Read Online Home Before Dark by Charles Maclean - Free Book Online
Authors: Charles Maclean
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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
'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
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