Home Before Dark (21 page)

man.
The million-dollar bonus wasn’t the only reason Campbell
had taken on the job, but he knew he’d been thrown a lifeline
and it influenced his decision. He couldn’t see any other way
out of the deep hole he’d dug for himself.
Campbell owed money, and this time to people who didn’t
play around. They’d given him a week to come up with the
sum, principal and interest, or he could expect a visit from
'Cholly’ in debt collection. A smiley old cracker in glasses
and lizard-skin cowboy boots, 'Cholly’ was the most feared
enforcer on the Gulf Coast.
Already depressed by his lack of success, when he thought
about how much he personally had riding on this case, the
detective’s spirits slipped even further.
He had to find Ward. Seven days wasn’t that long.

The virtual mansion looked deserted. The only change since
his last visit a couple of hours ago was that darkness had
now fallen, which supported his theory that the daylight
and night-time modes on the site corresponded with the
cycles of the Eastern Time Zone. It probably meant nothing,
but there had been other indications that Ward might be
operating somewhere on the east coast of the United States.
In a global hunt, he consoled himself, it was at least a start.
He tapped in the password Ed had given him.
A gust of raucous male laughter blew across the teak decking
from the clubhouse, where some of his tennis buddies
were kicking back, guzzling Coors and yee-hawing like a
bunch of rednecks. Campbell, who’d exiled himself to his
own private Siberia out by the soda machine, found their
down-home stories and jokes (often of a sexual or racist
nature) not so much offensive as beneath his horizon.
'Hey, Campbell!’ one of them yelled across. He’d been
doing his best to ignore a suggestive discussion about the
Williams sisters and their domination of the women’s professional
circuit.
'Y’all hear the one about the two lesbian frogs?’
'Excuse me?’ He looked up from his laptop as if he hadn’t
caught the question. He knew they were just out to make fun
of him. But the others weren’t willing to wait for a punchline
they’d heard a thousand times.
There was a collective groan, followed by a male chorus
of: 'IT
REALLY
DOES
TASTE
LIKE
CHICKEN
.’
Campbell nodded and gave a bemused smile as the laughter
swirled about his ears. What had this got to do with him? He
held up his palms in mock surrender, then went back to his
laptop. He’d already tried all the conventional ports of entry
to the house – doors, windows, garage, cat-flap. Nothing.
The password still didn’t work; he could only assume it had
been deliberately changed by Ward.
It really does taste like chicken . . . He failed to see how
anyone could find that funny. He didn’t consider himself a
prude, but Campbell felt the comparison was vile and
demeaning, as well as untrue; he’d eaten frog legs . . . and
then from out of nowhere, or rather from this unlikely source,
an idea came to him. The crude, pointiess joke had reminded
him of something.
Something Ward had said.
He brought up the text of the murder webcast and quickly
scrolled down the dialogue between 'm’ and 'k’ until he found
what he was looking for.
At the moment where he starts to strangle her.

m: i want to see your face, look at me
nť.'you dare turn away … look at me, bitch
fcwhat are you doing… no, don’t… your hurting!
i, J.’ “i;
m: her sift white neck, mmmm, oh boy, lak a swans . . . I tell ya she is dee
licious… ya smeel the leer in her? you kin jest taste it…
m: pressing my thumbs into your throat… lok in my eyes
k: please stop … no, I can’t breathe
m: the gates of heaven… open… taste… words with an iron shape
k: NO,
PLEASE
... JESUS!
WHAT
ARE
YOU
DOING
... DON’T

It was the unusual phrase, 'words with an iron shape’, that
had stuck in his mind. Was it meant to describe sexual arousal – the musky metallic flavour arising from . . . well, the act
of cunnilingus the murderer wanted to give the impression he’d performed on his victim – or the rankness of her terror?
Or both?
It could be just a mistake, a word or two left out, making
nonsense of an already garbled text. But her fear, even in
transcript, was palpable.
Campbell had to remind himself that her killer didn’t molest
Sam sexually. It was only a fantasy, possibly reflecting what
he would like to have done to her, which would make sex at
least part of the motive; or maybe included simply for the
enjoyment of an audience that he knew got off on that sort
of thing.
Either way the guy was a sick one. He’d found other examples
of vivid yet incoherent imagery used by the murderer
in his webcast that suggested there might be something odd
about Ward in the realm of the senses, something out of
whack.
The idea of a specific pathology would come from his wife.

Kira was still awake when Campbell got home. A light showed
under their bedroom door; he could just hear the soft rattle
of laptop keys.
He put his sports bag down quietly in the front hall, hooked
his rackets over a peg in the closet, then went straight in the
kitchen and took an ice-cold can of Mountain Dew from the
refrigerator. When he’d quenched his thirst, he let out a long
sigh. He still wasn’t used to living in a box.

