Home Before Dark (12 page)

After a quick shower, I got dressed’ again in a clean shirt,
pair of old jeans and loafers. Then I checked my computer
in case Jelly had got back from DC early. There was no sign
of her yet, but while I was online an envelope fluttered into
my tray – I’d received another e-mail from the train.

Ed, hope you got the photos ok . . . There are more, but I haven’t had time to upload them. First impressions?
I came across these while tidying my files. The usemame
for homebeforedark.net.kg is Boundary7. The password’s
Levelwhite. Any problems try switching them around
andor alternative spellings.
The train is a dream. After boarding (with seconds to
spare) I was served iced champagne! Off to dinner now in
the restaurant car. Don’t worry, panic attack over. I’ll be
fine. Looking forward to tomorrow – Gare de I’Est, 9.48
a.m.
Good luck, Samantha

The bright, too-confident tone only confirmed my view of
Sam as a neurotic, but at least she’d calmed down. I acknowledged
her e-mail with a brief reply, then went straight to the homebeforedark website. Good luck? She must have meant
with accessing the site, but it struck me as an odd way to
sign off, in the circumstances.
Waiting for the graphics to load, I felt a growing sense of
anticipation. The virtual house was hardly complete (trees,
lawn and picket fence materialised first) before I dragged my
mouse up the garden path and 'knocked’ on the front door.
The box asking for username and password appeared at
the bottom of my screen. I typed in the combination Sam
had given me and instantly, with a mellow 'evening bells’
chime – this felt almost too easy – the dark green door swung
back.
On entering the house, the first thing I noticed was that
the interior didn’t reflect the building’s elegant Colonial
facade. Behind its airy, white-pillared porch, lay another, less
wholesome world. As I walked (whenever I moved the cursor
across the floor I heard footsteps, mine) through the dim,
unwelcoming lobby into an even gloomier hall stuffed with
heavy Victorian furniture, I realised that the layout and decor
seemed familiar. Everywhere I looked there were details I
recognised from the drawings in Sophie’s sketchbook.
So she had been here, inside this house. The proof was all
around me. I thought about Sophie navigating the website,
possibly afraid . . . but afraid of what?
I heard a door slam.
Involuntarily, I glanced up. In the mirror over the desk I
could see behind my back the door to my hotel room. It was
locked, but the sound had been realistic enough to give a
moment’s doubt. Onscreen, using the cursor, I wheeled slowly
around and saw that the front door of the virtual house had
banged shut behind me.
I found myself now in a long dark hallway with closed
doors to left and right and a passage crossing it halfway
down. Ahead, the far side of a round mahogany hall table, a
chandelier hung over an ornately carved staircase that rose
to the first floor. I clicked on the doors in turn, but they
wouldn’t open. I tried to enter the passage, climb the stairs;
nothing happened. A light switch turned the chandelier on
and off. But that was the only interactive mechanism I could
find.
I had no idea what I was looking for, or what to expect.
The carefully wrought interior of the house, the attention to
detail, the realistic graphics and sound-effects were of a higher
quality than most video games. But what was the purpose
here?
I poured myself another drink, lit a Gauloise and waited.
Presently I realised I could hear music. Very faint and hesitant,
as if somebody was practising the piano in a room at the far
end of the house, going over the same notes again and again.
I strained to catch the tune, but couldn’t make it out.
Then, abruptly, the muffled tinkling ceased and, from
nowhere, the figure of a woman appeared at the top of the
staircase. Dressed in black, her hair scraped back in a bun,
the grim-faced avatar might have been modelled on the
housekeeper in Hitchcock’s Rebecca. As I watched, the virtual
'Mrs Danvers’ floated down the stairs and came gliding
stiffly towards the hall table. She placed something on a
silver salver, then, passing to the right, vanished along the
passage.
She had left a card, which, when I clicked on it, generated
a pop-up window in the form of an engraved invitation.

