The Third Shadow

Forty-four

There was something uncommon about that long June evening. Something rarified, gilded. The slowly deepening sunset above the northern headland of Half Moon Bay seemed to herald not only the passing of that particular day but of something much broader and more difficult to quantify. The closing of a chapter. The final scene of an act.

The gentle swish of the sea against the shore provided the background audio of course, like the twitter of birds on a bright spring morning. Much closer and more distinct however were the continual grunts and puffs of exertion of the officers at their toils. In total five of Nuzzo's subordinates, including Ciavarella, had been called from their existing duties. The spades in their hands had meanwhile been procured from helpful neighbours further along the bay.

I'd offered to help out myself, roll up my sleeves, only for Nuzzo to waft out that familiar dismissive hand of his. When a man got to our age, he'd responded, he needed to think about muscles and nerves and bones. Unnecessary physical exertion, it was his firm belief was the duty of younger generations.

And so I'd pulled out one of the wrought iron chairs at the patio table beside him, settled myself down like a sports spectator into a front row seat. Watched as those poor young officers grew ever sweatier and dirtier to the point they more resembled rugby players at the end of some fierce muddy contest rather than dignified officers of the law.

Signor Caputo had been informed of course, his permission gained, keys handed over. It was fortunate that the tourist season was still early enough that the bungalow was vacant that weekend.

The back garden allotment measured around fifty square metres in total, the soil a shade of beige only marginally darker than the beach which sttetched beyond the back gate. The Sunday afternoon crowds had by this time mostly disappated; those who lingered frequently turned their gazes from sea to the activity there in the back garden behind them. The bungalow had of course gained a certain notoriety locally; over the phone signor Caputo had lamented that bookings for the coming season were fifty per cent down on the previous years, and these almost entirely foreigners who weren't in the know.

The spade-wielding officers had been hard at it for almost an hour by that point. On the patio in front of us was a large pile of unripe onions and even larger pile of unripe watermelons; the officers meanwhile were waist deep into the square they'd dug out, the edges piled high with precarious mounds of soil.

Beside me I could sense Nuzzo becoming ever more agitated. He crossed and uncrossed his legs, constantly shifted position, just couldn't seem to get comfortable in his chair. It wasn't difficult, perhaps, to read his thoughts. Whay we were wrong, he was contemplating. What if there wasn't a body down there. The ignominy he would suffer once word got round. Not only had he wasted precious resources and time the previous September with his ill-fated search zone, but now had destroyed signor Caputo's vegetable patch in vain.

"Put your backs into it officers!" he called. "You need to put your backs in it."

It was an order which provoked several muttered, indistinct conversations beneath the officers' breath; not all references to their superior, I imagined, were glowingly affectionate ones.

Oblivious, Nuzzo pulled handkerchief from pocket, swiped vigorously at his brow. From the sweat that was pouring off him it seemed that it was he rather than his subordinates engaged in hard physical toil.

"Deep," I assured him. "They"d have buried him deep." I nodded beyond the gate, the point where the forensics tent had been erected just two weeks earlier. "Deeper than they buried Sean. Couldn't risk him being found, signor Caputo digging him up with his spade."

By way of response, Nuzzo shifted uncomfortably in his seat once more. "Damn chair!"

I scraped my own chair backwards, got to my feet. "I'll get a cushion from inside," I offered. While I was there, I reasoned, I'd pour out a jug of water for everyone, see if there were any ice cubes in the freezer box.

It felt strange to be back inside that bungalow, recall the conversations that had taken place there, the tears that both women had shed. It wasn't just Olivia who'd been acting, I now realised. Not only her who'd put on a show.

It was as I was stepping back outside with glass-laden tray, a sofa cushion wedged under one armpit, that the call came.

"Here sir."

Ciavarella was crouched down in the dirt, his eyes squinted sadly beneath him.

Setting the tray down onto the table, I watched as another of the officers offered Nuzzo his hand, helped lower him into the excavated square. Once safely down , the comandante hobbled over towards Ciavarella, a hand placed on his back as he bent to squint where the young apuntato was pointing.

After straightening himself once more, he twisted his neck, looked up at me. There was no gleam of celebration in his eyes. No pumped fist, high fives.

A nod, that was all.

Solemn, restrained.