Home Before Dark (43 page)

67

They were so natural with each other, that was really the
thing.
Her feet hurt like hell, her favourite pair of Jimmy Choos that cost her a month’s pay were as good as ruined, but any
time Ed suggested getting a cab, Jelly insisted, no, no, she was fine, she loved to walk.
All she was doing was delaying the moment when they would reach the corner of her street. She kept thinking ahead to what she was going to say when it came to crunch time: there was no way she could risk inviting him up.
They were on Third Avenue, a couple of blocks from home now, talking as they went along, the pace getting slower and slower the closer they got to Thirty-ninth Street. Ed was busy telling her he’d decided he wanted to change his life – give away his money, help the poor, save the planet and all that hilarious bullshit. He explained how his feelings for her had made him see the world in a new wonderful light.
Then he started going on about leaving his wife and coming back for her. 'It’ll take me a month to arrange things, maybe less.’
God, the fool really was serious.
'Why even say shit like that when you know you won’t do it and if you did that I wouldn’t be able to love you? You’re not free, you have a family who need you . . .’
He halted middle of the sidewalk and swung her around by the arm, forcing her to look at him. 'I can’t live without you, Jelly,'he said.

'You’re crazy, you know that? We’ve known each other for
how long, five hours? And you want to give up everything
for . . . you haven’t a fucking clue!’
People passing by were giving them odd looks.
'Seven, if you include lunch. I’m going to cancel my flight,
stay over a couple more days. We can get to know each other
better.’
'Oh Jesus.’ She pulled free, twisting her head away. 'Why
do you have to be so goddamn stubborn? You know something?
You’re really starting to scare me.’
Jelly marched on ahead and then, wiping her eyes, turned
to him. 'Anyway, I won’t be around this weekend. I’m going
down the Jersey shore with Guy . . .’
'Guy? What do you mean?’
'Some friends of his have a rental right on the water. It’ll
be fun, you know, just hanging out . . . He’s got tickets for
a Mary J. Blige concert in Asbury Park.’
'I thought you told him you were in love with someone

else.’
'Yeah, well, we’re still friends. We’re cool around each other.’
She was afraid he’d see through her attempt to pass Guy
Mallory off as her old boyfriend. But how could Ed possibly
know? She wasn’t even sure why she’d mentioned Guy’s
name at the restaurant. Maybe she thought of him as a kind of insurance. A safeguard. Guy had turned up at the right
time, they seemed to get on okay, but she had no idea if she
wanted to see him again. 'I just want to move on with my

life.’
'You think maybe if you do decide to go to Paris . . . ?’
'Eddie, we have to give this up,’ she said gently, taking his
hand as they turned into her street. 'We both know I’m not
what you really need.’ It was a line she remembered from
some movie.
He nodded slowly, working his frown into a solemn little
smile as he said, 'I think it’s more a case of I’m not what you
need.’
'I’m sorry, Eddie.’ She couldn’t look at him.

Ward pulled into the kerb on the south side of Thirty-eighth
Street and Lexington Avenue, a block away and diagonally
across from Jelena Sejour’s apartment building. An old
Murray Hill walk-up, it was one of the last hold-outs against
the flashy high-rises that had overwhelmed the once sedate
residential neighbourhood.
He was driving his Golf rental, having left the more conspicuous
and less reliable Buick station-wagon across the river
at the Huyler’s Inn parking lot in Alpine, NJ – he planned
to collect it on the way back after picking up his passenger.
He looked through the windshield at the fourth-floor windows.
No lights were showing.
Still out gallivanting, as Alice would say.
He turned on the car stereo, tuned it to a wide band of
static between stations, then cranked up the volume – the
way he used to when he was a kid to drown out the sound
of his parents arguing.
Then he settled down to wait.

On the stoop of her apartment building, I stood and watched Jelly fumbling for her keys, angling her open purse to catch
the light over the door. I could see how badly her hands were
shaking.
'Can I help you with that?’ I offered.
'Thanks. I got it.’ She snapped her purse shut and held

up the keys.
'Well then.’ I stuffed my hands in my pockets, took a step back onto the sidewalk. 'I don’t suppose we’ll meet again.’
'You understand I can’t invite you up,’ she said.
'No, I understand.’ She was busy fitting the key to the lock.
'You take care, Eddie.’
I bowed my head, not trusting myself to speak, then turned

away.
The next second I heard her keys clatter to the ground. I
swung around and ran up the steps and caught Jelly as she
turned to face me, her arms already open. I held her tight
and she gave a weird little cry, part sigh, part whimper. Then
our lips touched and almost immediately I felt the tip of her
tongue seeking mine and when they met I felt a warm electric
shock that became a series of warm electric shocks.
I don’t know how long we stood there, as deeply entwined
as it’s possible for two people to become with clothes on. It
was a kiss that carried a lot of dubious freight and belonged
in some way to another age. But was probably none the worse
for it.
After a while, she pushed me away. I stumbled down the
steps. I don’t remember seeing her bend down to pick up
her keys or run inside. Suddenly she was gone and the door
had banged shut behind her.

