The Third Shadow

Thirty-four

The address which Ciavarella had scribbled onto the hotline call report resulted as a four-storey apartment building along one of the inland sidestreets leading from the Pozetta stretch of the coast road. On the corner a hundred metres or so further down was the tobacconist's at which it was still believed Lee Bracewell had tried to procure a packet of Marlboro lights.

Such condominiums are the typical abode of the Italian elderly. Whilst the residence would perhaps have seemed the height of modern luxury back in the boom years of the fifties when it was built - back when its occupants were twenty-something newlyweds drunk on post-war optimism - it now seemed rather drab and featureless. Perhaps it was just the oncoming dark, but even the rose bushes in the communal front garden seemed somehow moribund.

It was the fifth of the intercom buttons lining the rusted left flank of the entrance gate which bore the name Quaranta. Quaranta - Cassano, to be precise; Italian wives do not traditionally take on their husbands' surnames. Updating the now singular nature of the name tag would be an unimaginably gutwrenching gesture, I could only suppose, and so the old man had preferred to leave it.

Ciavarella extended an index finger.

Twice.

Three times.

"Maybe the old man is not only blind but deaf also," Nuzzo muttered. Then, glaring: "Are we going to stand here all the night Ciavarella, or do you think maybe we can try a neighbour?"

The index finger moved obediantly upwards to the fourth button. This time, only one press sufficed.

"Pronto?", came a tinny, female voice. Although a little frail-sounding, it was clear from her tone that she was unimpressed at having been dragged away from whichever TV programme it was which was blaring away in the backgound.

His mouth as close as possible to the grill, his enunciation loud and laboured - almost to the point of patronising - Ciavarella explained who he was, who he was with and who we wished to speak to. The old woman's reply was both immediate and forthright, almost as if she wished it to be known that not only was she sound of mind and hearing but that she did not suffer fools easily.

"Then you have a problem, young man. Signor Quaranta, he passed over to our Lord not a month ago."

*

There still remained half an hour or so before dusk blackened to night and we would be able to conduct our little experiment. In the meantime Ciavarella was sent up to talk to the venerable old lady in person, see what he could find out. His glance back as he stepped through the buzzed-open gate was a portrait of apprehension.

Nuzzo meanwhile steered me towards the nearest bar - a noisy, brightly-lit den of masculinity. The sight of a carabinieri uniform provoked a moment of silence, playing cards to pause mid-slap, then things exploded back to their previous raucousness. Apart from a couple of twenty-somethings watching the World Cup on the tiny screen over in the corner, the comandante and I were the youngest of the assembled clientele by several decades.

My earlier wine haze had by this time worn off, a newfound sobriety further compounded by the double espresso Nuzzo forced down my neck. The late-night consumption of caffiene is a southern Italian tradition, in much the same way as lager and kebab is an English one.

After tipping back his own coffee Nuzzo shuffled off to chat to some of the assembled old timers, leaving me to only half-interestedly watch the game - a torbid, uneventful affair in the stifling Brazilian heat. In truth, it wasn't much better there in the bar; the ceiling fan was of the squeaky, slow-turning variety, the sort capable only of pushing the warm air back down at you. Hand flicking away the sweat from my brow, my thoughts drifted inexorably towards the realm of numbers, balances, bottom lines. Towards considerations of bottling costs, chemicals, the looming ever-present shadow of the tax man... No matter which way I twisted things, square pegs just don't fit into round holes.