Home Before Dark (15 page)

Sam Metcalf closed the door to the compartment quietly
behind her. She could just make out her companion’s silhouette
in the upper bunk. Mercifully, the girl seemed to be
asleep. The last thing she felt like was having to listen to her
gab all night.
As her eyes adjusted to the dimness – the overhead cabin
and reading lights were off, leaving only the blue nightlight
to see by – Sam realised that the lump under the blankets
wasn’t Linda. It was her whale of a backpack.
A narrow strip of white light appeared under the bathroom
door. Or had the light always been on and she simply hadn’t
noticed? She heard plumbing noises, then the sound of water
running.
The girl was in there, taking a shower.
Jeeesus . . . Sam sniffed the air and wrinkled her nose. It
occurred to her that Linda could be up and down that ladder
all night long.
She threw the shopping bag onto the lower berth. The
bedclothes were not the way she had left them. Her first
thought was that the girl had been sleeping in her bunk, which
was not only a little weird but totally unacceptable. Then, as
Sam locked the door to the corridor and hit the switch for
the overhead lights, she saw something that made her almost
cry out in surprise.
Suspended from a fixed coat-hanger on the back of the
door was the silk Ferragamo robe she had bought for her ex-
lover and then given to Jimmy as a reward for helping her
get away from Florence.
Her heart leapt into her throat and, for a split second, even
though she knew it made no sense at all, she wondered if it
might not be her Federico who had been pursuing her across
Europe.
'Jimmy?’ Sam asked aloud, hoping.

25

The text of our last conversation was still onscreen, along
with Jelly’s photograph, and for a while after she’d gone I sat
there under her sharp, amused gaze, trying to absorb what
she’d just said. It had been a revelation.
I imagined her at home, still at her desk between the
windows, the framed print she’d bought at a thrift shop, a
Braque still-life of musical instruments (she’d described her
Brooklyn apartment to me in detail) hanging on the wall
above her head. I looked at her face on the screen and smiled.
No, this changed everything.
My whole world had been turned upside down.
I kept scrolling back to that moment, as brief and unexpected
as a shooting star, when Jelena admitted that I meant
more to her than just a friend.

templedog: what you just… the loving me part. Did you mean it?
: no, i only said it for my health

I’d laughed out loud when I saw those words.
I tried to mask my true feelings, agreeing with her when
she suggested we both needed 'distance’, could use a break,
should maybe 'take it easy’ (that phrase again) for a while Jelly
couldn’t have made herself any clearer – but it made no
difference. I was euphoric.

td: I know it’s crazy… people are not supposed to fall in love like this
aj: you’re not listening, Ed… i said i’m
NOT
in love with you
td: it’s all right, it’s ok,.. I understand
aj: look, let me lay it out for you so there’s no confusion, i do love you, but i’m
not in love with you… and that ain’t gonna change
td: I can’t explain what’s happened to me. I’ve never felt like this about anyone
aj: do i need to remind you… you have a wife and son?
td: it’s as if all my life I’ve been waiting for you
aj: will you stop with that shit! my father walked out on us when I was ten…
I’m not going to be the reason you do the same to your family
td: you’re a good sweet person, Jelly… how could I fail to love you
aj: ohhh… don’t, please don’t

It might take a while before she saw things exactly as I saw
them. But there was no hurry, we had all the time in the
world. I was ready to go along with her inclination to step
back and not contact each other for a week or two, because
I knew now that deep down she felt the same way.
I wasn’t completely blind. Over the moon, maybe, but
aware of the risks I was taking. I recognised that anyone
looking at my behaviour from the outside might see it as
aberrant, delusional, even leading down a dangerous path,
but it really didn’t feel that way – I wasn’t crazy, I was
simply in love.
I was considering whether I should e-mail Jelly again – just
to let her know I hadn’t stopped thinking about her, not for
a single moment, since we signed off – when an electronic
chime alerted me to incoming mail.
Due to unforseen (sic) circumstances the hour of the
Reception has been brought forward. The show is due to
begin imminently. Please join us.

