Plot reminder: After initial misgivings over her father's crimes, Mary agrees to accept his invitation that she, he and Lucio have dinner together. She is eager to discover if he can help shine a light on the possible identities of Ettore Lo Bianco's murderers.
This chapter references several of the details described in parts one and two of the novel: Vincenzo's teenage bride Ada, his brother Salvatore, the anonymous letter Mary wrote to Inspector Kubič.

~~~~~

My father's delight upon our return was evident, the face revealed behind the front door illuminated by the kind of wide, spontaneous smile it was hard not to be touched by. He took us to his local trattoria, a rustic and lighthearted place where the wine flowed freely and the background chatter was peppered with laughter. Having no means of comparison, I can't vouch for his claim that the bollito misto - a local speciality of boiled meats - was the best in the whole of Verona, but I certainly wouldn't have been surprised.

As the previous evening, we found it difficult to take our eyes of each other, both of us registering previously unnoted details. In my case, these included the small patch on the right corner of his chin bald of grey stubble and the way the top of his ears veered slightly outwards, the overhead table light washing them with a pinkish glow. As he reached for his wine glass the cuff of his shirt slid an inch or so back along forearm, enough to reveal the white jagged line of some ancient scar over wrist bone. A wound inflicted by the perimeter barb of camp 106a, I wondered?

We told him everything, all we knew, his gaze saddening at the news that his three sisters, as well as Ada, had all passed away. It lightened again as we informed him of the second chance the widowed boat builder had provided Ada, the young family she'd inherited; positively glowed at the news his brother Salvatore was still alive and in good health, and that he lived with his wife in the old family home in the harbourside.

His eyes momentarily moistened then, turned from mine to Lucio's and back again. "All those people, others besides, I swear to you, there hasn't been a single day that they haven't passed through my thoughts. That their absence hasn't shadowed my heart."

I found myself reaching my hand across the table, gave his a gentle squeeze. A gesture which surprised myself as much as he. Instinctive, without premeditation.

His lips twitched into an appreciative smile, the gaze directed into my own a steady, unwilting one. Drinking me all in.

"You know, when I look at at you Mary it's like the decades melt away. Like it's 1943 all over again. That Irene is once more before me."

I gave his hand another squeeze. "She said something similar."

"Her life. After I had to flee from her....  Was it a happy one?" There followed a shake of his head as he rephrased himself. "Happier, at least, than the one she'd lead before?"

"Yes," I replied. "Yes, I think it was."

I went onto recount how she'd first met Stanley Harvey in '42, had written him weekly letters throughout the rest of the war. The shrapnel wound he'd suffered, his heroic knee-bent proposal on VE Day. The two children they would go on to rear, the long and contented marraige they shared.

"I need to know father," I then pressed. "If there's any chance - any chance at all -  that Irene's passing might in some way have been connected to the events of that night in September 1943."  I hunched myself forward towards him across the table, lowered my voice to melt in with the momentary lull in background conversation. "Sergeant Reynolds. Was he amongst the men waiting beyond the wire?"

The suggestion seemed to surprise him. "Reynolds? No, no, he wasn't with them. I remember as I lay there stomach down in tne mud listening to the repeated thrust of the spade through the soil, the breeze carried the sound of his voice from the guard house. He and the other officer on duty singing away, as drunk as lords."

He narrowed his eyelids slightly, the look of a man replaying things over in his mind in the light of new informatiom. For the first time glimpsing the solution an ancient enigma.

"For all these decades it has seemed the most impenetrable of mysteries. But think I know now. Yes, I think I know what happened."

*

That night would prove a sleepless one, my mind rattling and squeaking like the return of fellow hotel guests along the corridor outside my room, theirs a seemingly endless succession of clanking heels and fumbled keys. The scenario which my father had painted was a dimly flickering projection against the canvas of my mind, a film reel played on a continuous loop, each re-run ending in the same disquieting conclusion: the hypothesis was a credible one, the most logical interpretation of known facts. It seemed I may have been right all along, my original gut instinct validated: my mother hadn't passed peacefully in her sleep, but was instead the victim of a clinical and premeditated murder. An abhorrent crime committed in the hope that an equally abhorrent crime of sixty-four years earlier would remain unsolved - indeed unsolvable - its perpetrators be saved from posthumous shame.

My only course of action was to root from my shoulderbag the same lilac-coloured writing pad I'd bought in Ravensby five days earlier, pull up a chair at the side of the chest of drawers and, back angled diagonally, pain-inducingly, once more press ballpoint towards paper.

Dear Inspector Kubič...

As the first letter, the second too would carry no signature, though now the main motivating factor for retaining my anonymity had of course changed. My primary concern was no longer maintaining the promise I had made to Irene that my half-sister and brother should never come to know of my existence, but that of protecting my father, ensuring that no subsequent investigative trails would lead  to him, to the varied legal perplexities his uncovering would provoke. For the same reason, the letter would not be posted there in Verona, but from some random godforsaken place in the vicinity of the A1 or M25 during my journey home from Stanstead the following day. Similarly, my wording was a little vague, peppered with expressions such as 'I have learnt that...' and 'It has come to my knowledge that...', my sources hidden behind a nebulous veil.

In fact, for the entirety of the three-page missive which would flow from pen nib, only two names would be specified.

The first, that of one of the figures who had lurked in murderous ambush beyond the wire that blood-soaked night of September 1943.

The second, that of the man who had splashed a vial of poison into Irene's afternoon cup of tea.

*

I'm not sure what time it was I finally gave up on the idea of sleep, found myself opening up the minibar fridge. All I know is those periodic echoing footsteps along the corridor had by then ceased. Silence had also befallen the street outside - no more half drunken home-returning voices, the invasive rasp of scooters. The calming blur of the Bardolino wine we'd quaffed over dinner, the post-dessert limoncello - yes, that had passed too

Extracting a mini bottle of white wine from the illuminated selection of alcohol before me, I splashed contents into a plastic cup and, perched on the edge of my bed, glugged it all down. Two full glasses' worth swigged as thirstily as water on the most sweltering of summer's days. A hearty gulp of Dutch courage.

Allowing the alcohol a few moments to take effect, I stepped into the en suite, straightened out the worst excesses of my pillow-squished hair. My reflection then took a deep, slow breath, nodded back at me encouragingly.

I'd spent too long that night contemplating the shadows, the blackest depths of human nature. I needed to step back into the light, into the comforting warmth of goodness.

Before any voice of doubt had chance to even clear its throat, I was already out of the door. Had padded along the corridor. Was rapping knuckles to Lucio's door...

They still remain so vivid in my memory, those heart-thudding moments staring at the wood grain in the dim  lighting. Those endless make-or-break seconds of suspense. Wondering. Hoping. Imagining. Praying.

So many seconds, enough so for my heart to sink, my shoulders slowly swivel back along the corridor...

It was then, just as I was taking a first step away, that finally, blessedly, the door swung backwards. The revealed face was at first startled, then upon registering my identity became in an instant so selflessly and adorably concerned.

"What's the matter Mary? Shall I call reception? Don't you fe-?"

"I need someone to hold me," I interrupted.

But that wasn't quite right I realised with a shake of the head.

"No, I need you to hold me Lucio," I corrected.