‘Have you made any progress with your subjects?’
There was a hiss of static. A moment’s hesitation.
‘None,’ Joubert said, flatly. ‘That is why I am phoning. I feel that it is unproductive for our two Institutes to continue exchanging information on this subject.’
Kelly frowned.
‘But it was agreed from the beginning that the research would be undertaken jointly,’ she protested. ‘You would use hypnosis, we would use drugs.’
There was a long silence.
‘The subject we tested today was unreceptive,’ the Frenchman lied.
Kelly sensed the hostility in the man’s voice and it puzzled her.
‘Lasalle told me that your use of hypnosis seemed to be showing results,’ she said, irritably. ‘He was very happy with the way the research was going.’
‘My colleague has a tendency to exaggerate,’ Joubert said, stiffly.
‘Where is Lasalle? May I speak to him?’ He is working. I don’t want to interrupt him.’
‘So you have nothing at all for me?’
‘No.’ The answer came back rapidly. A little too rapidly. Kelly moved the receiver an inch or two from her ear, looking at it as if she expected to see Joubert magically appear from the mouthpiece. His abrupt tone was a marked contrast to that of Lasalle who she was used to conversing with.
Kelly thought about mentioning the EEG on Maurice Grant but, before she could speak, Joubert continued.
‘I have nothing to tell you, Miss Hunt,’ he said, his tone unequivocal.
Til have to tell Dr Vernon …’
Joubert cut her short.
‘Do as you wish, Miss Hunt.’
He hung up.
Kelly found herself gazing once again at the receiver. She slowly replaced it, her initial bewilderment at the Frenchman’s unco-operative attitude subsiding into anger. Joubert had come close to being downright rude. Why, she wondered?
Was he hiding something?
If so, what reasons would he have?
She shook her head, annoyed both with Joubert and also with her own over-active imagination. Nevertheless, he had no right to sever contacts between the two Institutes. Perhaps she should speak to Lasalle, she had his home phone number.
Maybe he would contact her tomorrow.
She sighed and sat back in her chair, listening to the rain beating against the window behind her. On the desk before her lay the newest EEG read-out taken only an hour earlier from Maurice Grant. It looked normal, in marked contrast to the one taken when he’d been in the drug-induced state. She ran an appraising eye over the lines but could see nothing out of the ordinary. There was another polygraph scheduled for later, while Grant was asleep. Perhaps
there would be discrepancies on that one, some kind of clue to the tricks his mind was playing.
She thought about his description of the nightmare. The ritualistic slaughter of his wife and child. She wondered what it all meant.
Oxford
It was well past midnight when the powerful lights of the Audi cut through the gloom of the driveway which led up to Stephen Vernon’s house. The rain which had been falling all day had stopped, to be replaced by an icy wind which battered at the windows of the car as if trying to gain access. Vernon brought the vehicle to a halt and switched off the engine, sitting for a moment in the darkness.
The moon was fighting in vain to escape from behind a bank of thick cloud and what little light it gave turned Vernon’s house into some kind of dark cameo, silhouetted against the mottled sky. He sat there for a few more seconds then pushed open his door and clambered out. The wind dug freezing points into him, nipping at his face and hands. He ran towards the front door and fumbled for his key, his breath clouding around him as he exhaled. He finally found the key and opened the door, snapping on a light as he did so. The hall and porch were suddenly illuminated, driving back the shadows from the front of the house.
The building was surrounded by a high wooden fence which creaked menacingly in the high wind, so Vernon was effectively shut off from his closest neighbours.
The house was tastefully decorated throughout, walls and carpets in soft pastel colours combining to form a welcoming warmth as he stepped inside and shut the door behind him, forcing out the wind.
There was a large envelope on the doormat. Vernon saw the postmark and hesitated a second before stooping to retrieve it. He carried it into the sitting room and dropped it on the antique writing bureau which nestled in one corner of
the spacious room. Then he crossed to the walnut drinks cabinet, took out a tumbler and a bottle of Haig and poured himself a generous measure. As he drank he looked across at the letter on the bureau. When he put his glass down he found that his hand was shaking.
He passed into the kitchen, the fluorescents buzzing into life as he touched the switch. He hunted through the freezer and found a frozen chicken casserole. It took fifteen minutes according to the packet. Vernon decided that that was all he wanted to eat. He hadn’t much of an appetite. He left the polythene-wrapped casserole in a pan of water and wandered back into the living room, ignoring the letter on the bureau which he still had not opened.
The stairs creaked mournfully as he made his way to the first floor. From the window on the landing he could see the two houses on either side. Both were in darkness, the occupants obviously having retired to bed. Vernon resolved to do the same thing as soon as he’d eaten.
Five doors led off from the landing: the door to his own bedroom, that of the spare room, then the bathroom and another bedroom which had once belonged to his son who had long since departed.
The fifth door remained firmly locked.
Vernon paused before it for a moment, swallowing hard.
He extended a hand towards the knob.
A window rattled loudly in its frame, startling him. He glanced at the door one last time then walked across the landing to his bedroom. Once inside he removed his suit, hung it up carefully and changed into a sweater and a pair of grey slacks. Without the restraint of a shirt, his stomach was even more prominent and it sagged sorrowfully over his waist-band. He tried to draw it in but lost the battle and allowed the fat to flow forward once more. Vernon glanced at the clock on the bedside table and decided that his supper would soon be ready so he flicked off the bedroom light and headed back across the landing once again.
As he approached the locked door he slowed his pace.
His breathing subsided into low, almost pained exhalations as he stood staring
at the white partition. He felt his heart beating that little bit faster.
There was a loud crack and Vernon gasped aloud.
He spun round in the gloom, searching for the source of the noise.
The wind howled frenziedly for a second, its banshee wail drowning out his own laboured breathing.
The sound came again and he realized it came from inside the locked room. But it was muffled.
He took a step towards the door, freezing momentarily as he heard the sound once more — harsh scratching, like fingernails on glass.
On glass.
He realized that there was a tree directly beside the window of the locked room, it must be the wind blowing the branches against it. Nothing more.
Vernon felt angry with himself for having reacted the way he did. He glared at the door for a moment longer then turned and padded down the stairs. He walked through the sitting room, unable to avoid looking at the envelope which still lay on the bureau like an accusation. He would open it after supper he promised himself.
He sat in the kitchen and ate his supper, discovering that he wasn’t as hungry as he thought. He prodded the food indifferently, left the plate on the table and went into the sitting room. There he poured himself another scotch
