Home Before Dark (9 page)

ARE
U
THERE
YET?

She answered:
YEP
,
YEP
.

GO ON TO
THE
END
MAKE
A
SHARP
LEFTU
CAN’T
SEE
IT
YET
, THERE’S A
SLIT
BETWEEN
THE
HOUSES
. . .
SHORT
CUT!

Sam frowned. Something felt wrong. Ten, fifteen yards
ahead of her, the water course plunged under the arcade and
the footpath she was on stopped altogether. How could he
know how far along it she was, or what she could or couldn’t
see? If Jimmy was fooling around, playing with her . . .
She hesitated, then keyed:

CAN’T GO
ANY
FURTHER
.

Sam waited, not moving.
There was a long pause before he replied:

SEE
THE
CUT?

Still Sam didn’t move. She let her eye travel on ahead
beyond the last house on her left, then slowly track along a
hoarding in front of a demolition site. Where the arcade cut
across the hoarding at right angles, she could make out a line
of deep shadow that might have been a passage.
U’LL
FIND
OSTERIA
AL
BACCO
ON
THE
OTHER
SIDE
.
That was it, of course, the name of the restaurant!
YOU
GOTTA
BE
KIDDING
. . .
SWEAR
THIS
ISN’T A JOKE?

Jimmy knew what she’d been through in Florence. It was
absurd to think he’d deliberately set out to trick her or play
stupid games.

HAND
ON MY
HEART
,
GIRI
AND
BTW
,
LOVE
THE
ROBE!

She stood staring at the area of shadow, at the black water
of the rio that glinted where it hit a hidden reef before it
disappeared into the tunnel. She took a couple of steps
forward, then suddenly was filled with certainty that someone
was hiding there. A feeling of dread sent a cold skin-prickling
rush down the back of her neck.
She froze, her eyes fixed on the dark passage-mouth,
wondering if whoever was waiting could see her. This had
nothing to do with Jimmy. He couldn’t possibly know . . .
But there wasn’t time to explain. Every instinct was telling
her to go back, get out of there, turn and run, now.
Sam didn’t move. She couldn’t make herself look away.
She thought she saw something stir in the shadowy entrance
to the cut. Overcome by a helpless, almost sensual feeling of
inertia, she delayed long enough to key in, fingers trembling:

ON MY
WAY
.
THANKS
FOR
HELP
.
TALK
LATER
, S.

She waited a few more seconds, wanting to be sure. If
there was someone there and they were going to make a move
it would have to be now.
She turned around and, the image of the dark cut still fixed
on her retina, walked quickly back along the path until she
reached the corner. She stopped and looked behind her. No
sign of movement. A light came on in one of the windows.
She almost laughed aloud with relief.
Then in the sudden brightness she saw something that
glinted on the ground, ten, fifteen yards back along the path,
where she’d been standing. Instinctively, her hand flew up to
her face – she’d dropped an earring.
Sam knelt to take off her sandals, debating whether to go
back for it. As she rose, clutching the shoes, a shadow detached
itself from the black passage-mouth.
She turned then and ran, ran like hell.

The restaurant found her. She couldn’t say otherwise how
she got there. Emerging from a long winding calle into a busy,
well-lit square, Sam recognised her new friends sitting at an
outside table under a blue and white awning. Out of breath,
her heart still pumping, she tried not to let them see her until
she’d pulled herself together.
But Balfe Rivers was already on his feet, waving and smiling
at her. 'Over here, Sam! Look who’s here everybody!’
Sam felt the blood from a pebble-cut squelch between her
toes as she walked over to join them. Balfe took her arm and
guided her to the only empty chair at the table. 'You had us
all worried.’
'I’m sorry, I got . . . lost track of time.’
'You look like you could use a stiff one, honey,’ Fern said
drily.

It was the first party we’d given at Greenside since Sophie
died, and we were all three of us a little on edge. Laura had
seized on George’s sixteenth birthday as an opportunity to
open up the house again, invite a few neighbours over, as
well as his friends, and make a start at getting back to normality,
or something like it.
We stood together on the front steps and greeted the first
arrivals. It was a warm June evening and the house, an
impeccable early-Georgian mansion of pale granite that’s
been in my wife’s family for centuries, looked magical all lit
up against the dark sweep of the downs. Laura had observed
the Calloway party tradition (inherited from her Virginian
grandmother) of placing a hurricane lamp in every window
of the house. A string quartet played Bach on the terrace.

