The Third Shadow

Thirty

When I got back to the vineyard, there were still a good five or six hours of sunlight left. Enough to have sprayed another quadrant of the vines. I felt lethargic though, needed time to let things sink in. Needed time to reflect. Whilst doing so, I found myself polishing off the remainder of an opened bottle, uncorking another. Tomorrow, I promised myself. I'd have a break from drinking tomorrow.

As expected, the calls starting coming in a little after seven: the six o'clock news back in Britain. First my brother Frank. Then Ellie. Both repeated the same expression Marston had used earlier: egg on his face...

To each of Ellie's closing string of questions I trolled out the answer she wanted to hear. A primary school pupil being drilled by his teacher.

Yes, I was fine. No, I'd only had just the one glass. Yes, I was eating well. Yes, sales were coming along fine.

Fine, fine, fine.

Everything was just dandy.

*

At half past seven I went inside, turned on the regional news.

The story was first up of course; how could it be otherwise? A focused shot of the white scientifiche gazebo panned out to the gawping crowd of onlookers, this fading to the famous shot of the brothers' faces and old footage of the holiday home as the newsreader summarised the case details. There was a computer graphic too: an aerial representation of the bungalow and the back garden with central path leading to gate. Beyond this there an expanse of yellow representing the beach with a curving blue border to the right. Diagonally across from the bottom corner of the back garden was a marked 'x', strangely reminiscent of one which might indicate buried treasure on a pirate's map. A straight line from this to the back gate indicated a measurement of 46.5 metres, though undoubtedly the area was still taped off and the gazebo still in place and so it was difficult to know how they could claim to be so precise. It mattered little I supposed.

The graphic then cut to footage of a backturned carabinieri officer supervising a group of snout-grounded dogs in a field somewhere; what looked like a bloodhound and a couple of German Shepherds. It was unclear whether this was generic footage or part of the actual cadaver dog team Nuzzo had had sent down from Rome.

A dark blue carabinieri helicopter was then buzzing across a cloudless sky. Again, it was unclear whether this was just a representation or the self same helicoptor equipped with ground penetrating radar which had represented Nuzzo's final gambit at locating the body in the presumed search zone.

Whichever was the case, it would have been clear even to the hard of hearing the point which was being made: the reason why both the crack dog team and fancy helicoptor had drawn a blank was that they had been looking in entirely the wrong place.

Cue then to Commander Nuzzo himself, his eyes narrowed against the sun, his remaining hair greasy and mussed. He was frazzled looking, reeling from the shock. Behind his left shoulder, a little out of focus, was the white gazebo, the crowds beyond. A gaggle of jostling arms reached out to him, the microphone logos representing all the major Italian networks: RAI, Mediaset, Norba, La7, Sky.

Ironic, didn't he think, an off-camera voice was asking him, that after all the police resources which had been spent, the body had been there just a few metres from the back gate all along?

Nuzzo was devoid of comment, his the look of a man hoping that, like Sean Bracewell, the sands might open up and swallow him whole.

*

A few minutes later I was back with my two usual companions: negramaro and the Ionian sunset. Both in equal measures were loyal, uncritical, soothing.

Diane's call came around nine.

"Just heard the news. Bit of a turn up for the books. Your mate Inspector Muzzi must have a bit of egg on his face."

"Incorrect on three accounts Diane. First, his name's Nuzzo. Second, his rank's station commander. And thirdly, I'm not sure if I'd describe him as a mate exactly. For now, let's just say we're acquaintances forced by circumstance into occasional collaboration." I knew very little about him, I realised, other than he'd once been married and went to a masseur on Thursdays. I didn't even know if he had any kids. It was difficult to classify someone a friend who was still such a mystery. "And as for having egg on his face, you're the fourth person today to use that expression. Funny one. Wonder what the origin of it is."

"Who cares?"

"Someone with an enquiring mind."