Home Before Dark (17 page)

28

Ward took a last look around the compartment as the night
express, with a long sigh of the brakes, pulled into Linz
station. He’d already tidied up, retrieved Sam’s cell phone,
stuffed her shoes (one of the heels had scraped his shin)
along with his laptop and headset into his rucksack, then
dragged her body into the bathroom. He’d had to heave it
on top of Linda’s before he could shut the door.
He picked up the Toshiba. He only had seconds to make
up his mind.
He could slip out into the corridor, walk back along the
train to the couchettes and join everyone else getting off here.
The risk was someone might notice him leave the compartment,
and then the
CCTV
cameras on the platform . . .
Or else, go out the window. It opened inwards from the
top, creating an eleven-inch gap. Tight, but not impossible.
He’d already checked the angles. The express was coming
into the platform on the starboard side; he could see that the
sleeper cars would end up overlooking the tracks out beyond
the main station. He assessed the risk of sprain or injury . . .
the drop was a good twelve feet.
He had the rope. If he could just get that damned tune
off his brain.
He chose the window.
Ward never understood what people saw in music. The
lullaby had left him with a raw, savage feeling inside … pale
green needles line-dancing on the cylinder of blue glass that
revolved slowly inside his head. Music did things to him;
even the sweetest melodies could tear up his head with jagged
shards, blinding white, sometimes red. The food of love made
him want to throw up.
But he knew how to . . . hell, he could imagine the impact
the soundtrack must have had on his audience. He smiled as
he pulled on a pair of leather gloves over the latex ones. But
there wasn’t time to think about that now.
Ward lowered his rucksack and the shopping bag containing
the Toshiba first. The other end of the half-inch nylon rope
was tied to the middle rung of the aluminium ladder, which
he’d jammed under the window. He climbed up onto the
table and, with the grace of an acrobat, posted himself headfirst
through the opening.
The night air tasted yellow.
Outside the train, facing downwards, he descended hand
over hand by the rope until his feet were clear of the window,
then flipped his legs over his head in a neat somersault. But
didn’t complete.
Instead of abseiling to the ground, Ward pulled himself
back up the rope and, clinging to the window frame, untied
the hitch from the ladder; the rope slipped away between his
knees, the ladder fell back inside the sleeper. As he hung
there a moment longer, trying to close the hinged part of the
window with his free hand, he heard knocking at the door
of the compartment.
A woman’s voice said, 'Polizei. Machen She bitte aufF
Ward let go and dropped straight to the track. Ed Lister
must have been working the phones, his money doing the
talking. He’d got out just in time.
He landed awkwardly catching his ankle bone on a timber
railway tie. A sharp pain shot up his left leg, but when he
stood and put weight on it the ankle didn’t give way. As far
as he could tell he hadn’t broken or twisted anything. He
didn’t bother to coil the rope or detach it from the bags. Just
bundled everything together under an arm and, keeping his
head low, started to walk fast alongside the train.
Ahead the broad swathe of silver track and overhead cable
ran through a built-up section with houses on either side. He
hadn’t reckoned on the station being so close to the centre of
town. An area of darkness lay out beyond the front carriages.
Too far to risk without cover.
At the first gap between the carriages,Ward hunkered down
and crawled forward under the coupling gear so that he could
look through to the other side of the train. The end of the
platform was thirty or forty yards back, but right across from
where he crouched he could see some freight-cars standing
in an unlit siding.
He heard a commotion in the carriage behind him; a deep
voiced man was shouting orders in German – they must have
found the bodies. It wouldn’t be long now before they were
down on the track with dogs, searching for him. As he weighed
his chances of reaching the siding without being seen, a storm
of sirens and flashing blue dome lights announced the arrival
of reinforcements.
Ward looked at his watch. From the train he’d called 'Willy’s
Reisen’, a taxi company he’d found on the internet, and
arranged for a cab to meet him on Klosterstrasse in fifteen
minutes. He could still make it if his ankle held.
Then he saw the searchlight coming towards him. Dazzled
by the beam, it took Ward a moment to realise it wasn’t part
of the police operation. The light was on the front of a
through-train hurtling down the track on the south side of
the station.
He crawled out from under the coupling and stood up.
The pain in his ankle rose to another level, the adrenaline
boost worn off by now. Relying on instinct to judge speed
and distance, and which set of rails the train was on, Ward
darted away from the shadow of the stationary express.
He could hear shouting as he ran towards the light. Hurling
himself into the warm buffer of air a few yards ahead of the
engine, he felt the shining rails tremble under his feet before
the enormous noise of the train engulfed him.
He fell into the arms of the night, tumbling over and over
until he found himself on his back looking up at the deep
blue-black sky, safely through to the other side. The long
goods train, still running, would give him time to seek shelter.
A few stars were showing, their little fat faces, terrifyingly
plump, watching him as he picked himself up and limped
towards the deserted platform.
He needed to find someplace quiet where he could settle
down to work on the Toshiba. Now that the laptop was in
his hands, no one was ever going to find him. He thought
about Ed Lister in Paris and couldn’t help smiling, shaking
his head at the nerve of the guy .. . all my life I’ve been waiting
for you. Sounds familiar, Ed. It was up to him to make sure
'Templedog’ didn’t get away with it this time.
Ward already had the name and address of the girl in
New York.
London

