Sister Maria gasped.

  ‘Do you know who, Sister?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Giuseppe grows the raspberries. But he is a good man,’ said Sister Maria. ‘He loves his fruit. It cannot be him.’

  ‘Here he comes now,’ said Sister Angelica.

  A beaten-up old truck had just pulled into the courtyard. He drove over to the back of the shop. A young dark-skinned man jumped out and picked up a tray of fruit from the open truck.

  ‘Buon giorno,’ he called as he entered. ‘I have beautiful peaches for you today.’ His face fell as he took in all the hostile glares. ‘What’s wrong?’

  Sister Maria burst into tears.

  ‘What breed of raspberries do you supply to this shop?’ asked Friday

  Giuseppe looked nervous. ‘I have different varieties depending on the season. They harvest at different times.’

  ‘Sister Angelica never sells gelato that is more than forty-eight hours old,’ said Friday. ‘So, what breed of raspberries did you supply to her last week?’

  ‘Do not accuse his raspberries. Giuseppe is the best,’ said Sister Angelica. ‘His raspberries are the sweetest in Florence. They are beautiful with subtle flavour. This is why my raspberry gelato is unique and so much better than anywhere else.’

  ‘Pfft,’ said Esio.

  ‘Be quiet, you!’ ordered Sister Angelica, waving her ladle again.

  ‘Your raspberries are unusually sweet and more subtle? That’s interesting,’ said Friday. ‘So, what breed are they?’

  ‘They are called Raspberry . . .’ began Giuseppe, he blushed and glanced at Sister Maria, ‘Raspberry Maria.’

  ‘What?’ said Sister Maria.

  ‘It is a breed of raspberries I develop myself,’ said Giuseppe. He hung his head, embarrassed. ‘I named it after you.’

  ‘You did?’ said Sister Maria.

  ‘How romantic,’ marvelled Melanie. ‘Well done, Giuseppe. So few men are in touch with their emotions. But to be so sensitive and horticulturally capable is a rare blend indeed.’

  ‘Everyone knows the common breeds of raspberry,’ said Friday. ‘They all have a bright red colour and tart taste. But there are some sweeter, softer flavoured raspberries that are golden in colour. Is that what you used?’

  ‘Yes, I make a crossbreed with the Golden Harvest strain,’ confessed Giuseppe. ‘It has the most beautiful flavour, but the fruit is soft pink. I know no-one wants this. So, I experiment with the Alkanna tinctoria plant to bring more red to the colour.’

  ‘Oh, Giuseppe, no,’ said Sister Angelica. ‘What have you done?’

  ‘But it’s not a chemical,’ said Giuseppe. ‘It’s from a plant.’

  Friday shook her head. ‘People talk about chemicals as though they are separate things that are only found in powders or test tubes. But everything is made up of chemicals. All living things, all not living things as well, we’re all made up of combinations of chemicals. If you break us down to our tiniest components, even a human is just a combination of carbon, hydrogen, oxygen, nitrogen and trace elements.’

  ‘I’ve done wrong,’ said Giuseppe.

  ‘Now you are finished!’ declared Esio, gleefully. ‘You are done. No more reputation for you.’

  ‘I wouldn’t go that far,’ said Friday, turning on the gelato rival. ‘You might want to back up on your blackmail attempt. Or I will be forced to blackmail you.’

  ‘What?!’ demanded Esio.

  ‘If I walked straight to your gelato shop right now and had all your flavours tested, what would I find?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Nothing, I have nothing to hide,’ said Esio.

  ‘Really?’ asked Friday.

  ‘There are no chemicals there,’ said Esio.

  ‘Maybe there are no artificial chemical colourings in your gelato,’ said Friday. ‘Although given the unnaturally green colour of your pistachio I wouldn’t bet on it. But this is Florence, you aren’t just trying to get European food labelling privileges here. You want to hold on to your prestigious Firenze Gelateria certificate. And to do that, you must meet the highest gelato standards. And there are other things you are not meant to have in your gelato. Like excessive levels of hydrolysed fat.’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re talking about,’ said Esio, his jowls quivered with outrage. ‘I have none of this hydro fat in my gelato.’

  ‘He’s lying,’ said Melanie.

  ‘I know,’ said Friday. ‘And I can prove it.’