Ward couldn’t quite believe his luck.
He watched Ed Lister come to the corner of Thirty-ninth
Street and walk slowly out into the traffic holding up a hand
for a taxi. He wasn’t sure what had gone down, but the display
he’d just witnessed on the doorstep was clearly a farewell
scene.
He might have had to wait all night.
A yellow cab screeched to a halt at the Englishman’s feet.
Ward slid low in his seat, then opened a window. He was
pretty sure he overheard Ed say to the driver, 'Hotel Carlyle.’
The radio was off now.
He waited ten minutes: in case either one of them had a
change of heart. Then he started the engine and drove around
the block, crawling up Thirty-ninth Street. He gave a 'yesss’
of satisfaction when he found an empty parking space right
outside her front door, things still going his way.
In the outer lobby, he looked down the list of names beside
the mailboxes and rang the bell for
SEJOUR
. There was no
reply. He hit it again impatiently.
The intercom crackled. 'Jelena?’
'Go away, Ed,’ she said, 'please just go away.’ Her voice
cracking with emotion reminded him of half-melted sugar
crystals at the bottom of a coffee cup.
'Hey, it’s me, Guy … Guy Mallory?'The
CCTV
obviously
was broken.
'Guy?’ He heard her confusion. 'What you doin’ here?’
'I was in the neighbourhood, I just thought I’d see if you
wanted to go out for a nightcap … if you’re not busy.’
'It’s kinda late, isn’t it? I’m sorry, I’ve a really bad headache.’
'Can I get you something? Would you like me to come

up?’
'No, I’ll be fine.’
'Have it your own way.’
'What?’
'Nothing. Get some sleep.’
She let it go. 'Listen, call me, okay?’
She hung up before he got the chance to say goodnight.
Ward stood there, head lowered. He felt his face getting
hot. He was a little disappointed in Jelly not wanting him to
come up. She sounded pretty upset. He would have offered
her his shoulder to cry on.
In a sudden eruption of rage, he kicked at the door and
cursed loudly and viciously enough for a couple walking past
to turn their heads.
Then he took off the rucksack, swung it to the ground by
the straps and hunkered down beside it. He found a way to
sit on his heels without getting Ed’s suit dirty, resting his
back against the tiled wall under the mailboxes.

Ward knew he could easily force the lock and get into the
building, but he preferred to wait for one of the other residents
to come in or out. He wanted to be seen heading up to Jelly’s
apartment by someone who would remember him.
He’d give it twenty . . . half an hour max.

