Home Before Dark (19 page)

31

I had agreed to meet Will Calloway at a pub near Lancaster
Gate. One of those anonymous watering holes that cater mostly to tourists staying in third-rate hotels overlooking the
park – air-conditioned, airport lounge music, menu in five
languages – it was a typical Will choice of venue. He’s always
had a mutinous taste for the dreary, the nondescript.
I got there around seven and found him sitting in a booth
at the rear with a gin and tonic, reading the sports pages of
the Evening Standard. Beside him on the velour banquette
lay a large padded envelope.
'I expect you’ve seen this,’ he said as I joined him, pushing
the newspaper towards me. The front page ran a shot of the
'murder carriage’ in a siding at Linz.
I’d skimmed the article, which included an interview with
Sam’s travelling companions, an American couple called
Rivers. There was nothing about Sophie.
'The police here aren’t even admitting a connection.’
Will shrugged. 'They may have their reasons.’
'I just want them to reopen Sophie’s case.’
'You could always prime the pump.’
'And have the media crawling all over us again?’
The only other person I’d told about what happened in
Paris was Laura. She had been appalled, frightened, but
mostly angry with me for going over to meet Sam Metcalf
without letting her know. She assumed that Sam was the
reason for my trip and I didn’t disillusion her. I just said: 'I was afraid you’d try to talk me out of it.’
Will was watching me. 'I understand why you might want

to keep a low profile, Ed, but you can’t have it both ways.’
I cleared my throat. 'That’s . . . well, no longer an issue.’
'What is?’ He looked blank, but he knew perfectly well.
'The person I met online I told you about. We decided to
take a break and not see each other for a while.’
'Oh, you mean Island Girl.'Will chortled. 'She dump you?’
I let that go. 'You were right, it was becoming a distraction.’
'Well, I’m glad you’ve returned safely to your senses – for
everyone’s sake.’
And that was Jelly dealt with. I was relieved in one way,
but also a little put out that Will didn’t seem interested in
asking more searching questions about her.
'So what did Dr Wass make of Sophie’s drawings?’
'You ready for another?’
I looked at my watch. I didn’t have to be anywhere, I just
wanted him to get on with it. 'No thanks.’
'Mind if I do?’ He got up and went over to the bar, came
back with a fresh gin and tonic and the double whisky that
I had refused.
'Will?’ I was starting to get impatient.
He took his time answering. On the phone, all he’d told me was that his colleague had looked at the sketchbook and made some comments.
'You’re going to be disappointed,’ he said. 'Elna Wass feels
the drawings have no bearing on Sophie’s murder, or events
leading up to it. At least, that’s how I interpret her observations.
I didn’t tell her the story behind the sketchbook, who the artist
was or what happened. I wanted an unbiased reaction.’
'Did you explain about the website?’
'I felt that would only complicate things.’
He was silent for a moment.
'So? What were her impressions?’ I had to drag it out of
him. 'Did she think the drawings were of a real or imaginary

house?’
'She assumed it was the family home.’
'Greenside? Laura would love that.’
'But it wasn’t important . . . from a diagnostic point of

