Jo smiled. "I didn't hear that, Miss Gunning. Besides, I'm a nice guy too, sometimes. Remember?"
She walked slowly, threading her way through the crowded streets, the June sun shining relentlessly on the exposed pavements. Here and there a restaurant had spilled umbrella-shaded tables out onto the pavement, where people dawdled over their coffee. In England, she thought affectionately, the sun makes people smile; that was good. In a hot climate it drove them to commit murder.
She ran up the dark uncarpeted staircase to Tim's studio in an old warehouse off Long Acre and let herself in without knocking. The studio was deserted, the lines of spots cold and dark as she walked in. She glanced around, wondering if Tim had forgotten, but he was there, alone, in shirt sleeves, reclining on the velvet chaise longue that was one of his favorite photographic props. There was a can of Long Life in his hand. Above him the sun, freed from the usual heavy blinds, streamed through huge open skylights. "Jo! How's life?" He managed to lever himself upright, a painfully thin man, six foot four in his bare feet, with wispy fair hair. His unbuttoned shirt swung open, revealing a heavy silver chain on which hung an engraved amulet.
"Beer or coffee, sweetheart? I'm right out of champagne. "
Jo threw her bag on the floor and headed for the kitchenette next to one of the dark rooms. "Coffee, thanks. I'll make it. Are you sober, Tim?"
He raised his eyebrows, hurt. "When am I not?"
"Frequently. I've got a job for you. Six to be precise, and I want to talk about them. Then we'll go and see Bet Gunning in a week or two if you agree. "
Jo reappeared with two mugs of black Nescafe, handing one to Tim. Then she pulled a sheaf of notes from her bag and peeled a copy off for him. "Take a look at the subjects, just to give you an idea. "
He read down the page slowly, nodding critically, as she sipped her coffee. "Presumably it's the approach that's going to be new, sweetie? When's the deadline?"
"I've got months. There's quite a lot of research involved. Will you do them for me?"
He glanced up at her, his clear light-green eyes intense. "Of course. Some nice posed ones, some studio stuff—whole foods and weaving—the vox pops in chiaroscuro. Great. I like this one especially. Reincarnation. I can photograph a suburban mum under hypnosis who thinks she's Cleopatra as she has an orgasm with Antony, only Antony will be missing. " He threw the notes to the floor and sipped his coffee thoughtfully. "I saw someone being hypnotized a few months back, you know. It was weird. He was talking baby talk and crying all over his suit. Then they took him back to this so-called previous life and he spouted German, fluent as a native. "
Jo's eyes narrowed. "Faked, of course. "
"Uh-uh. I don't think so. The guy swore he'd never learned German at all, and there's no doubt he was speaking fluently. Really fluently. I just wish there had been someone there who knew anything about Germany in the 1880s, which is when he said it was, who could have cross-questioned him. It was someone in the audience who spoke German to him. The hypnotist couldn't manage more than a few words of schoolboy stuff himself. "
Jo said, "Do you think it'll make a good article?"
"More like a book, love. Don't be too ready to belittle it, will you. I personally think there's a lot in it. Do you want me to introduce you to Bill Walton? That's the hypnotist. "
Jo nodded. "Please, Tim. I have a lot of information on the subject from books and articles, but I certainly must sit in on a session or two. It's incredible that people really believe that it's regression into the past. It's not, you know. " She was frowning at the wall in front of her where Tim had pinned a spread of huge black-and-white shots of a beautiful blonde nude in silhouette. "Is that who I think it is?"
He grinned. "Who else? Like them?"
"Does her husband?"
"I'm sure he will. It's the back lighting. Shows her hair and hides the tits. They really are a bit much in real life. I'd say she was the proverbial milch cow in a previous existence. "
Jo looked back at him and laughed. "Okay, Tim. You tell your Mr. Walton he's got to convince me. Right?" She got up to examine the photos. "It's something called cryptomnesia. Memories that are completely buried and hidden. You'll probably find your man had a German au pair when he was three months old. He's genuinely forgotten he ever heard her talk, but he learned all the same and his subconscious can be persuaded to spit it all out. These are awfully good. You've made her look really beautiful. "
"That's what they pay me for, Jo. " He was watching her closely. "I was talking to Judy Curzon last week. She has an exhibition at the Beaufort Gallery, did you know?"
"I know. " She turned. "So you know about it. "
"About you and Nick? I thought he was fooling about. I'm surprised you took it seriously. "
She picked up her cup again and began to walk up and down. "It's happened too often, Tim. And it's getting to hurt too much. " She looked at him with a small grimace. "I'm not going to let myself get that involved. I just can't afford to. When a man starts causing me to lose sleep I begin to resent him and that's not a good way to nurture a relationship. So better to cut him off quickly. " She drew a finger across her throat expressively.
Tim hauled himself to his feet. "Ruthless lady. I'm glad I'm not one of your lovers. " He took her cup from her and carried
