The Third Shadow

Twenty-nine

On the subject of tracing people, Marston's own task of tracking down Christine  Halloway's family had clearly been much less arduous. "The mother's widowed," he informed me. "Lives out Stapleford way on. Nice old lady, cup o' tea and a chocolate digestive. She'd got out a biscuit tin full of old photos. Pretty girl, her Christine. Headturner, if you know what I mean.There was a wedding shot among them too. Her lips sort of snarled up when she plucked it out from the others. Big chap, was Millwood. If you were the coach of a rugby team you'd have him in the back row. Anyway, the old dear said she was always against it. The wedding. Her husband too. Christine was too young and the age difference too much." I tried to remember the details: Christine had been in her early-twenties, Millwood in his  mid to late-thirties. "She said she knew what kind of man he was the second she clapped eyes on him. The second Christine brought him through the door one Sunday lunchtime. Eyes were too close together see." I smiled: Heather had once told me that her own mother had said the same thing about me after she'd brought me home for the first time. Proof, if any were needed, of how much we still live  in the dark ages of nonsense and superstition. Except that in Millwood's case, he really did turn out to be a monster.

"At first, Christine would just make up excuses she said. Had banged herself against a door, tripped down the stairs, that kind of thing. After the second or third time nobody believed her any more. It came as a relief to everyone when she took up with Duggan. Now there was a nice young man the old lady was quick to point out. Kind, well-mannered. Obviously had eyes that were acceptably spaced apart." He laughed. "Just wouldn't give them a moments' peace though. Millwood. Always phoning, banging at their door all hours the night. Pleading her to go back to him. Threatening her, threatening him. He just wouldn't accept their marriage was over. It was the same thing even when they finally got so fed up they moved down to London. Even pestered them, the parents. Wanting to know where they were, what their new address was. The old lady said her husband might have been half a foot shorter but could give as good as he got. Millwood got nothing from them, just a slammed door in his face." There was an audible and incredulous exhale. "Christ, the guy must have been obsessed. Imagine it: must've spent all his weekends on the train down to London. Last known addresses. Last known work colleagues, acquaintances."

He snatched once more for his pint, leaving me to reflect on this for a few moments.

"And when was the last time she spoke to her daughter?" I asked.

"That's the thing Jim!" His tone rose with excitement. "It all fits see. She last spoke to Christine on the 31st of May, 1982. She was sure of it. It had been her husband's birthday. Christine told her that she might not be able to call again for a while but that as soon as she could, she would."

Interesting, yes...

"She didn't have many kind words to say about you lot though. The police. Said you didn't do nearly enough to protect her daughter." Once more, there was a brief laugh. "Best not say the exact words she used. Wouldn't want to offend you."

Harrasment, we called it back in my day. The laws were completely inadequate, our powers as police officers tragically limited. Stalking as a crime didn't reach recognition until  around the mid-nineties. People forget that sometimes - that it's often not the law enforcers who should be blamed, rather the law makers.

"Even after they reported her missing several weeks later," Marston continued, "it doesn't seem the Nottinghamshire Constabulary covered itself in glory. She said they couldn't give a..." Stopping himself short, there was yet another laugh. "Again, it's maybe best if I don't use her precise words."

With missing persons' cases, only those deemed vulnerable are prioritised: minors of course, the elderly, people with mental health problems. In this instance, a young couple who willingly decided to elope, I don't think there'd have been a constabulary in the entire country who would have spent much time on it.

"She hadn't known her daughter was pregnant." There was an uncharacteristic solemnity now to Marston's tone. "I think it upset her. You know - to have it more or less confirmed that she's got a grankid out there somewhere. More than one, most likely."

This was interesting too I thought. What was it Reg from the Red Lion in Cologne had said? Missus showing a bump too... She must have been quite a bit along by that stage. I tried to remember back to that tense and magical period of Heather's pregnancy. How long before it became evident to all? Before people started opening doors for her, giving up their seats on public transport? Four or five months perhaps. It seemed strange she had never told her mother.

"Did it to protect them," I  murmured. "The kids. That's why she never got back in touch with her family. Couldn't risk Millwood ever finding out where they were. Intercepting a letter. Somehow overhearing something. If they'd made it past the iron curtain, then so could he."

It was almost possible to hear Marston's journalistic brain ticking over. "Quite a story." Then: "If it's true I mean."

It was my turn now to laugh. "Didn't think you journalists were worried about minor details like the truth."

He rode the blow like I'd ridden mine. "Just one thing doesn't make sense. After Millwood died, why didn't they get back in touch with everybody again?"

Yes, I'd considered this myself. "Probably didn't know, for one thing. For another, emotionally for all involved, it's not so easy to just reappear again after all those decades." My gaze moved away from where it had it been resting for most of our conversation: the narrow strip of sea visible at the bottom of the arched, shaded alley to my left. I now looked ahead, up Pozzetta main street. "I think there was one person they got back in touch with though. Duggan might have got to thinking one night. Wondering..."

I looked at the black sign with the white T turned at ninety degrees to the street further up to the right, the same sign which features outside all Italian tobacconist's. A little before this there was a junction with a side road, around the corner of which, I knew, lay the branch of the Banca di Puglia e Basilicata from where the famous surveillance camera footage of the passing Renault had been captured.

I could almost picture them there in empty 3am street, the Renault speeding past my right shoulder, a dark form growing gradually smaller, slower. It pulls up to the curb outside the tobacconist's, Lee's wiry silhoutte emerging out into the streetlight. Bending, he inspects the instructions of the vending machine. There's a bang of his fist in frustration: italian I.D required. Getting back into car alongside his brother, he slams  the driver's door. A moment later, the whirred hiccup of ignition.

And then what?

He'd probably realised that it would be futile to try elsewhere, that the ID requirement would be just the same. He was way over the limit; it had been an enormous risk  to even go the short distance he already had. He must have just resigned himself to the fact that he wasn't going to get hold of any cigarettes. Approaching headlights had negated the possibility of an immediate three-point turn however, so he'd instead taken the next right. Right again. Then a third. Unknowingly circumnavigated the surveillance camera, returned back to the coast road along the same side lane just behind me which the carabinieri diversion had directed me down a little earlier.

Parking up back at the holiday home, Lee had suggested finishing off the Glenfiddich on the beach...

Like this. Yes, I was pretty sure that was how things must have gone.