Home Before Dark (20 page)

The fax was from an Inspecteur Touchanges of the Surete
and concerned Ed Lister’s visit to Paris a week ago. What
had caught his eye was a reference to the Conservatoire
National Superieur de Musique, where the subject had spent
an hour Wednesday afternoon, apparently enquiring about
the eligibility of his god-daughter to study piano there. It
struck Morelli as odd that Lister had left the visit out of his
account of his movements the day of the train murders.
Maybe he just forgot, or possibly it was deliberate. The
meeting at Lister’s office in London: he remembered the way
the man had reacted when he reported they’d found no
evidence of sexual assault, as if it surprised him.
He’d seen something in his eyes then, something veiled.
Morelli thought for a moment, then picked up the phone
and, reading his number off the fax, rang Professor Lucas
Norbet, the Conservatoire’s tutor for admissions.

33

Jelly glanced sideways at Mrs Cato sitting in her gold wicker
chair next to the piano stool and caught 'the look’ on her
teacher’s face. She knew how badly she was messing up;
dropping notes, floundering in the fast scale runs, dampening
too hard on the soft pedal; her expression sucked,
her touch was elbow-heavy. She couldn’t make the damned
thing flow.
On a crash of thirds she stopped playing, the sound bouncing
around the walls of the basement studio. What the hell
was wrong with her?
'I know, I know, I know . . .’ Jelly hung her head.
Mrs Cato hadn’t said a word. A tiny, scrunched-up old
lady, still glamorous in her long satin gown, silver hair twisted
into a sort of conch-shell on top of her head, she didn’t have to say anything – just give her that look.
'We can do better, Jelena dear,’ it said. She felt like bursting
into tears. She hadn’t practised enough was all it was.
She regretted now taking on the piece she was meant to
play at the Performing Arts Center next Thursday. A Chopin
Nocturne, technically it was a big jump for her. But she had
chosen something challenging, so that if she pulled it off it
would make both her and her teacher look good.
Pleasing Mrs Cato was her highest motivation. The old
lady had been telling her since high school that she saw a
brilliant musical future in her stars, always on her case to
audition for the Juilliard or the Brooklyn Academy. She hadn’t
applied because she didn’t quite trust Mrs C’s glowing
appraisal of her talent, and was afraid that if she failed to get
accepted she would never recover what confidence she had.
There were days when she wasn’t even sure she wanted to
devote her life to a discipline so demanding it left room for
little else.
Music, her teacher liked to say, should be in everything
you think, feel and do. If you apply yourself through consistent
practice, Jelena, you’ll find the order and harmony you yearn
for in your playing and in life. It’ll make you strong enough
to overcome every trial and difficulty. But it has to be your whole life, or nothing.
Lately Jelly had seen music more as a place of refuge. She
just had to sit down at the piano and instantly she’d forget
all the daily bullshit. Immersed in her tunes, cocooned in
sound, she’d feel protected, enriched, safe from every harm.
Then there was Paris. Still the impossible dream.
'Play it over, angel,’ Mrs Cato said gently. 'Only this time
try to imagine you’re having a conversation speaking to someone
you care about through music rather than words.’ She
gave an airy little flourish with a jewelled hand. 'Play as if
you want passionately to connect with that person. Let them
hear your heart and soul shine through the music’
What the hell . . . was she talking about?
She loved Mrs Cato for not getting mad at her, for being
the best teacher in the whole damn world, but to be told to
switch on the emotional current, put more juice, more 'soul’
into her music was not the advice she felt like hearing right
now.
'There’s somebody in your life, young lady, isn’t there?’
Jelly laughed and shook her head. 'Makes you say that?’
She couldn’t be picking up on him, surely? Ed didn’t count.
Besides, after the last time they talked, she had deleted his
name from her Friends List, cleared her archives of their
conversations, removed his photo and all associations of their
virtual acquaintance from her computer. It was like a weight
had lifted. The past few days he’d been on her mind, but he
was starting to fade there too.
'I’m not seeing anybody,’ she said truthfully.
The old lady just looked at her with her grey witchy eyes.
When she wasn’t giving music lessons, Mrs Cato moonlighted
as the Church Street neighbourhood psychic, reading palms
on Thursdays, the Tarot (by appointment only) on Fridays
in her front room.
Sometimes she got her antennae crossed.
Shit, look at the time . . . Jelly was meant to be meeting
Tachel and the others at eight fifteen. It was gone seven
already.
She took a deep breath. 'I’m sorry, Mrs C, but I really
gotta run.’

