Home Before Dark (8 page)

numbingly dull, and Balfe had a louche gleam that could
turn out to be a problem; but she saw the advantages and
didn’t hesitate.
Dinner tonight was with them, and some Italians they knew.
She took off her glasses and rubbed the lenses on the hem
of her silk shirt. Then rose and with a token bow, still polishing
her glasses, walked slowly down the aisle. At the back of the
church, starting to fill now for evening mass, she noticed a
woman in a black shawl who reminded her of the figure on
the landing-stage.
As she drew closer, Sam put her glasses back on and saw
that the woman was in fact a young girl – pale, sickly looking.
Over the bench next to her was draped an empty black rucksack
that she’d mistaken, in her myopic state, for a wrap.

In the tangle of winding alleys and dilapidated squares behind
the palazzos of the Grand Canal, it’s easy to become disorientated.
Sam threaded the labyrinth, her MP3 player tuned
to a local rock station, letting instinct guide her. There were
enough people around not to have to worry about getting
lost. As long as she kept the setting sun at her back, she
figured, she couldn’t go far wrong.
The osteria was in Cannaregio, near the northern quays,
not far from Campo Mori. She’d looked it up on the map
before leaving the hotel, then in the rush to catch the vaporetto
had managed somehow to leave the map behind.
As she wandered deeper into the sestiere, glimpses of the
Salute’s great white dome flying above the rooftops grew less
frequent until Sam could no longer rely on it to get her
bearings. She asked an elegant couple for directions; the man
smiled and made a flat-handed, chopping gesture: 'Avanti
dritto, sempre dritto.’
A block further on, 'straight ahead’ was open to interpretation.
She thought of calling the restaurant, but she’d jotted down
the name and telephone number on the back of the map.
Jimmy, of course, had a theory about getting around Venice.
'Where you’re going,’ he’d told her in the taxi, 'does not
depend on which path you take. In Venice, there are fabulous things on every path. Don’t worry about the path you choose
taking you to your destination. Your destination will find you.’
Sure. Sure it will.
She crossed another bridge into a square paved with
herringbone tiles; she noted the church with its seventeenth
century Baroque facade, the pharmacy on the corner. There
were two exits: Sam chose the calle that looked least deserted.
She started down it; the radio playing Foo Fighters’ 'All
My Life’.
It had been one of Sophie’s favourite songs. Yesterday Sam
had found a message from the dead girl’s father on her cell
urging her to call him. She felt badly about erasing it. But
there was no way now she was getting back in touch.
One thing still bothered her: how did 'Ward’ know she’d
contacted Ed Lister and that they were planning to meet?
He must have somehow intercepted her e-mail; or, if he lived
in Florence, maybe monitored her phone-calls – it was possible
he’d been keeping his eye on her since before the murder.
Sam had on her Prada sandals, white Capri pants and a
gold silk shirt tied at the waist. In Florence, she’d learnt to
dress to avoid attracting attention; here, she didn’t mind if
she turned a head or two – it had been a while since she felt
good about the way she looked. She could feel sweat trickling
under her arms.
About halfway along the footpath, she saw a glimmer of
water ahead that by her reckoning shouldn’t have been
there. Then, around the next bend, the calle ended abruptly
in a terrace with crumbling classical pillars looking out over
a wide, luminous expanse to the islands of the Lagoon. It
was like stepping up onto a stage. Feeling exposed and
slightly bewildered, Sam removed her earphones so she
could appreciate the serenity of the view. Somewhere a
child was crying.
The sun had just gone and she stood watching the light
drain from the long reaches of sea and sky, wondering if her
decision to leave Italy was the right one. She’d become
accustomed to being surrounded by beauty. She gave a shiver
at the thought of relocating to Pittsburgh, where she’d applied
for a job on the curatorial staff of the Sands Taylor Museum.
She lifted the back of a hand up to her forehead.
Earlier she’d spoken to her mother, who was almost
incoherent with excitement that her baby was finally coming
home.
Oh, Federico, she murmured, closing her eyes. This was
home.

