Home Before Dark (13 page)

20

After nine and still no signal from Sam’s mobile.
So far I’d got nowhere with the Paris Surete and I felt
increasingly worried I wasn’t going to be able to persuade
the police to take her story seriously. If the killer was already
on the train, it was now just a question of time before he
found a way to be alone with Sam. Somehow I had to reach
her first.
I rang Andrea Morelli in Florence.
A bored-sounding detective from Criminal Investigation
informed me that he was Out of town until tomorrow. I
explained that I was Sophie Lister’s father, which met with
the telephonic equivalent of a blank stare. Investigator Morelli,
he said, was attending a police conference in Naples. He
suggested I ring back in the morning.
'I need to speak to him urgently.’
'I’m afraid that won’t be possible. The officer who knows
the name of the hotel where he’s staying . . . has just gone
off duty.’
'Then call someone else. His wife must know how to get
in touch with him.’
'Ah no, no … at this time of night, impossible.’
'What about his mobile?’ I said, doing my best to keep
calm.
'I’m not authorised to give out the number…’ He hesitated,
and I thought he was about to offer to call Morelli himself.
'There’s a chance the ispettore will ring in later. If he does I
will be sure to tell him.’
It was the same story with the Austrian Bundespolizei.The
desk sergeant at their
GHQ
in Wiener Neustadt listened
politely to my concerns for the safety of a passenger on the
Vienna-Paris express, but seemed more interested in asking
about my connection with the young woman – how was I
related to her, what was the nature of the perceived threat,
and so on. I realised I had little hope of cutting through the
red tape to reach the right people in time.
All the while I kept ringing Sam’s mobile. Afraid I might
already be too late.
As a last resort, I tried to contact the train direct. An automated
helpdesk connected me eventually with a representative
of the Austrian Federal Railways, who regretted he could do
nothing because the sleeping cars were managed under
contract by the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons-Lits.
He gave me a number to call, in Paris. I began to dial the
twenty-four-hour emergency hotline, but didn’t complete on
the last digit I hesitated, then hung up.
Something about this didn’t feel right.
Sam’s own account and the mobile network evidence
had convinced me that she was being followed, yet I had
a small niggle that I’d pushed to the back of my mind. The
problem was simply that when Sam rang me from the
station, she had said nothing about Venice. Why didn’t she
tell me that after he’d threatened her the killer had been in
touch again?
I rang Phil back. He was still at the office.
'I’m on my way out the door. Can it wait?’
'One more piece of information. Those calls Jimmy made
to Sam Metcalf’s mobile in Venice . . .’
'They were text messages.’
'How far apart?’
'Inside an hour.’
'Did she reply to any of them?’
'All three.’
I took a deep breath and let it out slowly. She had exchanged
text messages with the man she believed was stalking her
across Europe.
'Check if he spoke to her any time last week.’
'I already did. I have the sheet in front of me. Up until the
weekend, he was calling her every day.’
'What?’ It took a moment to sink in.
'They were calling each other . . . sometimes three, four
times a day.’
I had to laugh, mostly with relief. 'I think I’ve been done.’
It seemed pretty obvious that Sam Metcalf and Jimmy
Macchado were friends, possibly more than friends. Which
might account for her strange behaviour.
'All right,’ I said in a measured tone. 'This changes things

'Mr Lister?’ Phil cut me short. 'You know what? I’ve been
here since before breakfast. I’m off down the pub. Cheers.’
After I hung up the phone, I went over and checked my
computer for message alerts then, lighting a cigarette, paced
the room. It looked now as though my first instincts about
Sam being unreliable were right. More than likely she was
running away from some messy domestic situation, pursued
by a lover who wouldn’t let go rather than the man who
murdered my daughter.
I decided that before raising the alarm I needed to have
another talk with Sam Metcalf. As far as I was concerned,
the pressure was off.
Just then a blue message tab on the taskbar of my laptop
started flashing. The second I saw who was trying to reach
me, everything else went out of my mind.

