The Third Shadow

Thirty-three

Nuzzo's office was unchanged from all those months earlier. The same maps and streetplans on the wall, the same president of the republic staring solemnly down. Out of the window, the same thin rectangle of sea could be viewed between the neighbouring buildings, it undulations tinted peach in the fading light. Discarded on his desk was a plate dusted with icing sugar and doughnut crumbs. Over in the corner, meanwhile, the same electric fan whirred noisily away, pecked at the corners of the papers he was flicking through. These were the contents of the case file, each sheet in turn thrust up to eyes, briefly examined.

It felt strange to be back there again, the place where the whole damn thing had begun. I could still picture it so vividly - Sarah seated beside me, the gentle bobbing motion of her shoulders as she wept. Her phone grasped in hand, those desperate, appealing eyes.

Where the hell is he? Why doesn't he at least call?

I wondered if the body had already been returned in patria. If a funeral date had been set. Maybe I should send something - a card, phone up a Nottingham flower shop. But all words, all gestures, seemed somehow hollow and inadequate I realised. Justice: this was the only thing Sarah needed right now.

"This is the one," Nuzzo finally announced, one of the sheets of paper held to squinted eyes. "Rocco something, the name of the old man. If only I could to read this blasted handwriting!" He offered the sheet across - this resulting as the responding officer's official report of the hotline call - but I too was unable to make any sense of the indecipherable squiggle which represented the caller's surname.

"Ciavarella," Nuzzo hissed, grabbing back the sheet to study the officer's signature. "I should have known."

As he lumbered out into the corridor, his voice booming out the name of his dysgraphic subordinate, I found my attention drawn to the back of the silver photograph frame on his desk. Yes, this was another little detail I remembered from from all those months earlier. It had intrigued me then, even more so now. Though not normally so nosey with regards to other people's personal matters - or at least I like to think not - I just couldn't help myself. A photograph in full view: it was hardly like prising open a secret diary or rooting through a locked drawer. Flicking my gaze furtively out to the corridor, making doubly sure, I reached out my hand, turned the photo around...

That it was dated by thirty years or so was clear from the heavily sprayed hairstyle of the young woman beaming back at me. There was the shoulder padding of her dress jacket too, the slight over-doneness of her make-up, particularly around cheekbones. Attractive though for all that, clearly Mediterranean of genetics. Her smile was natural, sweet. Behind her, a little unfocused, loomed the type of rennaisance-era cityscape which put me more in mind of central or northern Italy rather than the south. And there in her arms, the face just visible over the blanket it was bundled up in, was a baby whose age looked like it could still be calculated in weeks or even days.

A two- or three-second glimpse, that was all I could allow myself. The photograph was turned back around and my hand retreated to lap, just in time for the commander"s return. A somewhat sheepish-looking Ciavarella trailed in behind him, my presence acknowleged with a nodded greeting which, though perfectly friendly, failed to hide an air of intrigue and surprise. As ten months earlier, he remained upright in the doorway, hands crossed behind his back.

"Tell me Ciavarella," Nuzzo began, wincing himself back into swivel chair. "You have primary schools up there in Abruzzo"

Abruzzo, I thought? The region which borders Apulia to the north, just past the spur of the boot. I hadn't known this, had just always assumed Ciavarella was a local lad. Though able to distinguish a northern accent from a southern one, my ear wasn't yet so attuned as to tell natives of neighbouring regions apart.