The Third Shadow

Forty-one

"Crazy," repeated Nuzzo for the dozenth time already. "This is just crazy." Then again, as if his opinion wasn't yet quite clear: "Crazy I say."

We'd taken the short walk from his flat down to the seafront, had pulled up seats outside a cafe'. The afternoon sun was still high enough that the large rectangular umbrella which arched over our heads provided ample shade. In front of us, between the jagged trunks of palm trees which lined the pedestrian promenade, lay the sun-washed expanse of the beach, a thin blue stripe of sea just visible beyond the lines of lido umbrellas and mass of bared latin limbs.

"Just ask yourself," I reasoned back, "what have we actually got to lose?"

After tipping down the remainder of his machiato, the comandante reluctantly pulled his phone from the breast pocket of shirt. As he scrolled through his contacts list, there was a final muttering of discontent under his breath. "Una vera pazzia". A true act of insanity.

"I am Salvatore Nuzzo," he announced to whichever officer it was who'd responded . "Station Commander of the carabinieri, Punto San Gia---" Interrupted, he let out an exasperated sigh, rolled eyeballs upwards. "Si, I know there are official channels of collaboration but I'm off-duty at the moment and the favour I ask really is a simp---" Another interruption, another unimpressed exhale. "Si, si, I will wait." Hand wrapped over phone so no-one on the other end of the line might hear, he leaned in towards me, his tone a belligerent hiss. "Quite intollerable, the polizia di stato. Think their own farts smell of roses!" Yes, I'd often wondered as to the nature of the rapport between the nation's two principal law enforcement agencies, was being treated to something of an insight.

Whoever it was the call had been passed on to had now picked up, Nuzzo once more forced to introduce himself. "I ask kindly that you run me a check of your declaration of presence records," he then went on to explain, this the official document containing name and passport number of all sojourning non-Schengen nationals which hotels, bed and breakfasts, holiday rentals and so on are obliged to register with the local state police. "The July/August period of last year," Nuzzo specified. "A British citizen by the name of..." There was a glance down at the scrap of paper I'd scribbled. "Oh Saint Christ, don't ask me to pronounce it. You know the inglesi and their idiot way of spelling things." He glanced half apologetically across at me before proceeding to read out the letters one by one:

"L-O-A-C-K-E"

Danny Loacke, yes. A name which had always lurked somewhere just beneath and beyond, off the radar screen. A name which I wasn't even able to mentally match a face to but which had been there right from the very beginning. His the final number Lee Bracewell had called just a matter of hours before the disappearance. His the most frequently recorded name in the Nottinghamshire CID's log book of visitors to Olivia's luxury, glass-walled apartment.

Oh, I didn't believe it was he who had caved in a section of Sean Bracewell's skull with a blunt object. And if my new suspicions were correct that Lee Bracewell had also met his end that terrible August night, nor had it been Loacke to witness the younger brother's final breath either.

He hadn't been anywhere near Half Moon Bay that night, wouldn't have been so stupid to have taken such a risk. Doubtless, were the Nottinghamshire CID to ask, he could provide them with a watertight alibi. Some social event or a long weekend away somewhere. Booking records, photographs, a dozen reliable witnesses.

His role in the events were, I however believed, similar to his role in the Ivy boutique chain. An unknown face hidden in the shadows, away from the spotlight. Strategy, details, action-plans. Not the beating heart of things but rarher the cold, calculating brain.

*

Nuzzo's offer of an ice-cream was politely turned down; given the enormity of the lunch we'd earlier eaten, its weight and dimensions like a ship anchor wedged inside my stomach, the very idea seemed some peculiar form of sadomasochism. It didn't stop the commandante treating himself to one however, his usual triple-scoop stracciatella.