21

templedog: I was beginning to think you couldn’t make it adorablejoker. i’m a little late is all… the train was late td: you’re here. That’s what matters

I said the words 'you’re here’ out loud as I typed them. Still
wound up tight over the whole Sam business, it gave me a
sense of release. I felt exhilarated, almost light-headed, I was
so pleased to see Jelly. It was as if she’d just walked into the
room and lit up the entire damned Ritz.
We hadn’t talked since the time at the library in DC and
I’d missed her. I’d been looking forward to this moment counting
the days, the hours.
td: aj: td:
the aj: td:

you know, I had a dream last night that we met

hmmm … and what happened?
what do you think? The room spun around, the walls and ceiling vanished,
earth melted away… we kissed
hush… you know I wouldn’t have stood for that kinda nonsense
but you did
all right, Mister… so let’s say we kiss
so hard it takes your breath away
ay.
okkkayyyy … then let’s say i have to hold on to you
or ill fall… damn you
I glanced up from the screen of my laptop, which was set
out on the repro Louis
XVI
dressing table, and for an instant
saw not my reflection in the gilded mirror but Jelly’s. I had
to stop myself reaching out my arms to catch her.

You can’t recreate the spontaneity, the anticipatory thrill of
words appearing on a laptop screen. When I read the above
now, an exchange that at the time seemed full of charm,
humour, even a kind of empafhetic magic, I’m struck only
by its banality. The beguiling sizzle of Web 'convos’ doesn’t
survive translation to the cold medium of print. With instant
messaging, not being able to see the person you’re talking to
(neither of us had a cam) adds mystery – it also allows plenty
of scope for misunderstanding. Which, as Will warned me,
is where the danger of the Net conversation lies: you fill in
what’s missing with what you want to believe.

aj: it isn’t real, ed

td: when you went to Washington, I was afraid I’d lost you
aj: you shouldn’t even be thinking like that

But I was thinking like that, and suddenly I understood that
the rules of the game had changed. Maybe I was fooling
myself, filling in the gaps with what I wanted to believe, but
something happened with that virtual kiss that I hadn’t reckoned
on. I should have seen it coming, should have known
in whatever region of my mind this obsession was growing
that a line had been crossed.

td: what the hell is happening to me
aj: you’ll figure it out
td: just now… I couldn’t distinguish between being in my head and yours…
like we were one for a moment. Does that make any sense to you?
She didn’t answer. I waited, resisting the urge to type something
more. I wanted to hear her say, yes, she felt it too. A
pause stretched into a complicated silence. It was as if the
distance between us had suddenly grown immense. I must
have sensed what she was going to say next.

a:eddie… i have to tell you something you’re not gonna like
aj: i have to go
td: you have to GO? You only just got here
aj: wish i had more time to talk. But really i have to go… i mean like right now
td: no wait… wait, I need to tell you something
td: surely you can stay… just a little longer… hey, come back!

She’d vanished. I reached out in disbelief and touched the
screen with my fingertips. How could she just take off like
that? How could she do this? I felt a tide of resentment sweep
over me. Didn’t she realise something extraordinary and quite
wonderful had just occured?
What the fuck’s the matter with you, I shouted, as one might
after somebody who has just walked out of a room, letting
the door slam behind them, but really asking the question
of myself. What had got into me? How could it possibly
make the slightest difference whether I ever 'saw’ Jelly again
or not?
I slumped in the chair, staring at nothing. The dull ache in the pit of my stomach wouldn’t let me consider that
there might be an innocent explanation for her sudden
departure. I was furious with her, devastated by her leaving,
and at the same time I felt embarrassed by the way I’d
reacted.
Here’s your chance, a voice inside me said, to put an end
to this nonsense: hit the delete button, forget her, walk away
. . while you still can.
I remembered Will’s warning that internet obsessions can
be as powerfully addictive as cocaine use or compulsive
gambling. But I knew that wasn’t it.
I needed to get some air.

