The Third Shadow

One

Something to get my teeth into, I'd reflected optimistically. Absorb me. Help keep my mind from wandering where I didn't want it to wander. That great brooding landscape of a man's past.

In any case, living quarters had been a strictly secondary concern. Of far greater importance was the business side of things. It was true that the grape press located in the outbuilding was an ancient, handle-turn affair, but the space was more than adequate, the thick walls reassuringly cool. It was also true that the eight hectares of surrounding land were pallid and rock-strewn, and that many of the vine stakes had been in urgent need of replacement. There had seemed little fundamentally wrong with the plants themselves however: negroamaro, a variety famed for both quality and yield.

But really, it would be disingenuous of me to try explaining things in business logic. The truth was stretched out there at the bottom of the slope beyond the disappearing rows of vines: the azure expanse of the Ionian, the diamond-sprinkled rhythms of the waves. It was as simple as that: I'd taken the place because of the view. This had been worth more than the asking price alone.

It was the same view which I gazed out upon that fateful late-August afternoon. I was catching my breath in the shade of the lean-to, this after having spent a backbreaking morning ripping out the decades-old lino in the kitchen of the bungalow. It was just as I was poised to take a first bite of the speck and gorgonzola panino I'd prepared that something edge-of-vision caused me to glance upwards. A thrown-up cloud of dust there at the bottom of the vines, the point at which the dirt track T-junctions with the coast road. Intrigued, I pushed back my chair, got to my feet. Though gentle, the upwards ascent is hindered by out-jutting stones, the driver forced down to first gear - each pedal-to-the-floor rev of the accelerator heralding another mushroomed dust cloud over the vines. Finally drawing closer, I was now able to make out the light strip on the roof, the distinctive white lettering along the flank: CARABINIERI.

Reaching the flatter ground nearer to the bungalow, the vehicle pulled to a halt alongside my van whereupon a uniformed officer unfolded himself from the driver's seat.

"Mister Jacks?" he enquired over the approaching crunch of gravel.

"Si, sono io". My tone was guarded, uncertain of where all this was headed.

Though as yet unfamiliar with epaulette ensigns, I guessed him to be an appuntato - the carabinieri equivalent of police constable. He was still too young to have risen any higher, no more than twenty-three or twenty-four perhaps. He cut an elegant figure in his uniform, the high, peaked cap bearing the carabinieri emblem of a multi-pointed flame. His shirt was short-sleeved, light blue; the trousers were meanwhile a much darker shade, these adorned by vertical red stripes down the flanks. From the top of one of his boots protruded a circular paddle head, a halt sign for stopping traffic. And there in its leather holster at his hip - innocently almost, just another item of police paraphernalia like notebook or badge - was a semi-automatic 9mm. As a former British police officer - one of the few remaining unarmed forces in the world - the sight was something which took a little getting used to.

"I am Gianluca Ciavarella," he announced in English. "Officer of the carabinieri."

I told him to relax, that I could speak Italian. This was partly true at least, an evening course back in Middlesbrough having provided me with the necessary day-to-day basics, skills then honed over the previous months of haggling down tradesmen's quotes, trying to keep up with what was happening in the world via the RAI evening news.

"Oh, that is good." He seemed genuinely relieved. "I don't speak English so well. Didn't listen so much to my teacher at school." He was a handsome young man, his build athletic, features classically sculptured. Pausing for a moment, he glanced around, nodded appreciatively. "You have done a good job here signor Jacks. Many times I passed on the road below, thought how ugly was the house of old man De Ruvo up there on the hill. But you have made it," - there was a smile as he sought the right word - "bellissimo."

This might have been pushing it just a little I thought, but yes, the place was greatly changed from the one I'd first viewed half a year earlier. The wooden window frames and shutters I'd had installed, the terracotta roof tiles, the lean-to, the cheery shade of orangey-yellow I'd painted the walls.

Such improvements had come at a cost of course, and I was keenly aware of the ever dwindling funds in my account. It was no mere hobby this. I was a businessman now, with all the careful budgeting and contingency planning this entailed. Come the following spring, the first vintage bottled and sufficiently matured, I needed to actually sell the damn stuff.

"You should see the inside," I smiled back. Then, eager to get to the crunch: "How can I help you officer?"

Now stepping into the shade of the lean-to, Ciavarella removed his shades, clipped them to breast pocket. The revealed eyes were bright, alert. "They say you are a policeman. Retired now."

My fame had obviously spread: the crazy Englishman who'd bought the De Ruvo place, thought he knew how to make wine.

"Like I say," he continued, "I don't speak English so well. And the commandante, he doesn't speak English so well either. In fact, there's no-one of us who speaks English." He regarded me solemnly for a moment, as if this in itself might have been explanation enough of his presence. "We have a problem you see. Oh, not a big problem, just a little problem, but one with which maybe you can help. The commandante, he asks kindly if you have some time for us?"

"Well, I... I, er..."

I glanced over at the untidy mound of ripped up lino which needed to be taken to the communal skip. Stacked up against the side wall of the bungalow, meanwhile, were the boxes of floor tiles and bags of grouting powder I'd picked up at the wholesalers the previous day. I really needed to get cracking.

"It won't take a long time, signor Jacks. Just some minutes, is all."

I turned back to him, smiled weakly.

"Just a few minutes you say?"

And in so folding I stepped unwittingly into a case far stranger and more nebulous than anything I had experienced in almost thirty years on the force.

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