29

I used to know her mobile number by heart. It faded quite
a few months ago, yet even how I can’t bring myself to take
it off my speed-dial or any of my address books. I read somewhere
that it’s not healthy to hold on to these empty reminders,
but I like seeing her name every time I bring up the contact
list on my computer.
I find the link a comfort, like keeping a candle burning.
All morning my head had been full of thoughts of Sophie.
It wasn’t just knowing that I’d be talking to the police later
about Sam’s murder and that Sophie’s case was bound to
come up; a host of little things kept reminding me of her.
I kept seeing an image of her as a child – I’m not sure that
it was a genuine memory – standing outside in the dark
throwing pebbles up at the window to attract my attention.
Sometimes I 'feel’ Sophie the way an amputee feels the
familiar shape and weight of a phantom limb, but this was
different – almost as if she were making her presence felt
deliberately, at a critical moment.

'You said she was being strangled.’
'How did you know?’ the other one asked.
'I didn’t . . . it’s what it sounded like over the phone. I
could hear her choking.’
'Let me get this straight. You heard choking, then she grew
quiet. Do you remember what time it was?’
I took a sip of coffee. My hand shook a little, enough for
the cup to rattle when I put it back down on the saucer. 'Ten
fifteen. I know because I was counting the minutes before
the train was due to arrive at the station.’
There were three of them – Chief Inspector Edith Cowper,
Andrea Morelli and Detective Constable Daniel Ince from
the National High Tech Crime Unit. We were in the conference
room of my offices on Tite Street. They sat like a tribunal
on one side of the mahogany conference table; I faced them
on the other.
'Investigator?’ Cowper turned to Morelli, creased, unshaven,
heavy-eyed from lack of sleep; the strain of the past thirty
six hours showed in his unusually subdued manner. He had
flown over from Linz that morning.
'Both women were strangled.’ Morelli cleared his throat
and, looking down at a piece of paper on the table, read
aloud,’” ... deep bruising either side of the voice box, well
marked signs of asphyxia in the lungs and over the heart.
Scratches on the neck probably made by the victim as she
tried to loosen her attacker’s hands.”
'The autopsy notes for Linda Jack, the occupant of the
upper berth in the cabin, are almost identical to Sam Metcalf’s.
No evidence of sexual assault … in either case.’
I shifted in my chair. The explicit language of the webcast
had more or less convinced me that Sam was raped. I wanted
to ask Morelli to elaborate, but this wasn’t the moment. We
exchanged a glance and he went on. 'According to the
coroner’s pathologist, Sam died between ten and ten twenty.’
'Which would seem to support Mr Lister’s statement.’
Cowper smiled, let it fade.
She was in control here, doing most of the talking. A thin
snip of a woman, ash-blonde, about my age, Edith Cowper
of the Wiltshire Constabulary was the senior police officer
in the UK with a continuing interest in my daughter’s murder.
She wasn’t heading a new investigation; Cowper had been
instructed to look into my allegations of police negligence
against the Met – an appeal for justice which hadn’t won me
many friends at Scotland Yard.
'Do you think you could have misinterpreted the sounds
you described?’
I wasn’t sure where this was leading, but there was a hostile
edge to Cowper’s questions which I did my best to ignore.
'I can only tell you what I heard.’
'The sounds of a struggle? Choking?’
I nodded. There was a silence.
'Did he leave any evidence this time?’ I asked, wanting to
bring the focus back where it belonged, on the murderer.
'They’re still searching for identifiers.’ Morelli made a
steeple of his fingers. 'It’s unlikely he left no trace. Every
criminal, Signor Lister, leaves something of himself and takes
something with him from the scene of the crime.’
'I seem to remember hearing that one before,’ I murmured.

'If you don’t mind, sir,’ Cowper said crisply, 'We’ll ask the
questions. How did you come to know Jimmy Macchado?’
'I didn’t. I already told you. Somebody using his mobile
rang me in Florence. I found out it was his phone because
I had the number traced.’
'Is that something you do routinely, Mr Lister? Have
people’s numbers traced?’
'I got an anonymous call. I thought there might have been
some connection with Sophie.’
'You never had any contact with Macchado when you were
in Florence?’
'No. The caller said he had a wrong number. I’m fairly
certain now it was the person who murdered my daughter.’
Any idea how this person knew your number?’
'None whatsoever.’
'You gave your mobile number to Sam Metcalf.’
'That’s correct.’
'Not your e-mail address?’
I shook my head, no.
It was starting to feel like an interrogation.

