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Lombroso was evidently enjoying the spectacle as he was watching intently and occasionally nodding vigorously, presumably at something he had seen or overheard. James was about to ask him why he had chosen the place when Paolo arrived through the kitchen doors like a recently fired cannon ball and placed before them plates of small fish, glistening invitingly in a bright green sauce, and a basket of crusty bread. Glasses of cool white wine were brought and Lombroso nodded in satisfaction. James looked at the food with interest and realised that not only did he not know exactly what it was, but that he had no idea how to go about eating it. What was the correct etiquette? Did one need cutlery? He thought back to when his mother was alive. Somewhere in his mind existed the tiniest spark of a memory. He was sure she had told him of a similar dish but he could not remember it in detail.
    Ottolenghi, sensing his discomfort, smiled amiably at him. ‘Anchovies in a herb sauce, a local delicacy.’ With that he took some of the bread and dipped it in the sauce, scooping up some of the anchovies as he did so. Relieved, James did likewise as Lombroso looked on, beaming at them as if he had cooked and produced the food himself.
    ‘You will not find food as good as this anywhere in Turin,’ he stated proudly.
    James was surprised. ‘Surely there are better places? After all, there are so many restaurants and hotels in the city.’
    Ottolenghi shook his head. ‘Many of them serve French cuisine. This is authentic Piedmontese fare, not as fancy, but the flavours are far superior.’
    Lombroso nodded in agreement. ‘This is real food eaten by real people. There is a place for French cuisine, of course. They always serve it at official dinners and it can be quite delicious. But we like to come here and experience proper cooking, basic but honest.’
    As James tucked into the fish and enjoyed its piquant flavours, he had to admit that his dining companions were right about the food, if not the ambience. One thing puzzled him though. Neither of them had mentioned the murder. He had expected it to be discussed at some length, given the apparent connection to Lombroso, but it had not been spoken of once. Perhaps, he thought, they were waiting for him to raise it. He cleared his throat in preparation.
    ‘Professor,’ he began, ‘I wondered what you thought about what happened yesterday?’
    Ottolenghi frowned at him and shook his head.
    Lombroso looked irritated. ‘Please, Murray, let us not speak of such unsavoury matters whilst we are eating. There is a time and place for these things and it is not here and now.’
    ‘Of course, Professor,’ James said, beginning to wonder when and where would be suitable. Could there be some other reason for the professor to be reluctant to discuss it? He glanced over to Ottolenghi and decided to raise it with him when they were on their own. Perhaps he could shed some light on this mystery.
    Once they had finished the anchovies their plates were scooped up and bowls of steaming brown stew were placed unceremoniously in front of them. Paolo then produced a plate of yellow glistening slabs of something he did not recognise. A carafe of red wine was also brought with three dingy glasses that, in company with everything and everyone else in the place, looked as if they had seen better days.
    ‘Tuck in, my boy, tuck in!’ urged Lombroso.
    James gingerly put a piece of what looked like meat in his mouth and began to chew. It was surprisingly good, tender and flavoursome. It seemed that he had misjudged Paolo and his fat swearing chef.
    ‘Have some polenta with your finanziera, it’s very good!’ Ottolenghi handed him the plate of yellow slabs and he took one. He bit carefully into the ochre crust and tasted the creamy combination of cheese and butter in its centre.
    ‘What is in the finanziera ?’ he asked.
    Ottolenghi smiled. ‘Are you sure you want to know?’
    James nodded