Over the coming weeks and months I would learn much about Danny Loacke. Early-thirties, originally from near Hereford but had settled in Nottingham after graduating with first class honours in Business and Marketing at the university there. Thanks to the attendant media coverage in the aftermath of his arrest, I would finally be able to match a face to his name too - bald-headed, a stubble-bristled jaw, thick-framed glasses. Unremarkable, inspicuous. The sort of lawn-watering neighbour you nod good evening to across the street as you roll your wheelie bin out onto the curb.
That June Sunday afternoom as Nuzzo and I stepped along the promenade, the only fact we knew about him was the following however:
On Friday the 9th of August 2013 - just two weeks therefore before Sean Bracewell's murder and Lee Bracewell's presumed disappearance - he had checked in for three nights at the Bella Vista hotel in the resort town of Torre del Porto fifteen kilometres further down the coast from Punto San Giacomo.
It was enough though. Enough for Nuzzo's earlier derision to morph into a renewed and re-energised interest in the case, for myself to be convinced that my hypothesis had been precise. Oh, it was more than enough.
"Torre del Porto," reflected Nuzzo, crunching at his ice-cream cone beside me. "Not a chance anyone would have remembered him even if he'd been thrust into the media spotlight. Middle of the high season, the place is more packed than the San Siro for Milan versus Inter. The tourists, they come from all over Europe." Yes, I'd passed though the town a couple of times - enough to know that it was even more of a sun-worshippers mecca than Punto San Giacomo. The sand was a touch silkier there, the sea even more limpid, the town more picturesque. "And the Bella Vista," Nuzzo continued, "it must have more floors than a New York skyscraper." Though this was naturally an exaggeration, it was true that some of the modern hotel complexes on the edge of town were veritable behemoths. The comandante's other analogy had been entirely appropriate however: Loacke's face would have been as indistinguishable as a supporter's at a football match. A mere dot amidst tens of thousands of other dots. Even then it was easy to imagine he'd taken as many precautions as possible: kept his jaw clean-shaven, hidden himself behind a large pair of shades and under the peak of a cap, holed himself up in his room as much as possible.
"I think it was another one of her little lies," I mused aloud. Nuzzo paused his step beside me, looked across quizzically. "Olivia," I explained. 'A couple of weeks, she'd said. The amount of time she'd known she was pregnant. Maybe that was when Lee had found out, but she must have known for a little longer." I reflected for a moment more, allowed my train of thought to rattle a little further along the rails. "The date they booked the holiday bungalow, it must have been at some point after discovering she was pregnant and Loacke's visit here."
It was a detail which could easily be checked of course, and later that day indeed would. Bookings for the holiday bungalow were overseen by signor Caputo's techno-savvy son-in-law. Digital records would show that the dates of the August bank holiday weekend of the previous year had been reserved at a little after midday on Monday August 9th; exactly as I'd surmised therefore. That the booking had been registered in Lee's name and the down payment made via one of his credit cards would be dismissed as a simple act of subterfuge. It isn't difficult, after all, to make an online booking using another person's details, nor to slip a credit card from their wallet while they're asleep or in the shower. Olivia's original claim that the long weekend away together had been Lee's idea - a present for Sean and Sarah's wedding anniversary - was almost certainy yet another of little deceits.
The website which signor Caputo's son-in-law had put together would meanwhile result as an admirably professional affair, one which included numerous photographs of both the bungalow's interior and exterior. I recalled my initial impressions of the place that now distant-seeming August afternoon as I'd pulled up in the van with Sarah alongside me in the passenger seat. The structure itself had seemed neat and functional, little more than that. No, it was the location which impressed me the most - not just the spectacular backdrop of Half Moon Bay but the privacy which the property enjoyed - dunes to one side, an olive grove to the other, the nearest neighbour fifty metres or so further along the road. Perfect for a high-spirited holiday party of four, I'd thought at the the time. Little had I known that the bungalow's semi-seclusion and direct access to the beach could have carried a much darker and more sinister appeal.
Nuzzo had meanwhile resumed his step, was crunching down the remainder of his cone thoughtfully. "Loacke. He must have hired a car from Brindisi airport like the brothers."
This was something else which would in due course be checked, the vehicle he'd used that weekend resulting as a silver Nissan saloon. But really, make and colour were of little import; given the ten months which had since passed, it was a non-starter to believe his movements might be traced. In any case, it seemed blindingly obvious what they had entailed.
"Naturally, he would have driven up to the holiday bungalow," Nuzzo continued. "Had a good look around."
