"Writes with piercing clarity" "Excellent stuff" "Very hard to put down" When a woman’s body washes up on a Sydney beach, it sparks an investigation spanning four continents and leading back twelve years to the disappearance of a British hitchhiker in Italy. Can Detectives Conrad Moretti and Andy Cameron identify the woman and catch the killer? And will Professor Jim Donaldson uncover the anonymous letter-writer threatening to put a bomb under American interests in South East Asia? [Extract] We stopped for a cigarette break at about ten-thirty and Guido insisted on rolling the cigarettes himself which he proceeded to do, badly. We worked on until lunchtime when Bagnelli came over and told me there was someone upstairs in the office to see me. Bagnelli himself took me up and showed me to a small room behind the reception. A short, stocky man was waiting for us. He shook hands with Bagnelli and they exchanged a few words I didn’t catch. Bagnelli left and closed the door behind him. The stocky man had a familiar look but I couldn’t place him. Had I seen him at the bar back in Cannobio? Or sometime since, in Milan? He introduced himself to me in Italian but I only caught the end of his name, “–atore”. I explained that my Italian wasn’t good. He indicated that I should sit at the small desk but when I did he remained standing opposite. ‘The police know you are here?’ he asked. ‘Working here? No, not yet.’ ‘But you have been to the police, yes?’ ‘Not about being here in Milan,’ I said, ‘But I will register. Today.’ ‘Your friend is gone,’ he said. ‘What do you know about that?’ I asked as I started to stand. Before I knew it he had stepped behind me and pressed gently on my shoulders so that I had to sit back in the chair. ‘She is not coming back.’ ‘Are you asking me or telling me?’ When he repeated it, it sounded more like a statement than a question. This time I had stood to face him before he had time to react. I stood six inches taller than he did but he had the build of a boxer. His neck was of Mike Tyson proportions and the look was completed by thick ears and a flat nose. I felt awkward at having stood because of the sense of physical confrontation it implied but I stayed standing. ‘Is no good to stay here.’ ‘Is this a threat? Who are you again?’ ‘You are a long way from home, Signor Curtis,’ he smiled, ‘The police here can not help you.’ ‘Cannot? Or will not?’ ‘Either. You friend is not coming back.’ ‘So you keep saying. Is she okay? Do you know where she is?’ ‘Is no good for asking questions,’ he said, ‘You go home. If she want to find you, will find you.’ He held out his hand as though we had concluded some agreement. I didn’t take it. He gave out a short laugh and walked out of the office. I stood there alone for a couple of minutes before heading out and down to street level. I passed Bagnelli on the stairs and told him I was feeling ill, which was true, and that I was going back to the hotel. I sat on the bus trying to roll a cigarette but my fingers seemed disconnected from my brain and it took me most of the journey to produce something to smoke. The bus pulled up at a busy intersection and scrawled on a derelict building opposite I made out the words Calabresi è assassino. Who Calabresi was and who it was he was supposed to have assassinated I had no way of knowing. Back in town I bought a bottle of cheap Chianti and took it up to my room where I sat drinking and smoking. I’d said I would meet Ioanna but that would have to wait. I was usually happy enough in my own company but the sense of being cut adrift from everyone I knew began to overwhelm me. I found myself thinking of the time - I think I must have been eight or nine - when I got lost at the Motor Show in Birmingham. At least then they had put an announcement over the tannoy for my Dad and Uncle to come and get me. That wouldn’t be happening today.