Home Before Dark (7 page)

Ward slung his rucksack over one shoulder and set off down
Via del Moro. It had been hot and stuffy in the restaurant
and he was glad to breathe the slightly fresher air of the
streets. He crossed to the opposite sidewalk and lingered for
a moment in an unlit doorway. It was here that he’d witnessed,
it seemed like only yesterday, Sophie and her old man saying
goodbye for the last time.
The word goodbye had taste and weight … it felt like
something oily slipping through his fingers. One day he hoped
to tell Ed about the love he felt for his daughter. Try to make
him understand that he and Soph were meant.
At the corner with Via del Sole, he looked back again and
saw that a black Mercedes cab had pulled up in front of
Garga. He waited to see who would get out.
It wasn’t the Listers. He continued on his way, making a
nostalgic detour that took him past the Badia, the church
where Dante supposedly first set eyes on his Beatrice. He
had left himself plenty of time to walk to the railroad station
and still catch the night train to Venice.
Venice

'Notice anything going on in this one?’ I asked Will.
The sketchbook lay on the table between us, open at an
exterior view of the house. I drew his attention to an attic
dormer with the shutters thrown back revealing a half-open
sash window.
The same dormer I’d seen come to life on the homebeforedark website.
'You may need a magnifying glass,’ I said.
Will gave me a disparaging look over the top of his glasses,
then pushed them up onto his forehead and bent low to
examine the drawing.
'Isn’t that someone standing there,’ he said, 'a figure behind
the casement?’
I nodded. 'What was Sophie’s state of mind when she drew
this?’
He sat back in his chair, considering. 'You say the drawings
are based on a website this friend of hers claims Sophie left
on her laptop?’
'A virtual house. I haven’t seen inside yet, but the facades
are identical.’ I’d explained to Will about Sam Metcalf and
our aborted meeting in Florence. I’d heard nothing more
from her.
'This really isn’t my field, Ed.’
'I wasn’t asking for your opinion as a shrink.’
Besides being Laura’s brother and one of my oldest
friends, DrWill Calloway is a senior consultant in psychiatry
at the Maudsley Hospital. He put his hands together in a
prayer shape. 'Yes, you were.’ Little smile. 'I get a sense of
reined-in emotions, issues of flight or concealment, fear perhaps – that comes across quite strongly. Doesn’t stop
the drawings, of course, being the product of Sophie’s own
imagination.
He pushed a plate of sandwiches towards me. Laura and
I had left Florence early that morning and I’d called Will on
the way in from Heathrow to ask if he could meet me for
lunch. We’d ended up ordering from the hospital cafeteria.
'What if it was a real house,’ I said, 'an actual place?’
Will turned to another drawing, an interior, that showed
two empty chairs facing an ancient cabinet TV in the corner
of a bleak-looking lounge. The picture on the miniature screen
was the famous scene from Breakfast at Tiffany’s where George
Peppard kisses Audrey Hepburn in the rain. I suspect Sophie
had added the tiny image as a personal touch. The movie
was a favourite of hers.
He closed the sketchbook. 'I’d like to borrow this, if it’s all
right with you. I want to show these drawings to a colleague.
We need an objective opinion.’
Will was silent a moment. He’d been particularly fond of
his niece. Then he said, with a sigh, 'My guess is she knew
she was going to be murdered.’

