The Third Shadow

Two

When I'd first told friends and colleagues about my plans to move to Puglia, their immediate reaction had been to ask 'where?' The heel of Italy's boot, I'd explained, the pictorial assistance provoking nods of the head and 'oh, of courses' as if they'd known all along, had just temporarily forgotten. Frowns would then invariably furrow at brows, the second question forming on lips that of 'why?'.

It seems that as a retirement destination the region has yet to gain the same place in the popular imagination as that of Tuscany say, or the Provence area of southern France. Perhaps one day it might do however. Take the stretch of coast road which leads from my vineyard to the local town, for example. To the right is a sloping succession of olive groves, citrus trees, other vineyards. Here and there one sees little clusters of trulli dotting the hillsides, these the strange round bungalows with conical roofs - almost fairytale-like - which characterise the region; former peasant dwellings, they're now increasingly being rented out as holiday homes. Then to the left, roadside palms are silhouetted against the sun-sparkled Ionian, a breathtaking sprawl of clear crystal blue. Rocky headlands give way to sharply falling bays, the trapped sea creaming in the passing inlets. And there in front lies the distant coastline of Basilicata - the neighbouring region, the 'bridge' of the boot. Smoky, violet-hued, like a broil of low clouds. I doubt there are many finer stretches in the whole of the Mediterranean.

The sun was just arching past its apex as I followed Ciavarella into town, a high, menacing orb. There was one final incline before a curved sliver of beach unfolded itself below, a tight clutter of grey-white buildings: Punto San Giacomo, resident population fifteen thousand - a number virtually doubled during July and August. The invading hordes are not only inland Puglians but many northern Italians as well, a smattering here and there of Germans, some Dutch, the occasional red-as-a-tomato Brit.

Whilst a small fishing fleet still ventures out into the Gulf each night, the recent shift in economic focus is evident immediately upon entering town. A successive clamour of signs point the way to the beachfront bars and pizzerias. In shop doorways, garlands of inflatable toys bob against sun cream racks, rails of garishly coloured beachwear. Passing menu boards announce tourist specials, lunchtime pizzas, platters of locally caught seafood. Outside one restaurant, a sturdy, white-aproned woman was softening up a baby octopus, an endeavour effected by repeated squishy slams against the pavement. This was the only sign of energy, the whole place blissfully and uncharacteristically quiet. Apart from an occasional raised voice, a shadow-slinking passer-by, the pervading mood was that of drowsy post-lunch stupor. In Spain, they call this part of the day the siesta; here, the riposino. The little rest.

The town's carabinieri station - the caserma - is located in one of the side streets which lead from the palm-lined central piazza. Ahead of me Ciavarella dropped a hand out of his driver's window, beckoned me to follow him through a side arch to the courtyard at the rear of the building.

"So, signor Jacks, the situation is like so..."

He guided me through a back door and then up a double staircase, his boots scuffing on the stone steps as he attempted to fill me in on the known details. The woman's name was Sarah Bracewell, an English holidaymaker who was staying in a rented bungalow a few kilometres out of town. It had been a neighbour, a local man, who'd brought her in. She'd banged at his door, eyes moist, clearly upset about something. The only word he'd understood being that of 'police', he'd loaded her into his car, done the decent thing. She'd been ensconced in the station commander's office for the last hour or so. From the little they'd been able to gather, it seemed someone had gone missing. Who or when, other relevant details, all this was proving a mystery however. This, I could only suppose, was where I came in.

The lady in question was an attractive brunette with a womanly figure thrusting against wraparound beach sarong. She sat hunched forward in her seat, mobile phone grasped expectantly in hands as if at any moment due to receive an important call. The eyes which glanced up at me as I followed Ciavarella through the door were of a striking emerald green.