view’
'She’s a shrink. I suppose she took your line that Sophie
was trying to express through her art what she couldn’t talk
about in real life.’
'Something like that.’ He looked uncomfortable. 'Elna
picked up on the strong, very dark feeling of oppression from
the interiors, as we all did. She said that it jumped off the
page at her. And the fear.’
'Fear of what? I thought you said Wass didn’t get a sense
from the drawings of an exterior threat.’
'She feels the threat came from within.’
'From inside the house.’
'Ed, listen, I don’t want to get into the jargon.’ He looked
at me over the top of his glasses. 'You’re not going to like
this in any language. Elna believes that the exciting cause,
the inspiration for the drawings, is the artist’s troubled relationship
with her father. He is her oppressor, the one she’s
afraid of . . . you.’
I took a deep breath and just sat there staring at him. Then
I burst out laughing. 'For fuck’s sake.’
'I know, I know what you’re going to say . . .’
'No you don’t.’ I was still laughing, just. 'I can’t believe
you even pretend to take this crap seriously.’ I shook my
head. 'You really think that I oppressed Sophie? For Christ’s
sake, Will, my daughter, your niece, was strangled and bludgeoned
to death by some lunatic and this woman is going on
about father complexes?’
'I didn’t say I agreed with her. But I have to respect her
view as a doctor. Maybe you should think about it.’
'Think about what? You know how close Soph and I were
. . . you know how much I loved her. All right, I may not
have been the perfect father. I was away a lot, probably I
didn’t pay her enough attention, but we had a healthy, loving
relationship. The idea that she was afraid of me is not even
worth discussing.’
I took a swallow of the Glenlivet, grateful for it now.
Will held up his hands. 'Look, I’m sure you’re right and
the facts don’t support Elna’s theory. But you can see how
she might have come up with the idea. The shadow over the
house, the Alice-in-Wonderland tricks of perception and scale,
the figure in the chair staring at the box.’
'I don’t remember a figure in a chair.’
Removing the moleskin sketchbook from the envelope and
placing it on the table, Will leafed through the drawings until
he found the one of the gloomy lounge with the cabinet TV
in the corner, Breakfast at Tiffany’s paused on the screen, two
empty chairs … Only now somebody was sitting in one of them.
Just as there was the night of the live webcast.
'What the hell is this?’ I pulled the sketchbook around. I
could see the back of the viewer’s head, his hand on the
armrest. It was the same likeness I’d encountered inside the
virtual house; only here, I was more recognisable – a gaunt
and somehow sinister effigy, watching Peppard and Hepburn
doing their thing in the rain.
Sophie’s favourite movie. I could feel Will looking at me,
not saying a word.
For a moment I thought I was losing my grip. I reached
out and ran my fingers over the drawing, peering closely at
the pen strokes, the fine cross-hatchings in ink that in places
had the density of an engraving. I wanted to make sure the
figure hadn’t been superimposed later, the sketch tampered
with in any way.
I couldn’t understand – I still can’t – how I’d once seen
those chairs as empty.

It’s three hundred and seventy-five yards from the Pizza
Express on the south side of Notting Hill Gate to the front
door of our house in a cul-de-sac off Holland Park Avenue.
I know because I used to take Sophie and George there when
they were small and on the way home I’d make them play a
game of counting footsteps. The useless number stuck in my
brain.
Sometime after eleven Will and I left the restaurant. We’d
gone on to another pub, then ended up having a bite together
and, unavoidably, too much to drink. I steered him into a
taxi and decided to walk the short distance back to the house
to clear my head. It was hot for a night in June, a muggy
tropical kind of heat that doesn’t suit London yet. I took my
jacket off and slung it over my shoulder.
About halfway home, I had to stop for turning traffic at
the corner of Campden Hill Road, where the strip of shops
and restaurants changes into the residential area of Holland
Park and the way becomes quieter, less well-lit. When I walked
on I heard a footfall some distance behind me. I didn’t pay
much attention.
There were still a few people about and I was too busy
worrying about Campbell Armour’s theory that someone had
maliciously accessed my laptop. The concern was neurally
wired to a bundle of other anxieties – about the police, Jelly,
Laura, Dr Wass’s disturbing interpretation of Sophie’s sketchbook,
the figure in the chair.
I paused to light a cigarette, using my jacket to shield the
flame of the lighter from the warm wind gusting up Holland
Park Avenue. As I continued on my way, I heard the footsteps
resume, keeping pace with mine. I stopped again, they
stopped. I glanced over my shoulder, back up the hill, but
now there wasn’t a soul in sight. I had the pavement to myself.
I started to pick up speed, staying close to the high wall
on my left which protects the front gardens of a row of imposingly
tall houses from the street. I heard the echo of an accelerating
tread behind me, then inexplicably it faded to nothing.
I ducked into a doorway let into the wall and waited while
a surge of traffic coming from both directions at once drowned
all other noise.
When the roar died down I walked on again. A young
couple bodied up out of nowhere and overtook me in silence.
I noticed they were wearing matching trainers and, for no
good reason, I smiled at them as they strode past. I admit I
wasn’t exactly sober. But I was sure I didn’t imagine those
footsteps.
The barrier with the 'Private Byway No Thoroughfare’
sign was in the up position as I turned into Campden Hill
Place and climbed the single-track road to its hidden enclave
of three detached houses. A white stucco four-bedroom with
a pillared porch, ours stands at the top of the loop. When I
came within range, the outside security light snapped on.
Laura had gone down to the country that morning: there
was nobody home.
In a pool of brightness, searching my pockets for the key
to the front door, I became aware that I was being watched.
I’d sensed movement, off to my right by the wooden paling
that separates our house from the next door block of flats.
I turned my head and saw that the branches of a privet
bush in front of the fence were trembling: I could have
sworn an area of deep shadow had just been displaced by
something darker. Suddenly I knew I wasn’t alone in the
cul-de-sac.
In my inebriated state, heart thundering in my chest, I was
having difficulty getting the key into the lock, when I heard
the sound of a light footfall. It came from inside the house.
Before I could turn the key, the door swung open.
'What the . . . what are you doing here?’ I almost shouted.
Standing before me in a cotton dressing gown, barefoot
and holding a glass of wine in her hand, was my wife Laura.