'So what did you want to talk about that couldn’t wait?’
The question, though I was half expecting it, caught me
off guard.
'Will, for Christ’s sake . . .’ I’d been describing what
happened last night in the grotto at the Villa Nardini. Brushing
aside his observation that I was distraught, full of anger,
possibly in a hallucinatory state, I insisted there had been
someone up on the mound peering down at me through the
vent. I didn’t imagine it. Or the call to my mobile. 'I think I
actually spoke to Sophie’s murderer.’
He smiled. 'I know you, normally you’d have gone straight
to the office.’
'You’re not listening. I’m almost sure it was him.’
'Did you call the police? Your friend, Morelli?’
'What would have been the point?’ I’d told Will earlier
about my discouraging visit to the Questura and how it made
me realise finally that it was down to me now to get justice
for Sophie. 'Don’t worry, I’ll follow this up. I’ll find him.’
He nodded slowly. 'How’s Laura, by the way?’
'She’s fine, fine, I think Florence did her good. The requiem
helped.’
'And how about you? Aside from your . . . ordeal.’
I took a bite out of a sandwich, tuna and sweetcorn. The
conversation was taking a predictable turn. Before we left,
I’d told Will I had hopes of our trip bringing Laura and me
closer together.
'We’re surviving,’ I said, answering his next question before
he could ask it. 'I won’t pretend it’s any better than that.’ I drank some coffee. I wanted to smoke. Will, imperturbable,
knew how to wait.
'There’s nobody else … in case that’s what you’re thinking.’
He
was aware that we were having problems, and that
Sophie’s death had widened the cracks. I don’t know if Laura
ever spoke to him about our marriage (somehow I doubt it),
but I did from time to time. Will was scrupulously careful
not to get involved or take sides. 'Never even crossed my
mind.’
He’d introduced me to his sister the spring of 1983, when
we all happened to be in New York together. Laura was over
visiting friends and I’d just come back for another bite of the

62
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Apple after a disastrous debut a few years before had forced
a hasty withdrawal. Will, who was doing his doctoral thesis
at Columbia, helped with my rehabilitation, gave me a place
to stay until I got on my feet and put me in touch with all
the right people, including my future wife.
As he once said himself, he had a lot to answer for.
I looked around his neat, antiseptic office, the NHS-green
walls relieved only by his patients’ art offerings. Maybe I was
prompted by the therapeutic setting, or by an uneasy
conscience, but I never intended to bring up the subject of
Jelena.
'I need your advice, Will, and this time I don’t mean
professional advice.’
'You just hate to part with money.’ He was deadpan behind
his owlish, horn-rimmed glasses. 'Fire away.’
'I met someone … in a chat room on the internet.’
Silence. Then he burst out laughing. 'For Christ’s sake,
Ed.’
'I was hoping that’s how you’d react,’ I said evenly.
'I can’t help it . . . it’s just so perfect. The last person in
the world I’d expect to hook up with an online chick. Is she
legal?’
'Maybe this is not such a good idea.’
As a rule I keep things pretty close to my chest. But if I
ever feel the need to unload I can depend on Will to take the
piss. Which isn’t a bad arrangement, if you’re prone (as I’ve
been told I am) to taking yourself too seriously. After Sophie
died, I opened up to him – as a friend, not as a shrink, though
his understanding of the psychological effects of loss did no
harm. That was different.
'Why do I get the feeling you’re being defensive?’
He meant it as a joke, but I couldn’t really see the funny
side.
'Until a year ago,’ I retaliated, 'I had hardly any experience
of the internet. I used to warn Sophie about the dangers
without really understanding what they were.’
Will slouched down in his chair. 'I’m sorry, Eddie.’

'When the police admitted they hadn’t the resources to
hunt for her murderer in cyberspace . . . well, I know more
now’
'Remember you telling me. No stone unturned.’
'I told you I was posting bulletins on MySpace and writing
on Facebook walls asking for information. What I didn’t tell
you was that I began trawling the Net using Sophie’s old ID,
pretending to be her, hoping the stalker might respond.
'In the end I found it too painful, but I went on haunting
the chat rooms, looking for someone who might have come
across Stormypetrel – Sophie’s screen-name. I’d talk to
anybody, approach total strangers and start telling them her
story – I know, it sounds pathetic, but it helped. At least I
felt I was doing something.
'Anyway, that’s how I got talking to this girl. It wasn’t a
pick-up, Will. She lives in Brooklyn, she’s twenty-five, single,
teaches kindergarten … oh and she plays the piano – surprisingly
well. She doesn’t think she has a hope of being accepted,
but her dream is to study music at the Conservatoire in Paris.’
Will was looking at me, not saying anything.