The stilted, mock-formal announcement was signed 'Ward’.
I hadn’t forgotten about the house on the homebeforedark website, or the invitation to a live webcast at midnight. I may
have been distracted by the commotion over Sam Metcalf
and my own inner turmoil, but an ability to cut off, compartmentalise,
switch from one subject to another with relative
ease has served me well in business and in life. The secret,
I find, is to keep the lines between things clean: I don’t like
pictures that bleed into each other.
I’d put the 'Reception’ to the back of my mind, but still
had hopes that it could lead to some kind of contact with
Sophie’s murderer. There was no hard evidence of a link
between the website and the person who killed my daughter.
I knew Sophie had made sketches of the white mansion,
inspired by some vague or perhaps real dread, and then left
the web address on Sam’s computer. That much was clear.
But, when I thought about it, I couldn’t establish a definite
connection between Sam’s first getting in touch with me and
her subsequently claiming that she was threatened, possibly
followed. Or with the coincidence of my being in Paris when
she contacted me again. There was a blurring of the lines, a
shifting of the boundaries between what was real and what
was not that made me uneasy.
Yet I couldn’t help feeling, as the invitation to the
'Reception’ beckoned, that somehow it must all tie together and that the answers I was seeking were waiting for me inside the white mansion. Since gaining access to its dismal interior – apart from the discovery that one of the inhabitants was
an amateur musician, a struggling pianist – I’d really learnt
nothing more.
The difference was that now the website was aware of my
existence. It didn’t occur to me till later to wonder how the
sender of the note knew my e-mail address.
Whoever or whatever 'Ward’ was, we were in touch.
I logged on to homebeforedark.net.kg.
The site was slower to download than usual; or maybe it
just seemed slower because the familiar setting had changed
from day to night. The mansion rose up between dark trees,
its picket fence and long pillared porch bone-white under the
only visible source of light, a patch of stars that twinkled
rather too strenuously over the slate roof.
The scene looked peaceful enough and it occurred to me
that I might have been wrong about the environs of the virtual
house: as a nightscape, certainly, it appeared more rural than
suburban. The stillness was broken by the occasional cry of
an owl.
I typed in the password, Levelwhite, then 'walked’ up the
garden path and knocked at the front door. It didn’t open.
Waiting for something to happen, I wondered what time
it was there. The shutters were all closed, the windows
behind them dark, giving the impression that the household
had retired to bed. The place couldn’t have appeared less
welcoming. I’d been invited to a reception, a party. Where
was everybody?
Then I heard the music. As before, very faint and hesitant.
I had to strain to catch the familiar notes, but someone in
the house was playing 'Fur Elise’ on the piano. I knew it was
only an effect, but it made the hair stand up on the back of
my neck.
The phone began to ring. For a moment, I wasn’t sure
which one.
In an upstairs window a light came on behind the shutters.
I saw a shadow cross the louvred casement as if somebody
was going to answer it, then whoever cast the shadow
turned and started pacing backwards and forwards in the
room.
I snatched up the receiver. It was the hotel switchboard
asking if I wanted to speak to Andrea Morelli.

26

Sam stood inside the compartment, listening for the soft
patter of the shower to stop. There were other small sounds
coming from the bathroom that she preferred not to try to
identify. Then, whoever it was in there turned off the water.
In case they hadn’t heard her the first time, she repeated,
louder, 'Jimmy?’
Again, no reply.
More tentatively, she said, 'Linda? You okay?’
Silence, something was wrong.
Sam started to back away slowly towards the door to the
corridor, keeping her eyes on the bathroom. As she reached
behind her, fumbling for the handle under the folds of the
silk robe, she noticed her Toshiba lying on top of the bunk
where she’d just thrown it down and hesitated.
There wasn’t time.
Her hand found a switch and she cut the overhead lights.
A second later she saw the seam of light around the bathroom
door go out. Her heart racing, she turned down the handle
and pulled. It wouldn’t open, she’d engaged the lock.
'Oh Jesus, Mary, God,’ Sam breathed. She was still tugging
at it frantically when the door to the bathroom opened
inwards.
On the threshold stood the figure of a man drenched in
blue. His wet clothes made it look as if he’d been painted
that colour; but the blueness came from the nightlight in the
ceiling and the illuminated screen of a laptop, standing open
on the wash-basin behind him, casting a livid glow over everything.
'What
are you doing here?’ Sam challenged him boldly,
trying not to show she was frightened. She couldn’t make
out a face. He wore dark rimless glasses and a shower cap
pulled low over his forehead and ears, held in place by headphones
with mini antennae. His eyebrows were taped. He
looked like an insect in a track suit.
She knew this could only be Ward.
Her voice shook. 'Where’s Linda?’
The feculent smell drew her eye down to the soaked floor
of the bathroom behind him. He didn’t answer, but took a
step forward, and she caught a glimpse of the Australian girl’s
bare legs sticking out from the shower stall.
Sam started to scream but the sound never left her throat.
As she turned away from him he lunged, throwing an arm
around her neck from behind and clamping his other hand
over her mouth. The speed and power of his assault overwhelmed
her and made resistance pointless. He loosened the
choke-hold long enough to tear a strip of silver duct tape
from a roll he wore like a bangle on his wrist and seal her
mouth, then wrap it a couple of times around her head. His
face was an inch from hers, she could feel his warm breath
on her ear.
'Listen to meP he commanded. For a moment Sam thought
he was talking to her, but then she realised he was speaking
into a mic on a boom close to his lips.

