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112.
    Which meant that she had misdialled in her agitated state of mind, because instead of calling the Polizia di Stato, who answer to 113 and are responsible for homicide, she had called the Carabinieri, who are only semi-responsible for such cases.
    The Italian state maintains a Babylonian multiplicity of police forces: Polizia di Stato, Carabinieri, Guardia di Finanza, Polizia Penitenziaria, Corpo Forestale dello Stato, Guardia Costiera, Polizia Municipale (Poldi’s Vigili Urbani ), the Presidential Corazzieri, Polizia Provinciale, and Polizia Locale. Plus various special units dedicated to combating terrorism and the Mafia and protecting the state, nearly all of them subordinate to different ministries. They almost defy comprehension – except, of course, by Poldi with her lifelong expert knowledge of uniformed masculinity.
    The Carabinieri, or Italian gendarmerie, tend to operate more in rural districts and are nationally reputed to be a catch-all for village idiots and knuckleheads in general. This may be to do with their full dress uniform, which would grace an operetta with its silver epaulettes, scarlet-lined cape and monstrous bicorn hat, the lucerna . The Carabinieri will accept anyone, so it’s said, which is why they are the favourite butt of schoolboy jokes. One classic example: why do carabinieri always patrol in threes? Well, one can read, one can write, and the third is to keep an eye on that pair of dangerous intellectuals. An absolute scream, no? Or this one: two carabinieri are on guard in the street. One says, “Look, a dead seagull.” The other looks up at the sky and says, “Where?”
    But this is all malicious nonsense, of course, because the Italian police are no less professional than those of any other country.
    It should be pointed out that the Carabinieri are in competition with the Polizia di Stato. Actually, it’s a nice, democratic idea to protect the country from an overly powerful police force by getting one type of police to keep a check on the other. Except that it leads in practice to squabbles, arguments over spheres of responsibility and delays. This was precisely what happened on the beach at Praiola, because soon afterwards Poldi noticed her mistake and dialled 113 as well.
    Ten minutes later an Alfa Romeo zoomed up and out jumped two carabinieri in dark-blue uniforms with snappy red stripes on their trousers. The older of the two had wrinkled, care-worn features. The other, who looked as young as a new-laid egg, had plucked eyebrows and a neat fringe of beard adorning the edge of his jaw.
    Poldi, who had retired to her car, gave them a weary wave.
    â€œWas it you who called us?” yelled the older man.
    â€œYes.” She indicated the shore. “His name is Valentino Candela.”
    She watched the young policeman picking his way over the boulders.
    â€œYour colleague should be careful not to trample on any clues.”
    She saw the youngster bend over the body and recoil in horror, then put his hands over his face and turn away.
    â€œOh my God,” he called. “Madonna, how frightful.”
    The older policeman looked irresolute for a moment. Then, after glancing in turn at his horrified colleague and the bewigged woman in the old Alfa with the Munich licence plates, he reached for his holster.
    â€œKindly get out of the car, signora. Very slowly.”
    â€œI’m sorry?”
    â€œYou heard me.”
    â€œSurely you don’t think I —”
    â€œI won’t say it again,” he said. And then he did. “Get out.”
    With a sigh, Poldi got out with her hands raised, one of them holding her ID. She remained standing beside the car.
    â€œStep away from the car, signora… Good, that’ll do.”
    â€œThat was just how I found him lying there.”
    â€œName?”
    â€œI told you, Valentino Candela.”
    â€œNo, your name.”
    â€œIsolde Oberreiter.”
    â€œGerman?”
    The