“No, I don’t see. Jo’s no fool, Nick. She won’t take any risks. If she knows-”
“But she doesn’t know.” His voice had risen angrily. “I’ve asked her about it and she remembers nothing.
“I’ll think about it.” Bet reached for another cigarette. “Now if you’ll forgive me I should be at a meeting downstairs.” She smiled at him sweetly. “Did you know we were running a review of Judy Curzon’s exhibition, by the way? She’ll be pleased with it, I think. Pete Leveson wrote it, so the publicity should be good.”
He glared at her. “It’s a damn good exhibition.” He reached out for the doorknob. “Bet-”
“I said I’d think about it, Nick.”
She sat gazing at the desk in front of her for several minutes after he had left. Then she reached down to the bag that lay on the carpet at her feet and brought out Jo’s sheaf of notes. The paragraph on hypnotic regression was right on top. Glancing through it, she smiled. Then she put the notes into the top drawer of her desk and locked it.
2
As Jo let herself into her flat she automatically stopped and listened. Then, throwing down her bag, she turned and closed the door behind her, slipping the deadlock into place; she had not really thought Nick might be there.
She went into the kitchen and plugged in the kettle. It was only for those few minutes when she first came in that she missed him: the clutter that surrounded him of cast-off jackets, papers, half-smoked cigarettes, and the endlessly playing radio. She shook her head, reaching into the refrigerator for the coffee beans. “No way, Nicholas,” she said out loud. “You just get out from under my skin!”
On the table in the living room was a heap of books and papers. She pushed them aside to make room for her coffee cup and went to throw open the tall French windows that led onto the balcony which overlooked Cornwall Gardens. The scent of honeysuckle flooded the room from the plant, which trailed over the stone balustrade.
When the phone rang she actually jumped.
It was Tim Heacham. “Jo? I’ve fixed up for us to go and see my friend Bill Walton.”
“Tim, you’re an angel. When and where?” She groped for the pad and pencil.
“Six-fifteen Thursday, at Church Road, Richmond. I’m coming with you and I’ll bring my Brownie.”
She laughed. “Thanks. I’ll see you at your party first.”
“You and someone. Okay, Jo. Must go.”
Tim always hurried on the phone. No time for preliminaries or good-byes.
A broad strip of sunlight lay across the fawn carpet in front of the window, bringing with it the sounds of the London afternoon-the hum of traffic, the shouts of children playing in the gardens, the grinding monotony of a cement mixer somewhere. Reaching for her cup, Jo sank onto the carpet, stretching out her long legs in front of her as she flipped through the address book she had taken from the table and brought the phone down to rest on her knee as she dialed Pete Leveson’s number.
“Pete? It’s Jo.”
“Well, well.” The laconic voice at the other end of the wire feigned astonishment. “And how is the beautiful Joanna?”
“Partnerless for a party. Do you want to come?”
“Whose?”
“Tim Heacham.”
There was a pause at the other end of the line. “I would be honored, of course. Do I gather that Nick is once more out of favor?”
“That’s right.”
Pete laughed. “Okay, Jo. But let me take you out to dinner first. How is work going?”
“Interesting. Have you heard of a guy called Bill Walton, Pete?” Her glance had fallen to the notepad in front of her.
“I don’t think so. Should I?”
“He hypnotizes people and regresses them into their past lives.” She kept her voice carefully neutral. To her surprise he didn’t laugh.
“Therapeutically or for fun?”
“Therapeutically?” she echoed incredulously. “Don’t tell me it’s considered good for you!” She glanced across at the heap of books and articles that formed the basis of her researches. Half of them were still unread.
“As a matter of fact it is. Fascinating topic.” Pete’s voice faded a moment as if he had looked away from the phone, then it came back strongly. “This is work, I take it? I was just looking for a phone number. You remember David Simmons? His sister works for a hypnotherapist who uses regression techniques to cure people’s phobias. I’ll tell you about it if you’re interested.”
It was one-thirty in the morning when the phone rang, the bell echoing through the empty studio. Judy Curzon sat up in bed with a start, her red hair tousled. “Dear God, who is it at this hour?”
Nick groaned and rolled over, reaching for her. “Ignore it. It’s a wrong number.”
But she was already pulling herself out of bed. Standing up with a yawn, she snatched the sheet off him and, wrapping it around her, fumbled her way to the lamp. “It never is a wrong number at this hour of the morning. I expect someone is dead.” She pushed through the bedroom door and into the studio.
Nick lay back, running his fingers through his hair, listening. He could hear the distant murmur of her voice. Then there was silence. She appeared in the doorway. “It’s your bloody brother from Edinburgh. He says you left a message for him to call, however late.”
Nick groaned again. “I spent most of yesterday trying to reach him. Sorry, Judy. I’ll go into the sitting room. I’ve got to speak to him now.”
He shut the door and picked up the receiver. “Sam? Can you hear me? It’s about Jo. I need your advice.”
There was a chuckle from the other end. “In bed with one and in love with the other. I’d say you need my advice badly.”
“Sam, this is serious. Jo’s set on writing an article on hypnotic regression. Can I tell her what happened to her last time?”
“No. No, Nick, it’s too risky. I could do it perhaps, but not you. Hell! I can’t postpone this trip. Can you get her to wait until I get back? It’s only a week, then I’ll fly direct to London and have a chat with her about it. Stall her till then, okay? Don’t let her do it.”
“I’ll try to stop her.” Nick grimaced to himself. “But you know Jo. Once she gets the bit between her teeth…”
“Nick, it’s important.” Sam’s voice was very serious. “I may be wrong, but I suspect that there is a whole volcano simmering away in her unconscious. I discussed it with Michael Cohen dozens of times-he always wanted to get her back, you know, but I persuaded him in the end that it was too dangerous. The fact remains that her heart and breathing stopped-stopped, Nick. If that happened again and someone didn’t know how to handle it-well, I don’t have to spell it out, do I? It must not happen again. And just warning her is no good. If you were to tell her about it, cold, after posthypnotic suggestion that she forget the episode, she either won’t believe you-that’s the most likely-or, and this is the risk, she may suffer some kind of trauma or relapse or find she can’t cope with the memory. You must make her wait, Nick, till I get there.”
“Okay, Sam. Thanks for the advice. I’ll do my best. The trouble is, she’s not talking to me.”
Sam laughed. “I’m not surprised when you’re in another woman’s bed.”
Nick put down the receiver.
“So. Why do you have to discuss Jo Clifford with your brother for half an hour in the middle of the night?”