'Open quote capitalise glad you could make it comma
FRIEND
upper case exclamation mark close quote!
'How can I help you, Signor Lister?’
He sounded wearily patient, leaving me in no doubt that
by returning my call at this hour he was doing me a favour.
'Thanks for getting back, Andrea. I know it’s late, but there’s
been a development. You remember Sam Metcalf?’
'The girl from Boston who let your daughter use her
computer? You were going to meet her and keep me informed.’
'She never showed up.’
'Any idea why?’
'She claims she received a warning. I heard from her again
this evening.’
He sighed. 'Go on.’
I quickly told Morelli about the phone call I got from Sam
in Vienna before she boarded the overnight train to Paris;
how she was convinced that she was being followed by
Sophie’s killer. I mentioned the photos, then filled him in on
the calls to her mobile which I’d had traced to a friend of
hers, Jimmy Macchado.
'She could turn out to be just paranoid. In which case, I’m
sorry to have bothered you. But I felt I ought to let you
know.’
There was silence from the other end.
Morelli said, 'Excuse me one moment.’ I heard female
laughter in the background, then a muffled exchange and
what sounded like a smack. He had cupped his hand over
the mouthpiece, but not very effectively.
He came back. 'Signor Lister?’
'I’m still here.’
He cleared his throat and said, 'Jimmy Macchado was found
murdered this afternoon in a house near the Piazza Antinori.’

'Jesus Christ,’ I breathed. 'When did it happen?’
'Sometime over the weekend. Indications are he’s been
dead three days. I’m not in Florence, as you know, so I haven’t
seen the report yet. It looks like he was killed when he interrupted
an art theft.’
'You realise what this means?’
'I know what you’re thinking. It doesn’t necessarily follow
that whoever killed him also stole his mobile.’
'Perhaps not, but the point is somebody made the calls
from his number. And more than likely that person has been
following Sam Metcalf and is on the train with her now.’
'It’s a possibility, but from here . . . there’s not a lot I
can do.’
'Listen to me,’ I said as calmly as I could. 'This girl has
information about whoever murdered my daughter. If he is
on the train, then he’s going to kill her too. The Vienna-Paris
express stops at Linz in eleven minutes. What you can do is
contact the Austrian police now and get them to meet the
damned train.’
'I’m afraid, Signor Lister, it’s not so simple.’
'Then bloody well make it simple,’ I shouted.
'There are certain protocols . . . there isn’t time.’
'If you do nothing, Andrea, another innocent young
woman with all her life before her will die. It’s still your
case, isn’t it?’
Even before I put the phone down, I started keying Sam’s
number on my mobile. I could hear it ringing, but there was
no answer. I kept trying, hitting redial every thirty seconds.
My hands sweaty, shaking.
I was so tense I failed to notice there’d been a development
onscreen. What got my attention was the music; as if announcing
a dramatic event, the tinkling reprise of 'Fur Elise’
suddenly grew louder, more insistent.
I looked up at the house. The shutters with the light behind
them swung back and, like an advent calendar, revealed a
man and woman standing at the upstairs window, locked in
what appeared to be a passionate embrace.
The silhouetted couple twirled slowly. I couldn’t make out
many details. From certain angles it looked as if they were
kissing; from others, as if the woman was resisting, trying to
get away.
Then, at the bottom left-hand corner of the screen, a
dialogue box opened and a prompt advised that 'Ward’ was
typing a message.