Plot reminder: Still in her guise of freelance journalist, and with the help of a local man named Lucio, Mary has tracked down her father's brother, Salvatore. It is during their conversation that for the first time she sees a photograph of her father.

~~~~~

As Lucio and I wound our way back through the twisting, claustrophobic streets of the harbourside, the sun had risen to such an angle that it washed its glow over rooftops, threatened soon to penetrate those few of the uppermost windows which weren't boarded up. Rather than add a gloss of cheer, it served only to reinforce the impression that the neighourhood existed in some sort of underground dimension, the light of day a luxury enjoyed by higher spheres.

It was apt perhaps that the streets where my father had scampered and scurried as a child should provide an accurate analogy to investigations. Pitched in a perennial shade, without illumination, any kind of clear straight view ahead. Right at that moment, all Kubič had to work with were a few random shreds of some much larger and as yet imperceptible image. Unidentified remains, a few shilling coins, the ID tags of a missing Italian soldier, an anonymous letter linking the man to the recent death of a former Land Girl. Would it not be human, perhaps even professionally correct, to just write things off as a lost cause? Concentrate his energies on the here and now - the burglars and wife-beaters and mid-level drug pushers who like every police jurisdiction across the United Kingdom, across the entire world, blighted Ravensby and District too? Just as I at that precise moment longed to get out of that godforsaken maze of the harbourside, feel the warmth of the sun once more on my face, wouldn't it be natural for Kubič to wish nothing more than to exit that investigative labyrinth in which he found himself trapped - one so full of dead ends, of necessary U-turns of ideas -  and step once more onto familiar ground?

And suddenly there it was - the burnt orange imprint of the sun behind my blinking eyes, the reassuring swoosh of traffic, that now-familiar clamour of booming local voices calling out in mutual greeting. Blowing out an exhale of relief, I reopened my eyes, squinted for several moments as they adjusted  to the longed-for flood of light.

What now, I wondered? What on earth was I supposed to do now?

The answer, I was surprised to realise, was a beautifully simple one. I would take another long stroll along the beach, that's what I was supposed to do. Have a look around the souvenir shops of the promenade, treat myself to something pretty - a necklace or new pair of sunglasses or a wind chime made of shells. I would find myself something good to eat - a plate of spaghetti and clams or some such thing, wash it down with a glass or two of fruity local wine. I would spend the day as a holidaymaker would, in short; after the turmoil of the last few days, the Lord knew I deserved a few hours of truce. And then the following day - Friday - I would fly home again. Spend the weekend catching up on missed paperwork, ironing my work clothes ready for the week ahead. I would remove this absurd mask I'd been wearing, settle myself once more into my true skin: Mary Rice, primary school headmistress.

Hadn't I done all that could have been expected of me? I, without technical resources, without investigative experience or know-how. Given these restrictions, hadn't I performed my filial duties commendably? Not only that, but hadn't I already gained all I'd ever really hoped to gain from this sad little adventure? I'd trodden in my father's footsteps, felt some faint lingering essence of the man take residence inside my soul.

Questions, yes. There were so many questions. But might it not be better to leave them in their current state, I wondered?  Nebulous, unanswered. Like life, like death, mysteries it was advisable to reflect on only briefly and infrequently at the risk of driving oneself insane.

Leave it Mary, I could hear a voice in my head urging. Just leave it be.

It was then that I became aware of it - Lucio's gaze turned patiently on me, as if waiting for some flicker of acknowledgement on my part that he was still there at my side. As I, he too had been silent and pensive those last few minutes, our meeting with Salvatore and Grazia seeming to have affected him almost as much as it had affected me.

"You're not a journalist Mary, are you?"

There was no tone of accusation to his voice, no sense that he was disappointed I'd lied to him. More his words were a statement of evident fact like a remark about the weather. Lovely day, isn't it?

"I saw the way you were looking at the photograph. The way you held it close to your eyes, searching for something a journalist wouldn't search. Something deeper. A connection perhaps."

"I, er... I..."  Stammering, guilty as charged.

He smiled, shook his head. "It's okay. You don't have to tell me if you don't want."

Turning on his heels, he then took a couple of steps off along the street. For one awful moment I thought that might be it. The end of whatever strange ephemeral union it was we'd become. Not even a goodbye. Oh Lord, maybe  he was angry after all.

But he then turned back around, as I somehow just knew he would. There was a sudden sense of animation about him, a rising wave of excitement.

"Come Mary, I take you somewhere. A place that is very special to me. I think I have an idea."

