About a week passed, then we were notified that the inquiries were concluded.

At eight-thirty next morning I was in Cervellati’s secretariat to request copies of the file. I made the application, they told me that I could have copies within three days and I left the offices prey to pessimism.

On the Friday my secretary called at the public prosecutor’s office, paid the fees, collected the copies and brought them to the office.

I spent Saturday and Sunday reading and re-reading those papers.

I read, smoked, and drank big cups of weak decaffeinated coffee.

I read, smoked, and what I read I didn’t like a bit. Abdou Thiam was in a pretty pickle.

It was even worse than I’d thought when I read the detention order.

It looked like one of those cases without any prospects, in which going to the Assizes could lead only to a pointless massacre.

It looked as if Cervellati was right and that the only way of reducing the damage was to opt for the shortened procedure.

The thing that nailed my client most of all was the testimony of the barman. He had made a statement to the carabinieri the day before Abdou was arrested. He had been heard again, a few days later, by the public prosecutor in person.

A perfect witness – for the prosecution.

I read and re-read the two reports, on the look-out for any weak points, but I found almost nothing.

That of the carabinieri was a summary report written in the most classic police-station jargon.

The evidence given to Cervellati was complete, in the sense that it was recorded and stenotyped. Here the person in possession of the facts did not use improbable expressions such as “the aforesaid commercial premises” or “purchase and consume a coffee”. But the upshot was the same.

Abdou’s interrogation by the public prosecutor was little less than catastrophic.

It had taken place at night, in the carabinieri station in Bari, with a defence lawyer appointed by the court.

The report was a summary, without recording or stenotyped record.

Two days after his arrest, the hearing took place before the magistrate in charge of preliminary investigations. Abdou had availed himself of the right not to reply.

Since then he had not been further interrogated.

I re-read the order for precautionary detention. I read the decision of the regional appeals court by which – rightly, in view of the evidence – Abdou’s appeal was rejected.

I read and re-read every single document.

The statements of the habitués of that beach who said they had often seen Abdou stop and talk to the child. The statements of the Senegalese who spoke about the car-washing and the other Senegalese who had said that he had not seen Abdou at the usual beach the day after the child’s disappearance.

The scene-of-the-crime report about the finding of the boy’s body. The report of the search of Abdou’s home and the list of books confiscated.

The report of the police doctor, which I leafed through swiftly, avoiding the photographs.

The upsetting, useless statements of the boy’s parents and grandparents.

That pitiless cold peculiar to March, which makes spring seem a long way off.

I had thought of taking a stroll, but I changed my mind, fetched the car and headed north along the old State Road No. 16.

Bruce Springsteen was booming from the loudspeakers and in my head as I drove through the coastal towns, all deserted and swept by the north-west wind.

I stopped in front of the cathedral in Trani, facing the sea. I lit a cigarette. The harmonica screeched in my ears and in my soul.

The terrible words were written especially for my desperate solitude.

At dawn I woke up shivering with cold, the taste of tobacco smoke in my mouth. My hand was still clutching the mobile, which I’d stared at interminably before falling asleep, thinking of calling Sara.