Through the bars, she could see a few dark sedan cars parked in the small forecourt, and next to the cars a bright red motorcycle propped on its kickstand. An Italian bike, she thought. Thing had happened the way she had imagined. When she had approached the gate, the guard on duty, a square-jawed man with a gait that seemed appropriate to some hot Southern climate, had left the sentry box and come towards her. ‘Hello, miss. How can I help you?’ ‘Hello, Officer. My name’s Maureen Martini and I’m a Chief Inspector in the Italian police. I’m also an American citizen. I need to speak to the Mayor urgently.’ She had handed the guard her passport and badge. Out of politeness, he had taken the documents but had not even looked at them. ‘I’m afraid this isn’t the best time to talk with the Mayor.’ Maureen had expected this reaction. She had taken off her sunglasses and looked the man straight in the eyes. ‘Why don’t we let him decide that? Just tell him I have information about his son’s murder.’ The guard’s glacial expression changed.
