dust.

With no other taxi in sight, and not even a bicycle to borrow, I returned to Via Madonna della Misericordia and plodded down the road to Chieti Scalo, where I found Lucia on duty outside the post office.

‘Ciao,’ she said. ‘I have not seen any cowboys. Have you?’

‘Yes, but he got away.’

She pouted.

‘That is a pity.’

‘I know. What we need are wheels and, after lunch, I’ll see if we can rent a car.’

‘You do not want siesta?’ she asked.

‘No time, I’m afraid. Car first – siesta later.’

We ate at Ristorante del Monaco during which Alberto, in the course of a wide-ranging conversation about sport, politics and the idiosyncrasies of the world in general, told Lucia that there was a garage on the road to Pescara which was known to hire out the occasional car. We finished our mediocre lunch and, while Signor and Signora Togliatti and their eight little Togliattis went off for a siesta, set out in that direction. The heat was unbearable and I remembered something I’d heard about Mad Dogs and Englishmen.

‘You were right,’ I panted. ‘Next time, if we survive, we’ll have siesta first – car later.’

She smiled and nodded. Just then we rounded a bend and saw a couple of sheds beneath a Fiat sign. There being no evidence of life outside, we went inside the first one of them and found, in an office, a man in a vest with his feet on the table.

‘Lucia,’ I said, ‘ask him if he can let us have a small car for a couple of days.’

This she did, receiving the reply that there was just one vehicle, and it was only available for a complete week. Did we want it or not? With grave reservations, I told him – via Lucia – that we’d have it. That put a smile on the face of the old devil. He slid his feet off the table and took us out to see it.

If I mention the phrase “squashed frog”, you’ll realise at once that the villain had palmed us off with a bright green Fiat Multipla. Instantly, I regretted my decision, but it was too late to change it. Lucia surprised me by falling in love with the beast at first sight. She refused to hear a word against it, though I said a few once we’d left the garage. We drove back to Chieti Sopra in the monstrosity and wasted the rest of the day lurking in the car park, waiting for either Reynolds or his nice red Alfa Romeo to appear.

Next morning, for want of inspiration, we returned to the same place and parked the Multipla in the far corner. After a useless half hour, Lucia opened her door and got out.

‘Wait here,’ she said. ‘I will go into Chieti Sopra and look for cowboys. They will not know me.’

With a smile and a wave, she left. Half an hour after she’d gone, a red Alfa Romeo drove into the car park and pulled up in a space by the wall. I sank lower in the seat as a thin cowboy who chewed gum continuously got out and slammed the door. Slim Willis was alone. He gave a casual glance around, seemed satisfied, and headed up the hill. Fifteen minutes later, Lucia ran back to the Multipla and jumped in beside me.

‘A cowboy came into Piazza Vittorio Emmanuelle II,’ she gasped. ‘He look around, Matteo, then go into the supermercato.’

‘He went into what, Lucia?’

‘The supermercato. Is a big shop, no?’

‘Yes – I expect so. The guy you saw was Slim Willis. He’s the strong, silent member of the Lucky Strike Gang and that’s his Alfa Romeo over there against the wall. What we’d better do now is wait for him to come back and then trail him to his base.’

Lucia grinned.

‘Sì, Matteo.’

Half an hour passed before Willis returned, struggling beneath the weight of six or seven carrier bags. He stowed them carefully in the boot, started the car, and drove out of the car park. I followed at a cautious distance and, when Willis turned right down Via Madonna della Misericordia, allowed a couple of cars between us for camouflage. At the foot of the hill, Willis took the third exit – the road to Rome, if you believed the sign – and shot off west. Soon Chieti Scalo lay far behind us and we entered an area of fertile orchards, fields and vineyards. Suddenly, though miles from anywhere, the Alfa Romeo slowed and almost stopped.

‘He has seen us!’ cried Lucia.

But, no, the car simply turned off the road and bounced up a dusty farm track. In order not to alarm Willis, I continued for another hundred metres before pulling onto the verge to park. Lucia and I leapt from the Multipla, scrambled over a stone wall and ran across a field in pursuit of the Alfa Romeo. We found it parked at the door of a derelict farmhouse.