Morelli didn’t feel like going home. He’d called his wife a
while ago now and told her he was catching up on paperwork,
not to wait up. He knew that meant he’d be sleeping on the
couch again. His back was still aching from last night. But
the investigator had another reason for being at his office
after hours.
He sat staring at the telephone on his desk, debating whether
or not to get in touch with Gretchen, his miracle-working
Czech physiotherapist. Before him, scrawled on a napkin
from the Hotel Sorrento, was her number in Marienbad encircled
by the coral-pink lipstick imprint of a kiss.
He’d been thinking about her on and off all day. In the
middle of the interview with the US consul, Dr Chance, he’d
fallen into a lustful reverie, remembering the blonde’s enthusiasm,
her delicate tact, the line of little white-gold hairs
marching down her firm stomach . . . the treasure trail. He
sighed. Gretchen had only been a one-night stand, but she
was a nice person – that’s what made the difference.
Once upon a time Maria had been a nice person. What
happened?
He looked around the walls of the tiny room, which Francobaldi
insisted had been a padded cell in the days when the
Questura building housed a mental institution. His eye
stopped guiltily on the constellation of family photographs.
Resisting temptation, Morelli stuffed the napkin back in
his jacket pocket. He booted up his computer, typed 'Ragtime’
in the Google search-bar and hit the return key. Selecting
one of several websites that listed Scott Joplin’s compositions,
he went through his oeuvre until he found 'Fig Leaf Rag’ the
piece in the repertoire of Ed Lister’s god-daughter that
had impressed Professor Norbet.
Morelli highlighted the audio option, then leaned back in
his chair, hands clasped behind his head, and listened as the
syncopated piano he associated with Prohibition-era gangster
movies filled the room.
The giveaway, surely, was Lister’s reluctance to name his
gifted American protegee. God-daughter, my ass. It was obvious
he was playing around, but so what if he had a lover or
kept a mistress? He could afford the luxury – even one with
an expensive musical talent. Norbet had finally admitted that
'Monsieur Lister’ had made a generous donation to the
Conservatoire’s scholarship fund.
Morelli felt exhausted suddenly, ready to go home. He
yawned and stretched his arms above his head, briefly waving
them in time to the music. The rag had lifted his spirits. He
might be under pressure to get results but, as he’d reminded his boss, Pisani, the most promising crime scene lay outside
their jurisdiction. He was pinning his hopes on the forensic
results from the train – when they became available – giving
them a lead, a breakthrough even.
In Linz, he’d interviewed an elderly Swiss couple who’d
had the sleeper next to Sam and Linda’s. The wife claimed

to have heard noises of an 'amorous’ nature through the
partition wall, then, as the train arrived at the station, music,
the sound of a piano playing— something classical, she thought
it might have been Mozart.
Her husband said, never . . . Brahms.
It was a stretch, probably way off the mark, but in a case
where evidence was in short supply, every little piece of information
helped – Morelli wondered if piano music might be
a link. He picked up the phone and dialled Marienbad.
Gretchen answered. 'Did I wake you?’ he asked.
'Andrea? No, you didn’t wake me.’ She was lying, he could
tell by the delicious thickness of her voice.
'I would very much like to see you again.’
She laughed and said, 'I’ve been waiting for you to call.’
After he put the phone down, Morelli turned up the volume
on his laptop and played the 'Fig Leaf Rag’ over again. The
irresistible gaiety of the tune made him laugh out loud and,
Gretchen on his mind, want to dance around the room. He
got to his feet and tried a few steps with his eyes closed,
holding his imagined partner.

'How late is late?’ Tachel wanted to know, as Jelly banged
open the door to her studio apartment. 'Fifteen minutes?
Twenty? An hour?’
'What’s wrong with you? I can’t help it if the local . . .
forget it.’
Cell to her ear, Jelly heeled the door shut behind her, slipped
her shoes off and immediately started to strip, leaving a trail
of clothes across the polished wooden floor to the bathroom.
Sitting on the edge of the tub, looking at her toenails, she
laughed at Tachel’s fussing and said, 'Calm down, I’ll be
outside at eight thirty.’
She turned on the shower, brushed her teeth while the
water got hot, then climbed under the jet, worrying about
what the hell she was going to wear, briefly interrupting the
flow of her thoughts to remind herself to feed the cats and
tidy the place before she left in case . . . in case what?
She was nervous about seeing Frank Stavros again after
so long and not at all sure how she was going to feel or if
she was doing the right thing. She tried to remember, turning
her face into the needle spray, what Frank looked like without
clothes on … a lot of body hair … oh hell no, there was
no fucking way.
Four of them, a double date. Safety in numbers. The others
were supposed to be picking her up and then driving out to
Coney Island in Bernardo’s car for dinner at this really great
Italian place, Gargano’s on Surf Avenue. The clam linguini
there was out of this world. It was going to be wild, Tachel
promised.
Jelly knew her friend was behind the plan to get her together
with Frank. But at least he’d had the decency to call Tuesday
and let her know he was back in town and wanted to meet
up. They’d already had the awkward convo, so there wouldn’t
be issues hanging over the evening. They were ancient history
anyway.
Their two-year affair hadn’t survived Frank’s being transferred
to LA. He’d asked her to move out to the coast, but
when she’d joined him for a trial weekend she discovered he
was playing around. A stuck-on-himself music video producer
with Warner, Frank claimed he was just lonely, the other girls
meant nothing, she was the one he really loved . . . what an
asshole. After Jelly got over the hurt, mostly to her pride,
she’d felt nothing but relief. In the year since they broke up,
she’d been on a few dates, but not with anybody she wanted
to see again, let alone sleep with. Never one to put herself
out there, she found she preferred being on her own. She
was enjoying her new freedom and, until now, her friendship
with Ed hadn’t gotten in the way. Why would it? Jelly had
told no one about him, apart from Tachel – and she deliberately
hadn’t gone into detail. It was only when Ed started
acting crazy, saying he was in love with her and all mat bull,
that she decided her oldest friend should know the whole
story.
Tachel’s reaction was unexpected. She didn’t laugh or even
crack a smile. After hearing about the older English guy with
stacks of money whose daughter had been killed by a stalker,
she made it clear she thought it was a bad situation.
'Even if he’s telling you the truth, which I doubt, you know
nothin’ about him. He could be the stalker . . . Why you doin’
this to yourself, girl?’
Jelly was defensive. 'He just wants someone to talk to, really,
he’s . . . harmless.’
Tachel had rolled her big eyes and sighed. 'Please.’
She’d followed her advice, though, heeded her warning,
and typed Ed Lister out of her life. But from the very first
moment they met, waved to each other across a crowded
chat room, she knew. She saw this trouble coming, she should
have walked away a long time ago.

