Home Before Dark (3 page)

17

'The victim’s position is interesting,’ he said. 'She didn’t
fall, she was laid out on her back, her arms folded across her
chest. It was done with care by someone who had a desire
to show respect.’
I frowned. 'You mean remorse?’
'Signor Lister, what I have to say you may find a little
shocking. I mean tenderness … amore. Her killer was possibly
in love with her, or considered himself to be in love. The
chief delusion of the cyber-stalker often concerns romantic
love and spiritual union rather than sexual attraction.’
'Tenderness,’ I repeated calmly, though I was seething.
Perhaps any father would have reacted as I did. 'Is that
why he knocked her unconscious before he strangled her?
Is that how it goes when you love someone, Commendatore?
Tenderness!’
I could hear my voice rising.
Morelli pressed his palms together. He took a deep breath
and went on, 'With this type of individual, when his attentions
are rejected, love turns to violence very quickly. Sometimes
in an instant.’
'You expect me to feel sorry for him?’
'He may also have believed that your daughter returned
his feelings. In his eyes, you understand, they would have
been the “ideal match”.’
This was all just guesswork. He really didn’t have a clue.
'Studies indicate that violence is more likely where the
victim and stalker were formerly in an intimate relationship.’
'What are you saying? That they were lovers?’
'I think that is unlikely.’
I was glad that Laura wasn’t with me. She would have hit
him.
'I know how hard this must be for you.’ He was watching
me intently. 'If it had happened to one of my children … I
would be the same.’
'Are you suggesting that Sophie brought it on herself?’
He shook his head. 'She may unwittingly have encouraged
him. Possibly flirted with him online in the belief that it was
harmless and safe.’
'Why is it that you people always end up blaming the
victim?’
'Signor Lister.’ He lifted his hands. 'This has not been an
easy case.’
Past tense. They’d already filed her away. He’d as good as
admitted it.
There was a short heavy silence.

'Do you think Sophie knew she was in danger?’ I asked. I
already had the answer, but sometimes those are the best
questions to ask.
Morelli made a steeple with his fingers and tapped them
against his chin. 'I think . . . yes,’ he said gravely, 'she may
have known.’
An image floated up of Sophie aged five or six playing for
hours with the doll’s house that’s still in her room at home.
I’d intended telling him about the sketchbook, the drawings
that seemed to foreshadow her murder, but since I had nothing
to show I decided not to mention it.
He rose to his feet, bringing the interview to an end.
We shook hands and Morelli promised to keep me informed
of any new developments. It was obvious he didn’t expect to
be getting in touch soon. The best I could hope for was a
cold-case review perhaps years from now. I was being asked
to accept that Sophie’s killer might never be brought to justice.
I had one more question to put to him.
'Did you ever talk to a friend of Sophie’s called Sam
Metcalf?’
'Metcalf?’ The investigator seemed anxious for me to leave
now. He was probably thinking about lunch. 'I don’t recognise
the name.’
'Apparently Sophie used her place sometimes to go online.’
'Leave it with me, I’ll look into it.’
'She’s flying home to the United States next week. For
good. I’m seeing her tomorrow. I could let you know what
happens.’
'By all means,’ Morelli said, as he walked me to the door.
He stopped and put a hand on my shoulder, so that I had
to turn to face him. 'This individual, the perpetrator … the
truth is, Signor Lister, for all we know he could have come
from the other side of the world to kill your daughter . . .
and then returned there.’
I felt like reminding him of his immigrant theory, but then
I thought, what if the sketchbook had in fact been stolen
from the atelier? Could one of the drawings have identified
her killer?
'Or he could still be here,’ I said, 'in Florence.’

Laura and I sat sharing a bottle of wine on the terrace of
our hotel, a former monastery set among its own olive groves
in the Viale dei Colli. A degree or two cooler in the hills, it
still felt oppressively hot. We had the garden to ourselves and
all you could hear was the soporific murmur of doves and
the splashing of a downhill water chain that linked a series
of fountains and reflecting pools. It was peaceful at the Villa
Arrighetti, almost too peaceful. I would have preferred a hotel
in town.
I wanted to feel closer to the crowded streets and piazzas

