The Third Shadow

Forty-five

It was markedly different Station Commander Nuzzo whose face appeared on the national news bulletins those following few days. Gone was that taint of self torment which had shadowed his face just two weeks earlier after the unearthing of Sean Bracewell's remains. Gone the brittleness, the self-imposed sense of shame. No longer did his eyes seek to evade the camera lens, the assembled journalists before him, the millions of his co-nationals watching from home. Now he faced them all squarely, unflinchingly, his expression that of a man who had regained his professional pride and the respect of the local community he served.

True to his word, he would speak with organisers of the town fair a little later that summer, have them assign me a stall . This was in prime location in the central piazza, the weekend proving a hectic, woozy affair of salesman's pitches, uncorked bottles and free tasting. Both feedback and sales were positive, better than I had anticipated, and best of all the owner of a local enoteca - a fine wines and spirits shop - was sufficiently impressed to bulk buy a score of boxes with the option of further orders should demand dictate. Though still a long way from any measure of financial stability, it was a development which would prove crucial in keeping my head above water those following months.

On the final night of the fair Nuzzo made an appearance. Off duty, he was happy to accept a complimentary slosh of my wares. As he clinked his glass to mine, the eyes which bore into my own were disarmingly earnest and sincere.

"Thank you, ispettore", he nodded. "Thank you for everything."

If I had played some small part in him regaining his self-esteem then I was happy. Really though, I could take little credit for the successful resolution of case. Given the mediatory role I had held in those first few days, the insight I had gained both in terms of investigative details and the sister-in-laws' peronalities - given my status as outsider with no direct responsibility or superiors to answer to - a more astute detective than I would surely have got to the bottom of things much, much sooner.

Nor I fear we will ever learn the exact dynamics of that terrible, blood-filled night. The eventual court proceedings featured claim upon counter claim, each of sister-in-law taking turns to point the finger of blame at the other. An incoherent tug-of-war of rebuffed accusations and icy reciprocal stares. It seems that the antipathy they'd displayed towards each other during that two-day period I'd shared with them in the holiday bungalow hadn't just been part of the act, but that truly, genuinely, theirs was a relationship built on profound hatred. It was a mutual loathing they had of course put on temporary hold to engage in murderous complicity. For both women, the means had justified the end.

Although the crimes had been committed on Italian soil, as the victims and the accused were all British citizens, authorities here had allowed the trial to be held in the UK. Olivia and Sarah would be sentenced to identical terms of 25 years; Loacke would meanwhile walk away a free man. Taking a short holiday in the vicinity of the location where your lover would two weeks later murder her husband is simply not a crime, and as such there was nothing the prosecutors could pin on him. One can only imagine that he subsequently changed his name and started a new life for himself somewhere far from Nottingham. As for baby Imogen, details were understandably kept from the public domain. I wonder if maybe her maternal grandparents had claimed legal guardianship. That some kind of family reconcilliation taken place, a thin light beam of positivity pierced through the darkness.

The trial was held over a two-week period in late-November at Nottingham Crown Court. An ever-present in the public gallery was of course Steve Marston. He would call me frequently over that fortnight, keep me updated on latest developments. A couple of weeks before Christmas he kept me on the line for an entire afternoon as I was forced to recount my role in the story - its every miniscule detail - from start to finish. We would quickly lose touch after this, but I know that the book he was writing on the case, entitled Half Moon Bay, was released the following year. I can only hope that the countless of hours of dedication which went into its writing had kept him away from the pub a little, helped imbue his days with a sense of purpose.

It was the day following our final call that during a supermarket run into town I ducked into a book shop, picked out three nice Christmas cards. One was for Ellie of course, another for Diane and her two boys, the third for Heather. A very merry Christmas and a prosperous new year to you, I wrote inside this latter. Then, following a moment's relection, I added one final word: both.

Diane's call came on Boxing Day afternoon just was I finishing off the microwave Christmas pudding Ellie had posted out to me. After the inevitable exchange of yuletide greetings and equally inevitable exchange of sharp one-liners, there was one of those sighs - the laboured exhale of someone about to broach a complex matter. "Ian and I, we've been out together a couple of times," she began, Ian the second of her ex-husbands. "Dates, I suppose you could call them. You know, dinners out at the Indian. The pictures."

"Jeff Bridges."

"Jeff Bridges, yes." She'd always had a thing about Jeff Bridges; something to do with that beard of his, she said.

"Look," she then continued after another ominous-sounding sigh, "the upshot is that... well, that we've decided to give it another go." There was now a third sigh - part regret, part relief that she'd got it all out "You know, move back in together. Sorry Jim, not much of a Christmas present, I know."

Not much of a one, no, but I wasn't quite so selfish that I wasn't thrilled for her just the same. The few times I'd met him, Ian had always seemed a decent guy. And though that afternoon I allowed myself a few glasses of wine to help me absorb the blow, by the following day my heart was beating steadily and contentedly again. Maybe it was better that way. Maybe finally I'd been forced to accept the new reality I'd created for myself. Though Diane and I would always remain in touch - would always be there for each other if need dictated - I could no longer rely on my past to shape the future. The two were mutually exclusive, yet were both - I now realised - dappled with patches of intense brightness like the morning sun through the leaves of the vines.

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