Home Before Dark (14 page)

23

'Say all goes to plan,’ Balfe Rivers asked, as he signalled the
waiter, 'where do you see yourself five years from now?’
'On a beach?’ Sam gave him her innocent look, then broke
into a grin. 'Five years … I’d have to think about it.’
'What kinda question is that, honey?’ Fern said. 'Married
with a houseful of rugrats, is that what you want her to say?
Sam is going places, she’ll end up curating one of our finest
museums, you wait.’
'Let her answer.’
Sam thought she had answered the question. But now they
were both looking at her expectantly. 'I want to go back to
Italy someday. To live.’
'Back to Florence? Frenzy . . .’ Fern was a little drunk.
'Yes, Florence.’ Sam hesitated. After tomorrow they
wouldn’t see each other again. She said simply, 'I left my
heart there.’
Fern raised an eyebrow but neither one of them made any
comment. The waiter brought the check and the subject of
her future was dropped.
'Well, how was dinner, kiddo?’ Balfe sat back and rubbed
his hands.
Sam had been hungry. She’d chosen the pate de campagne, then poulet a Vestragon followed by tarte tatin. Standard Paris
brasserie fare, but the glamour of the first-class dining car
made everything taste better.
'Wonderful, thank you.’ She sighed, then shook her head.
'Listen, I want to . . . thank you both for everything’
'The Orient Express,’ Fern muttered, 'it sure wasn’t.’
'You’re more than welcome, Sam.’ Balfe smiled at her,
ignoring his wife’s ungracious remark. 'It’s been a delight
having you with us.’
'He’s going to miss you,’ Fern said with a dangerous glint,
then after a shade too long added, 'as will I.’
'We happen to be on the Orient Express,’ Balfe said, 'the
direct descendant of the original train that left Paris in eighteen
eighty-three. It has a genuine pedigree, unlike the VeniceSimplon,
which is just vintage rolling stock restored for the
high-end tourist market. This is the real deal.’
'Well, isn’t that interesting,’ Fern said. 'Are we done here?
I’m sure Sam’s heard quite enough about the goddamn
train.’
'Why don’t I order another bottle of rouge?’ Balfe suggested.
'Then we can hang out together till we get to Linz.’
'I don’t know . . .’ Sam glanced at Fern.
'Hey, it’s our last night, guys, let’s live a little.’
'You two can do what you want.’ Fern pushed herself up
from the table, the marionette lines around her mouth set in
a tight little smile. 'I’m off to bed.’
Sam felt uncomfortable. She wanted to stay in the restaurant
car. As long as she was with the Rivers she believed
nothing could happen to her, but the last thing she needed
was to get mixed up in their marital squabbles.
'I think maybe I should . . . too.’ She rose with her.
'You sure?’ Balfe looked up at Sam. He was sitting with
one arm across the back of the banquette. 'You know, Linz
was Adolf Hitler’s home town.’ He turned over the palm of
his hand and smiled.
'For its sins.’

Andrea Morelli was in two minds about whether to wake the
girl and escort her back to her room, or let her stay. She lay
curled up beside him, snoring lightly, a slim bronzed arm
flung across his chest.
The wine had made him drowsy. If he left it much longer
he’d fall asleep himself and he didn’t really want her around
when he woke up in the morning. On the other hand … his
eye followed the glinting line of white-gold hairs that divided
her smooth belly. The investigator sighed.
Why would anyone choose to cram a body into a fridge?
Presumably so that it wouldn’t be found for a few days
… in hot weather, no smell. Or just to keep it fresh. Was
this a gay cannibal thing, he wondered, or had Macchado
interrupted a crime in progress? He couldn’t get over Luca’s
nerve in calling him again (after being told not to disturb
him) with a name that meant nothing. Lucky for him, the
little figlio di puttana, it hadn’t been at a critical moment.
But maybe it wasn’t all his fault. Ed Lister could be
persuasive.
He was too tired now to return Lister’s call. What could
be so urgent that he needed to speak to him at this time of
night? It could surely wait till tomorrow now.
'I need to get some sleep, baby,’ he murmured, leaning
over to jog Gretchen’s magnificent shoulder. But then he
caught her scent, a mixture of new-mown Alpine grass and
apples, and thought of a compelling reason to let her stay.
One change of mind prompted another.
He sat up against the pillows, reached for the hotel phone
and dialled the number of the Hotel Ritz in Paris. As he
asked, in his barely adequate French, for Edward Lister, he
had a feeling he would regret both decisions.
'Merci, monsieur . . . ne quittez pas’
The operator came back, told him the line was busy.

