The Third Shadow

Eleven

~~~~~

Hey , try not to think badly of me, okay. People are going to be saying all kinds of things about me but its not as it seems. One day somehow I'll be in touch, you have to trust me on that. In the meantime take care of our baby and please God take care of yourself. Love you love you love you and always will.

Reading Lee Bracewell's email makes one feel a little intrusive. Whatever the crimes he may have committed, a man has the right to a private farewell with his wife. And Olivia was correct, there was little of any interest to investigating officers. It was impossible to determine where or from what device it was sent. Only the time of posting could be ascertained: 21.17 of the Monday evening. Around eighteen hours therefore after returning to the holiday home for his passport.

Eighteen hours... A man could travel far in that time. By then, he could have been at any point on the map between Manchester, Moscow and Madrid.

*

Ellie's call came around quarter past ten of that same Wednesday evening. On the upturned crate-cum-coffee table beside my armchair, there was a bottle of Montepulciano di Abruzzo two glasses down.

"Adam says he just saw you on the news."

Hers was a similar accusatory to that of Diane earlier. Groping around for the remote control, I turned down the volume of the film I'd been half watching. Two phone calls in the space of three days: I was truly honoured.

As I poured myself a third glass of wine, I briefly outlined those salient case details which were already in the public domain. Those which weren't, I kept to myself. Confideniality wasn't a professional obligation any more, but old habits die hard all the same. Heather had learned very early into our relationship not to even bother asking about cases I was involved with. As a teenager Ellie had tried probing me on things a couple of times too, but had just as quickly understood that stones simply don't bleed.

"I just hope you're not getting too involved, that's all. You're supposed to be---"

"Retired now. Yes, it's been pointed out to me."

"Taking it easy, I was going to say actually."

"Either way, makes me sound decrepit."

This prompted a mischievious giggle. "Oh no, you've still got decrepitude to look forward to dad. For now, let's just say you're getting past your best."

"You really know how to cheer a bloke up El."

As was our habit, we quickly lapsed into an uncomfortable silence. It was too soon for the call to be reasonably cut, but neither of us knew what to say next.

I stared dumbly at the TV screen: adverts. In Italy, it isn't so much a case of commercial breaks during the programme but programme breaks during the commercials. Only by living abroad does one begin to fully appreciate the BBC.

"Got a postcard from your mother," I ventured finally.

"Mum?"

The surprise in her voice was entirely feigned of course. I think sometimes my daughter forgets that I used to be a detective.

"I can't imagine where she got my address..."

She had no choice but to come clean. "She asked me for it. Just before they jetted off to Portugal."

"Spain, actually."

But Ellie wasn't much interested in geographical precision it seemed. "I think she'd like to be friends dad."

Friends, I mused. Wasn't that a little like being asked for a loan by somebody who already owed you more than they could hope to possibly ever repay?

"Dad, did you hear what I said?"

"She'd like to be friends. Yes, I heard."

On the TV a family was gathered around the dining table - happy, smiling, their forks twirling a famous brand of tagliatelli. It seemed ironic somehow.

"Well..." Her tone was expectant, as if awaiting my verdict on a watercolour she'd painted or cake she'd made. "What do you think?"

So I told her what I thought. Exactly what I thought, the cold hard truth of it. I thought that her mother had told me a stack of lies. I thought that not only had she betrayed me, but had betrayed me with someone I'd used to consider a good friend. I thought she'd thrown away twenty-eight years of marriage in the same casual, unthinking manner that someone might throw away an old sweater which no longer fitted them or had else simply gone out of fashion. This was what I thought.

"But you weren't there for her dad. Those last few months especially."

It was defence I'd heard so often it had started to become something of a cliche'.

"I was trying to catch the Albert Park Rapist!"

It's not often that I raise my voice, the effect on those rare occasions when I do thus intensified. Almost invariably, the other person is stunned into temporary silence.

"Look Ellie," I sighed, trying to regain my usual paternal calm, "in life there are bridges which just get burnt sometimes."

Her own sigh was a resigned one. "I told her you needed more time."

I glanced over at the postcard there propped up against the salt and pepper shakers on the table, the light from the TV catching the stripes of selotape holding it together.

More time.

Yes, I thought. Just a little more time.

*

It had been an interesting three days, certainly. A nostalgic flashback to my former life. These were my reflections as I went about my vine inspection the following morning. And of course, I would take a greater interest than most in any future developments in the case. But it was time now to get back to my new life. Back to my grapes, yes. Back to the floor tiling.

Oh Christ, the floor tiling...

Trudging my way back up the slope following my inspection, I could already feel my body beginning pulse with a kind of strange, anticipatory ache. An ache which, half an hour later, was growing ever stronger as I lingered over my finished plate of eggs, the drained pot of coffee.

The sudden ringing of my telephone was welcome: an excuse for further procrastination.

Nuzzo: excited, just a little breathless.

"Ispettore, I thought you should know. We have found the Peugot."