‘I was. I no longer am. Orazio is dead.’ Her hand returned to stroking the cat. ‘A good man in his own way.’
‘And what were you doing in Africa?’
She shrugged, and the necklaces moved in unison. ‘My husband died – and there was nowhere for me to live in Mogadishu. What was I supposed to do? Stay on in that country? When at any street corner I could run into some dark skinned urchin that might well have been one of my husband’s countless brood.’ She leaned forward, ‘Are you married?’
‘I trust that you are a faithful husband.’ She raised a shoulder, ‘Anyway, all policemen are unimaginative. I imagine you don’t have the time or inclination for …’ She folded her arms.
Italian Church, Kenya 2