Home Before Dark (18 page)

'The moment I heard the girl on the train didn’t make it.
I knew you’d be in a hole, Mr L, so I took the liberty. What
time’s your meeting with the Old Bill? I’ll make sure you talk
to Campbell first.’

'What took you to Paris?’ Edith Cowper asked.
'Business. I have an office there.’
'So you just happened to be in town when Sam called?’

I nodded.
'Do you usually stay at the Ritz?’
'I don’t see how any of this is relevant, but yes.’
'When she called you from Vienna, were you surprised to
hear from the victim again? After the way she stood you up
before?’
'I accepted her explanation for what happened … she was
afraid.’
'Didn’t she tell you she was still afraid?’
'She thought she was being followed. I felt it was possible
she was just imagining things. Later I became concerned . . .’
'You felt there was a connection with your daughter’s death.’
'I told you,’ I said quietly, 'I was approached by Sam
Metcalf. She claimed Sophie had left some stuff on her laptop
that could identify her killer. She was going to hand it over
to me in Paris. If no computer was found in the sleeping
compartment, doesn’t that tell you something?’
'Assuming she had the laptop with her in the first place.’
I felt a surge of exasperation. 'I know she did—’ I cut
myself off just in time. 'Why do you think her friend Jimmy
Macchado was killed?’
I appealed to Morelli, who was doing an impression of
Napoleon in exile, frowning at the furniture and saying
nothing. 'Andrea?’
He turned up his hands and shrugged.
Cowper said, 'We only have your word for all of this. Did
Sam Metcalf ever communicate with you by e-mail?’
'You already asked me that.’
'It’s a slightly different question.’
'We spoke on the phone . . . that was all.’ Daniel Ince leaned forward. The only one in uniform, he
had a face that was too small for his head, reddish hair and
an uncomfortably direct gaze. He’d been taking notes on a
yellow legal pad.
'Any objections, Mr Lister, to our forensic retrieval division
examining your laptop? It’s a routine procedure.’
I hesitated, though I’d been expecting the question. 'Now
that my daughter’s murderer has killed again,’ I said, 'I imagine
you’ll be reactivating her case.’
Cowper answered. 'I can’t comment, not in the middle of
an internal enquiry.’
'If he’d been caught a year ago,’ I kept on, looking at
Cowper and Morelli, 'Sam Metcalf and two other innocent
people would still be alive.’
'Sir, the question DC Ince asked you,’ she said, unruffled,
'was will you allow access to your computer?’ She stared at
me across the table. 'Or do we need to get a search warrant?’
I didn’t doubt Edith Cowper’s dedication and integrity, but
if a civilian blows the whistle on the police in this country and
I had publicly accused the Met of gross incompetence – they close ranks faster and tighter than the teeth of a zip.
I held her gaze and said, 'That won’t be necessary.’
I don’t make a habit of lying to the police. I consider myself
a reasonably honest, law-abiding citizen. But I couldn’t just
stand by and watch them screw up all over again. Sam’s
murder had left me shaken and angry (at myself as much as
others) and I felt I owed it to her not to squander the lead
she had given me. Not to accept that she died for nothing.
'I’d like to help any way I can,’ I murmured, as I let
Detective Constable Ince take the wrong laptop into custody,
meticulously write out a receipt for a machine that I use
purely for business.
Perhaps I was guilty of obstructing the course of justice,
or taking the law into my own hands, but I didn’t look at it
that way. I saw my deception simply as a means of buying
some more time; and, into the bargain, making sure that Ince
didn’t find out about Jelena – for her own protection as much
as mine.
I trusted Phil’s opinion that acting independently we could
respond quicker and be more flexible than the police – I had
the financial resources, and I was driven in a way that they
would never be. Sworn to track down Sophie’s killer, I wasn’t
prepared to let this one last chance, as I saw it, slip through
my fingers.