  ‘It’s impossible,’ said Esio. ‘It’s not true.’

  ‘Is that so?’ said Friday. ‘On the first night after we arrived we walked past your shop on the Ponte Vecchio and I noticed that your display cabinets are set to minus eighteen degrees.’

  ‘Of course,’ said Esio. ‘It is the industry standard for gelato. Everyone has their cabinets set to this.’

  ‘That’s true,’ agreed Sister Angelica.

  ‘Yes,’ said Friday. ‘But gelato without hydrolysed fat has a much lower melting temperature. The frozen crystals decrystalise. That means if the display freezer where you store your gelato is set to minus 18 degrees, then the crystals in the gelato are tiny. The gelato is looser, smoother, sloppier and it can’t be heaped up like a sandcastle. All your gelato on display is heaped up in mounds, therefore it must have more than 10 per cent hydrolysed fat.’

  The nuns gasped.

  ‘You can’t prove it,’ said Esio.

  ‘I can with the help of . . .’ Friday read the header on the report in her hand. ‘Laboratorio Avogadro.’

  ‘I won’t let you take a sample,’ said Esio.

  ‘Parker,’ said Friday. ‘You’ve spent every waking moment since we arrived in Florence trying different gelato shops, haven’t you?’

  ‘Yes, it’s been an honour and a privilege,’ said Parker.

  ‘And you are a typical messy thoughtless teenage boy, aren’t you?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Yes, I am,’ agreed Parker. ‘Nanny always says so.’

  ‘So, if I were to go to your room,’ said Friday, ‘do you think I would find a napkin or used gelato cup from Mr Esio’s shop?’

  ‘Definitely,’ said Parker. ‘I’ve been there three times.’ He turned to assure Sister Angelica, ‘The gelato is not as good as here, at all.’

  Sister Angelica nodded with proud satisfaction.

  ‘Then why did you go three times?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘They have these big heaped up displays that look so good,’ explained Parker.

  ‘Stupid boy,’ said Sister Angelica. ‘Is not the look, is the taste that matters.’

  ‘I know,’ said Parker. ‘I’ve learned that now. This is why I came to Italy. To learn.’

  ‘Let’s make a deal,’ said Friday, as she turned to Esio. ‘We won’t dob you in for your flagrant use of hydrolysed fat. If you don’t tell anyone that last week, there was some gelato sold here that inadvertently contained a natural food colouring.’

  ‘I will throw out all the raspberry gelato,’ said Sister Angelica.

  ‘You could do that,’ said Friday. ‘Or you could sell it to a drug company, to market as an anti-inflammatory product. You might end up making a lot more for it than you realise. No-one likes taking tablets. I’m sure lots of injured people would love to relieve their swelling with a bowl of gelato.’

  Esio struggled against his impulse to denounce the nuns, but eventually common sense won. ‘Fine.’ He stormed out, slamming the door behind him.

  ‘I understand if you no longer want to do business with me,’ Giuseppe said to Sister Angelica.

  ‘Don’t be ridiculous,’ said Sister Angelica. ‘You may have made a stupid mistake. Men do these things. But you still grow the best tasting raspberries in Florence. You keep growing these for me, but don’t make them red. Let them be gold. I will have the first golden raspberry gelato in Italy. It will be a sensation!’

  After a wonderful day sightseeing in Siena with their school group, Friday and Melanie had promised to go over and visit Bernie in the evening. Friday trudged up the four staircases to the apartment with heavy feet. Her legs were tired because they’d climbed all four hundred steps to the top of the Tower of Mangia. But her legs were extra heavy because she was dreading seeing Ian again. If Tatiana was there as well, that would be bad too. But it would almost be worse if he was there alone, because then she’d have to talk to him, really talk to him, with no pretence of being nice and polite for Tatiana’s benefit.

  Uncle Bernie was clearly relieved to see them when he answered the door. He had Bella in one arm and chocolate custard all down his shirt front. ‘Thank goodness you’re here,’ he said. ‘Here, hold the baby. I’ve got to clean the carpet before it stains.’ He thrust Bella into Friday’s arms and hustled off to a back room of the apartment.

  ‘Hello,’ Friday said to her little cousin.