your company is requested
at a reception
live webcast
12 midnight
I barely had time to take in the message before the window
closed, the dark hallway dissolved and I found myself back
on the sunny porch outside the house. I tried 'knocking’ again
with my cursor, but the dark green front door, its brasses
gleaming, remained shut.
What kind of reception, I wondered? Who would I meet there?
The formal invitation sounded harmless enough, but I
was aware that 'live webcast’ often has an erotic connotation.
The nether regions of the Web seethe with party sites that
cater for unusual or extreme sexual tastes. A few are creepy,
most just silly, all sadly predictable. The idea that Sophie
might have been interested in bondage or SM dungeons
seemed to me as far-fetched as it was distasteful. From what
I’d seen so far, homebeforedark appeared to be about something
different.
In her drawings, particularly the interiors, Sophie evoked
a sense of menace I hadn’t picked up from the website. Fear
permeates the house in the sketchbook, and it feels real. The
virtual experience was like visiting the set of a creaky old
horror film. But that didn’t rule out something having
happened here to scare her.
I sat staring at the white mansion. I had a long time to
wait – assuming the invitation wasn’t a trick – before I
could get back inside what I felt nearly certain was the
domain of the man who killed my daughter.
I got up and went over to the bar to freshen my drink. I
was thinking about Jelly, trying to imagine what could be
holding her up – she should have been back at her apartment
by now – when the phone rang.
The receptionist (I’d asked front desk to screen my calls)
told me she had Phil from Secure Solutions on the line. He’d
rung earlier when I was out.
'You’ll be glad I caught you, Mr L. We have a result.’
'Hold on a second.’
There was music coming from the white house on my screen.
I lowered the phone. As before, it was somebody practising
the piano, going over the same notes again and again. I turned
up the volume on my laptop speakers and got it this time.
A tinkling melody, mournful, sweet, yet with a dark undertow – instantly recognisable as the opening bars of Beethoven’s
'Fur Elise’.
I felt a little jolt of alarm. 'You believe in coincidence, Phil?’
Earlier that evening, at the Conservatoire, I’d listened to
the familiar seesawing motif on Jelly’s CD and couldn’t get
the tune out of my head.

18

Andrea Morelli was standing on the balcony of his hotel
room, a towel wrapped around his waist, staring bleakly out
over the moonlit Bay of Sorrento. The famously romantic
view seemed to mock his affliction, adding insult to the worst
injury any man can sustain and expect to live, though no
longer as a man. He leaned his elbows on the rail and, pressing
both fists to his temples, groaned aloud.
'Come back to bed, liebchen,’ the girl called from the room.
Her name for the moment escaped him. 'I have an idea to
try something.’
'In a minute.’ He cleared his throat and said, 'Give me a
minute.’
His humiliation, he reflected, was as deep as the Mediterranean
. . . deeper, it was oceanic. He’d never failed with a
woman before, not even his wife.
'Okay, no problem.’ It was Gretchen. He’d met her in the
hotel bar after returning from the conference in Naples. A
beautiful young Czech physiotherapist from Marienbad, she
was Morelli’s idea of perfection – tall, blonde, well toned, the
sports-girl type. And nice with it.
She’d just smiled and told him it couldn’t matter less, these
things happen … which only made him feel worse. Beautiful,
warm, willing – it was hardly her fault.
'You need to learn to relax,’ she said.
They were on the bed, trying again, Gretchen’s idea starting
to work, when his mobile rang. Home number. He scrambled
up, leaving her with a surprised expression on her face and,
holding a finger to his lips, took the phone out onto the
balcony. No towel this time.
He might have seen the funny side. Morelli prided himself
on his sense of humour, which he knew was a rare commodity
among Italian men, but it failed just as miserably as his dick
had to rise to the occasion.
Only Maria would choose this of all moments to remind
him to buy a birthday present for their youngest daughter.
He reassured her, told her he loved her and got off the line.
Almost immediately, the phone rang again. He debated
whether to take the call. He’d given the detective covering
his desk while he was away specific instructions not to disturb
him unless it was important.
'Yes, Luca?’ he asked wearily.
He listened to what Luca Francobaldi had to report and
his spirits sunk even lower. It wasn’t his night.
'Maybe he intended eating him,’ he said when he heard
where the body was found. The younger detective laughed.
'I’m not joking. You speak to the owner yet?’
'We’re still trying to find him. He’s on holiday in Thailand.’
'Perfect.
How long was the body in the fridge?’
'Since the weekend. Forensics say the low temperature
makes it hard to estimate the exact time of death. They found
some blood on the kitchen floor.’
'What about your informant? Think you’ll hear from him
again?’
'The kid sounded pretty scared. I suspect he may know
something about the attempted robbery, so I doubt it.’
Morelli scratched his chest. 'You said there was no ID on
the body?’
'None, but I’m about to talk to the neighbours and the woman who cleans the house. There’s an American who’s
supposed to come and feed the cat. The animal was starving.
I’ll call you back if I get a lead.’
He considered this for a moment, then glanced through
the door at Gretchen. She was sitting naked on the bed in a
double lotus position, Holy Christ . . . rubbing herself.
'Luca, I’m … a little busy right now’
'You said to keep you informed if there was a crisis.’
'You call this a crisis?’ He looked down and saw that his
own was over. 'A frozen popsicle in the fridge of a culattoniloving
Englishman, Luca, does not constitute a crisis.’
'Okay, okay, sorry to disturb you. Good night.’
Morelli snapped his mobile shut, took a deep breath.
'Liebchen!’ Gretchen’s eyes widened as he entered the room.