"Probably even sneaked in the back gate," I added. "Checked there was a spade in the garden chest."
"Then a little further north to Pozzetta. The tabacheria with the machine outside."
I nodded, picturing it all. "Lee a chain smoker but an ID card needed. The seed of something starting to grow in his mind."
"Would have noted the surveillance camera outside the bank around the corner too perhaps."
"Oh, there's little doubt about it."
I recalled the grainy image of the Peugot as it had passed along Pozzetta main street. The two blurred figures inside...
Nuzzo beat me to it. "Olivia and Sarah. It was them inside the car."
My nod was a grim one. "Hair pulled up, Olivia wearing Lee's cap."
"Left Sarah back at the bungalow, drove all the way to Brindisi alone."
I let out a sigh: rueful, frustrated by all the time and resources which had been wasted. "Just let her hair loose and got the train or bus back across the peninsula."
Nuzzo shook his head, brow furrowed, mind sttruggling to grasp the sheer enormity of it all.
"Played us all for fools."
*
Memories, dates, precaucations used or not used: Olivia would have had her reasons for believing the baby was Loacke's, or strongly suspecting so at least. Perhaps it was something instinctive - little more than an inkling or a hunch. Maybe she just wished it were so, preferred to conclude that the father was her lover rather than her husband.
Had Lee even known about the pregnancy, I sometimes wonder? I recall the first day of the investigation, Olivia and I seated at the table in the holiday bungalow. That moist-eyed desperation as she'd told me that if it were a boy they were going to call it Sean. Had that been one too? Another of her multitudinous little mistruths?
Even if he hadn't at the time known, he would have found out eventually of course. And when he had, maybe he'd have had certain doubts and suspicions. Done the maths, calculated that two- or three-day window of conception. Or else, once the baby was born, he'd have struggled so hard to have seen any part of himself reflected in that tiny wrinkled face there asleep in the cot. Sooner or later, those doubts and suspicions would have curdled into near certainty. Not his. The baby was not of the Bracewell blood.
What then? When he'd finally put two and two together, what would the consequences have been?
For Olivia, almost certainly it would have meant immediate divorce proceedings - the whole thing swift and clinical, Lee the one to hold all the cards. No more would she have swooshed around that grand, sumptuous flat, sipped her morning coffee whilst in contemplation of Nottingham castle, the whole 360 degree sweep of the city. Expelled, banished, ejected. The shutters slammed, the drawbridge pulled. For the second time in her young life, she'd have slipped from a situation of substantial wealth to one of financial insecurity, of having hustle and harry, make ends meet.
And Loacke? What fate would have awaited him had Lee ever discovered who the real father was? Termination of contract with immediate effect. This, yes, but also the strong probability of never finding another role in the fashion industry as attractive as his current position. Most probably, he'd have spent the remainder of his working life as a shop manager of some dull middle-of-the-road chain, been forced to forsake his natural inclinations for marketing strategy and business planning, areas in which it seemed he had been given more or less free reign at Ivy boutiques.This is without mentioning the fact that Lee Bracewell was a firearms dealer surrounded by numerous unsavoury acquaintances. In the immediate aftermath at least, Loacke might not have breathed so easily, would have felt his heart unpleasantly quicken every time he heard footsteps on the street behind him.
And all this was only a small part of it. The pair were motivated not so much by the threat of what would happen if Lee Bracewell had lived but by the numerous positive advantages his disappearance would yield. As had indeed been the case, the boutique chain would pass to Olivia's name. Loacke would enjoy full executive and creative control. And although they would have needed to show a little discretion at first - wait for that socially acceptable period of emotional healing to past, feigned as it may have been - eventually they would have been free to move in together, build a shared life for themselves. If growing up Imogen started to call Loacke 'daddy', no-one would have batted an eyelid.
*
Nuzzo and I had by this point reached the semi circular appendage to the promenade. It now seemed something of a tradition that we find a sliver of shade, perch ourselves down.
The comandante was silent for some moments, pensive, his eyes squinted against the afternoon sun as he gazed along the beach - out past the tightly huddled rows of lido umbrellas and mound of bared flesh, all the way to the jagged silhouette of the southern headland of Half Moon Bay.
"There's just one thing I still don't understand, ispettore." He turned back to me, his expression that of a man grappling with a seemingly impenetrable mystery. "Sarah Bracewell. Why did she want to kill her husband?"
This too.
Yes, I thought I already knew the answer also to this.