Outside the door of 2122, they stood in the swaying corridor
and chatted a while longer. Sam was in no hurry to go
inside. The girl she was sharing the sleeper with was friendly
but a talker, the kind who insists on telling you their life
story.
'I wonder . . . could you and Fern maybe look after this
for me?’ She was holding the shopping bag that contained
her laptop. 'Just for tonight.’
'Be glad to, Sam.’ Balfe beamed at her. 'I think it says quite
a lot about our friendship … I mean the fact that you trust
us with such precious cargo.’
They were used to her lugging the computer everywhere,
never letting it out of her sight. She’d told them it contained
ten years of her art history research, not all of it backed up.
Which wasn’t far from the truth.
'It’s just you hear stories, you know, about robbery on trains.’
Balfe caught her eye and nodded. She had accepted, on
Fern’s insistence, his offer to escort her back to her compartment.
It was time now, she sensed, to call it a night.
Sam was about to hand him the bag when she heard above
the clatter of the express the familiar ring of her cell phone.
She put the shopping bag down, pulled her cell from her
waist band and flipped it open.
She held up a hand to Balfe to wait.
'Ed?’ She recognised Ed Lister’s number on the screen.
'I’ve been trying to reach you since . . . the train . . .’
It wasn’t a good connection. She thought she heard him
ask if she was okay. 'I’m fine,’ she answered, 'fine.’
'Somehow I expected you would be. Look, I’m not sure
what’s going on with you, Sam, but I don’t like being messed
around.’
'What are you talking about?’
'Whoever called you in Florence and threatened you . . .
that is, if you really did receive such a call. He’s not the
person who . . .’
'You think I invented that?’
'.. .the figure in the snapshots. Can you hear me? They’re
not the same person.’
'How can you be sure?’
'You should’ve told me about your friend, Jimmy
Macchado.’
'You know Jimmy? Wait, has anything happened to him?’
'Somebody has been following you, Sam … he may still
be following you. He could even be on the train. If I told
you it was Jimmy, what would you say?’
'Jimmy’' She gave a shout of laughter. 'That is so crazy.
Why would Jimmy follow me, for Christ’s sake? Anyway, the
last time I heard of him he was lying on a beach in Porto
Ercole.’
'When was that?’
'I dunno . . . day before yesterday.’
'Sunday. Well, according to my sources, on Sunday, your
friend . . .’
But she never heard the rest of the sentence. There was
no warning, just an implosive whoosh as the train plunged
into a tunnel. The noise in the corridor grew suddenly much
louder.
'I didn’t get that . . . Hello?’ She flattened a hand over her
free ear, moving away from Balfe to the window. 'Hello?’
The connection was dead.
Her gaze fixed on the tunnel’s safety lights as they rushed
by in a continuous white line. She thought about Venice and
wondered if Jimmy could possibly . . . no, there was no way.
He’d have called first.
Sam felt a light touch on her shoulder and was conscious
of Balfe standing right behind her, close enough for her to
feel his breath on her neck. She shut her eyes, thinking shit,
this is all I need, but saying nothing yet as she gave him
another second to take his hand away.
When he didn’t, she knew there was a problem.
'The tunnel’s eight and a half miles long,’ he said.
'It’s what’ She turned to face him.
'I’m crazy about you, Sam.’ He tried clumsily to grab her
around the waist, but she stepped back out of reach.
'Jesus, Balfe.’ Sam burst out laughing. 'You are kidding,
right? You know, this is really really not a good idea.’
'Isn’t it?’ He was looking at her with shiny, hungering eyes.
'You know it isn’t. And nothing’s going to happen. So calm
down, and let’s just forget about it, okay?’
'I’m crazy about you. Have been from the first moment I
saw you.’
'No, you’re not,’ she said firmly. 'All you are is a little
frisky.’
She picked up the heavy shopping bag and went over to
the door of 2122. As she worked the card-key, her back
turned, she felt apprehensive that Balfe might pounce, try to
force his way in behind her.
She needn’t have worried.
'What about the laptop, Sam?’ he asked. 'Still want me to
look after it for you?’
The resignation in his voice made her soften. He looked
so pitiful, standing there in his natty bowtie and blazer, she
almost relented.
'Nah, that’s okay. I guess I’ll hang onto it. But thanks
anyway.’
'We could always go back to the bar for another glass of
wine . . .’
He was sweet, really, just a harmless old guy.
'G’night, Balfe.’ She smiled at him.
'Yeah.’ He nodded and turned away.
It was strange though, Sam thought, as she cracked open
the door, worried now that she’d acted petty and ungrateful,
if he had kissed her she wouldn’t have minded all that much.
She hesitated, then stepped inside the darkened sleeper.

