Read Online Home Before Dark by Charles Maclean - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Charles Maclean
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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
63
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
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
63
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
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