Home Before Dark (6 page)

Outside the limonaia, I stopped and looked back, raking the
beam across the shadowy rooms of the garden. It had been
laid out long before the villa itself was built, to conform with
some now-forgotten symbology – its hidden meaning, Sophie
told me once, supposedly to do with 'a secret trail leading
from the darkness of ignorance to the light of wisdom’. I
wasn’t into Renaissance gardens or the occult, but the
murderer could have been.
Taking the path I remembered leading into the boscos, the
unkempt corner at the far end of the garden, I soon came
on the mound of the grotto. It had been formed originally
to look like a natural cave with rusticated boulders piled
around the opening. A couple of straggly cypresses stood
sentry outside.
I lit a cigarette to steady my nerves. Now that I was here,
I felt a reluctance – repulsion is closer – to enter the place. I
had to force myself over the threshold of what I saw desolately
as the mouth of hell. I felt afraid for her.
The torch cast my shadow ahead of me, picking up the
carved stone benches either side of a pedimented doorway.
Beyond lay the circular chamber with domed ceiling and flagstone
floor where Sophie had been discovered by the Nardinis’
dogs, a yapping posse of Jack Russell terriers.
Just inside and to the left of the doorway the chalk outline
tracing her body was still clearly visible. Somebody had
neglected to wash it away. I could understand why not many
would want to come down here after what happened. But I
wasn’t prepared for that vivid diagram, for the stillness, for
the scene to be so . . . fresh.
She looked as if she was sleeping.
The walls of the grotto were smooth and plain apart from a
stone rosette at the apex of the dome. An iron grille incorporated
into its design covered an air shaft that I imagined
would also admit a little light by day.
Advancing to the centre, I sank down onto my haunches,
then slowly revolved the beam of the torch through 360
degrees, exploring the floor and sides of the chamber; there
was nothing, not even a dead leaf or a cobweb. It was as if
the place had been swept clean, leaving only the chalk diagram.
I lay the torch on the ground pointing in its direction.
At the requiem, Bailey had told the mythical story of the
first drawing, about a young girl who sees her lover, a soldier,
asleep by the fire and longs to preserve his beauty. Taking a
charred stick from the embers, she traces his shadow thrown
onto the wall of the cave by the firelight and so makes permanent
his presence in the world.
'A simple act of love,’ Bailey had said, 'but in her instinctive
urge to make a mark, to record and so stay the fleeing moment
lies an antidote to the human condition.’

I knelt forward and put my hand inside the chalk outline.
I felt the stone flags . . . they would have been colder on the
night. One theory, supported by the bruising, was that the
killer struck her from behind somewhere in the garden, then
carried her in here and strangled her. He would have had to
have been strong.
In his valediction, Bailey pointed out that we should be
grateful for the life of a young artist who 'drew like an
angel’ and left something of herself behind in her work. I
disagreed, but liked him for saying it. After mass we stood
on the steps of San Miniato looking out over Florence.
Laura was crying, just barely holding it together, and I had
my arm around her. Bailey came up to us and I was afraid
he would want to talk, but he simply handed over Sophie’s
sketchbook and left.
I didn’t have time to do more than leaf through the drawings
on our way back to the hotel. Even a quick glance confirmed
what I already suspected: that they were inspired by the white house in the website Sam Metcalf had found on her computer.
A page had been cut out from near the front of the sketchbook.
Bailey couldn’t say whether this was recent, but he assured
me that no drawings were missing.
I switched off the torch.
In the pitch dark, the rise and fall of my breathing, magnified
by the sepulchral acoustics, reminded me of a sleeping animal,
or something heavy being dragged in effortful stages across
the floor. The crypt had an earthy, not unpleasant smell.
The truth is I could never face up to the reality of Sophie’s
murder – it was partly why I had to come here. I wanted to
replay the sights and sounds of what was done to my child
in this dismal spot. I wanted to confront the demon. I tried
to imagine her state of mind . . . there was a shield in the
way. Oh Jesus fucking Christ, you have to know how scared
she must have been.
I began to shiver although it wasn’t cold.
I remembered the last time I saw Sophie, we were standing
on Via del Moro outside the restaurant where Laura and I
dined last night. We’d had an argument, nothing major, and
she seemed a little down. I almost asked her if everything
was all right, but Sophie brightened and the moment went
past. This was only a week before it happened, when it seems
certain she was already being stalked.
Why didn’t she say anything to me? Why didn’t I pick up
on the fact that she was afraid? I’ve asked myself often enough.
At the time I was preoccupied with work, under pressure,
putting the finishing touches to the deal that made me rich
enough never to have to worry about money again. She may
have felt I was too busy to bother with her problems I find
that hard to bear.