'Does the name Jimmy Macchado mean anything?’ Phil
asked.
'Not offhand.’ I tried to think.
The name, any name, seemed like a momentous development.
'He’s
the subscriber. Domiciled at Sixteen Via Belvedere,
Fiesole.The call he made to your mobile last Friday originated
in Florence. Since then Jimmy’s been on the move. Do you
want a list of his calls?’
'I want everything you’ve got.’
'I thought you might. We got unrestricted access to the
network’s logging system, but there isn’t much. Saturday, he
was in Venice. He made three calls that evening to the same
mobile. On Sunday he rang the Hotel Marini near Asolo
from somewhere in northern Italy. Then Monday, that would
be yesterday, he turns up in Vienna . . .’
'The railway station.’
There was a slight pause. 'You’re ahead of the game, Mr
L. Sleeper reservations office at the Westbahnhof. The call
was made at six thirty-nine p.m., local time.’
'Shit.’ I closed my eyes. 'Anything else?’
'That was his last showing. Jimmy’s been off the air ever
since. We tried to reach him. The
SIM
card’s no longer in
service.’
'What was the mobile he called in Venice?’
'Hold on . . .’ He read out a number I began to recognise
halfway through as Sam Metcalf’s. 'You want the subscriber’s
name?’
'It’s okay,’ I said grimly, 'I already have it.’
A pulse had started to beat in my head. I needed to warn
Sam at once, tell her she was right about being followed, and
that there was a high probability the man had boarded the
EuroNight express in Vienna.
While still talking to Phil, I keyed Sam Metcalf’s number
on my mobile. An automated voice said her Vodaphone was
'currently switched off. I brought up Sam’s last e-mail
onscreen. It was sent at 8.46 p.m., which meant she’d been
in the dining car for the last ten minutes or so. She would
be safe there. I just hoped she was with others and that they
lingered over dinner.
'Phil I have to go. I may need to get back to you.’
'You know where I am.’
I hung up the hotel phone, hit redial on my mobile. This

time I got a 'No Signal’ message. The express would be more
than likely in the mountains by now.
It was doubtful she’d have internet connection either, but
I e-mailed Sam anyway, advising her that the murder suspect – possibly using the name Jimmy Macchado – was on the
train. I urged her to contact the attendant or guard immediately
and make sure she was never at any time alone.
Then I called the front desk and asked them to get me the
Surete.