When the intercom buzzed, Jelly was dressed and ready. She
had on her favourite dark blue low-rise jeans, a black babyT with 'The Mexican Airforce is Flying Tonight’ scrawled
across the front in white sky-writing letters and her Old Navy
flip-flops. No make-up, hair in a ponytail, minimal lip gloss.
She didn’t want her ex getting the idea she’d made a special
effort. A quick check in the full-length mirror on the back
of the door. She looked . . . well, it would have to do.
She took a last drag of her Marlboro and stubbed it out.
Frank wanted to know if she’d quit. As if it was any of his
damned business.
On the phone earlier Tachel had reminded her of their
mission, which was for Jelly to flush 'Colin Firth’ out of her
system, and get laid. One hot night with her old Greek lover,
Tachel totally swore, she’d feel like a new woman.
Jelly wasn’t so sure, it sounded to her like a pretty desperate
remedy, but in spite of her misgivings she couldn’t help feeling
a little tingle of excitement as she ran down the stairs.

34

A thousand miles south, Campbell Armour slapped dead a
mosquito that had been feasting on his ankle while he sat
out in front of the pro-shop at Cypress Lake Golf and Country
Club, basking in the glow of victory.
He’d annihilated his old rival Touch Kendal in straight
sets.
Towel around his neck, vaporising sweat – the temperature
was still up in the high seventies – Campbell was
rerunning highlights of the match (he’d asked a spectator
to shoot it with his cam-corder) on the laptop perched on
his bare knees.
He smiled at the way it really did look an impossible
return – he’d broken TK’s serve in the seventh game of the
opening set. Fast-forwarding to match point, he watched
himself power a massive backhand into his opponent’s rear
right corner that made the poor guy shake his head in
bewilderment. A killer shot.
'We had a battle, dude, always do,’ he’d said to Kendal as
they walked off court together. 'You have no idea how much
I needed that.’
His euphoria didn’t last. Starting to come down from the
endorphin high that had briefly helped take his mind off a
frustrating day, Campbell stared gloomily at the clouds of
bugs floating around the powerful court lamps, then let his
gaze drift off into the stifling darkness beyond.
He was getting nowhere with the Lister case.
He’d spent the last two days fruidessly trying to track down
the website Ed had given him. His attempts to resolve the
domain name homebeforedark.net.kg had yielded an obscure Internet Service Provider in Kirghizstan, which meant he had
little hope of locating the IP address. He’d run a
WHOIS
on
the site and come up with alternative contact details that were
impractical to trace and probably false. After following looping
trails of fake IDs, fictitious addresses and stolen
SIM
and
credit cards, he’d come to a dead-end. Ward had vanished
into the smoke.
He hit rewind for one more morale-boosting glimpse of
his historic backhand, then pulled the virtual mansion up
onscreen. It was starting to get to him that he hadn’t yet
succeeded in putting a foot across the threshold.
Campbell didn’t like being shut out of anywhere.
Earlier he’d gotten the lab report on Ed Lister’s laptop
back from Secure Solutions in London. It had received a
clean bill of health, which surprised him. As requested, they’d
scanned the hard disk for viruses, internet worms and prevalent
malware, looking out in particular for Trojan Horse
programs. They’d checked the boot sector to make sure it
hadn’t been hijacked and found it was clear of infection. They
seemed to have done a pretty thorough job.
How then did the photographs Ed claimed to have imported
from Sam’s webpage disappear from his laptop? There was
no evidence on the deep scan that he’d ever downloaded
them; maybe he just thought he had.
He wondered about his client. Somehow he got the feeling
Ed wasn’t telling him everything he knew. Campbell had an
idea that trust might be part of the problem, which was
understandable in the circumstances. Ed Lister was a wealthy