Tim raised an eyebrow. ‘And the foudre has not yet run to earth, has it?’
‘Oh yes. After last night it has. Finished. Caput. Finis. Bye bye Nicholas.’ She bit her lip hard.
Reaching over, Tim touched her hand lightly. ‘Poor Jo. Have another drink.’ He stood up and picked up her glass without waiting for her reply.
She watched him work his way to the bar, his tall, lanky frame moving easily between the crowded drinkers. She frowned. Tim reminded her of someone she had known when she was a child, but she could not quite remember who. Someone she had liked. She gave a rueful grin. Was that why she could never love him?
She held out her hand for her glass as he returned. ‘I’ve just thought of who it is you remind me of.’ She gave a quick gurgle of laughter. ‘It’s not someone from one of my previous lives. It’s my Uncle James’s Afghan hound. His name was Zarathustra!’
Tim poured himself another whisky as soon as he got in. He had dropped Jo off at her flat, declining her offer of a coffee. Throwing himself down in one of his low-sprung easy chairs, he reached for the phone.
‘Hi, Nick. Can you talk?’
He shifted the receiver to his other hand and picked up his drink. ‘Listen, have you seen Pete Leveson?’
‘He was here earlier.’ Nick sounded cautious.
‘Did he manage to call off the press?’
‘Apparently not. Have you warned Jo?’
Tim took a long drink from his glass. ‘I was hoping I wouldn’t have to. Shit, if he can’t do it no one can. And I don’t think Jo has a clue what is in store for her. She doesn’t seem to realise anyone else heard at all. As far as she was concerned there were only two people in that room at that moment – Judy and herself. I hope that dolly of yours is really proud of herself. Listen, Nick, what is this about Jo and hypnotism? Is it serious?’
‘Yes. It’s serious. So if you’ve any influence with her, keep her away from it.’
‘We went to see a hypnotist tonight.’
‘Christ!’
‘No, no. Not for Jo. Or at least only for her to watch other people being regressed. It was fascinating, but the fact is that Jo did behave a bit oddly. She didn’t seem to be the least bit susceptible herself when he did his tests on everyone at the beginning, but afterwards Walton said she was really, but she had been fighting it, and it upset her.’
‘It would.’ Nick’s voice was grim. ‘Look, Tim, is she going to see him again? Or anyone else, do you know?’
‘I don’t think so. She did say that maybe she’d got enough material to be going on with.’
‘Thank God. Just pray she doesn’t feel she needs to pursue any of this further. Sorry, Tim. Judy’s just coming in. I’ve got to go.’ His voice had dropped suddenly to a whisper.
Tim grinned as he hung up. The henpecked Lothario role did not suit Nick Franklyn one bit.
Jo wanted to ring Sam.
For hours she had lain tossing and turning, thinking about Bill Walton and Sarah Potter, who had once been a street girl called Betsy; and about Tim and Judy Curzon; but her mind refused to focus. Instead again and again she saw images of Cohen’s little Edinburgh study, with the huge antiquated radiator against which Sam had leaned, then the snow, whirling past the window, blotting out the sky, then her hands. Somehow her hands had been hurt; she remembered her fingers, blistered and bleeding, and Michael Cohen, his face pale and embarrassed, talking about chilblains and suddenly with startling clarity she remembered the bloodstains on the floor. How had the blood, her blood, come to be smeared all over the floor of his study?
She sat up abruptly, her body pouring with sweat, staring at the half-drawn curtains of her bedroom. The sheets were tangled and her pillow had fallen to the floor. Outside she could just see the faint light of dawn beginning to lighten the sky. Somewhere a bird had begun to sing, its whistle echoing mournfully between the tall houses. With her head aching she got up and staggered to the kitchen, turning on the light and staring round; automatically she reached for the kettle.
She found Sam’s number in her old address book. Carrying a cup of black coffee through to the sitting room, she sat on the floor and picked up the phone. It was four thiry-two a.m. as she began to dial Edinbugh.
There was no reply.
She let the phone ring for five minutes before she gave up. Only then did she remember that Sam had gone abroad. She drank the coffee slowly, then she rang Nick’s flat. There was no answer from his phone either and she slammed down the receiver.
‘Goddamn you, Nick Franklyn!’ she swore under her breath. She stood up and went to throw back the curtains, staring out over the sleeping square. On the coffee table behind her lay a scrap of paper. On it was written in Pete Leveson’s neat italic script: Dr Carl Bennet, hypnotherapist. (Secretary Sarah Simmons: sister of David who you rather fancied if I remember when he came to WIA as a features writer in ’76.) Have made an appointment for you Friday, three pm to sit in on a session. Don’t miss it; I had to grovel to fix it for you.
Jo turned and picked up the piece of paper yet again. She did not want to go.
It was two forty-five as she walked slowly up Devonshire Place peering at the numbers and stopping at last outside one with a cream front door. Four brass plates were displayed on the elegantly washed panelling.
The door was opened by a white-coated receptionist. ‘Dr Bennet?’ she said in response to Jo’s enquiry. ‘Just one minute and I’ll ring upstairs.’ The place smelled of antiseptic and stephanotis. Jo waited in the hall, staring at herself in a huge gilt-framed mirror. Her eyes were shadowed from lack of sleep and she could see the strain in her face as she watched the woman on the telephone in the reflection behind her.
‘You can go up, Miss Clifford,’ the woman said after a moment. ‘The first floor. His secretary will meet you.’
Jo walked up slowly, aware of a figure waiting for her on the half-landing at the head of the flight of stairs. Sarah Simmons was a tall fair-haired woman in a sweater and shirt and Jo found herself sighing with relief. She had been afraid of another white coat.
‘Jo Clifford?’ Sarah extended her hand with a pleasant smile. ‘Pete Leveson spoke to us about you. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
Jo grinned. ‘Did he warn you I’m the world’s most violent sceptic?’
She laughed. ‘He did, but Carl is very tolerant. Come and meet him.’
Carl Bennet was sitting at a desk, in a room which looked out over the street. It was a pleasant book-lined study, furnished with several deep armchairs and a sofa, all with discreet but expensive upholstery; the fitted carpet was scattered with Afghan rugs – sufficiently worn to emphasise their antiquity. It was a comfortable room; a man’s room, Jo thought with sudden amusement, the sort of room which should smell of cigars. It didn’t. There was only the faintest suspicion of cologne.
Carl Bennet rose to greet her with a half-hesitant smile. ‘Miss Clifford. Please, come and sit down. Sarah will bring us some coffee – unless you would prefer tea?’ He spoke with a barely perceptible mid-European accent. He nodded at Sarah who disappeared through a door in the far wall, then he looked back at Jo. ‘I find my kitchen is the most important part of my office here,’ he said gently. ‘Now tell me, exactly how can I help you?’
Jo took out her notebook and, balancing it on her knee, sat down on one of the chairs. It was half turned with its back to the window. Her mouth had gone suddenly dry.
‘As I believe Pete Leveson told you, I am writing an article on