At that point we were hardly speaking to each other.
Earlier, while getting dressed, we’d had an argument
about the present I’d given George for his birthday – a
toffee-apple-red Yamaha Warrior quad bike.
'You heard what happened?’ She was at her dressing table,
putting the finishing touches to her make-up. 'He nearly
turned the bloody thing over.’
'He swerved to avoid the dog,’ I countered, fiddling with
my cufflinks. I’d got back from London with less than twenty
minutes to shower and change before the party. 'Everyone
says he was never in any real danger.’
'It’s tempting fate and you bloody know it. You promised to be here.’
I tried to persuade Laura that losing Sophie and the fact
that our son was all we had now were not valid reasons to
think he was any more at risk than any other boy his age. I
don’t believe in being over-protective. But she was his mother.
'If anything ever does happen to him …’ She didn’t finish,
just stared at me in the mirror, her coruscating blue eyes
judge and jury.
'You know why I had to go up to town,’ I said quietly. 'It
was important.’
I’d arranged to meet Phil at Secure Solutions and deliver
the
SIM
card from my mobile phone in person. I wanted to
make it clear that I regarded tracing the call I received on
the mound at the Villa Nardini as a priority.
'Whatever you do, Ed, is always so “important”. But what
about George? Your family? What about us’
'You’re all that really matters to me,’ I said.
The Yamaha provoked the outburst, but I felt it was coming
anyway. I dislike rows. I grew up listening to my parents
having at each other on a daily basis and swore never to
repeat the tedious, emotionally draining pattern in my own
marriage. Although Laura and I argued, we usually managed
to remain civil under pressure and avoid wounding fights.
There were lapses, of course, but something else had got into
her that night. She accused me of neglecting our 'only child’,
never being at home, using work as an excuse to avoid my
responsibilities – I was surprised by the depth of the resentment
and even bitterness that rose to the surface. I think only
some instinct for self-preservation, or perhaps fear of the
irrevocable, prevented her from saying what was really on
her mind. The nearest she got was when she turned suddenly
and shouted at me,
'You are not present in this marriage, Ed!’
Taken aback by her onslaught,- and its unhelpful timing, I
was aware that there was more than a little truth in what she
was saying.
My defence was simply to switch off. But when we could
no longer delay going down to meet our guests, I said to her,
'Can we talk about this another time? It really isn’t fair on
George, or kind to Sophie’s memory. If we want to make this
a wonderful evening for them, we need to present a united
front.’
'You’re good at that sort of thing. I’m not,’ was her answer.

I don’t think anybody noticed the tension between us.
Friends, especially those who knew and loved Sophie, still
handled us with care and made allowances. We spent most
of the evening apart, and then I spotted Laura across the
dining room, alone for a moment and looking elegant but
forlorn in a new silver-grey Nina Ricci outfit she’d bought
the last time we were in Paris.
She turned and walked through the door that leads onto the
terrace. Lifting a couple of glasses of champagne from a passing
tray, I drew a deep breath and followed. I caught up with her
before she reached the parapet, and handed her a glass.
'It’s a success, Laura,’ I murmured. There were other

couples out here enjoying the night air, sitting at tables overlooking
the lake.The temple had been floodlit for the occasion,
the path around the shore lined with flickering torches.
She shrugged. 'Apart from the fact George can’t stand the
music’
As if on cue, a wave of sound surged up from the marquee
as the band got loud suddenly with the feel-good classic,
'How Sweet It Is’. Drums and bass echoed around the downs
like rolling thunder. I was responsible for the music.
'It doesn’t seem to be stopping him from having a good
time. Maybe you would like to dance?’
'Don’t think so, not right now.’
We stood there a while longer. People came up to us and
murmured their compliments about the evening. I noted that
Laura, in spite of what she’d said, played the part of gracious
hostess effortlessly.
'I’m going inside then,’ I said at last. 'I have to call Phil
… he’s working late tonight,’ I added, answering a question
she hadn’t in fact asked. 'I’ll use the phone in the library.
Twenty minutes.’
'I doubt if you’ll be missed.'The lights on the water shivered
to the grimy beat of a Christina Aguilera cover. I pretended
I hadn’t heard what she’d said.
'Don’t worry, I’ll hold the fort.’ She smiled, then added in
a brittle tone, 'You know what would be nice, Ed? If you
didn’t always have to look like you’d rather be anywhere in
the world except here.’
I shrugged and turned away. The constant sniping was
starting to get to me. The fact was that lately I’d been making
an effort to spend more time at home with my wife and
family. I suddenly felt resentful, not just of Laura, but of all
these people who’d invaded our home. The driveway had
been turned into a glinting river of expensive cars; I could
just make out a huddle of chauffeurs leaning against their
glossy chariots, gossiping, cigarettes glowing like fireflies in
the dark.
Looking up at the house, I noticed now that, although there
was a lamp in every window, one was unlit – only Sophie’s
old bedroom had been left dark. It struck me as something
more than an unfortunate oversight.
She was right, I didn’t want to be here.