  ‘Fah-dey,’ said Bella, delighted to have Friday’s hat and hair to play with again.

  Friday carried the baby into the living room to play on the floor, glancing about as she passed the kitchen and the dining room.

  ‘It’s okay,’ said Melanie. ‘I don’t think he’s here. Otherwise I’m sure he would have come out to say something that sounded rude but was really flirty.’

  ‘He’s got a girlfriend,’ said Friday.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Melanie. ‘But you’re his true love. He knows that in his heart. He’s just got to work through the process of realising he’s made a terrible mistake.’

  ‘Tatiana seems really nice,’ said Friday.

  ‘She does,’ agreed Melanie. ‘That’s why it will never work. Ian needs someone more dysfunctional, more like him.’

  Uncle Bernie came back in, dabbing his now water-stained shirt with a tea towel. ‘I’m glad you’re here, Friday,’ he said. ‘I love Helena, but when I try discussing work with her, her solution is always that I should consider becoming a vegan. She thinks dairy is clogging my mind.’

  ‘I don’t think it’s dairy that’s your problem,’ said Friday. ‘Sugar generally has been shown to have a beneficial effect on cognitive processes. So, I don’t see why lactose, a milk-based sugar, should be any different. Unless she is hypothesising that a lack of equilibrium in your gut biome is causing a hormonal response that inhibits your ability to concentrate. Which I suppose is quite possible.’

  ‘I think she’s just trying to get me to eat all the kale she’s grown,’ said Uncle Bernie, glumly.

  ‘Kale would cloud my cognitive processes,’ said Melanie.

  ‘You don’t stay awake long enough for your cognitive processes to get cloudy,’ said Friday.

  ‘True,’ said Melanie. ‘Naps are good for mental clarity. Although you can miss so much while you’re taking them.’

  ‘So, what’s the problem at work?’ asked Friday, seeing her uncle frown. He had clearly stopped listening to them and was thinking about something else.

  ‘What?’ asked Bernie. ‘Oh yes, work.’ He moved closer to Friday and lowered his voice, as if there was a chance someone was listening in. ‘I received a tip-off, from an informant. Someone is preparing to off-load a very valuable piece on the art black market.’

  ‘The art world has a black market?’ asked Melanie. ‘That’s sounds so nineteenth century. I didn’t think people still did that sort of thing anymore.’

  ‘There are always loony people wanting to invest in ridiculous overpriced stuff,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘They always say it’s because they love beautiful things. But usually money laundering has a lot to do with it.’

  ‘And this art black market, is it a large group of people?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Sure,’ said Bernie. ‘Crazy tech billionaires who like to collect obscure things, organised crime billionaires who like to invest money in physical things they can keep in the house – anything they can throw in a suitcase and run out the back door with when the tax department smashes in their front door. And then there’s just loonies who are obsessed with a particular artist or historical figure. They’re really hard to keep track of because they might only buy one or two stolen items, then once it’s in their private home, behind high walls and security systems, there’s no way of finding it or proving it’s there.’

  ‘What’s got you worried?’ asked Friday.

  ‘There is a particular piece on offer at the moment, on the dark web,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘That’s like an online club for these nefarious types. They use all kinds of encryption to stay out of view of law enforcement. But I’ve had a tip-off that someone is offering a piece that is in the Uffizi collection right now.’

  ‘So, they haven’t stolen it yet?’ said Friday.

  ‘No, it’s like theft to order,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘They’re not going to bother unless they have a buyer lined-up and willing to pay they what want. Or better yet, two buyers, so there’s a bidding war once they steal it.’

  ‘Well, that’s audacious,’ said Friday. ‘Who’s your inside informant in this dark web group?’

  ‘I can’t say,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘If word got out, they’d be in jeopardy. It’s one thing to get in trouble with the law, but it’s another kettle of fish getting on the wrong side of a Russian oil baron.’

  ‘What is the piece?’ asked Friday.

  Uncle Bernie took a deep breath and glanced about, as if he was afraid someone was hiding behind the sofa listening in. ‘That’s the thing. They’ve been offering to steal whichever piece the buyer wants from the Uffizi collection. It could be anything! It could be the Birth of Venus by Sandro Botticelli.’

