The Third Shadow

Six

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"Detective Sergeant Hargreaves. Who am I speaking to?"

Though Diane's voice carried a definite note of irritation that somebody should have chosen that precise moment to call her, it was an annoyance tempered by a natural curiosity to know who it ruddy well was. I'd bought a new SIM card in Italy of course, but somehow hadn't got round to informing contacts back at home of my number.

"Diane, it's me. Jim."

Just for a half a second, I sensed a sharp intake of breath. Then: "Jim?" Her quizzical tone was a feigned, sarcastic one. "The only Jim I know's Jim Jacks and that old sod buggered off to Sicily ages ago. Not even had a postcard."

"Puglia," I corrected, though she knew this full well. "And it's only been six months."

"Almost seven, if we're going to be precise."

I'd stepped out into the back garden of the holiday bungalow, was scraping out one of the wrought iron patio chairs from beneath the table. Slumping myself down, I puffed out cheeks for a moment; this had the potential to be a long call. Diane confused me sometimes. Or perhaps more precisely, Diane and I confused me sometimes. Close working relationships with members of the opposite sex can do that I suppose. Man and wife but without the kids and the marital bed. The same intensity though. The same little games, petty jealousies.

"Been busy," I offered lamely.

"There are emails now you know Jim. You don't even need a stamp."

It wasn't just her, I reflected, gazing out at the sea beyond the back gate. Not only Diane. Since I'd moved out to Italy, the only person I'd been in touch with was my daughter. A clean sever, I'd decided - this the only way I was going to get through. It's not the past itself that hurts, rather the memories of it, the constant needling reminders.

"You've caught me on my lunch break." Diane had an uncanny ability to make almost anything sound like an accusation. "Steak pasty from that baker's on Albert Road."

I could picture her there on a town centre bench, long, elegant fingers stroking pastry flakes from her skirt, her face turned hopefully up at any vague trace of sun which might be peeking through the clouds. Save for the breeze toying at her sleek raven hair, a still point amidst the hustle of passing shoppers.

"Don't know how you keep your figure."

"I don't."

"That's not at all true."

"Reduced to flattery now are you?" This was followed by a wistful kind of half
sigh, one which meant I was forgiven. For the time being at least.

"Bloody great, this pasty."

In all my life, I have never met a female who is such a voracious eater as Diane - a fact underlined by the moist munching noises at that moment deafening my ear.

Deciding it would be wise to allow her a few moments to finish her lunch in peace, I took the opportunity to properly survey my surroundings. Unlike the ornamental front garden, that at the back was a more functional space; Signor Caputo clearly used it as a kind of allotment, the sandy local soil noted for the cultivation of watermelons and a particularly sweet variety of onion. My gaze then moved long range, past the white, wooden rear gate, north-westwards, towards the rocky headland half a kilometre away. Beyond this stretched the fainter hue of the Basilicata coastline. For all the personal history which resided there, I wasn't missing Middlesbrough much at all, I realised. Here, I thought. This rolling, glinting sea. This rugged, tangled coastline. Little by little, day by day, it was starting to feel like home.