I reached a decision then, right there in that hell-hole where the horror caught up with her, which was as binding as a
solemn oath. After fourteen months, I didn’t need to analyse
my pledge or question its legitimacy. The police, who’d
achieved nothing in all that time, had as good as admitted
defeat, closed the case. The rage against injustice which I’d
suppressed for long enough had distilled into cold clear
resolve. I’ve always had drive, the voice inside you that will
never, never let you give up, but from now on, I decided, I
would devote all my energy and resources to avenging
Sophie’s death.
If it took the rest of my life I was going to find him.

I’d heard something: a soft, dry whirring sound that seemed
to come from above my head. Resisting the urge to snap on the torch, I held my breath and listened. The whirring noise
stopped, but for a moment longer I thought I could hear
breathing that I knew wasn’t mine.
By now my eyes had adjusted to the blackness. I was
conscious of a faint glow around the vent at the top of the dome. It came from a tiny segment of the night sky that had
just grown darker. A shadow had passed over it as if someone
had moved their head into the opening and was looking down
at me through the rusted grille.
Careful not to make any noise, I reached for the torch that lay on the floor beside me and closed my fingers around the handle. Then, in one swift movement, I swung it upward and, aiming at the centre of the ceiling, hit the switch.
The beam sprang onto the target. Blinking at the sudden
brightness, I squinted along the shaft of light. I can’t be sure
of exactly what it was I saw glinting back at me from behind the grille. Possibly the lens of a camera, or a pair of glasses,
or a refracting eye … it had a metallic bluish tint.

The next instant it was gone.
It took me at most thirty seconds to scramble from the grotto’s
inner chamber to the top of the mound. There was no one
there. My heart still racing, I shone the torch all around,
throwing the beam into the undergrowth, up into the trees – it revealed nothing unusual, no movement anywhere this
end of the garden.
Searching the bushes on the mound, I found the outlet for
the air-vent easily enough. It was capped by a heavy stone
cowl. The ground round about showed no sign of having
been disturbed.
Yet I knew I hadn’t imagined what happened, I knew I’d
seen something.
Just then I heard the explosive chatter of a motorino starting up the far side of the perimeter wall on Via della
Scala. I wheeled around, swinging the light up to the top
of the wall, when my mobile went off in my pocket like an
alarm clock.
Laura! I’d promised to call her before seven, and it had
gone clean out of my head. I answered without waiting for
her to speak.
'Sweetheart, I’m sorry . . . I’m on my way now. All well?’
There was a long pause.
'All well here. How you doing?’
It was a man’s voice, husky, lilting.
'Who is this?’ My first thought was that somebody was with Laura, but that made no sense. There was a sudden dull
thump from the other end of the line, followed by incoherent
mumbling.
I glanced at the mobile’s display screen, it was empty.
'You know what?’ The sing-song voice had a strained
quality, as if the caller was exerting himself. His breathing
came hard. 'This isn’t … a real good time . . . not right
now.’
'I think you must have a wrong number,’ I said.

'Take it easy, Ed.’
'Wait, who is this?’
But the line was already dead.

