The Third Shadow

Thirty-six

We made our way to the same semi-circular appendage to the promenade where we'd sat the previous September. The exact same places it seemed - the third or fourth step up, northwards facing. Today we had the place all to ourselves.

A mile or so in front of us - beyond the multi-coloured, ever-narrowing stripe of the lido beach umbrellas - jutted the first of the two headlands. Like a faded kind of echo, the seawards tip of the second headland was just visible beyond - the vantage point from which Rocco Quaranta had almost certainly seen distant figures on the beach below in the early hours of Monday, August 27th.

"I owe you an apology, ispettore." These were Nuzzo's opening words as we grimaced ourselves down onto the stone steps, pressed ourselves as much as possible into the meagre wedge of shade offered by the mid-afternoon sun. "The last time we were here, I remember it well. You said some things - some very wise things - but I didn't listen. Didn't want to listen."

I swept  a dismissive hand; I'd lived in Italy long enough now to have developed a certain instinct for gesticulation.

"You did what you had to do," I stated simply.

The comment drew a glance, one which seemed to convey a sense of gratitude. "Duty, si. I did my duty." Crunching down the last of his cone, he wiped at his hands with a paper napkin, pushed his face into a pensive frown as he took in the view. The customers of the nearest lido dozed still in the protective shade of their umbrellas - a knee-bent leg  was visible here, a sideways-dangled upper arm there. Only a dog and its sunhatted, stick-throwing owner splashed around amidst the gently lapping waves.

"But you, ispettore," Nuzzo continued. "You are free of such restraints. Duty, responsibility." His lips curved momentarily into a wry  grin. "Superior officers." I felt his eyes on me then: earnest, searching. "And that is why, this time, I will listen to you." As if to underline his point, he angled his bulky frame a little towards mine, the re-shifting of his lower back muscles provoking a wince. "So, we play the game." A rolled, theatrical hand marked its opening. "We imagine that the old man saw that what he said he saw. We accept that maybe he was a little confused about the time, that it was nearer to three o'clock than two o'clock...." A flourished, upturned palm indicated that I should take up the narrative.

The truth was however that I had no real hypothesis to offer. No clear, filmatic scenario running through my head.  As with so many aspects of the case, what we were dealing with seemed seemed frustratingly vague, illusionary almost. Mere shadow play, that was all.

"I just think it's possible," I responded, "distinctly possible, that it was them he saw. The Bracewell brothers."

"And if so", Nuzzo pressed, "who was the third figure? The one a little behind?"

There was, perhaps, only one likely candidate:  "Olivia," I replied.

The comandante nodded. "Olivia, si. It is this which I think also." Squinting his eyes against the sun, he peered once more into the distance - seemed, almost, to glimpse right through the headland, lock onto the exact spot where Sean Bracewell's remains had been found. "We know she is good at telling lies."

I too crunched down the last of my cone, wiped my hands with the proffered paper tissue. "Better even than we thought perhaps..." I mused.  I took a moment to think things through a little. "If it was her then she must have woken up when the brothers came back from the cigarette machine. Went for a walk with them." If anywhere near the mark, the implications were quite shocking. "What if she actually saw the murder? Helped Lee dig the grave?"

Nuzzo seemed to ponder this, his eventual conclusion an unconvinced shake of the head. "Sarah said that Olivia was in bed for maybe only thirty minutes when the brothers left the house. It's strange, don't you think, that someone who sleeps for so little time suddenly wakes up and goes for a walk?"