It was a year since they’d moved to 'Wild Palms Manor’,
an upscale gated community in the historic suburb ofYbor
City, Tampa’s old Latin quarter. They got a deal on an
attached townhouse with a two-car garage and, the clincher,
a tiny backyard for Amy to play in. Campbell still preferred
the down-at-heel section of Tampa across the river where
they’d rented a rambling apartment in an old Deco building
until Kira started work at the hospital. But this was the
first home they’d ever owned, bought with the help of a
soft loan from his wife’s family in San Francisco. He wasn’t
in any position to complain. Especially not now, when he
didn’t even know how much longer they could afford to
live here.
He climbed the stairs barefoot. Kira was sitting up in bed
propped against the pillows typing out the paper on molecular
something-or-other which he knew she had to hand in by
tomorrow.
'Hi hon,’ he said, almost meekly.
She glanced up at him and waved but didn’t speak.
After taking a shower, he looked in on Amy, who was fast
asleep in her cot, one tiny arm draped around a teddy bear
nearly as big as she was. Campbell stood for a moment, letting
the picture of trusting innocence deepen the guilt he felt for
having let his family down, compromised their security, maybe
their whole future through his own stupidity. He’d lost a lot
of money, all their savings, and more.
He hadn’t had the nerve to tell Kira yet.
Gently removing the stuffed animal from his daughter’s
embrace, he bent down to kiss her forehead, then went into
the master bedroom.
Kira didn’t look up. A wing of black hair curtained her eyes.
In awe of her discipline, her limitless capacity for work his
wife was studying for her masters in biochemistry and
psychology at
USF
while putting in four days a week as a
research assistant in the Clinical Neurophysiology Laboratory
at Tampa General – Campbell knew better than to interrupt,
especially when he’d spent the evening playing tennis at the
club. He sometimes felt Kira drove herself too hard.
In his own work, he valued her occasional psychological
input and liked to think of them as a team. He waited until
she had turned out the light before bringing up the subject
of Ward, whose profile she’d helped him put together, and
abnormal sexual imagery. He needed her opinion.
She listened without a word as he struggled to tone down
descriptions there was really no way to sanitise. When he had
finished, her prolonged silence and the regular sound of her
breathing made him think she’d fallen asleep.
'You know what this reminds me of?’ she said at last. 'Auras.’
'You mean like invisible colours around a person?’
'No, I’m talking about the sensations that immediately
precede an attack of epilepsy. All the senses can be affected
and vision, hearing, smell, taste and touch sometimes get
confused.The patient may suffer from emotional disturbances
too.’
'What are you saying? That this guy could be an epileptic?’
'Just a thought. Another possibility is that he’s a synaesthete.
You know how some people can hear colours or see sounds
… often they’re like artists or musicians? Synaesfhetes’ brains
are cross-wired, probably due to a mutated gene, so that one
sensory experience can trigger another. The weird associations,
the flashes of light, confusing the taste of her vaginal
secretions with a visual image, the engorgement of her clitoris
with the sound of rushing wings … 'If you like I can mention
it to the director of the programme.’
It wasn’t a thing you could control – he blamed it on Kira’s
solemn use of the word 'engorgement’ – but Campbell was
dismayed to feel himself becoming aroused. He coughed,
then said, 'Won’t that be kind of awkward, honey?’
Kira laughed in the dark. 'Why? Because I’m a woman?’
'This is a murder investigation,’ he said sternly, for no
reason other than he suspected his serious-minded wife was
aroused too.

35

A few minutes past six the next morning, Friday, Campbell
was at his desk explaining to Ed Lister via video link with
his office in London that, while he hadn’t had much luck so
far tracking the homebeforedark website, he’d managed to put
together a psychological profile on Ward.
He could see Ed was not impressed.
'I’ve a busy day, Mr Armour,’ he said in a clipped, businesslike
tone the detective hadn’t heard before. 'I was hoping by now
we might have got beyond profiling. What happened to following
the electronic trail? I thought that was your expertise. It’s
what I’m paying you for.’
His client was standing by the window with his back to
the monitor. Wearing a dark suit, striped shirt and tie, he
looked lean and important with a sheen of elegance about him that Campbell found intimidating.
'Still working on it,’ he said and took a sip of his coffee.
'The website’s been inactive since the train and it may turn
out to be untraceable. You asked for an update. Well, this is
where we’re at, dude.’
'AH right, all right.’ Ed made an impatient gesture, a slashing
motion with his left hand. 'And please don’t call me that.’
Campbell shrugged. 'What little we have on Ward seems
to fit the profile of the delusional stalker. A loner, most likely
unmarried, low self-esteem, has had few if any sexual relationships.
He yearns for intimacy, but at the same time feels
threatened by it. So he picks a victim who is unattainable in
some way. A likely factor in his choosing your daughter . . .’
'Look, I don’t mean to be rude.’ Ed cut him off, swivelling
his head to look at him on the monitor. 'But I’ve heard all
this before.’
'Just stay with me, you’ll see where I’m going.’ Campbell
held Ed’s gaze. 'He comes from a background that’s an
emotional wasteland, as often as not abusive, and grows up
in isolation with a poor sense of his own identity. He’s not
crazy, but let’s say predisposed to psychosis. A delusional
stalker cannot by definition be reasoned with. In his mind
he has created a “real” relationship with the power to transform
his own lonely life – he refuses to accept that his victim
is not interested in him.
'Now, here’s the key, Ed. The guy believes that he and his
victim are meant for each other. His conviction that they are
destined overrides any fear he might have of consequences.
Initially, he can’t see that he’s being threatening, or frightening.
He can’t appreciate that his actions are hurting others, he
doesn’t regard what he’s doing as wrong. To him this is “true
love”, it’s just that the object of his love doesn’t recognise it
yet. With enough persistence he believes he will eventually
win her over.’
Campbell watched his client turn away from the window
and come and sit down in a chair beside the table. He could
see he had his attention now.
'The stalker,’ he went on, 'who already has difficulty separating
reality from fantasy, will blow up the least reaction