where I knew Sophie had walked, the places where she’d
hung out. I didn’t care about Florence’s infernal reputation
in summer. But Laura insisted on getting away from the
locust swarms of tourists, the heat, the traffic, the noise.
She was on a different kind of pilgrimage to mine. We all
have our own ways of remembering, our own paths of
escape.
At around two thirty Laura went inside to lie down. We
had arrived late the night before and she had complained
of not sleeping well. I ordered an espresso, made some
calls, then followed her up to our suite: two high-ceilinged,
sparsely furnished rooms that opened onto a pillared loggia.
The luxury was there but understated. I looked in the
bedroom and saw that Laura was asleep. Helping myself
to a cold beer from the fridge, I took my laptop out onto
the balcony.
It was now almost ten to three and I felt a coiling sense
of anticipation, a not-unpleasant tightness in my stomach. I
logged on to the internet and listened to a Mozart piano
concerto while I checked my e-mail.
There was nothing from Sam Metcalf. I took that to mean
that the meeting was still on for tomorrow. I hadn’t intended
telling Investigator Morelli about Sam – she’d asked me not
to say a word to anyone – but I felt bound to let him know
that his department’s investigation hadn’t been as thorough
as he claimed.
I’d encountered the same apathy in London. The way our
own police handled things had been depressingly inept. After
Sophie was murdered, two Scotland Yard detectives were sent
out to Florence to assist the Questura. Home again a month
later, they described their trip as an agreeable waste of time.
I complained and the case was duly referred to the Police
Complaints Authority. All I really wanted was to challenge the
official view that Sophie’s killer was unlikely ever to be caught.
And yet, as time went on, and the weeks and months became
a year, I gradually sank into that state of inertia people try
to dignify by calling 'acceptance’. I’m not the type to dwell
on the past, I believe in getting on with life. But grief has its
own trajectory and pulls you along. The pain doesn’t fade,
it goes somewhere else or lies dormant for a while, and then
it comes back when you least expect it.
Laura had found some comfort in her religion after Sophie
died. As a non-believer, I didn’t have that option. I buried
myself in work – sixteen-hour days, endless meetings,
constant travel. I didn’t want to have a single waking moment
when I wasn’t fully occupied. I’ve always been a grafter
(Laura claimed she didn’t notice the difference), but since
the murder I’d lost my enthusiasm for doing deals and
making money – money we didn’t need. I just kept going
and going.
After talking to Bailey and Morelli, I realised that even if
I could learn to live with what happened (being in Florence
again had awakened some strong emotions), I would never
lose the sense that as her father I had failed Sophie, let her

down.
At three o’clock exactly I tapped in a password for the
instant messaging service I use. 'Adorablejoker’ wasn’t online.
I clicked on her screen-name and typed 'you’re late’, which
a touch of the return key transferred to the dialogue box.

templedog: you’re late

There was no response. She must have left for work already.
I sat staring at the screen, resigned to the fact that I’d
missed her or that she’d simply forgotten, when suddenly her
name showed in bold and the button face beside it lit up
with a smile, indicating: 'I am available’.

r no, you’re late… i was on my way out templedog: I can’t stay long aj: so what else is new? td: hold on, lighting a cigarette aj: put it away
td: blowing smoke in your eyes aj: i swear to cheese… get that shit away from me td: just a couple more drags and I’ll put it out
ay: sure you will td: damn… hold on a sec

I could hear laughter. I glanced back through the double
doors into the bedroom and saw that Laura was awake. Sitting
up in bed, pointing the remote at the TV.
There was little danger of her coming onto the balcony,
and if she did I only had to hit the minimise button and
the dialogue box would vanish. I had nothing to hide, but
I didn’t feel at that moment like explaining 'adorablejoker’
to my wife.

td: unfortunately I have to go. When will you be on again
aj: i dunno, it may be a while
td: sounds ominous. I enjoy our conversations
a; you need to break the habit, mister
td: what’s that supposed to mean?
aj: i have to go down to DC

td: oh really, what for
aj: visiting a friend, ill be gone a couple of weeks

I stubbed out my cigarette. Still listening to Mozart, I looked
up from the screen, squinting against the harsh sunlight as
I let my gaze follow the avenue of cypresses that ran down
the hill between the olive groves. I imagined her sitting by
the window of her studio apartment in Brooklyn – a world
away.

aj: he’s just a friend, married, two kids
td: look, it’s okay… you need to get out more
aj: it’s not what you think, you know
td: I don’t remember saying what I think. I’ll be pretty busy myself
a;; well then… i’m gonna let you go
td: have fun in Washington
aj: yeah… i gotta run