For a moment it was as if his sister was sitting there.
There’s a strong family resemblance. He has her candid,
light blue eyes, a Calloway feature; though Will’s dark-haired
and sturdily built, as opposed to willowy blonde. They have
a certain way of tilting the head, the same appraising smile – emotional detachment, a coolness at the centre, is another
family trait.
'We got on right away. She’s bright, she makes me laugh.’
'Have you met her? Seen her on cam? Spoken to her?’
I shook my head.
'But I take it you know what she looks like?’
'She sent me a photo . . . reasonably attractive.’
'How can you be sure it’s her?’ He sighed. 'Does she know
you’re married? How old you are? Who you are? You didn’t
give her your real name, did you?’
'Look, I really don’t think she’s interested in my money.’
'Then she can’t know how much you’re worth,’ he said
drily. 'So what’s the attraction? Sex, I suppose. But for her?’
I didn’t mind being grilled by Will. It was probably what
I wanted: someone to ask the awkward, obvious questions.
He needed to get one thing straight, though.
'This is not about sex.’
Will lifted an eyebrow.
'We just seem to hit it off in some mysterious way.’
He groaned. 'Ed, I see a lot of patients who are involved
in online relationships. They all “hit it off in some mysterious
way”. Strangers project their daydreams and fantasies onto
each other. It’s called affective transference. But don’t underestimate
the seductive power of a wishful e-mail. Cyber affairs
can cause havoc’
'It’s not even close to being an affair. I can walk away from
this any time, just hit the delete switch . . . And so can she.’
He looked sceptical. 'Have you told Laura?’
'What for? I’m not playing away from home. You know I’d
never do anything to hurt Laura. I said there’s no one else
and I meant it.’
'Then why are you telling me?’
'Her life is so different to mine half the time I might as
well be talking to somebody from another planet. And yet it
feels … I don’t know, I feel I can be myself with her.’ I
shifted in my seat. 'She helps me to forget.’
'The analogy is opening up to a stranger on a train, someone
you know you’ll never meet again.’ It was the doctor speaking
now. 'You’ve had a rough year of it, Ed. It’s not hard to see
why this happened. Only you’re wrong if you think there can
be intimacy without strings. I don’t like to preach, but the
person you should be . . .’
I cut him off. 'Then don’t.’
'You asked my advice.'Will took off his glasses and rubbed
his eyes. I was braced for his midlife crisis lecture, but all I
got was a warning. 'She could be setting you up for blackmail,
some kind of scam. Think what would happen if this came
out.’
'If what came out? It’s not even an issue,’ I said calmly.
'You’re flying blind, Ed. People find not what they want
on the Web, but what they wish for: that’s why it can be
dangerous. Just remember you can’t see the expression on her
face when she’s typing to you.’
Will glanced at his watch, then leaned back in his chair
and put his hands behind his head. 'Your fifty minutes are
up. I have other patients to see.’
'Very funny.’ I made a one-fingered gesture.
'So what are you going to do?’ he asked as he walked me
to the door. 'How are you going to find this person?’
For a moment I thought we were still talking about the
girl.

In the car, on the way from the Maudsley to my office, I
booted up my laptop and checked my mailbox again. I’d sent
Jelena a message earlier asking if she’d arrived safely in DC.
Her reply was short and breezy – you didn’t have to see the
expression on her face to know that the friendliness was
genuine.
Will had got her all wrong.

adorablejoker: Well, hi right back at ya! I’m doing ok. slept the whole way
on the train – could’ve used some company, it’s hot as hell down here, looks
like I’ll only be gone one week instead of two. I gotta go now. take it easy,
Ed.
JELLY

