The Third Shadow

Thirty-five

"He's a good man Jim," came her response. "I think... I mean, if you were able to get past your... your current anger. If you were able to remember the friendship you two used to have... Well, I just think you'd realise that too."

I remembered a trip to Headingley cricket ground with a few friends, Foster included. Unlike runs from English bats, the beers at least had flowed that day. It was halfway through the final session, the rest of our friends away at bar, that I received some banal phone call from Heather. Was I having fun? What time could she expect me back? That kind of thing. After the call was ended Foster turned his head to me and remarked that I had a great woman there. At time I'd just some passed it off as an idle, half drunken compliment from one fiend to another, at most a bachelor's outporing of existential ennui, but with all that happened since the comment had in my mind taken on a much more sinister interpretation.

"Please Jim," Heather continued earnestly. "All this, it wasn't Gordon's fault. It wasn't anyone's fault. Just circumstance, that's all."

It was one of those moments - the sort you reflect on later, imagine all those multidude of possible responses you just wish you'd been sharp-witted enough to have come up with at the time. I wasn't quick enough however; in any case, I hadn't called to argue. We'd done more than enough of that two years ago.

"It was you, wasn't it? The fresh flowers I found on my mum and dad's plots."

It wasn't this the question I'd phoned to ask her, but it seemed no less important somehow.

"Probably, yes... I mean, I like to stop off for a few minutes whenever I pass that way. Last time must've been... yes, a couple of weeks ago. Just before your visit."

"Thank you," I offered.

"I thought the world of 'em. You know that."

I smiled. "Needed a bit of patience sometimes though, the old guy."

"Believe me Jimmy, you take after him in more ways than you'll ever realise."

The smile lingered. "Obstinate, right? Unyielding. Set in my ways."

I could sense Heather's own smile. "That and so much more."

Though it would have ben interesting to know which other paternal tracts I'd inherited, I sensed it was time to finally get to the point.

"Heather, listen. I need you to lend me some money.... Quite a lot of money, in fact."

*

The province's main agricultural supplies store is located on the approach to the village of Trintapoli,  about a thirty minute drive south-eastwards fom the vineyard through the picturesque surroundings of the Murge Hills.

There was still of course the not insignificant matter of the pesticide re-spray imposed upon me by the Ministry of Agriculture inspection team. As I tapped in the PIN code of my debit card, I wondered how many other retired DCIs had ever suffered the rollercoaster stomach-drop of realising that all that stood between them and the blackhole of bankruptcy was a mere three-figure sum of loaned money? More to the point, how many retired men of any previous occupation had ever been financially dependent on the charity of their ex-wives?

Heather's reaction had been one of genuine concern mixed with an equally genuine surprise.She'd had absolutely no idea that business was going so badly. Why would she have had?

As I'd talked I could picture her forehead gradually crinkling, the way it always did when listening to other people's problems. One eyebrow thrust slightly lower than the other, lending her a disarmingly girlish air. She would need to talk to Foster of course - the figure I'd mentioned was hardly like lending someone their bus fare home - but she didn't think there'd be any problems. A loan, I'd insisted more than once, not a handout. She promised to have it transfered through as soon as possible.

Wedding vows aside, I'd never known Heather to break a promise.

*

It wasn't long after the pesticide tank had been loaded onto the van bed that my phone, tossed there beside me on the passenger seat, squealed and flashed into life. I was winding my way along the country lane back towards the coast road; in order to leave enough room for an approaching Lancia Ypsillon to pass, I was forced to park up with side wheels on the grass verge, the branches of an olive tree from the neighbouring grove smacking against side of van. A couple even made their way through opened window, brushed their silvery green leaves against my cheek. Pushing them back outside - a cascade of olives spattering onto my lap - I grabbed for the phone before it stopped ringing.

"Pronto?"

It was Nuzzo's voice which responded. Yes, somehow I'd been expecting him to call. "Ispettore. You are busy?"

"Nothing particularly urgent," I replied. That was to say, I would more than happily welcome anything which might provide excuse for delaying the back-throbbing exertion of the re-spray.

The commander's voice became a little softer, more tentative: "And you have drunk?"

The question, its tone, provoked a hot flush of shame; the honest negative of the response a guilty surge of pride.

"Good." He seemed somehow satisfied, even relieved. "Then maybe you can come into town? We eat an ice-cream together."