‘Lucia,’ I said, ‘wait behind this tree. I’ll have a quick look round and then come back to you.’

She looked dubious.

‘Do not be long, Matteo.’

‘I’ll only be a couple of minutes,’ I said.

While she made herself comfortable in some shade on the ground, I crawled forward and, avoiding the sight lines of the windows, made a survey of the building for night-time entry. Though I could see no drainpipes, on the side furthest from the road there was crumbling stonework which provided a series of toeholds up to the roof of an extension. Beyond that was a first floor window, closed and shuttered. I made a rough sketch of the lay-out in my notebook, then crept back to Lucia, who jumped at my sudden return.

‘What did you find?’ she demanded.

‘It shouldn’t be difficult to get inside. Tonight, I’ll come back here, climb up to a window I’ve seen, and see if I can rescue Richard.’

‘I shall come with you, Matteo.’

‘No,’ I said. ‘It would be better for you to rest and get ready to leave Chieti.’

She placed her hand on my arm.

‘I shall get ready first, Matteo, then come with you. I can sit here and warn you of danger.’

‘I’m not sure about this,’ I said.

Lucia smiled confidently.

‘But I am sure, Matteo.’

It was late in the afternoon and the shadows were long when the train stopped at Chieti. We fell out of the carriage and looked around. An old town on top of a hill overshadowed us, but a new town had grown up around the station, and it was here that we began our search for food and lodging.

We scouted around, with no success and the memory of lunch growing ever more distant in our minds, until we found Ristorante del Monaco in Via Madonna della Misericordia, the single road joining the new town to the old. We rushed inside and were welcomed by the proprietor himself, a man called Alberto Togliatti. He chatted animatedly with Lucia as he led us to a table in the corner.

‘Ask Alberto if he has any rooms to let,’ I said, during a momentary pause in the conversation.

She did so, receiving the reply that there were a couple of vacant rooms above the restaurant. Immediately, Lucia snapped them up and made the three of us extremely happy people. As for Alberto’s food, well, that was not so good. By way of compensation, however, the coffee which followed was excellent.
Following the meal and a sufficiently inaccurate account of who we were and what we were doing in Chieti, Alberto led us upstairs and showed us the bedrooms. They were fine, and we were pleased to have anywhere, so we paid a deposit, unpacked our rucksacks, and went outside.

The shadows were lengthening and people were leaving their houses to stroll around in the cool evening air. Clutching our vain hopes of seeing Fisher, or one of the Lucky Strike Gang, we followed. We didn’t see anyone we knew, however, we learned from a woman we collided with that the local people called the old town on the hill Chieti Sopra, and the new town at its foot, Chieti Scalo.

Next morning, over a breakfast of rolls and coffee, we considered our situation and the options which lay before us.

‘Matteo,’ said Lucia, ‘it cannot be difficult to find two cowboys in small town like this,’

‘Yes, but only if the Lucky Strike Gang are actually here, and provided they’re stupid enough to wear their cowboy clothes in the street.’

She scratched the tip of her nose with considerable style.

‘You know these men,?’ she asked thoughtfully.

‘Yes, more’s the pity.’

‘They are stupid, sì?’
‘Sì, Lucia.’ I’d learned her language. ‘From what I’ve seen of them – which, I’m glad to say, has not been much – the pair of them are as thick as two short planks.’

Her eyes opened wide.

‘What are short planks, Matteo?’

‘It’s a colloquial term. It means daft – dim – dopey – dull – dense.’

She shook her pretty head.

‘Sometimes I not understand you. At school, they teach me good English.’

I drained the coffee and contemplated the future.

‘There’s another problem, too. Chieti’s built in two parts, so we could easily be in the right part at the wrong time, or in the wrong part at the right time.’

‘Is not a problem. This morning, you go up the hill to Chieti Sopra and search for cowboys, and I will look for them in Chieti Scalo. We meet here for lunch. Sì, Matteo?’

It sounded like the most logical arrangement, though I wondered whether I ought to leave Lucia alone and helpless.