70

The telephone in my hotel room was ringing when I got off
the elevator.
I was so certain it was Jelly, I began rehearsing what I was
going to say to her as I hurriedly swiped the lock, pushed
open the door, then ran to pick up the extension on the
bedside table.
'You’re a hard man to find, Signor Lister.’
'Andrea.’ I fell back to earth. 'It’s you.’
'Did you receive my e-mail?’
'Hold on.’ I went back and kicked the door shut. 'What
e-mail? I’m sorry, I just walked in.’
'Then you haven’t heard from your wife?’
'No.’ I felt my insides tighten, afraid he was going to tell
me something had happened to Laura, or George. 'Is everything
all right?’
'She sounded in good spirits when we spoke earlier. I asked
her to pass on a message, in case she found you first.’
'I’ve been out a lot. I had my mobile switched off.’
'My spies tell me you were at the opera.’
I didn’t bother correcting him. Still in another world, I
wasn’t in the mood for Morelli’ s suave, easy-going banter.
'Andrea, it’s late here. I need to get some sleep. What can I
do for you?’
'We have a suspect.’ He cleared his throat importantly. 'I
want you to open the attachment I sent you. Can you look
at it now?’
I put the phone down and went over to the desk; it took
seconds to boot up my laptop and retrieve Morelli’s e-mail
from my inbox. The attached image file downloaded as I
carried the laptop back to the bed.
'You know the face?’ the investigator asked.
It was a pen and ink portrait of a man, head and shoulders,
no one I’d ever seen before – at least that was my first
impression.
'Where did you get this?’ I demanded, my heart beating
faster. The portrait was in the same intense, meticulous style
as Sophie’s drawings.
'Sam Metcalf’s apartment. I found it in the bathroom,
tucked behind the doors of the medicine cabinet.’ He sounded
pleased with himself. 'I believe your daughter may have hidden
it there.’
The missing page cut from her sketchbook.
'I don’t recognise him,’ I said, still staring at the screen.
'You think this is the person who killed her? Sophie actually drew her murderer?’
He didn’t answer.
I looked closer at the head. A Roman bust – the kind
students at the atelier are encouraged to draw – wearing a
Ralph Lauren shirt. I could see the little polo player emblem
on the breast pocket. The effect was smooth, bland, sinister – I had no doubt that was what Sophie had intended. She
must have done the sketch from memory (it seemed unlikely
he’d have sat for her, or let himself be photographed) as a
kind of predictive Identikit. She knew.
I felt proud of her and at the same time devastated.
It was a good-looking face, instantly forgettable. I was determined
to memorise every loathsome feature.
Morelli said, 'We’ve been trying to get in touch with her
art teacher. Bailey Grant is in Tunisia and not contactable. I
was hoping you might have an opinion . . .’
'Yes, it’s her work,’ I said impatiently. 'And if you’d followed
up the connection with Sam Metcalf when I told you about
her …’ I stopped myself. It was pointless getting angry. 'You
said you had a suspect.’
'Your daughter’s drawing has led us to someone we are very
interested in talking to … Un secondo.’ In the background I
could hear a disembodied Italian voice squawking over a PA
system. 'Forgive me, Signor Lister. They finally announced my
flight. Does the name David Mallet mean anything to you?’
'Mallet? No.’
'He was staying in rented accommodation near San Miniato
on the night your daughter was killed.The landlady recognised
him from the drawing as one of her lodgers. He was there
for a few weeks, very quiet, kept himself to himself, doing
some kind of research; she thought he might have been writing
a book.’
I was stunned into silence.
'She was pretty sure it was him,’ Morelli said. 'He’s American,
lives or was living in Paris. It could be a false trail, or
just coincidence, but the address David Mallet has been linked
with is interesting – 20 rue Mabillon, I believe, is a couple
of doors away from your office.’
'What the hell does that mean?
'I don’t know. But my advice is be careful. I’ll be in Paris
in a couple of hours. I’ve asked the Surete to run some checks.
When do you get back to London?’
'Tomorrow . . . maybe.’
'By then I may have more.’
There was nothing from Laura on my voice-mail, which
didn’t altogether surprise me; she wouldn’t have paid much
attention to anything Morelli said and she hated leaving
messages. But still, I thought, she must have realised this
could be important.
Campbell Armour had called twice – at 5.47 p.m., to say
he couldn’t make the meeting; then again at 10.38 p.m., leaving
word that he needed to talk to me urgently.
It was now after one. I called him back at the number he’d
left; dialled it without thinking. There was no reply. Five rings,
then the recording cut in and I recognised my own voice on
the tape. I’d reached Laura’s grandmother’s house, La
Rochelle. I checked the number again, it was right. Just didn’t
make any sense.
I wasn’t worried about Alice Fielding. I wouldn’t have
expected her to answer the phone this late – the old lady was
usually in bed and asleep by ten. But I couldn’t understand
what the detective had been doing at her house. Why on earth
would Campbell have gone out there? How did he get the
number, the address?
It had to be some kind of mistake. I tried Campbell’s cell, then I called his home number in Tampa and left a message.
I fixed myself a large Scotch and water, drank it down and
poured another.
The discovery of Sophie’s drawing, leading so swiftly to the identifying of a suspect, should have raised my spirits, but it had left me feeling depressed and uneasy. I wasn’t sure
what to make of Ward living near my office in Paris. It
sickened me to think I must have passed him on the street and not known.
I couldn’t stop thinking about Jelena.
Her scent was on my hands and face, my clothes. I could still taste her, feel the warmth of her skin. I kept going back
to the moment at dinner when she admitted she felt the same
way I did. Maybe I was still wrong, but it seemed to me obvious
that she didn’t really want me to leave. I had to force
myself to walk away. I just knew it was up to me to do the
right thing, and that meant thinking about what was best for
her. I so nearly went back and rang her doorbell.
I carried my drink to the desk and sat down with my laptop
to study the sketch of 'David Mallet’ more closely. I made
an effort to imagine the man’s face in different guises, different
contexts. I pulled up the photos of Ernest Seaton’s parents
and looked for some family resemblance. I couldn’t see it,
couldn’t see either Gary or June in those neutral features; yet
there was something about him.
I began to wonder if I hadn’t caught a glimpse of the face
recently – possibly even tonight, here in New York. It was just
a vague impression, the memory of it lodged at the back of my
mind like an itch I couldn’t reach. But I felt there was a chance,
if it had happened this evening while we were out together,
that Jelly might have noticed whatever it was I’d missed.
I dialled her cell.