24

I wasn’t thinking clearly when I finally got through to Sam
Metcalf from the Jardin du Carrousel. It was reassuring to
hear her voice – she sounded all right, in high spirits even but
instead of wasting precious time accusing her of playing
games, I should have been asking about Jimmy Macchado.
With hindsight, I regret that I didn’t try harder to find out
when exactly she had last spoken to him. It would have revealed
that something was wrong and surely led to my asking Sam
whether she thought Jimmy’s mobile might have been stolen,
and the person following her impersonating him.
I was about to ask when we were cut off.
I sometimes wonder, if I’d caught on sooner, if I’d been
more on the ball, perhaps, and not drifting around Paris in
some kind of altered state, whether it would have made a
difference. It might have gained a little time, I tell myself,
but that’s about all. I believe the outcome was always
inevitable.
When Sam didn’t call back, I just assumed it was because
she had no interest in continuing our conversation. Walking
across the Place Vendome, I kept dialling her mobile until I
reached the doors of the Ritz, then gave up. It was now a
few minutes past ten. In less than half an hour, the Vienna
Paris express would be making its first halt at Linz on the
German border. I decided to try again then.
As soon as I got back to my hotel room, I checked my
laptop. I thought there was a chance Sam might have replied
to the e-mail I’d sent earlier when I was trying to reach her
urgently, when I was convinced the shadowy figure in the
photographs had followed her onto the train. Then I saw the
note in my system tray, and who it was from.

I tried to tell you this before, but couldn’t … it looks like I
won’t be online again for a while. Look after yourself, k?
Jelena

Her status was 'currently offline’. The message had been
sent at 21.35, ten minutes after Jelly bailed out of our last
conversation and perhaps five after I left the hotel. It was a
depressing little wave goodbye, but it explained the abruptness
of her earlier departure and confirmed what I’d begun
to suspect about Jelly’s response to the new situation we
found ourselves in.
If she wanted to break things off now, it was probably
because she was afraid to face up to her true feelings. I
sympathised, I was still busy resisting my own: I also knew
she couldn’t keep running from them forever.
I tried typing a casual 'see you around’ reply, but failed
to get the tone right. A second attempt sounded resentful
and angry. I decided to sleep on it, leave the whole thing till
morning. Good plan, but not workable.
I messaged her back that we had to talk.

Oh, so the music’s too loud for ya is it?

She could hear Lazlo Kaloz, her neighbour in 4B, thumping
on the partition wall. Jelly reached for the volume dial, turned
it down, and screamed at him to mind his business. Crazy motherfucker]
Then cranked it back up. Beyonce’s 'Irreplaceable’.
With a glance at the screen to see if Ed had typed anything
more, she went over to open the window, letting in the roar
of rush-hour traffic on Lexington Avenue. She lit up a Marlboro,
puffed on it nervously a couple of times, then stubbed
the cigarette out in the window box.
She felt ashamed about yelling at Lazlo. He was a fruitcake,
always talking to himself, carrying on long conversations in
different voices, but he meant no harm. And better the crazy
you knew . . . Lazlo was a small price to pay for having her
own apartment right in the middle of Manhattan, a rent
controlled studio walk-up she’d been lucky enough to inherit
from a friend.
She had told Ed she lived out in Brooklyn, just to be on
the safe side.
This is hopeless . . . Shaking her head, Jelly came back in
the room, naked under the towelling robe hanging open. Her
hair was one big mess, she hadn’t showered yet and she didn’t
know what the fuck to do about the Ed situation.
She only knew it was getting out of hand. Why did they
need to talk?
God, all they ever did was talk. TALK!
As long as they’d known each other, Jelly had never quite
understood what it was he saw in their friendship. It beat the
crap out of her why someone like Ed, who could have anything
or anyone he wanted, would choose to spend time chatting
with a nobody like her … on a damned computer. He was
beginning to scare her.
What the hell was his problem?
She took a deep breath, sat back down at the desk and
started typing.