I started to type something, just to have the last word, but
Jelena was gone. The little yellow icon beside her name had
faded to grey.
It was nonsense, of course – we’d been chatting online for
a few months, all perfectly innocent and above board – but
I had felt a twinge of resentment, even jealousy, which caught
me by surprise. I scrolled back and re-read what she’d said
about going to visit her 'friend’ in DC. I had no business
feeling anything at all.
I waited another few moments in case she changed her
mind and decided to come back online. Then I logged off
and sat staring out over the top of the balcony at Florence – the same view of rooftops and towers and verdigris cupolas
dominated by the pink hump of Brunelleschi’s dome
that I keep pinned up on the board in my London office
and I expect always will. A card from Sophie wishing me
a happy birthday, it had arrived a week after I learnt she
was dead.
When I heard the news, I was in the middle of the biggest,
most important deal of my life – it was a gold-mining venture
in Australia I’d been lucky enough to scramble aboard. We
had just finished signing the papers and were at the shaking
hands stage when I was called to the phone. In a jubilant
mood, I barely caught the murmured phrase 'on the line from
Florence . . .’ yet I knew instantly, in the pit of my stomach,
I knew something had happened to Sophie.
You don’t really formulate your worst fears until the words
are spoken. I remember oddly the smell of the perfume Joy,
which Laura uses, clinging to the receiver. It was reassuringly
familiar … for a split second I thought, no, all’s well. Then
I heard the confirmation that turned my moment of triumph
and every moment of triumph, or failure for that matter, to
ashes, to nothing. Forever.
I stood up and walked to the edge of the balcony and
looked down into the hotel grounds, trying to ignore a feeling
of restlessness, almost apprehension. It may have been thinking
about Sophie that brought it on, or wondering if I’d ever
hear from 'adorablejoker’ again, or the more immediate worry
that tomorrow’s meeting with Sam Metcalf would turn out
to be another dead end: I wasn’t sure of the reason. Then I
realised that I was being observed.
Our loggia couldn’t be seen from the garden, but at the
end of the cypress avenue, the other side of some old iron
gates that give onto the Viale Galileo Galilei, I could just
make out a figure standing motionless and gazing up towards
the villa.
I swung around, almost knocking over my beer – Laura
had just wandered out onto the balcony. I said something to
her, and she smiled. When I looked back down the hill again
the figure was gone.

At the turn of the stairs, Sam Metcalf paused, leaning out
from the rail and looking up through the balusters to check
the landing above, before she climbed the last flight. It was
a precaution she always took, ever since coming home from
a party late one night to find a stranger waiting for her there.
She counted herself lucky he’d only wanted money. Sam felt
in her jeans pockets for her key.
Outside her apartment, she pushed the door all the way
open so that she could see there was nobody lurking in the
hall or the kitchen. Then, still wary, stood and listened for
any unfamiliar sounds, straining to hear over the music.
The Iranians in the apartment below were playing Sheryl
Crow’s 'All I Wanna Do’ at full volume. At least she knew
she wasn’t alone in the building.
It was broad freaking daylight . . . what could possibly
happen?
She had to psych herself up before she could walk into
the apartment, dump her stuff, then, armed with a small knife
taken from the magnetic rack in the kitchen, look through
all the rooms. They were exactly how she’d left them.
A storm of honking rose from the street under her windows.
She came back into the hall and kicked the front door shut.
Leant her back against it, eyes closed.
She let the music soothe her, waiting for that line she liked
about the sun coming up on Santa Monica Boulevard, when
Sheryl’s 1990s hymn to laidback LA suddenly cut out. In the
silence it left she could hear a car’s engine idling.
A moment later, the Iranian couple’s door slammed and
there was a clatter of heels on the stone stairs. From the street
a hoarse male voice bellowed ' VaffanculoF
Then, as the car moved off, the telephone rang.
In the kitchen, Sam glanced at the Leonardo clock above
the stove and went on fixing herself a cup of coffee, trying
not to think about where she should have been thirty minutes
ago. She wasn’t picking up, not for anyone.
Clearing a space for her laptop, she sat down at the table
and waited for the phone to stop ringing. She knew she
should have called Sophie’s father, told him she couldn’t make
the meeting, made up some excuse. The last shrill note
resonated through the empty apartment. She took a sip of
coffee and scalded her lips. Shit . . . Her hands wouldn’t stop trembling.
'Nobody knows about. .. any of this. Let’s keep it that way.’
The voice had been seductive, fresh and faintly husky, like
a young Bill Clinton’s. It was the insinuating Midwestern lilt,
the question mark at the end of a sentence where none was
needed that had creeped her out, leaving her in no doubt as
to what would happen if she talked.
Last night, at her friend Jimmy’s house in Fiesole, she had
been too afraid to confide in him. He’d have insisted on her
going to the Questura. But what could she have told the
police? That she’d received a vaguely threatening phone-call
from an unknown person she thought might be a murderer?
Sam had lived in Italy long enough to know the police wouldn’t
offer her protection. They’d probably just withdraw her permesso, stop her leaving the country.
She’d lain awake until four a.m. trying to decide whether
or not to keep the appointment at the Trinita bridge. She
hated the idea of letting Sophie’s family down – felt doubly
guilty because she should’ve told them what she knew a long
time ago – but she couldn’t take the risk now.
She wasn’t prepared to die for people she’d never met.
It wasn’t as if she’d been all that friendly with Sophie.
The girl had come up to her after a British Council lecture,
claiming to be interested in early Renaissance ceramics.
Sam, whose field it was, had taken her under her wing. A
sweet kid, beautiful, talented, innocent, and yet – Sophie
Lister had turned out, disappointingly, to be keener on
using her place for going online in private than learning
the secrets of the Delia Robbia workshop. They barely
talked.
Sam switched on her Toshiba. She used to think about the
dead girl’s fingers having touched the keys, afraid her bad
karma would rub off on her, as if it were something you
could catch like a virus; but she was over that now.
It was the website she’d come across last week while weeding
her Favourites List – a website that could only have been left
there by Sophie – which, she believed, had contaminated the
machine.