from his victim into a delusion of intimacy. What he cannot
achieve in reality he makes up for in the fantasy world he
has created and it’s precisely the imaginary element that makes
it so hard for him to let her go. He can’t understand the word
“No”. Why would he, since he believes it’s in the stars for
them to be together? When he realises finally that it’s not
going to happen, he may decide that if he can’t have her,
then no one else will either.’
'He kills her,’ Ed said flatly, looking straight at him.
'And gets what he wants which is absolute control over his
victim.’
'What about Sam Metcalf and the others?’
'Often with cyber-stalker cases, particularly “love obsessionals”,
it’s not only the target who is in danger, but also
those around her if the stalker perceives them to be in his
way, or a threat to his own safety.’
'You think my daughter was his first victim?’
'Serial stalkers tend to be disturbed individuals who choose
their victims at random. I don’t think that’s the case here.
Ward is too smart and there’s too much about him that doesn’t fit the profile. He’s different. I get the feeling that he still
wants something . . . maybe from you.’
Ed frowned. 'You mean money?’
'If this was about money, he’d have been in touch before
now. The fact that he’s left some teasing hints and clues, while
carefully covering his tracks, suggests a common sociopathic
trait – he feels the need to tantalise the authorities and show
how much cleverer he is than his pursuers. At some level,
they all want to be caught, but in Ward’s case … I don’t
know.’
'Then what does he want?’
'When you were watching the webcast, did it ever occur
to you that you might be the only one – watching, I mean?’
Ed shook his head. 'I assumed I was part of an audience.’
'You didn’t get a hint when you entered the house and
found your effigy sitting in front of the TV? That you’d
been singled out? That the whole show – leading up to the
clip of the body laying on the sleeper floor – was for your
eyes only?’
'At the time, no.’ He glanced at his watch. 'I’ve wondered
about it since.’
Campbell smiled a little. 'He planned it all. The second
e-mail you received from Sam Metcalf on the train, the one
giving you the username and password, was a forgery. I’ve
no doubt the source was Ward. None of this proves that he
put on the “show” just for your benefit, but he wanted you
to be there.’
Ed leaned forward. 'All right, but why? Why me?’
'He wants to involve you. It’s part of the stalker mentality.
He wants you to react. I was thinking about it last night… I
guess you’ve already considered the possibility that whoever
killed your daughter was really trying to get at you.’
'It was one of the first questions Morelli asked me. I can’t
think of a single reason why anyone would want to hurt me,
or my family.’
'Still, you could have missed it. You need to go back over
the last ten years, maybe more, and think about people who
might hold a grudge. You could’ve done a deal, bought a
chunk of land or developed a site, and without knowing it
ruined someone’s life . . . that type of thing. Let somebody
down.’
'I don’t let people down, Mr Armour.’ He stood up and
reached for the control panel. 'When can I expect your next
report?’
'Give me a couple of days. Just remember, Ward may turn
out to be a delusional, or hiding behind the mask of a stalker
to disguise his real motive. Either way it doesn’t mean he’s
accomplished his mission.’
'I’ll bear it in mind.’ The screen faded to black.
Campbell sat for a moment. He tried to think what it was
about Ed Lister that didn’t quite gel. The guy was obviously
sincere, but too smooth – and he had something else going
on. He couldn’t get past the impression his client was holding
out on him. If he was right, it was going to make his job
more difficult.
He let his thoughts wander, listening to the sounds of the
Armour household stirring. He could hear Kira in the shower,
Amy singing to herself in her cot.
He wasn’t going to be able to put off telling them much
longer.