Ybor City

32

'What is it now, Luca?’ Investigator Morelli said, without
looking up from the file on his desk. He rubbed his temples,
trying to massage away a nagging headache. He wasn’t in
the mood for Francobaldi.
'This arrived for you.'The assistant detective sounded hesitant.
'A fax from the Stirete in Paris. You should perhaps take
a look.’
He went on reading. 'All right, all right, just leave it.’
'Anything you need to know that isn’t covered by the report
… I’ll be next door. We made some good progress while
you were away.’
'Is that what you call this? Progress?’
The way he felt was partly the result of too little sleep – he
got in from London late last night, then had a blazing row
with Maria, who claimed to have smelled a woman’s scent on
his clothes. She’d banished him to the living-room couch.
'With respect, Ispettore, yes. We picked up the Arcangeli
kid. We’re talking to the mobile phone networks, interviewing
the Englishman’s neighbours. The
CCTV
footage shows
Jimmy Macchado seeing the girl off at the station and coming
away with the canvas bag we found at the house.’
'For Christ’s sake.’ Morelli sank his head in his hands.
Luca kept going. 'The Ferragamo wrapping tissue clearly
ties in with the robe that was left on the train. Originally
'
purchased by Sam Metcalf but changed that evening by
Macchado for a smaller size . . .’
'Forget all that, he wasn’t killed for some poncy robe, or
his mobile phone.’
The young detective shrugged. 'Unless it was just meant
to look that way. You came up with cannibalism as a possible
motive.’
Morelli groaned. He’d attended a meeting earlier that
morning with the US consul, a humour-free zone called
Avis Chance, who wanted to know what the Questura was
doing to find the killers of Sam Metcalf and Jimmy
Macchado. He’d explained to her that, though the investigation
was at an early stage and they were waiting for results
from the Violent Crime Analysis Unit, the Austrian police,
and so on, it had top priority. Dr Chance made it clear she
wasn’t impressed.
Since then the day and his headache had only grown worse.
He’d just had Commissario Pisani on the line telling him he
was getting heat from his superiors at the Ministry of the Interior.
Pisani had passed on their concerns. 'Open season on Americans
in Florence, mio caro, not good for tourism.’ They seemed to
have forgotten about the English girl, Sophie Lister.
Morelli felt like saying there were too many tourists in
Florence, they could do with thinning out. But he kept that
one to himself. He’d been asked if, in his opinion, this was the
work of a serial killer. Nobody had mentioned it, but the homegrown
'monster of Florence’ who terrorised the city in the 1970s
and 80s still haunted the memories of police and politicians
alike. A fictional Hannibal Lecter might be an exploitable visitor
attraction, but the return of the real thing, real fear rising like
a poisonous mist off the Arno, was not. Morelli had said no,
he didn’t anticipate any more deaths – not in Florence.
'I think we can drop the gay lunch angle, Luca. What else?’

'Our rent-boy thief, Gianni Arcangeli, may have seen the
murderer when he was scouting out the house Saturday
evening. He recognised Jimmy Macchado talking to someone
in the courtyard, but was too busy trying to stay out of sight
to get a description. Gianni doesn’t speak English. He said
both voices sounded American.’
'All down here.’ Morelli sighed. 'Tell me something I don’t
know’

'You think the murderer thought Sam Metcalf’s laptop was
in the canvas bag?’
Morelli nodded. 'Obviously.’
'And when he discovered it wasn’t?’
'He decided to ice Macchado anyway.’
'Is that another of your jokes?’ Luca gave a sly grin. 'So
why did he take the robe, then leave it behind on the train?
'What is it with you and that fucking robe?’ He laughed.
Morelli had never understood why his effete young assistente with the long hair, trendy glasses and elegant manners (he
was from an old aristocratic Florentine family) wanted to be
a cop in the first place. But the truth was he found Luca
Francobaldi more intelligent and better company than most
of his colleagues. If he was hard on him at times, it was partly
for me younger detective’s protection.
'Well, you’re always saying that every murderer leaves something
of himself at the scene of the crime and takes something
away . . . Here.’ Luca slid the fax from the Surete in Paris
over the desk and stood up. 'Ispettore.’
'On your way out, do me a favour – ask Theresa to bring
some coffee.’ He glanced over the sheet. 'Why didn’t I get
to see this right away?’
'I’ve no idea.’ Luca shrugged and closed the door behind
him.