‘In that case,’ Brunetti asked, ‘what will you do to find them?’

‘Ah,’ Rossi began, ‘it’s not as simple as that. We have no obligation to keep copies of those documents. The Civil Code makes it clear that this is the responsibility of the person who owns the property under consideration. Without your copies, you can’t argue that we’ve lost ours, if you see what I mean,’ he said with another small smile. ‘And it’s impossible for us to initiate a search for the papers because we can’t afford to use manpower in a search that might prove futile.’ Seeing Brunetti’s look, he explained, ‘Because they might not exist, you see.’

Brunetti bit his lower lip and then asked, ‘And if they haven’t been lost and, instead, they never existed?’

Rossi looked down and prodded at the face of his wristwatch, centring it on his wrist. ‘In that case, Signore,’ he finally explained, glancing up at Brunetti, ‘it means that permits were never granted and the final work was never approved.’

‘That’s possible, isn’t it?’ Brunetti asked. “There was a tremendous amount of building just after the war.’

‘Yes, there was,’ Rossi said with the feigned modesty of one who spent his working life dealing with just these things. ‘But most of those projects, whether they were minor restorations or extensive renovations, most of them have received the condono edilizio and so have gained legal status, at least with our office. The problem here is that no condono exists,’ he said and waved a hand to encompass the offending walls, floor, ceiling.

‘If I might repeat my question, Signor Rossi,’ Brunetti said, forcing sweet calm and Olympian reasonableness into his voice, ‘what does this mean for me and for my apartment, specifically?’