Take it easy, Ed? I smiled.
I’d lain awake half the night rewinding and playing back
in my head those same words from the conversation on the
mound. Trying to picture the circumstances of the sinister
thuds and mumblings I’d overheard.
I wrote myself a memo: Phil to ask his diagnostic people
at Secure Solutions is it possible to trace a call made to a
mobile phone when the number has been withheld? If yes,
when can I expect a result?
The only person in Florence I’d given my number to (apart
from Bailey) was Sam Metcalf. I wasn’t sure if there was a
connection, the call could have originated anywhere, but I
could see now why Sam might have had cold feet and asked
me not to get in touch with her again: she was afraid one of
us was being watched.
'Take it easy, Ed.’ Had I really heard that hoarse 'Ed’, or
could the last, upwardly inflected syllable have been an 'eh’?
'Take it easy, eh?’ I’d told the caller he had a wrong number.
But, either way, I felt sure contact had been deliberate.
I sat back, lit an unfiltered Gauloise and, gazing out at the
rain-slick streets of Olympia, turned up the volume on Bob
Marley’s 'One Love’. I thought about Jelly deliquescing in
the sultry heat ofWashington DC. It was a dangerous contrast
and the music didn’t help. I found myself wishing I was over
there with her.
Take it easy, Ed . . . Had to be coincidence.

Leaning over the bridge, Sam aimed her camera at the
illustrated wake left by the vaporetto. Wanting to get the way
the lemon sky heaved and shivered on the surface of the
canal; the facades of houses that rippled along its banks until
they dissolved into shadow. You had to be an artist like Turner,
she thought, to capture the nuances of light, the broken
reflections . . . the timeless aspect of Venice.
A figure in a black shawl appeared on the landing-stage,
giving the picture the focus it needed. Sam hesitated, and
got off a shot just as the next herd of sightseers strayed into
her viewfinder.
When she looked again the landing-stage was empty, the
light gone from the water . . . well, sugar. She moved on
before anyone could ask her directions to San Marco, or what
part of the US she was from. One thing about digital – you
could always edit out the aliens later.
On the other side of the bridge, she crossed a small, tree
shaded square and ducked into a church that from the outside
looked like an ordinary house with shuttered windows. Its
dark, stone-scented interior felt deliciously cool. She sank
down on an empty pew in front of the altarpiece, an insipid
ascension attributed to Veronese, which you had to feed coins
into a light-box to illuminate.
Sam just wanted to take the load off.
She was staying out on Burano, fifty minutes by vaporetto
from the centre of Venice – a schlep, if you happened to
forget your credit card or needed to run back (as she had just
done) for a shower and to change clothes. Not that she was
complaining: the secluded little island felt like sanctuary and
her room at the Albergo Zulian, a modest hotel in a row of
bonbon-coloured fishermen’s houses recommended by Jimmy
Macchado, had a view over the Lagoon.
She’d called Jimmy yesterday to let him know she’d arrived
safely. And then again this morning. So far she’d heard nothing
back, which sucked – the
SOB
could at least have thanked
her for the robe – but was not that unusual for him. Sometimes
he’d hole up at the house in Fiesole and go 'off the air’ for
days at a time. He’d mentioned having a backlog of scripts
to read this weekend.
She looked at her watch: just after seven, plenty of time
to get to the restaurant.
Unlike Jimmy, an old Venetian hand, Sam didn’t know
the city well. She’d spent the past two days sightseeing,
discovering for herself the shimmering glory of the place:
it had helped keep her mind off things. Revived by the salt
air and strong clear light of the Adriatic, she was starting
to unwind.
What happened in Florence – the creepy phone-call, the
suspicion someone had been in her apartment, her own almost
hysterical reaction – now seemed remote and unreal, like a
dream she had to make an effort to recall. Unpleasant though
it had been, the episode had allowed her to close a door on
the past. The compulsion to look over her shoulder was just
about gone.
Then, last night, a chance encounter had given Sam’s still
fragile sense of security a boost. At a chamber concert in the
Chiesa San Bartolomeo, she’d found herself sitting next to a
couple from Princeton who turned out to know her parents.
Balfe and Fern Rivers were 're-doing Europe’, and when they
heard that Sam was on her way to Paris, had insisted she
drive up to Vienna with them. She found their company