Four minutes till midnight.
There was no real urgency. In Washington DC, coming up
to seven, it’d still be light out… as if that made any difference.
I was seized by the irrational thought that if I hurried I might
get there in time.
I cut through the crowd, clearing a path. The long, stone
flagged hallway dissolved into a blur of flushed and grinning
faces. A blonde in a too-tight gold dress, one of our office
managers who’d helped organise the evening, playfully
captured my arm.
'Hey, you!’ I blew her off, kept moving.
I was almost to the stairs when something made me look back.
Laura had followed me indoors and, from the far end of
the room, was observing my progress. She did her amused
smile, little-finger-wave thing and I had no choice but to smile
and wave back.

In the library, I closed the door and walked over to my desk.
Picking up the phone, I dialled the number Phil had given
me, then sat down at the computer.
While I waited for him to answer – I wanted to know if
he’d made any progress with tracing that call – I logged on
to the internet.
My chances of finding Jelly online were remote, but I pulled
up my friends list onscreen, planning to drop her a note,
then drew a short convulsive breath.
adorablejoker: hey … how ya doin? templedog: I don’t believe this

I left a message on Phil’s voice-mail asking him to call me
back, then put the phone down.

td: I’m … this is so weird, I mean, I just had a feeling … where are you?
a.-still in DC
td: at your friend’s house?
aj: library, in the comp room
td: the Library of Congress?
aj: sure, where else can a girl rest her feet after a hard day’s shopping?
td: you know the odds against our bumping into each other…

I’m not sure if it was the coincidence that threw me, or the
exhilaration I felt at seeing her. After taking a moment, I lit
up a Gauloise.

aj: you aren’t upset with me?
td: should I be? What’s your address in Brooklyn?
aj: hmmm … kinda wish you hadn’t asked that
td: why? afraid I might show up on your doorstep?
aj: i’m just not that kind of girl
td: I wanted to send you something
aj: save your money, mister… hey, feel like taking a trip?
td: okay, where to this time… Marrakesh, Samarkand, Venice?
aj: what were you going to send me?
td: you’ll never know
aj: boo … so, in your mind, where are we?
td: Venice, one of my favourite hotels in the world, the Cipriani….
aj: i dunno… streets full of water, i told you i’m scared of water
td: hold on … phone
At the same moment I picked up the receiver I heard loud
whispering in the passage outside the library. A young girl I
knew vaguely as somebody’s daughter put her head around
the door and, seeing me at my desk, dissolved into giggles.
'Shhhh . . . there’s someone in here.’
'Thanks for getting back, Phil,’ I said, looking now at my
son, George, who was standing behind the girl in the doorway,
both obviously a little the worse for wear. I couldn’t help
wondering if Laura hadn’t sent him up to check on me.
'Sorry, sorry,’ he slurred, grinning. 'Dad, this is … Clarissa.’
'Here’s where we are,’ Phil started in without preamble. 'I
told you we had a mole at your phone company. He’s been
able to trace the network the call came from, but that’s as
far as he can go.’
'Nice to meet you,’ I mouthed, my hand over the receiver,
'hope you’re having fun,’ and waved amiably at George, who
retreated with his arm around the girl’s neck.
'Your caller uses Uno. Now we have to find someone there
to tell us which of their subscribers originated the call. More
difficult, but we’re working on it. None of this is legal, so it’s
going to be expensive.’
'I don’t care how much it costs, I just want his name.’
After I hung up the phone, I took a sip of champagne, got
up and walked over to close the library door, which George
had left wide open.