30

After they’d gone, I stayed on in the conference room, staring
out of the window at the river, wondering now if I’d made
the right decision. After all, the police had the authority, the
manpower, the wide reach. But I was still angry enough about
the way they’d handled Sophie’s murder to feel justified in
being a little grudging with the truth. Besides, it was too late
for second thoughts.
I thought about the information I’d withheld. Images of
Sam’s body on the floor of the sleeper came flooding back
and I wondered if Sophie’s last moments had also been filmed,
set to music, sent out live from the grotto at the Villa Nardini
for the enjoyment of God knows what kind of audience.
Watching the water pile up white against the stone piers
under Albert Bridge, I pictured her lying there alone in that
hellish place, and shivered.
It opened the door to a memory of when I first lived in
New York, far enough in the past now for me to recall the
incident more as a dream than something that actually
happened. I find myself, in this New York dream, looking
down at the body of a girl sprawled at the bottom of a black
pit – a recurring image that because of Sophie will always
haunt me now – unsure of what to do and having to decide
whether or not I can trust the police. I closed my eyes and
the door slammed shut.
The interview had run over by more than an hour.
'Don’t ask,’ I said abruptly.
'I’ve no intention of asking.’ Audrey, my assistant, had
returned from showing them out with a what-was-ffort-all
about look on her face. 'You were helping the police with
their enquiries.’
'Something along those lines.’
'They took away your old laptop.’
'I lent them my only laptop.’ I gave her a significant glance.
'In case anyone wants to know.’
'You’ll be lost without it.’
I smiled. 'They didn’t say anything to you?’
She shook her head. Audrey had provided loyal support
when I raised my formal complaint against the Met. I didn’t
like involving her. I try to keep a degree of separation between
business and my personal life, but where Audrey is concerned
it’s not so easy. We’ve been together too long; we know each
other too well. What she had to deal with last year when
Sophie was killed went far beyond the call of duty. But then
Audrey had watched Sophie grow from a small child. She
adored her . . . everyone who knew her did.
'You’re meeting Campbell Armour in five minutes.’
I took my time before saying, 'I won’t be taking any calls.’
She set up the video link with his office in Ybor City,
Tampa, then lowered the window blinds.The sun was washing
over the wide plasma screen built into the conference room’s
only solid wall. Presently the image of an untidy desk staked
out by a miniature American flag on a plastic log shimmered
into view.
She waited hand on hip, one eyebrow raised. 'Cuppa?’
I thanked her no and turned my chair to face the screen.
On her way out, Audrey said, 'Well, at least they didn’t march
you off in handcuffs.’
'Not this time.’
I could hear someone coming.
Campbell Armour entered left of the screen and stepped
quickly around to the front of the desk. His back to the
camera, he swept aside piles of paper to clear a space, then
turned and hoisted himself up on the edge, swinging short
bare muscular legs as he tore the ring-tab off a can of
Mountain Dew.
I took in the oversize blue Dolphins T-shirt, baggy white
trunks and sweatband with 'Search Engine’ on it that pushed
his thick black hair into a spiky crown. He was small,
compactly built, with a wide, flatfish face and, behind rimless
lenses, light tawny eyes that drew your attention. He looked
about fifteen years old.
He threw his head back, took a long chugging drink, then
held the frosted can to his cheek and said, 'Hey.’
It struck me with some force that I was putting a lot of
faith in Phil’s judgement. 'You must be Campbell.’
He raised the can in greeting. Wry grin. 'Breakfast.’
'Have you looked at the material yet?’ I was keen to get
down to business. On the phone, last night, Campbell had
asked for any information I had – names, website addresses,
passwords, e-mails, documents. There wasn’t much.
'All except for the photos …’ He hesitated. 'They’re gone,
Ed.’
I frowned. 'Gone? Are you sure?’
Campbell took another swig of Mountain Dew. 'Just came
from Sam’s webpage.’ He wiped his mouth. 'You didn’t
happen to download any?’
'I imported a couple to take a closer look on Photoshop.’
'I’d like to see them – now, if that’s okay.’
I reached for my laptop – the one I’d chosen not to hand
over to the police – and with a couple of clicks brought up
the relevant sub-folder.
They weren’t there. I felt Campbell’s tawny eyes on me.
'Hold on a second.’ I checked the Recycle Bin. Nothing.
Shit, I said under my breath. I looked up and saw that he’d
moved to the chair behind his desk. He was rocking back
and forth, hands clasped behind his neck.
'I must have scrubbed them by mistake.’
'You know what a Trojan is, dude?’ Campbell asked.
He was referring to the horse, an electronic version of the
original wooden stratagem dreamed up by the ancient Greeks
to penetrate Troy, not the condom -I had a feeling Campbell
had used the line before.
I managed a smile. He had an irritating voice, a soft Dixie
drawl that didn’t quite sync with the vestigial sing-song of
South China.
'It’s a program with a hidden agenda,’ he continued. 'Once
inside your computer, it runs like an ordinary server, while
secretly opening a back door to your system . . .’
'I’ve a rough idea what it does,’ I interrupted him, closing
down the lid of my laptop. 'You think someone hacked into
this machine and deleted those shots? That would imply Sam did catch him on film.’