Ward tasted a mouthful of the pappardelle and nodded. 'Molto
buono . Ś Ś excellent,’ he said to the waiter who’d brought the
plate to his table and insisted on waiting for a verdict, 'milk
grazie, signore.’
He wanted to be left alone now to enjoy his food.
The home-made pasta and sugo di cinghiale complemented each other perfectly. He drank some wine and chased the rich musky flavour of wild boar to the back of his throat. He was relieved it hadn’t triggered, as sometimes happened when
he was in a 'feeling’ mood, an explosion of colour. The cuisine here was spectacular enough, he didn’t want the experience
blown off by a firework display.
He was sitting where she sat that evening with her father.
He thought of asking the maitre d’ about the tall quiet
English couple who dined here last night. Same table? Ward was curious, but couldn’t risk drawing attention to himself.
If Ed and Laura walked in off the street right now – he’d
checked there was no reservation in the name of Lister – he
wondered how it’d feel. Would they recognise him, or sense his presence? Would he somehow give himself away? The idea of observing them at close quarters excited him.
It would be like Sophie bringing him home to meet her folks. The only reason he chose this place – one of the few
authentic Tuscan restaurants in Florence where the menu
wasn’t limited to white beans, offal and steak – was because
he wanted to feel close to her again.
He cleaned the last of the dark sauce on his plate with a
piece of bread and put it in his mouth, then licked the small
graze on the knuckle of his thumb. He knew he was playing
a dangerous game coming back to Florence.
Last night he’d carried out a quick search of Sam Metcalf’s
stripped-down apartment, working around but not touching
the tiers of boxes and packing cases in every room – a laptop
wasn’t an item anyone would choose to ship.
He wasn’t sure if he’d been right to warn her. He’d called
Sam from the airplane, out on the tarmac, as soon as the
seat-belt signs were switched off. When she realised who
he was – that was a moment to savour – he’d heard fear
tint her voice. It triggered one of his episodes, keeping him
in his seat long after the other passengers. So far a simple
phone call had achieved the desired effect. She’d lost her
nerve about meeting up with Ed Lister. But the potential
for trouble was still there – he’d been left with a situation
that could easily get out of control.
He’d seen Sam Metcalf just once, from a distance. Ward
never forgot a face. The snapshot of her he’d found in the
bathroom (her arm around some greaseball at the top of
Giotto’s bell tower) matched the one in his head.
How well, he wondered, did she remember him?
Where he’d screwed up was assuming the laptop was in
the tote bag Sam gave her friend at the station. He should’ve
noticed from the way he held it that the weight was different;
but he was too far away. Plus Jimmy walked funny.
He’d followed him down Via Tornabuoni, cruising the
windows of the designer stores, staying just close enough
to move in quickly if it became necessary. Ward knew all
about shadowing people. When he saw the subject dive into
Ferragamo, he felt certain it was to meet Ed Lister and hand
over the laptop, but a passing glance through the window
revealed Jimbo, swathed in a Hugh Heffner-style silk robe,
admiring himself in the floor-to-ceiling mirror.
The canvas bag at his feet.
His main course arrived – veal escalope al limone served
with baby leaf spinach. He was going to be sitting up on a
train half the night, he didn’t want to feel stuffed. He looked
at his watch: five to eight. He asked for the coffee and his
check to be brought at the same time. Then, as the waiter
turned away, he called him back.
'And, signore, a slice of your chocolate torta…’ He shrugged
and gave a self-indulgent little smile. 'What the hell.’

It was in an empty courtyard off one of the narrow back
streets behind the Piazza Antinori that he caught up with
Jimmy Macchado. He was halfway in the door of the
apartment when Ward called out, 'Hi, you don’t know me
. . .’ Stepping from the shadows with his hands up, big
friendly smile. 'But when I passed you just then, I thought,
hey, seen that face before. Aren’t you a friend of Sam
Metcalf . . . ?’
They’d taken it from there. Small world, fellow Americans
abroad, dear old Florence, everybody knows everybody . . .
and so on. He found it came naturally to him playing the
flirtatious straight guy – hesitant, sincere, butch-lite practically
irresistible to Jimmy’s kind.
His mistake, the dumb schmuck, was going on about how
he’d love to invite him in, only it wasn’t his place … he was
just cat-sitting for a friend. Had to water the plants too, every
other day, for a month.
By the time Ward got to see that there was nothing in the
tote bag but the desperate-playboy robe, it was too late to let
him go.
The voice, lime-green against the blue rhombus that turned
slowly between his ears, kept asking the annoying question,
why?
Jimmy was begging for it, that’s why.
C’mon, you can do better than that.
You really want to know?
You’re dying to tell me . . . what didya have to kill him for,
Ward?
He was getting lime-green needles now. He picked up a
spoon and began working his way methodically through the
chocolate cake.
He couldn’t let him go because, one, the little cocksucker’d
seen his face. Two, it was obvious that Sam had told Jimmy
everything. And, three, the added bonus, he’d given him an
address for her in Venice – a small hotel on the island of
Burano.
He didn’t want to talk about this any more.