The Third Shadow

Thirty-four

"Ciavarella was right," Nuzzo reported, easing himself back onto the stool beside me. I was glad he was back; glad of the distraction. "Quaranta lied abouth'is age. He was ninety-one, not eighty-eight." There was an incredulous shake of the head. "Why would someone lie about that? What difference does it make?"

I was surprised to find myelf grinning. "Maybe he thought no-one would believe a man in his nineties. Better to pretend to still be a young stud of eighty-something."

The commander glanced out of the window, the night now fully descended. "Where the hell is Ciavarella?" Then, turning back to me: "Ninety-one!" Repeating it, as if I hadn't quite yet grasped the concept: "The man was ninety-one!" He shook his head once more. "Do you think you ever will be so old ispettore?"

"Hope not," I replied simply.

I was surprised by the sad nod of agreement. "No, neither I."

It was at that moment that Ciavarella finally reappeared. "I thought I would never would escape," he gasped, joining us at the bar. "First there was the tap in the kitchen that dripped. She showed me where her husband had kept his spanners. Then - oh santo Cristo - after that she took out the family photograph album..."

He'd managed to glean a little information on Rocco Quaranta however. There was a daughter up in Milan, a smattering of grandkids and great-grandkids, but they had only ever visited once a year during the summer. He'd died in his sleep; quite ironic really for an insomniac. The old lady had been aware of his sleeplessness for some time, more or less since his wife Carmela had passed away a couple of years earlier. She'd often heard the front door opening and closing across the landing at all hours of the night. He'd had a dog, a Jack Russell called Birillo. In dog years would have been as old as his owner. Quaranta took it for walks to try to clear his head. Then a few weeks ago she realised she hadn't seen or heard him for several days. It got to the point she thought it best to call the condiminium administrator... The poor sod had been lying there for five or six days, according to the coroner.

The best part of a week, yes...

Birillo had been a goner too, needless to say.

*

The commander's words were punctuated by the kind of sharp, wheezing pant which might be expected of someone who had just reached the summit of Everest rather than the short, gentle incline of the Pozzetta headland.

"All this... for a witness that... not only is old and blind... but dead also."

As the beach reeled into view beneath us, he paused to thrust palms into knees, exhale long and loud. Five, six times. Though no Olympian myself, and though my current lifestyle was hardly advisable, it was clear that the guy needed to do something. Start taking early morning constitutionals along the beach. Sign up for the caserma five-a-side league. Cut out all those plates of doughnuts he had sent up to his office. The shape he was in, his wish of not seeing ninety-one was almost certain. He would have to count his blessings if he even made it to seventy.

At doddering pace, I estimated the walk to be roughly fifteen minutes from the old man's home - the final five of these consisting of rocky ascent. It wasn't quite as treacherous as I had imagined at night however: the lights of the coast road were only fifty metres to our left - close enough to pick out sharp edges, pool minor drops in warning blackness. The moonlight played a contributary role too of course. That night it was a crescent but unfettered by cloud. The early morning of Monday August 27th, 2013, the sky had been similarly cloudless, the moon three-quarters full; Ciavarella had already checked on his smartphone.

A ninety-one year old would have to be sprightly, without question, of a certain level of courage, but it was by no means inconceivable that Quaranta had been able to labour his way up there that fine, late-summer night. The most recent photographs which in the following days would emerge showed a tall and surprisingly sturdy looking figure; though jowls hung and muscle tone had inevitably withered, I doubted there were many around of his age in better shape. In all likelihood, the headland had been a common nocturnal destination of his. Even in the darkness, the view was spectacular.