‘Will you be alright?’ I asked.

‘Sì, Matteo. Will you?’

Suddenly, I realised that I’d be alone and helpless in Chieti Sopra. I gave her an empty smile of confidence.

‘Of course. When shall we have lunch? One o’clock?’

‘Sì.’ She kissed my cheek and left the restaurant.

I put on my sunglasses for a disguise, went out into the sun, and plodded up Via Madonna della Misericordia. Looking back, I could see Lucia heading fast towards the station. Had she looked uphill, I would have given her an encouraging waved, but she didn’t, so I continued the long climb. It was a delightfully warm morning, but, as time went on and with no shade on the bare hillside, I grew increasingly hot. I stopped to rest on a bend and looked across the dry plain. In one direction lay a row of mountains; on the opposite horizon, the sea. So beautiful. I sighed and carried on.

On the edge of the old town was a group of houses. An alley ran between them at the end of which was a rough open area used as a car park by people with little sense of order. I trudged onward, passing through regions of old and weathered architecture, and entered a large central square. Ancient churches, houses, and shops surrounded it on all sides. This was, according to the plaque on the wall, Piazza Vittorio Emmanuelle II.

I quenched my thirst at the fountain, bought a newspaper from a street vendor, and took up a position on the shaded steps of a church. Not that I could read La Nazione, but, with a couple of holes poked in its pages, I could monitor the inhabitants of Chieti Sopra with perfect security.

A multitude of people criss-crossed the square in the hours that followed. As time went on, it became increasingly difficult to retain my concentration. Both it and my enthusiasm were waning fast when I spotted a big, white hat bobbing above some pedestrians on the edge of the piazza. I squinted hard. There was no doubt about it. It was a ten-gallon hat, and it’s owner was Butch Reynolds.

He came into the square, looked around intently, then waddled into a tobacconist’s shop. Five minutes later, he re-emerged and retraced his steps across the piazza. When there were sufficient pedestrians between us, I rose, tucked La Nazione beneath my arm, and followed.

As Reynolds ambled down Via Madonna della Misericordia, he struggled to roll himself a cigarette. Twice I saw him drop the materials, but patiently he collected them from the cobbles and began the operation again. Eventually, he achieved success and strolled along, smoking as happily as a kipper.

When he came to the little estate, he turned up the alley which led to the car park and once there wandered among the various vehicles until he found a red Alfa Romeo. I hid behind a Lancia and I watched him unlock the driver’s door. Still puffing out clouds of smoke, he climbed into the car, started the engine and left the car park. Reaching the road, he turned right and drove down towards Chieti Scalo.

I looked around. There was a taxi waiting in the corner of the car park with its engine idling. The driver sat behind the steering wheel, munching a packet of crisps. I pointed after the Alfa Romeo.

‘Follow that car!’

The taxi squealed to a halt outside the station entrance. I fell out of the vehicle, handed the driver  more money than he deserved, and hoisted the rucksack onto my shoulder. The man gave a leer, then roared out of sight.

Lucia, as cool as a cucumber, strolled into the booking hall and ordered our tickets. I ran after her and paid with the company credit card. We scrambled onto the first train that stopped at our platform. It didn’t halt again until we came to Florence, where we were obliged to change.

No sooner had the Bologna train set off than my eyes closed. I was awoken by a violent jab in the ribs.

‘Is Bologna, Matteo!’ said Lucia. ‘We get off.’

Still half asleep, I snatched my rucksack from the luggage rack and jumped onto the platform. No-one else got off. The train went, and we were alone. We walked to the exit and looked around.

‘Do you fancy a meal?’ I asked. ‘If so, do you know anywhere suitable?’

Lucia smiled and led me straight to Trattoria Ciliegia in Via Mazzini where we drank wine and ate pasta. The meal wasn’t too bad, and the conversation was excellent. I was surprised, when we finally left, to find that it was beginning to get dark outside.

‘It’s later than I thought,’ I said.

‘Sì, Matteo. We need hotel.’ She took me by the arm and led me down the narrow street which lay behind the station.

