‘Ah. I was about to send someone to look for you. I have to go out shortly. Come in.’ The Marshal obeyed. ‘Take a seat. I got your message first thing this morning—I imagine you’ve been pretty busy since then. I saw the Prosecutor just now as he was leaving. He was very complimentary about you.’ ‘Me?’ ‘Certainly. You’ve seen the files of the other cases of this sort. Nobody was hopeful about clearing this one up at all, let alone in a matter of days.’ ‘Ah . . .’ Why had he gone and made this appointment first thing? He should have waited, at least until after this morning’s interrogation . . . He pulled himself together and said, ‘The credit should go to Ferrini. I’d have been lost without him. He found Peppina.’ ‘Peppina? Is that . . .’ ‘Giuseppe Bianco. He calls himself Peppina.’ Thank God somebody had found him an old track suit to wear for his interview with the Prosecutor. The lawyer had done all the talking, Peppina neither confirming nor denying without looking at him first.