'I’d need to check out your system to be sure.’
'If it was Ward, how would he have got access?’
'There are only two ways. Either through your floppy disk
or CD drives, or via a connection to the internet.’
'I really rather doubt anyone having tampered with this.’ I
tapped the shell of my laptop. 'It’s rarely out of my sight.’
'Then the attack most likely was remote.’
'If it happened at all . . .’
'Sure, Ed, we’re just speculating. You asked me how. Okay,
he could have introduced a Trojan to your computer on the
back of information that you requested from a website – a
website he controls. I haven’t had a chance to explore the
mansion yet, but it’s the obvious link.’
'I take the usual precautions,’ I said, sounding defensive.
'Talk to Phil.’
'You mean you run a couple of anti-virus scanners? You
installed a firewall, the latest Spyware? Not much help against
a player like Ward. He inhabits a world where things are
almost never what they seem. It can be a dangerous place.’
'I think I’m aware of the dangers,’ I said.
I hadn’t hired a cyber-sleuth to tell me the internet was a
murky old hall of mirrors. I remembered Will’s owlish expression
when he warned me that I was 'flying blind’ over Jelly.
I’d heard nothing from her since the night of the murders,
the night I told her I was in love with her. But that was what
we’d agreed.
Campbell was looking at me intently.
'You need to get your laptop swept, Ed. If it turns out to
be dirty, you could be in more trouble than you know’
'Isn’t that why I’m talking to you?’
He was already starting to get on my nerves. I didn’t want
to give him the impression I had something to hide, but I
was uncomfortable with the idea of Campbell reading my
personal conversations (even if I could rely on his discretion)
and no doubt asking questions about Jelena. She had nothing
to do with any of this and I intended to keep it that way.
'Let’s say Ward planted a Trojan inside your laptop.’ He
leaned forward, slowing his delivery right down as though
he were talking to a child. 'Every time you go online, it sends
him your temporary IP address, which allows him into your
computer. He can open ports and emplace software where
and when he needs it. He can read your data stores, contacts
list, diary, e-mail and document folders. He can become a
'blind copy’ addressee on every e-mail you send and snoop
on any other internet traffic you initiate. Equally, he can
examine every reply packet you receive. All undetected. He
can do virtually anything he likes with your system, Ed, and
that includes creating and deleting files.’
I nodded slowly as the implications sank in.
'He gains control over your life.’ Campbell locked his eyes
on mine as if he wanted to be sure I understood. 'He becomes
you.’
'I think I get the picture. Thanks.’
'You bet.’ He gave a lopsided grin that I didn’t find particularly
engaging. 'You can either send your laptop over here
by courier, or take it to Phil and let his diagnostic team at
Secure Solutions do the job.’
There was no contest. I’d trusted Phil before on confidential
issues. He was also a man of the world. 'I’ll messenger it
round to him this afternoon.’
'Excellent. Just one other thing, Ed. You know how the text
of the murder webcast is all garbled and misspelled? Did it
occur to you the killer might have been using speech recognition
software?’
'I was afraid that what I was reading onscreen was actually
happening. He said the “show” was live. I only knew for sure
when I finally got through to Sam on the phone and I heard
her fighting for her life.’
'He strangles her, runs a commentary over the mic . . .
sharing the experience. All live action. That’s one sick dude.’
I shook my head. 'I use one of those dictation tools myself.’
'You never had a hope of saving her, Ed.’
There was a silence. I gestured at a row of trophies arrayed
in a glass-fronted cabinet behind his head. 'What are they
for?’
'Tennis,’ he said. 'You play?’
'Used to, until my son started beating me.’
'We should have a game. I might even let you win a point.’
We both laughed, a little too loud. 'Let me ask you something,
Campbell,’ I said. 'I know about your IT skills – Phil
tells me you’re the best – but what is your experience of
tracking cyber-stalkers in the real world?’
'I’ve been involved in a couple of investigations.’
'You’re not licensed as a private detective. You don’t carry
a gun.’
He cleared his throat. 'Nope, I mostly help law enforcement
agencies and legal firms find people. I don’t do collars. Just
get the information.’
'You’re being hired to track down … a killer, a monster.’
'Maybe so, but he’s not going to look like one, Ed. He
won’t be easy to recognise. He’ll be as ordinary as you or
me.’
'We haven’t talked about money yet.’
'I get five hundred a day plus expenses.’
'Sounds reasonable. I’d like to offer you double and a bonus
. based on results.’
Campbell grinned, then ducked out of sight behind the
desk. He resurfaced holding a limbless Barbie doll. 'My daughter
Amy’s. Comes through like a tornado leaving her stuff
every place. What kind of bonus are we talking about here?’
'A million dollars. If you bring in the man who murdered
Sophie.’ I’d offered rewards before, but they’d produced no
leads, only raised false hope.
'A million.’ The detective frowned and looked down at the
Barbie torso. 'By the way, did Wimbledon start yet?’
'Monday.’
'Any chance you could throw in centre-court tickets for
the men’s final?’
His face broke into a smile. 'Just kidding. Later, dude.’