  Friday Burst out laughing.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ asked Melanie.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ said Friday. ‘It’s one of the most famous paintings in the world. Murals of it are on the walls of pizza parlours. Copies of it are printed onto hundreds of thousands of tea towels every year. They’d never get away with stealing it.’

  ‘The Mona Lisa was stolen in 1911,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘And that is the most famous painting in the world. There are some seriously brazen criminals out there.’

  ‘But it’s not like you could hang it in your living room,’ said Friday.

  Uncle Bernie threw up his hands. ‘I don’t pretend to understand crazy billionaires. I just know someone is so confident they can steal any item, they’re already lining up buyers.’

  ‘Oh dear,’ said Melanie. ‘And you’re in charge of its security, so that’s kind of insulting to you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘The board of directors at the gallery already doesn’t like me because I’m foreign and I look incompetent.’

  ‘But that’s your thing,’ said Friday. ‘You look incompetent on purpose to lull criminals into a false sense of security.’

  ‘I tried explaining that,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘But I’m afraid I’ve lulled the board into no sense of security at all.’

  ‘So, is there a weakness in your security system?’ asked Friday. ‘How do you think the thieves will target it?’

  ‘The main weakness is that it’s in a public gallery, in a four-hundred-year-old building,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘Ten thousand people stand within a metre of it every single day and I’m limited in what sort of physical and electronic security I can install because the building is itself a work of art and the Italians throw a fit if I so much as scuff a floorboard.’

  ‘So, no bulletproof glass, fast-shutting bandit screens or automated steel bars,’ said Friday, nodding.

  ‘Exactly,’ said Uncle Bernie. ‘I’m heavily reliant on the diligence of my staff. Men and women staying vigilant, which is not as easy as it sounds. It’s really boring watching crowds of people look at paintings. It’s hard to stay awake, let alone observant and be ready to crash tackle a thief.’

  ‘Do you have any suspects?’ asked Friday.

  ‘Yes,’ admitted Uncle Bernie.

  ‘Who?’ asked Friday.

  Uncle Bernie hesitated. ‘I’ve got an undercover agent trying to win their trust,’ he revealed. ‘But I’m worried for the agent’s safety if their name got out.’

  Friday nodded. This made sense. It would be foolish to even whisper the name out loud, just in case the apartment was bugged.

  ‘If this agent can join their team,’ continued Uncle Bernie, ‘we’ll be able to track the stolen piece to the buyer and then take down the whole Europewide operation.’

  ‘Okay,’ said Friday. ‘What do you need from me?’

  ‘Wait here,’ said Uncle Bernie, disappearing down the corridor.

  ‘Ba ba ba,’ said Bella, conversationally, as she ignored all her toys and shoved her father’s mobile phone in her mouth.

  ‘Here it is!’ said Bernie. He bustled back into the room, holding a huge box of breakfast cereal, which he then emptied onto the coffee table. But it didn’t contain cereal. What fell out was a folded up blueprint. Uncle Bernie spread it out. ‘These are the schematics for the Uffizi including all the alterations after it was renovated following the 1993 bombing. I want you to study them. Think like a criminal. Tell me how you would break-in.’

  Friday looked at the document. One part of her brain was already scanning the drawing for air conditioning vents and sewerage tunnels. But another part of her was screaming, ‘No! No! NO!’

  These were the thoughts she gave voice to.

  ‘No! No! NO!’

  ‘What?’ said Uncle Bernie, alarmed to have his niece suddenly and unexpected yelling at him.

  ‘No!’ said Friday. ‘This is exactly what got me in trouble. Imagining the perfect crime. Then someone taking my ideas and using them.’

  ‘I’m not going to use them,’ said Bernie.

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ said Friday, her breathing started to accelerate. The room was suddenly too small. She didn’t feel safe. She wanted to be out on the street. Out in the air. ‘I’m not going away again!’

  ‘That won’t happen,’ said Melanie, kindly, taking her friend by the hand to reassure her. Melanie’s voice sounded far away. Like she was at the far end of a tunnel.

  ‘It’s too dangerous,’ said Friday, not even pretending to use reason and logic. ‘It’s frightening.’

  Suddenly, Bernie’s phone started to ring, but it wasn’t a regular ringtone, it was more like an air-raid siren was going off in his pocket.