The Third Shadow

Forty-two

Over the coming weeks and months I would learn much about Danny Loacke. Early-thirties, originally from near Hereford but had settled in Nottingham after graduating with first class honours in Business and Marketing at the university there. Thanks to the attendant media coverage in the aftermath of his arrest, I would finally be able to match a face to his name too - bald-headed, a stubble-bristled jaw, thick-framed glasses. Unremarkable, inspicuous. The sort of lawn-watering neighbour you nod good evening to across the street as you roll your wheelie bin out onto the curb.

That June Sunday afternoom as Nuzzo and I stepped along the promenade, the only fact we knew about him was the following however:

On Friday the 9th of August 2013 - just two weeks therefore before Sean Bracewell's murder and Lee Bracewell's presumed disappearance - he had checked in for three nights at the Bella Vista hotel in the resort town of Torre del Porto fifteen kilometres further down the coast from Punto San Giacomo.

It was enough though. Enough for Nuzzo's earlier derision to morph into a renewed and re-energised interest in the case, for myself to be convinced that my hypothesis had been precise. Oh, it was more than enough.

"Torre del Porto," reflected Nuzzo, crunching at his ice-cream cone beside me. "Not a chance anyone would have remembered him even if he'd been thrust into the media spotlight. Middle of the high season, the place is more packed than the San Siro for Milan versus Inter. The tourists, they come from all over Europe." Yes, I'd passed though the town a couple of times - enough to know that it was even more of a sun-worshippers mecca than Punto San Giacomo. The sand was a touch silkier there, the sea even more limpid, the town more picturesque. "And the Bella Vista," Nuzzo continued, "it must have more floors than a New York skyscraper." Though this was naturally an exaggeration, it was true that some of the modern hotel complexes on the edge of town were veritable behemoths. The comandante's other analogy had been entirely appropriate however: Loacke's face would have been as indistinguishable as a supporter's at a football match. A mere dot amidst tens of thousands of other dots. Even then it was easy to imagine he'd taken as many precautions as possible: kept his jaw clean-shaven, hidden himself behind a large pair of shades and under the peak of a cap, holed himself up in his room as much as possible.

"I think it was another one of her little lies," I mused aloud. Nuzzo paused his step beside me, looked across quizzically. "Olivia," I explained. 'A couple of weeks, she'd said. The amount of time she'd known she was pregnant. Maybe that was when Lee had found out, but she must have known for a little longer." I reflected for a moment more, allowed my train of thought to rattle a little further along the rails. "The date they booked the holiday bungalow, it must have been at some point after discovering she was pregnant and Loacke's visit here."

It was a detail which could easily be checked of course, and later that day indeed would. Bookings for the holiday bungalow were overseen by signor Caputo's techno-savvy son-in-law. Digital records would show that the dates of the August bank holiday weekend of the previous year had been reserved at a little after midday on Monday August 9th; exactly as I'd surmised therefore. That the booking had been registered in Lee's name and the down payment made via one of his credit cards would be dismissed as a simple act of subterfuge. It isn't difficult, after all, to make an online booking using another person's details, nor to slip a credit card from their wallet while they're asleep or in the shower. Olivia's original claim that the long weekend away together had been Lee's idea - a present for Sean and Sarah's wedding anniversary - was almost certainy yet another of little deceits.

The website which signor Caputo's son-in-law had put together would meanwhile result as an admirably professional affair, one which included numerous photographs of both the bungalow's interior and exterior. I recalled my initial impressions of the place that now distant-seeming August afternoon as I'd pulled up in the van with Sarah alongside me in the passenger seat. The structure itself had seemed neat and functional, little more than that. No, it was the location which impressed me the most - not just the spectacular backdrop of Half Moon Bay but the privacy which the property enjoyed - dunes to one side, an olive grove to the other, the nearest neighbour fifty metres or so further along the road. Perfect for a high-spirited holiday party of four, I'd thought at the the time. Little had I known that the bungalow's semi-seclusion and direct access to the beach could have carried a much darker and more sinister appeal.