In Paris, still not certain that Sam was dead, I’d sat up most
of the night with a bottle of Scotch, waiting for the phone
to ring. I kept going back over our last conversation. I could
hear her voice, breathless, straining to be heard above the
din of the train, her whoop of laughter at my suggestion that
Jimmy was following her – she’d sounded lively and relaxed, happy even. If we hadn’t been cut off then, I told myself,
things might have turned out differently.
Around three thirty a.m. I got word from Andrea Morelli
confirming that the events I’d witnessed remotely had really
happened. I could give up hoping that the webcast had been
a game, a sick fantasy. It was almost a relief.
Later, on the way out to the airport, numb and exhausted,
I made a detour by the Gare de l’Est. I had the driver wait
outside the north entrance, while I walked through the ticketing
hall into the main concourse. Sam’s train was still on
the arrivals board – under the automated display I saw the
special announcement.

Information Voyageurs: Suite a une prescription
d’accident de personne a Linz le train 262, Orient
Express Rapide 1er, Brriwee: 9h 48, Uenant de:
UIEN
MUHCHEN
STRASBOURG
, Vote: 24 est annonce agec du
retard indefini.’

It was the name Linz and the circumspect phrase 'indefinite
delay’ that made it final. I went over to Track 24 and stood
looking at the empty platform, the concrete buffers, the weeds
growing up between the gleaming rails … I hung my head.
The image of her body sprawled on the floor of the sleeper
came back. Sam had died trying to bring me information
about the man who killed my daughter, and I’d doubted her.
Lost precious time thinking she was lying or playing games.
I knew deep down I could have done more to save her.

The story of a double murder on the EuroNight express was
already breaking on
CNN
and Fox as I left Paris.
Two hours later, stuck in traffic on the way in from
Heathrow, I rang my office and discovered the police had
been trying to get in touch. I returned Edith Cowper’s call
from the car. When she’d finished with me, I took a few
moments to think things over. Then I got on the phone to
Phil at Secure Solutions.
'You want to be careful, Mr Lister,’ Phil said, after listening
to my account of the night’s events. 'They could decide to
make life difficult for you. Wouldn’t say too much about live
webcasts, if I were you.’
'Cowper’s bringing a computer and internet crime expert,
a man called Ince.’
'That’s a joke. I know Dan Ince. Ginger-haired prat from
Dulwich, he couldn’t find bleeding Viagra on the Net. From
your description, whoever’s behind the snuff-house site has
advanced hacking and programming skills. You need someone
who can play the game at his level, an adversary.’
'You think the police can’t handle this?’
'After the cock-up the Met made of your daughter’s case?
You’re asking me?’
I didn’t comment.
You’ve been given another chance here, you don’t want
to waste it.’
'What if they ask to look at my laptop?’
I’d told Phil that I’d managed to save the text of the webcast
and thought there might be other information stored on my
laptop which could help trace Ward.
'We need to move fast or he’ll vanish again. Sooner you
get the machine into the right hands, the better. Not that I’m
advising you to withhold evidence, Mr L.’
'Of course not. You have somebody in mind?’ I thought
he was going to offer his company’s services, which would
have been understandable. We already had a working relationship.
'Somebody I can trust.’
He didn’t hesitate. 'Campbell Armour. He’s not one of
ours, but he’s clever, straight, and probably the fastest gun
for hire in the business.’
'So why isn’t he working for you?’
'I tried to recruit him after he did a security review and
another internal job for us, both highly sensitive. Didn’t want
to know. He’s the young maverick type, but if anyone can
smoke this creep out, he will.’
'Where’s he based?’
'Only drawback. Tampa, Florida.’
I felt that could be an advantage. 'Anything else?’
'I’ll send you his CV. He’s a naturalised American, from
Hong Kong originally, Scottish-Chinese background – grandfather
worked for Jardine and Mathieson, married the
housekeeper and stayed on. His parents came over to
London in eighty-nine after Tiananmen Square, opened a
restaurant in Wapping, then emigrated to San Bernardino
in Southern California. Campbell won a scholarship to
Stanford at sixteen, and it goes on from there summa cum
laude all the way.
'One flaw. He likes to gamble, or used to. Narrowed his
options for a while, but he seems to have got the problem
under control. He chooses the client, by the way, not the
other way around. He can be an arrogant little sod.’
'What do I have to do to qualify?’
'Don’t worry, I had a quiet word. Told him what happened
to your daughter. He’s interested, and he’s got some ideas . . .’
'You already spoke to him? When, for Christ’s sake?’