*

The public library of Punto San Giacomo was housed in a robust nineteenth-century building a couple of streets behind the promenade.Though half an hour before official opening time, as the former head librarian Lucio still had the key.

"I come here often in the evenings," he informed me, swinging open the heavy oak door. "You know, when everybody has gone home. A library isn't really a library until you're the only one there."

The interior was grander than I might have imagined of a small town library, the floor some exquisite, vein-swirled marble, the long neat lines of books housed in elegant mahogany cases which looked like they might have been as old as the building itself. I breathed in that dusty library odour - the perfume of my adolesence and university years, those much-missed halcyon days of the 50s and 60s before computers came along and devestated the world.

"See this?" he indicated, ushering me towards a display cabinet to the right of the entrance. An eager finger pointed to the yellowed pages of three matching books which were tilted upright on a stand, these the central treasures amidst a collection of busts and medieval quill pens and various other literary artefacts. "Original first edition of Manzoni's 'The Betrothed', published in three volumes."

"Yes, I read a translation once," I offered. This a polite euphemism to mean I had sruggled my way through the first couple of chapters before deciding that life was simply much too short.  "Absolutely wonderful!"

From Lucio's approving nod, it seemed my deceit had won me a few brownie points.

"1827," he enthused, returning his gaze to the hallowed pages. "Original binding and leather cover. Not for loan of course, just for looking at." He went on to recount how he'd bought it for a handful of lire in a second hand market in Lecce back in the 80s. The gold leaf had flaked from the cover, making it impossible to read the title. Whilst most Italians would be familiar with the opening lines of the later edition written in the Florentine dialect on which modern Italian is based - would perhaps be able to recite them word for word, rote-learn at high school - the original version had employed a more classical register, further masking the trilogy's precious identity.

"Guy just didn't realise what he was giving away." The shaking of Lucio's head I interpreted as continued incredulity at both of the seller's naivety and his own good fortune. "I've never had them valued, but they must be worth thousands. Perhaps even tens of thousands."

All of which was fascinating, yes, but I still didn't understand why he had brought me there. What the public library of Punto San Giacomo had to do with the sad and impenetrable mystery of Vincenzo D'Ambra.

Lucio nodded, as if sensing my impatience. A hand touched my elbow, guided me over to a side door. "Of course, books represent only a part of the public function of a modern library." With a theatrical flourish, he pushed open the door. A slick-looking computer lab was revealed beyond featuring printer, photocopier and half a dozen work stations - the sight of it starkly incongruous with the time-honoured tradition of the library's main hall. "My final years as head librarian, I banged my fist against a few tables. Made quite a nuisance of myself in the local council. Think they were sick of the sight of me, always demanding money to set this place up. Not everybody had a computer at home, I told them, one of those clever new cellphones. How were our young people supposed to search jobs, print their curriculum vitae? And the elderly, what other way did they have to keep in touch with their children and grandchildren in Milan or London or New York without spending all their pension on telephone charges? I threatened the mayor that I and my staff would go on strike if he didn't give us that money. I threatened to burn the Manzoni first editions if he didn't give us that money - and believe me Mary, I would have done it too." He proudly wafted out a hand, indicating all his tenacity had been able to acquire for the citizens of the town. "And so in the end, he had no choice but to give us the money."

Again, it was all very fascinating - all very commendable - but still I struggled to find any kind of connection. What were we doing there?

"There are two universes now," he replied to my questioning gaze. "The universe made of water and stone, of skin and blood. Then there's the other universe, the one we can't touch." He opened up a mains box on the wall next to the door, the succession of flicked switches sparking a chorus of beeps and the sudden scattered twinkle of standby lights. "The one which buzzes invisibly through wires," he continued, turning to face me. "Both dangerous realms in their own way. Frightening even. But places which hide many treasures." A smile crooked momentarily at the edges of his lips. "Manzoni first editions. Moments of happiness. Of... resolution." His right hand now slipped into the side pocket of his linen trousers, extracted the bundle of my father's letters Salvatore had agreed we could borrow. "All these letters, there have to be some names. His fellow prisoners." A hand swept once more around the lab. "Names which might be out there, somewhere among the flow of all those wires."

He took a seat a work station, pulled up a second, indicated that I should join him. His gaze as I did so was one imbued by the clear light of wisdom; he a man who had not only read many more books than most, but seemed also perhaps to have analysed more thoroughly the varied lessons of life. That rarest of males, one able to comprehend the implicit and unspoken.

"I'm going to help you, Mary. Together, we're going to find your father."

~~~~~