Barbara Erskine 3-Book Collection: Lady of Hay, Time’s Legacy, Sands of Time. Barbara Erskine

nodded. ‘I had a reason for asking. You are sure that hypnosis can’t hurt her in any way?’

      ‘Of course not.’ Nick gave an uncomfortable little laugh. Then he looked at him sharply. ‘Why do you ask?’

      ‘No reason. No reason at all …’

      Pete drove straight to Cornwall Gardens from Judy’s studio. It was nearly seven and almost certainly Jo would be at home. He scowled, thinking of the news he must break: probably the lead story in next morning’s Mail Diary. He leaned his forehead against the steering wheel for a moment as he paused at the lights in Brompton Road. If Nick preferred that red-haired cow to Jo it was he who needed his head examining. And soon.

      He backed the car into a parking space in three fluid movements and climbed out, stretched his long legs for a moment, then sprinted across the road.

      There was no answer. He tried again, louder, but still the flat was silent. Cursing quietly to himself he felt in his pocket for a pen and, tearing a page from the back of his diary, he scribbled a note and put it through her door.

      ‘Come on, Jo. There’s something wrong, isn’t there?’

      Tim put a double Scotch on the table in front of her and sat himself down in the chair facing her.

      Jo summoned up a tired smile. ‘I’m exhausted, Tim, that’s all. This’ll put me right.’ She picked up her glass. ‘Thanks for arranging everything this evening.’

      ‘But Walton worried you, didn’t he, and not just because you thought he was a fake?’

      She shook her head slowly. ‘He wasn’t a fake. At least, I don’t think so. A telepath perhaps – I don’t know –’ She was silent for a minute. ‘Yes, he did worry me, Tim. The stupid thing is I don’t know why. But it’s something deep inside me. Something I can’t put my finger on, floating at the edge of my mind. Every minute I think I’m going to remember what it is, but I can’t quite catch it.’ She took a sip from her glass and grinned suddenly, her face animated. ‘Makes me sound pretty neurotic, doesn’t it? No Tim, I’m OK. I think I’ve been letting Nick get to me more than I realise, with his fearsome warnings. He’s a bit paranoid about hypnosis. He told me once that he has this fear of losing consciousness – even on the edge of ordinary sleep. I think he thinks hypnosis is the same – like an anaesthetic.’

      ‘And it is true he’s been on to his trick-cyclist brother about you?’ Tim asked gently after a pause.

      She drew a ring on the table with her finger in some spilled beer. ‘I could kill Judy.’ She looked up at him again and gave a rueful grimace. ‘I wouldn’t be surprised if what she said was true. Nick told me he’d been in touch with Sam.’

      ‘You knew Sam well of course.’

      She nodded. ‘He became a friend after –’ She hesitated. ‘After they tried to hypnotise me, he and his boss, in Edinburgh, that first time. But we were never lovers or anything. The coup de foudre came with his kid brother.’

      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.

       5

      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