The painted houses clinging to the hillside glare orange in the late-afternoon sun. It is impossible to look across the harbour without shielding your eyes. A single yacht tugs at its moorings and twists to meet the returning tide.

The man leans forward, elbows on knees and steeples his fingers under his chin. He considers the vista for a few moments before looking to his right.

'It's good to see you again, Fernando,' he says. 'How many years is it?' 'You know exactly how many,’ he snapped.

The finger architect nods and agrees. 'Indeed my friend,' he says. 'I am paid to.'

He reaches towards the single, tall glass on the table between them and picks it up; ice cubes chatter merrily. He takes a sip and smiles. 'I could retire here.'

'I almost did,' sighed Fernando, and then jolts twice before looking quizzically at the assassin, who is busily pocketing a silenced pistol.

The limoncello clicks back on the mosaic table; condensation pools round the bottom of the glass.

The killer stands.

He walks over and places a hat on the head of the dead man, tilting it over his questioning face; the man is now merely sleeping off an afternoon drink.

He removes the coffee cup from the still hands and drains the contents.

Overhead a gull cries murder and wheels away up the Amalfi coast.