WATTYS WINNER 2020
Two interconnected murders, 64 years apart. One woman's search for truth and identity.
Readers' comments: 'a masterpiece', 'impeccably written', 'amazing', 'superbly crafted page-turner', 'hauntingly beautiful', 'tremendous plot a...
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Image: Dawn over the Adriatic
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Plot reminder: After her initial investigations in Lincolnshire, Mary has now decided to fly out to Italy. In an earlier chapter the local journalist George Shreeves informed her that the carabinieri had traced Vincenzo D'Ambra's younger brother.
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I know people who as a habit read two books simultaneously, and who would find the idea of one at a time quaintly bizarre. My adoptive mother's bedside cabinet habitually featured two or even three bookmarked volumes, for example; upon finishing a chapter of one, she would blithely resume where she'd left off in another. Once many decades ago I tried it myself, the end of the summer between lower and upper sixth. There was the copy of Pride and Prejudice my English Literature teacher had assigned as our holiday read and a recently acquired copy of Murder on the Orient Express. Agatha Christie being a writer for whom at the time I had developed a deep and all-consuming passion, I couldn't wait to get started on the latter, but was worried that by doing so I wouldn't have time to finish the former before the beginning of term. Following my adoptive mother's example, I therefore set about reading alternate chapters. The experiment was a disaster, my mind not nearly dextrous enough to cope. I would imagine Poirot contemplating the lifeless body of Elizabeth Bennet, Countess Andeyni engaged in shameless flirtation with Mr D'Arcy. Such was my befuddlement I couldn't say I really enjoyed either novel, and swore never to repeat the folly.
But that was how I had felt on the day of Irene's funeral. Like I was trying to make sense of two different narratives at the same time, a pair of whodunnits which whilst inter-related were separated by an enormous temporal gulf. Sixty-four years, the best part of anyone's lifetime. By persuing both investigations simultaneously, I feared I would only confuse my ideas, further muddy the waters. I needed to get my chronology right. Start at the very beginning.
The small Italian fishing port of Punto San Giacomo. This was where my father's story had begun.
And so it was that little more than twenty-four hours after Irene had been lowered into her final resting place - a period in which I had driven more than three hundred miles from Ravensby to Sussex then the following morning back north as far as Stansted - I found myself touching down at Brindisi airport.
Though the English day the Boeing had lifted me from had been a bright and pleasant one, the temperature increase upon stepping out of the cabin door was significant enough to have me gasp for breath. Thirty-two degrees, the captain had announced before commencing landing procedure. Lifting my gaze to the azure expanse above me, I was unable to detect even the merest wisp of a cloud. I closed my eyes for a moment, felt the warm kiss of the sun on my face. Welcome Mary, it seemed to communicate. And good luck.
