The Third Shadow

Five

~~~~~

Nuzzo and I spent the next thirty minutes or so going through the women's story in as much detail as possible, the four of us seated at the table. Ciaverella's presence was meanwhile a largely upright, background one, he responsible for the collection of espresso cups and juice glasses which had magicked their way onto the table top between us, joined the now empty tea mugs from earlier.

They'd all gone out together for a pizza in town earlier in the evening, we were told. One of the places on the promenade; they couldn't remember the name, just that there was an acquarium inside. Vecchia Napoli, Ciavarella surmised from somewhere behind us. In any case, they'd returned to the bungalow for around half past eleven, and that's when the party had started to get serious.

"How much would you say they had to drink that night?" I pressed. "Sean and Lee, in total."

"I've already told you they were over the limit. Does it really matter by how much exactly?"

Struck by the sharpness of Sarah's tone, I paused for a moment or two, waited for the tension to dissolve a little. Interviewing the next-of-kin of missing persons is always a difficult balancing act. Whilst on the one hand the interviewing officer is eager to elicit as much detail as possible, he or she must also remain conscious of not pushing too hard, being overly insistent. More so than the loved one who has disappeared, the real victim is the forlorn figure there before you nursing their cup of tea, dabbing handkerchief to their eyes.

"It's important we have as clear an idea of that night as possible Sarah."

Her husband, she grudgingly admitted, had been guzzling beer all day and continued to do so in the pizzeria - another three or four she supposed - then the same again when they got back. She, Olivia and Lee had meanwhile shared a bottle of wine before going out, another with their pizzas, then uncorked a third and fourth at home. At around one a.m the two brothers had then moved onto Glenfiddich, the girls instead to Bailey's.

As I translated, I could see Nuzzo and Ciavarella exchanging incredulous shakes of the head. Italians have a much healthier relationship with alcohol than we Brits. For many, the sheer quantity above listed would be deemed excessive over the course of a whole month, let alone a single night.

"And they finished it?" I asked. "The scotch?"

"Most of it I think," Sarah answered. "Must've taken the bottle with them. It's not here in the house, anyway." She looked sheepishly down at the table, brushed away a speck of dust with her hand. "I know it looks bad. That they got in the car and everything... But Lee, he insisted you see. There's just no stopping him when he gets like that."

The remainder of the conversation was punctuated by tickly breaths into my ear, the whiff of coffee, some spicy brand of aftershave: Nuzzo, prompting my questions, eager to make sure that we didn't overlook any important details.

Three o'clock, Sarah confirmed. She was one hundred per cent certain this was when the brothers had slipped out. She'd already been sprawled out on the settee, eyes growing heavy. When she'd heard the click of the front door behind them she'd creaked open an eyelid at the clock - a typically cheap, basic affair above the hallway door. Two or three minutes past. The last thing she remembered about that night.

Sean, as best she recalled, had been wearing a red Nottingham Forest football shirt and his usual khaki shorts; Lee, as best Olivia remembered, a light blue short-sleeved shirt and beige chinos. A cap too, Sarah added. He'd bought himself a new one, a Dolce and Gabbana, from one of the promenade boutiques in town, had hung it on one of the hooks by the door. It wasn't there now: he must have slipped it on when they'd left.

"And who do you think drove?" I then asked.

But both women were scraping back their chairs, shooting upright, mouths half open in expectation...

There was a tentative yet distinct knock there at the door.

Ciavarella had it open in a flash. Just signor Caputo the landlord though, a casserole dish of his wife's lasagna di pesto in hands.

"You tell them they must eat. Keep up their strength."

None of us had noticed his tall, frail figure making its way along the front path. The sisters-in-law slumped back to their chairs, a hiss of deflated sighs.

Hope does that.

It squeezes at you. Pulls.

Lies waiting in ambush.

Never lets you out of its grip.

*

"Well, Lee I suppose," murmured Sarah some moments later, this in reply to my earlier question about which of the brothers might have driven. "I mean, he was the less drunk of the two." A palm was quickly raised, as if to ward off any possible objections I might have. "Oh, don't get me wrong, Lee'd had a fair bit, but was... you know, a bit more in control. Not slurring his words."

Beside her, Olivia nodded in support. She'd never seen Lee get what might be called staggeringly drunk, she claimed. He always liked to maintain a semblance of control. Not only that, but he was one of those sorts of people who love driving. It was he who'd driven down to Stansted airport the previous Thursday, she added, then again in the hire car from Brindisi.

It seemed a reasonable bet then: it had been the younger brother who'd taken the wheel. Perhaps this would prove important, perhaps not. Early stage investigation often resembles a supermarket dash: facts, half facts, suppositions - everything is blindly grabbed, thrown into the basket. The process of sifting and sorting comes later - which items to use, which to discard.

Matters then turned to bureaucracy, the requisite paperwork. He would be needing to see the brothers' passports, Nuzzo indicated. Sarah was able to locate Sean's promptly enough, but Olivia seemed to be taking an inordinately long time over retrieving Lee's. Two minutes became five. Became ten. Finally she reappeared from the bedroom, her brow stretched taut, voice betraying a slight scratchiness, a quivered imperfection.

"Looked everywhere. Bedside cabinet, all his shorts and trousers." Her hand reached to mouth, the physical articulation of the words making their implication all the starker perhaps.

"OhmyGod-ohmyGod! Can't find it anywhere!"

*

A frantic twenty-minute search ensued. Whilst Olivia continued to ransack the bedroom, Sarah, Ciavarella and I searched the rest of the house. Nuzzo, citing his lumbago, preferred to take a more sedentary, advisory role.

Hands were groped down the sides of things. Into darkest corners. Round the back.

Niente.

There was, I suggested, one perfectly innocent explanation perhaps. Maybe the trousers Lee had travelled over in were the same ones he'd been wearing on the night of the disappearance, the passport still there in the pocket, never removed. Beige chinos, Olivia had stated just a little earlier; she couldn't remember what he'd been wearing during the flight over though. Sarah's phone was thus consulted, the results only serving to deepen the mystery however: the first three or four shots, those taken while waiting for boarding announcement at Stansted, clearly showed Lee wearing blue-checked knee-lengths.

From the TV unit came a renewed opening and slamming of drawers, more furious and desperate than ever: Sarah, the third or fourth time already. "Just exactly what's going on here?" There was something shrill to her voice. Something rasping, shredded. A quick, darting glare was shot in Olivia's direction. Pleadingly, she then looked back across at Nuzzo and I.

"What's all this supposed to mean?"

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