Wandering aimlessly along the Quai des Tuileries, I followed
some steps down into an underpass and came out on the
waterfront opposite the Musee d’Orsay. It’s always a little
cooler by the river and I find the old cobblestoned quays, lit
at regular intervals by green-shaded lamps fixed to the
embankment wall, a peaceful place to walk at night.
I stopped near the Pont des Arts to light a cigarette. Looking
upstream to where the Seine divides around the prow of the
tie de la Cite, I glimpsed the twin towers of Notre Dame
through an arch of the bridge. The over-familiar picture
postcard view struck me as new and somehow different.
Patchy swells of music drifted across from the Left Bank and
suddenly the city seemed more alive, more full of beauty and
interest than I’d ever known it before. When I walked on, I
imagined Jelena at my side, her arm in mine, and I was showing
her Paris for the first time.
There could be no mistaking these symptoms, yet the
spectacle of a middle-aged Englishman mooching along the
banks of the Seine obsessed with a young girl he’s never
laid eyes on, who doesn’t in any meaningful way exist, escaped my usually keen sense of the absurd.
I tried to dismiss the whole thing as a patch of internal turbulence.
Maybe it had to do with losing Sophie, or my decision
to hunt down her murderer. But more likely I was just searching
for what had gone missing from my marriage. I had to remind
myself of the consequences for Laura and our family, everything
I’d worked for, if I allowed this ludicrous infatuation to develop.
The potential harm it could inflict on all concerned. In my
head, I could hear myself sounding like my wise and provident
brother-in-law. Only I lacked Dr Calloway’s conviction.
On my way back to the hotel, crossing the Jardin du
Carrousel in front of the Louvre, I paused for a moment
under a street lamp and called Sam Metcalf.

Satisfied now she wasn’t in grave danger, just running
around Europe playing games with her boyfriend, I needed
to be sure our meeting tomorrow morning at the Gare de
l’Est was still on. I might have written Sam off as a flake,
but her computer remained potentially a vital source of
information.
Still no signal from her mobile. Maybe Jimmy had finally
caught up with her and they were together now on the Vienna
Paris express, sorting things out over a glass of champagne.
I kept walking, and then a minute later tried her number
again.
This time, I heard it ringing.

22

'Listen to me!’ He spoke low, enunciating the words clearly
into the headset mic positioned half an inch from the corner
of his mouth. He saw the little green light turn on at the toolbar.
The mic had picked up the command that returned the
system to recognition mode.
So far, so good. Now for the sound check.
'New paragraph!
'Greetings,’ Ward said, dictating the first thing to come
into his head. 'Capitalise that, capitalise Jimmy, exclamation
mark, new line, capitalise hope you can join us for ice cream
and cookies to celebrate Linda’s capitalise that birthday
delete that funeral on capitalise Friday at eleven o’clock full
stop.’
He followed the blinking insertion point on the screen of
his laptop, where after a small delay each word magically
appeared. He had the technique down now, speaking naturally
in continuous phrases without pausing between words. A
train was hardly the ideal acoustic environment for the Talk
master, but it could have been worse, the sleeper could have
been right over the wheels.
He smiled at 'funeral’ which struck him as pretty funny. You saw the slate wiped clean, the innocence come back to her
face – a flash of how she must have looked as a child – you heard
her asking, the way Sophie did, asking for her Mom . . .
Yes, he felt a twinge of regret, sure, but it was … unavoidable.
He stretched his fingers inside the latex gloves, opening
them, closing them.
Still a kid really, in her koala bear panties, Ward. A sudden lurch of the train rolled one of the dead girl’s
limbs against his foot. He pulled it back as if he’d been
scorched. He hated being stuck with her in this stinking
sardine can of a bathroom; it felt now like the air con was
on the fritz.
He’d searched every inch of the compartment, and found
nothing. Sam must have taken the Toshiba with her. What if
she’d given it to the Rivers for safekeeping? Ward knew he
was taking a big risk waiting here for her. The situation was
all screwed up. A lot of unpredictable factors, a lot of shit
that could go wrong.
He sat on the toilet seat with his laptop perched on his
knees, trying to figure out the best place to be stationed when
Sam got back. He’d managed to drag her friend into the tiny
shower cubicle and draw the curtain so he didn’t have to
look at her eyes, but those big bare legs stuck out from underneath.
Something smelled bad.
He wasn’t getting pool colours any more.
'Stop UsteningF he commanded, pausing the hands-free
system. He reviewed the trial text, picking up a couple of
spelling errors, but nothing serious, no multiple-word
misrecognitions, no gobbledygook.
Timing was the real problem.
What if they took too long over dinner? What if Sam didn’t
come straight back to her compartment? He looked at the
screen clock: 21.53. The train would be arriving at Linz in
thirty-five minutes. If Sam didn’t walk through that door in
the next fifteen, he would have to let it go, abort the mission.
Then Linda’s sacrifice would have been for nothing.