The Third Shadow

Two

From the other side of the desk came the squeak of cushioned leather as the station commander struggled himself from his swivel chair, extended a hand in my direction."Commandante Nuzzo. Thank you coming, signor Jacks. I appreciate your time." The sentiment seemed genuine, his the look of a man who'd spent the last hour getting nowhere fast.

From the thinning hair and deeply creviced lines at the corners of his eyes, I guessed him to be more or less the same age as myself. A largish man, the sort which my mother - may God rest her soul - would no doubt have euphemistically described as 'well-fed.' There was a groan as he descended gingerly back into his chair, a hand placed over lower back. He had some kind of medical condition it seemed - a fact emphasised by a second groan, even more pained than the first. After several months in the country, I was getting used to the Italian tendency to over-dramatise health problems.

"Who is this? Can someone please tell me what the hell's going on here?"

The woman's voice was strained, on edge. A voice tinged by what sounded like an East Midlands accent, Nottingham or Derby perhaps.

It was my turn now to extend a hand. "Jim Jacks. Retired Detective Chief Inspector, Cleveland constabulary." Though her handshake was limp and unenthusiastic, I detected a certain brightening at the sound of an English name, an English accent. "Live locally," I explained. "The station commander here thought I might be able to help."

Ciavarella had in the meantime pulled out a chair for me, the appuntato himself remaining upright, arms folded in the doorway. A row of filing cabinets lined the wall behind me; that in front was adorned by a framed photograph of the President of the Republic and, beneath this, two thumb-tacked maps - the first a town street plan, the other showing what I took to be the wider jurisdictional area. From the service cap and tunic hanging by the door, it seemed the rank of station commander was a uniformed rather than plain-clothed role. Beneath the garments whirred an electric fan, the stirred, rotating air periodically fluttering at the papers on the desk, amongst which lay a plate dusted with what looked suspiciously like icing sugar and doughnut crumbs. Out of the window, meanwhile, a stripe of beach could be viewed through the neighbouring buildings - a glare of serried lido umbrellas, a taller rectangle of gently undulating sea. All I'd ever had to look out on as I'd gone about my paperwork, I reflected not a little enviously, was the Transporter Bridge across the murky grey waters of the Tees estuary.

"Now, I understand you're here to report someone missing," I began.

"Not just someone!" she bristled back. "Two people. That's what I've been trying to explain to them." She buried her head in her palm, elbow propped against thigh. "Both of 'em's gone AWOL. The useless ruddy pair of 'em." There was a glance back across at me. "My husband Sean. His brother Lee."

Two for the price of one, I thought, trying not to let my skepticism show.

Lee, I quickly learned, was the younger of the two brothers, 32 years of age. Sean, like Sarah herself, was 36. The holidaying party of four was completed by Lee's wife, Olivia.

They'd seen the place advertised on the internet, had fancied a change from the usual Majorca, Costa Del Sol. Thursday to Tuesday; what with a bank holiday in the middle, Sean had only had to take three days off work. The bungalow was self catering of course, but boasted direct access to the beach. Until the brothers had gone missing, all had been perfect.

"And when was that?" I now asked. "The last time you saw them?"

There was a wince, a brief, eyes-closed shake of the head. "Around three last night."

That same day, more precisely. Ten or eleven hours then. Just as I'd thought: it was far too early to be thinking of sending out a search party.

"We'd all had a few drinks see," she explained. "Well you do when you're on your hols, don't you?" Though without doubt a handsome woman - there was something Slavic to the high set of the cheekbones, something feline to the slant of the eyes - her face indeed showed signs of holiday excess. A slight bloatedness and blotchiness, distinct grey smudges under the eyes. "Anyway," she continued, "at a certain point Lee discovers he's out of cigarettes, asks Sean to accompany him while he goes out to a machine to get some. Stupid idea, that time of night, and it's not as if..." - she gave a wary glance at Nuzzo - "well, I mean, neither of 'em were in any fit state for driving. I tell 'em so too but Lee keeps going on about how there's a cigarette machine outside a tobacconist's just up the road. Liv's already in bed by this time and I'm about ready for calling it a night too. 'Only be a minute' they tell me and off they go." She swallowed, wet her lips. "Next thing I know I'm waking up right there on the settee. I hadn't even made it to bed. It was light outside, already gone seven. They hadn't wanted to wake me I think, but when I go in the bedroom there's no sign of Sean. So I wake up Liv, says there's been no sign of Lee either. When we look out the window, we see the hire car's still missing."