Trotti could make out her silhouette against the open doorway, the well-kept body and high-heeled shoes. It was dark and the glow of the bedside lamp did not reach the face. “Magagna phoned you?” “My husband is not a small man.” She stepped carefully past the jars, the vases of flowers and the empty wrappings that littered the floor. She placed a brown parcel on the bed. “You might find them a bit big.” Trotti got slowly out of the bed, shivering slightly, and put on the clothes. Good-quality clothes, a silk shirt and bespoke trousers with lining. Shoes from Varese that pinched his toes. “How’s the rib?” Trotti said nothing. “Perhaps you ought to shave, Commissario.” “I’ll shave when I get home.” The hospital was asleep. She took him by the arm and, as they went along the empty corridors, the only sound was the squeaking of his shoes on the rubberized floor. Trotti walked slowly, aware of the pain and trying to ignore it. She supported him with her arm and he could feel the warmth of her body.