He’d been in the house behind Piazza Antinori for almost an
hour before he opened the door to the fridge, hoping he
might find a cold beer, or maybe something to eat.
The job had only taken five minutes. He’d gone straight
up to the bedroom and removed the small painting in the
ebony frame from the wall above the bed. Then wrapped it
in newspaper and put it inside the plastic shopping bag he’d
brought with him. Bad Feng Shui, he remembered the old
fart saying, to hang a picture over a bed.
There was some other stuff, watches, gold cufflinks, a
Moroccan dagger he fancied, but Guido had warned him to
touch nothing.
He knew the house well enough not to have to turn on
lights. He sat in the gloom, dreaming about the new life that
lay ahead.
Until a couple of weeks ago he’d worked as a waiter at a
restaurant near Santa Croce, where he’d been eyed up by the
Englishman he knew as Daniel, the owner of the house. He’d
come to two parties here and after the last one his host had
invited him to spend the night. He’d taken the three hundred
Euros Daniel had paid him for his services and, while the
older man slept, an impression of his house keys.
Before they had sex, Daniel had told him he wanted to
see more of him when he returned from a business trip to
Phuket. He’d weighed the earning potential of an arrangement
with the portly old queen against his cut for stealing
the painting, which Guido had assured him was worth at
least a million.
Gianni Arcangeli was seventeen and wanted a Porsche.
He’d arrived at the house around six thirty, which was
about the time Daniel’s American friend, Jimmy, came every
second day to water the plants and feed the cat. He knew
he’d been there yesterday – he’d watched from the alley as
he’d entered the house with another man, but hadn’t bothered
waiting to see them leave. There was little risk of his returning
this evening.
If anybody asked, he was doing Jimmy a favour. He’d even
put out some food for Cesar, before settling down to wait
upstairs in the sumptuous all-white salone that smelt of dried
flowers. His instructions were to stay until after dark, when
there’d be fewer people around in the courtyard. He soon
grew bored, then hungry.
The kitchen was on the ground floor. Its bare stone walls
and high ceiling with exposed beams reminded Gianni of
his uncle’s farmhouse in the Val d’Elsa, only this place had
been given the designer treatment. The fridge was an
American import, a side-by-side stainless steel Sub-Zero
600 Series, the best money can buy. It stood almost seven feet tall. He remembered it being well stocked.
Winding a dishtowel around his hand to avoid leaving
prints, he reached for the handle, noticing only now that the
trays and shelves from the fridge were piled up on a nearby
worktop. It crossed Gianni’s mind he was about to be disappointed.
He
pulled open the door to the Sub-Zero. A lurid light
sprang into the room and instinctively he reared back. Folded
into the space normally occupied by provisions was the fully
clothed body of a man, one bent knee pulled upwards like a
dancer’s against his blackened windpipe. He barely had time
to take in Jimmy’s blond curls, the striped shirt, the shades
hanging askew, before the corpse which had been held in
place by the fridge door lurched forward onto his shoulder.
The boy screamed as the ice-cold face, a mottled orange
and blue colour, brushed his cheek in a grotesque parody of
a social kiss. His breath came in short panicky gusts, as he
tried to wrestle Jimmy back into the fridge. When he’d got
all the stray limbs tucked inside, he slammed the beautifully
engineered door shut and leant against it like someone battling
to keep out a wintry blast.
For a minute or two he couldn’t move. Tears ran down his
face. All he could see in the shadows were Jimmy’s bulging
eyes and obscenely poking tongue. Then he heard something
scrunch under his foot and, still sobbing, knelt to pick up
Jimmy’s crushed, ice-cold sunglasses. He’d seemed like a nice
person too.
He knew the mess he was in – he wouldn’t be able to take
the painting now. He needed to leave right away. Tell no one,
not even Guido, he was ever here.
It wasn’t until he was out on the street, trying to kick-start
his motorino, that Gianni noticed he’d cut his finger on a
piece of broken lens.