19

Ward waited for the corridor to empty before knocking softly
on the door of 2122. He’d seen Sam leave the compartment
five minutes ago when the old couple, all spruced up, came
by to take her to dinner. But he needed to be sure: she
might’ve forgotten something, or slipped back for another
reason.
He knocked again, this time putting his ear close to the
panelling.
'Yes? Who is it?’ a female voice answered. 'Que voulezvousT

He jerked his head back sharply. What the hell? Somebody
was in there . .. not Sam. He could’ve sworn he’d overheard
the Rivers promise her she wouldn’t be sharing. He listened
to her stable companion rustling around.
'Just a minute.’ She was coming to the door.
He had to think fast. This wasn’t in the plan. It had the
potential to complicate things. He looked up and down the
corridor. Still clear. He could easily make it to the corner
without being seen. He hesitated for a half-second.
What do we do now, Ward? It’s make-up-your-mind time,
buddy.
'Ma’am, I’m sorry to disturb you …’ The words just came
right out. 'This is Balfe Rivers.’ He paused, trying not to
sound rushed. A wagons-lits attendant had appeared at the
far end of the car. Ward kept his back turned. 'My wife and
I are travelling with Sam Metcalf. We’re dining together in
the . . . restaurant.’
There was a click and the door cracked a few inches – a
soft hazel eye giving him the once-over – then opened wider
and he saw a big blonde girl, clutching the lapels of a black
kimono to her chest.
'Okay.’ She seemed dazed, as if she’d been napping, but
now she caught the look of urgency on his face. 'Is everything
all right?’
'Fern, my wife, isn’t . . . feeling well.’ He tried to affect
Balfe’s snobby Ivy League drawl. 'Nothing to worry about,
Sam is with her . . . she just asked me to get some Tylenol
from her bag. We usually carry an ample supply, but we . . .
ran out’
The girl nodded slowly, then, accepting it, broke into a big
friendly smile. She was a little heavy but not unattractive.
'No worries. Come on in and help yourself She sounded
Australian or Kiwi or something. 'I’m Linda, by the way.’
She retreated towards the window to let him enter and
share the narrow space. She had a T-shirt on under the
kimono and not much else judging from her thick bare legs.
He shut the door behind him and quickly glanced around,
taking in the twin bunks, the ladder, baggage racks, a mirror
on the door leading to the toilet. He kept his hands in his
pockets, his rucksack slung over one shoulder.
There was no sign of the Toshiba.
It was possible Sam had taken it with her to the restaurant.
He’d only caught a glimpse of her leaving the compartment.
But if not, it had to be here somewhere. He noticed the
window blind wasn’t pulled. He could see the lights of a small
town hurrying by behind his and Linda’s reflections in the
dark glass. Where would she have hidden it? He wanted to ask which bunk was Sam’s.
Linda stood, not saying anything, big ass swaying in the
window.
'Sam said the medication is in the bag with her laptop.’
'You mean like a plastic shopping bag?’ Linda looked
puzzled. 'She had the bag with her when she went out.’
'You sure about that?’
'I’m positive.’ She frowned. He saw doubt flit across her
open good-natured face. 'Shouldn’t you be like . . . older?’
'I don’t know. Should I be?’ He tried on the charm.
What’s wrong with you? We need to get this over with, man.
'It’s just that she told me she was meeting some friends of
her parents . . .’ Linda gave a little laugh. 'Would that be
you?’ But her voice betrayed her.
She tried to sneak her eyes past him, as if he wouldn’t
notice she was looking for ways of escape. He really didn’t
have a choice.
It would go fast now. 'You mind if I use the bathroom?’
'What? Look, I think you better leave, mate.’ She moved
towards the door, but he was barring the way. 'Right now.
Get out or I’ll . . .’
'Maybe I should, ' Ward said, reasonably, as he removed
his hands from his pockets.You could hardly tell he was wearing
gloves the latex was so fine. He pulled the shower-cap
over his hair, checking in the mirror and tucking away stray
wisps.
'What on earth are you doing Please leave … oh God!’
'I’m sorry.’ His arm shot out sideways.
He liked the way that little whimper sounded coming from
such a strapping girl: aqua and blue, swimming-pool colours.
One hand clamped her mouth, the other her throat. Her
kimono fell open.
'I can’t leave you like this, Linda.’