A red light glowing intermittently at the end of the street and, as we approached it, I saw that it was a faulty neon sign saying Albergo Regale.

‘You stay here,’ said Lucia. ‘This very nice hotel. You will see in the morning.’

Well, she was wrong. When daylight came, the place looked no better. Indeed, its manifold short-comings were revealed that much more clearly. Lucia arrived at the door while I was still hunting for coffee. She looked fresh and clean, and carried her own small a rucksack on her back.

‘All I need,’ she said, ‘is in here.’

I looked down at her.

‘You can stay in Bologna with your parents if you want. You don’t have to come with me. I mean, we don’t even know for certain that Richard is in Chieti.’

‘You believe he is, Matteo?’

I paused before answering.
‘That note suggested that it is best to look for him there.’

She smiled.

‘Then that is what we will do.’

‘Thank you,’ I said. ‘You are very kind.’

My expression of gratitude appeared to embarrass the poor girl.

‘We must go,’ she said, quickly. ‘Pay the signora, Matteo.’

‘Who?’

Lucia pointed over my shoulder. There was an old witch behind me stretching out a hand for payment. I gave her far more than the hotel was worth and went on my way with Lucia.

She steered me to a bar by the station where they sold all forms of coffee, and so we had breakfast. Reinvigorated, we strolled onto the platform and waited for the Chieti train. Half an hour passed before it arrived, by which time the station was packed with passengers. We fought our way on board and took our seats.

The next two hours were spent speeding across an empty plain, after which we saw the odd sizeable towns. Lucia said we were travelling east and would soon reach the Adriatic Sea. After a long halt at Rimini, we turned south and followed the coast. Where the track ran straight, and the shore meandered, there were tantalising glimpses of an ultramarine sea. At other times, our train would rattle into a dusty town and stop with sight of water concealed by a jumble of buildings.

Sometimes progress was so slow that I seriously considered abandoning the railway and renting a car, but the prospect of driving in unfamiliar territory, on the wrong side of the road, with a navigator of unproven ability, deterred me.

The further south we travelled, the hotter became the carriage and the greater grew our thirst. And our hunger. When we stopped at Ancona to change drivers, Lucia leapt onto the platform with my money in her hand and accosted a man with the appearance of a reformed bandit who carried a tray of food. At once she began to point at various items on his tray. The ensuing argument made me wonder if the bandit had really reformed but, next moment, Lucia was bouncing back into the carriage with armfuls of food.

‘Rosso Conero!’ she cried, flourishing a bottle of wine. ‘This show we are in Le Marche, Matteo. But it is a strange region, no?’

‘Is it? In what way, Lucia?’

‘Is very wild.’ She pointed out of the opposite window with the bottle. ‘Up there, in those mountains, live wolves and bears.’

I must have looked as shocked as I felt for Lucia gave a sympathetic smile.

‘Do not worry, Matteo. They do not come into the towns very often, I think.’

‘Oh, good,’ I said.

Snatching a knife out of her rucksack, Lucia hacked some loaves and cheese into baguettes and handed them to me. Soon we were both munching contentedly.

‘Matteo,’ she said, pausing to look at me in a way I hadn’t seen before, ‘do you have a girlfriend?’

I laughed.

‘No,’ I said. ‘Nobody loves me, Lucia.’

Clearly thinking I was serious, she tutted in that distinctively Italian way with the chin thrust forward.

‘That is bad, very bad. Maybe there is someone that you love, Matteo?’

‘Love?’ I shook my head. ‘No, not love. But there is someone who I find myself thinking about a lot. Does that count, Lucia?’

‘No, is interesting though.’ She passed me another baguette. ‘What is she like, this person?’

I studied Lucia for a moment.

‘She’s about your age, with bright blue eyes and long, fair hair.’

Lucia was startled.

‘You do not love this girl?’

‘I like her, Lucia – I admire her – but she loves somebody else.’

She pulled a face.

‘Is worse than I thought.’ She took a corkscrew out of the pocket of her rucksack and gave it to me together with the bottle. ‘Open, please. We must drink.’