Dusk doesn’t linger in Venice. By the time Sam Metcalf had
made her way back from the waterfront to the Rio della
Sensa, it was fully dark. Crossing a humpback bridge to a
square lit by lanterns, she thought for a heartening moment
she’d found the campo near the restaurant. Then, with a dismal
flush of recognition, she took in the herringbone tiles, the
elaborate church, the corner pharmacy . . .
She’d been going round in a circle.
Close to tears, Sam felt ready to quit and head home, when
it occurred to her to call Jimmy Macchado. He knew every
bar, cafe and trattoria in Venice. She tried him first at the
Fiesole number, then keyed his cell. He wasn’t picking up
on either.
She set off dejectedly down the second calle that led out
of the square and kept going until she came to a junction.
Stopping under a street lamp, she checked the display to
make sure she had the right number before trying Jimmy’s
cell again.
She heard it ringing, ringing . . . and then with a frown
she slowly lowered the phone, puzzled by a brief simultaneous
chitter of electronic birdsong that seemed to come from one
of the lanes whose entrances lay ahead.
Sam stood very still, listening. She could have sworn she’d
heard close by the opening bars of 'O Sole Mio’, Jimmy’s
kitsch, maddeningly chirpy ring-tone.
Her heart was beating fast. There was nobody else in sight.
What if the sonofabitch was here … in Venice? She knew
how he liked to kid around, spring surprises.
'Jimmy?’ Looking up at the houses, she repeated his name,
louder.
There was no reply, no movement at the windows,
nothing.
She put the phone back to her ear, and instantly realised
her mistake. Jimmy’s voice-mail had cut in – what she’d heard
was the musical intro to his recorded message. She’d forgotten
it was the same dumb jingle.
She let go her breath, feeling like an idiot.
'Hey, it’s me,’ she said wearily. 'I know you’re there, so
please pick up . . . come on, man.’ She paused, giving him
the chance.
'Listen, I’m lost. I am totally fucking lost. I followed the
path, just like you said, all that Zen bullshit … I need you
to talk me out of here.’ She gave him her vague destination
and her present position – the name of the calle she had
started down was 'The Alley of the Blind’, which figured then
added: 'If you get this in the next few, call me, with a
map.’
She flipped her cell shut. Unless she heard from him, and
she didn’t hold out much hope, Sam planned to make her
way back to the Fondamente Nuove and get the next boat
out to Burano. She would call the Rivers from her hotel and
explain.
The alleys and byways of Venice, the arcane circuitry of
the city, can play tricks with sound. Hearing someone coming
towards her, or so she thought, Sam waited for the echoing
footsteps to materialise. Then had to press herself against
the wall as a stout woman weighed down by shopping bags
overtook her from behind with a muttered 'Buona sera,
signora.’
Uncertain which of the two lanes ahead to choose, she
watched the woman take the left-hand fork, and decided to
follow. Around the next corner, Sam saw her guide twenty
yards ahead turn into a doorway under a balcony supported
by carved stone angels. By the time she drew level, the ancient
door had already slammed shut; from its Judas window a
square of light fell on the shopping bags left in a heap outside.
Sam was wondering why – maybe the woman dumped
them to answer the phone, or see to a child – when she felt
her cell vibrate against her hip, alerting her that she’d received
a text message.
Son of a gun . . . Jimmy.
CAN’T
TALK
NOW
... IN A
MTG
,
BUT
HERE’S
WHAT
TO
DO:
TURN
AROUND
, GO
BACK
TO
THE
LAST
Y,
THEN
TAKE
THE
OTHER
BRANCH
. U
WILL
COME
TO A
PASSAGE
THAT
RUNS
ALONG
RIO
DELLE
GATTE
.
FOLLOW
TO
ARCADE
. . .
TXT
ME
WHEN
U
GET
THERE
. IT’S
CLOSER
THAN
U
THINK
.
CIN
CIN! J.

She laughed out loud and, relief sweeping over her, texted
him back:
THANK
YOU
, JEEEEESUS!
Then started to retrace her steps,
His directions were easy to follow. The footpath by the
stagnant, foul-smelling rio looked singularly uninviting. On
either side of the water, decrepit houses, their windows mostly
dark or shuttered-up, drew closer together as she walked
beneath a narrowing hatchway of star-flecked indigo sky, the
path soon reducing to a point where two people couldn’t
pass. But Sam had faith in her navigator.
She remembered someone, maybe Jimmy, saying, check:
if you can hear your own footsteps, it means you’re on a
dead-end street.
She could hear own breathing, it was that quiet.
Her cell phone vibrated. Sam gave a start, almost dropping
the damned thing as she fumbled to get the flap open.