Chapter Nine

AFTER his lecture, Adam caught a sandwich in the hospital cafe with several of his students, then returned to his office to find McLeod there before him. The inspector closed a manila folder and presented it to Adam as he rose.

"No luck reaching Somerville yet, about Peregrine's dead body, but here's the full file on Claire Crawford," he told Adam. "You already know the basic facts, of course, but I thought you might want to look over the details on the way out to her house - just to see what, if anything, your intuitions have to say."

"I'll do that," Adam said, slipping off his starched white lab coat and exchanging it for his suit coat. "I've also spoken with her therapist at Stoke-Mandville. I find it interesting that he was my only contact at Stoke, and she'd been his patient. The connection tends to reinforce what I learned last night, on a little astral foray."

He told McLeod about it on the way down to the car, keeping his terminology carefully neutral whenever someone was in earshot.

"If the opportunity presents itself, I want to try regressing her to the night of the accident. Every instinct tells me increasingly that we're dealing with a psychic talent gone wild."

Cochrane was waiting for them outside, at the wheel of an unmarked police car. Leaving McLeod to take the passenger seat up front, Adam slipped into the back with his briefcase and took out the manila folder. He had the Lennox photos as well. By the time they pulled out of the car park, heading west toward the Lanark Road, he was already absorbed in skimming over the additional background.

Prior to the accident, Claire Crawford had been a junior teacher at a local nursery. John Crawford had taught mathematics at Merchiston Castle School, a much-respected institute of secondary education in central Edinburgh. Their shared hobbies had included canoeing, hill-walking, and a variety of other outdoor activities. Realizing just how much Claire Crawford had lost in the space of so short a time, Adam found it all too easy to understand how she could have plunged to such depths of grief and rage.

But however justified such emotions might be, nothing good could be gained from letting them rule the remainder of her life. On the contrary, there was every reason to believe that such passions had already done considerable harm. If so, Adam's very first priority must be to ensure that no more innocent people died.

"The house number we're looking for is thirty-five," McLeod said, jarring Adam from his troubled contemplation as they turned off the Lanark Road. "Pull over right there, Donald. That's got to be the place."

Cochrane complied without comment, setting the brake and switching off the ignition.

"You want me to keep trying Somerville's number, Inspector?" he asked as McLeod and Adam got out of the car.

"Aye, give him another half hour, if we aren't back by then. His sergeant said he'd be back between three and four."

Claire Crawford's house was a detached modern bungalow fronted by a small terraced garden. From the street it looked spruce and trim, the white hading of its outer walls neatly contrasting with the slate-blue paint of the woodwork.

Upon closer inspection, however, it seemed almost too well kept. All the bedding plants were rigorously confined to their borders, and the miniature boxwood hedge had been ruthlessly squared off. The spaces between the plants had been filled in with small colored stones for easy keeping. The effect was well-groomed to the point of severity.

Considering the pattern he was starting to detect, Adam followed McLeod up the garden steps, briefcase in hand, skirting a concrete ramp to the right that gave wheelchair access to the front door. The small brass plaque above the letterbox was inscribed with a single name: c. a. crawford. Trading glances with Adam, McLeod reached out and thumbed the doorbell.

A distant buzz elicited a light scuffle of movement from inside, followed by the rattle of a lock being unsnibbed. The young woman who opened the door, however, was demon-strably not Claire. Standing no more than middling tall, this woman was stockily built, with shoulder-length light-brown hair, dark eyes, and a pale, clear complexion.

"Oh," she said, faint disappointment in her tone. "I was hoping you were the plumber."

McLeod already had his warrant card out, and presented it with an apologetic shrug.

"Afraid not," he said. "I'm Detective Chief Inspector Noel McLeod, Lothian and Borders Police, and this is my associate, Dr. Sinclair. We'd like a word with Mrs. Crawford, if it's not too inconvenient. Is she at home just now?"

The woman gave an affirmative jerk of her head. "Yes, she is. She's out in the back garden. Was she expecting you?"

"No," Adam said, summoning a reassuring smile. "I'm afraid this is a somewhat impromptu visit. The only excuse I can offer you is that the inspector and I sometimes have difficulty coordinating our respective work schedules, and decided we'd better seize the present opportunity, even if it meant stopping by unannounced. Are you a relative of Mrs. Crawford's?"

Disarmed by the gentleness of his manner, the young woman returned his smile. "I'm her sister-in-law. My name's Ishbel - Ishbel Reid. Claire's late husband was my brother. My own husband is away a lot - he works on the oil rigs - so I'm staying with Claire just now, to help out while she finishes up a secretarial course."

She looked as if she might have added something more, but then seemed to think better of it. After a glance over her shoulder, she stood aside and said, "Won't you come in?"

"Thank you," Adam said. As he and McLeod entered, Ishbel closed the door behind them.

"Can you tell me what this is all about?" she asked, turning to conduct them through the house. "I thought the police closed the books on Claire's accident a while back, when it proved impossible to track down the person responsible."

"The books are far from closed," McLeod replied. "In fact, that's the main reason Dr. Sinclair and I are here - to got back over anything and everything your sister-in-law can remember from the night of her accident. It's possible we may be able to turn up a clue the previous investigators have overlooked."

Ishbel looked dubious. "I wish you every success, of course, but I probably ought to warn you that you may not find Claire very receptive. I'm afraid she's developed a rather hostile attitude toward the police - and who can blame her? It's been almost a year, Inspector, and so far as I know, you're no closer to catching the man who ran down Claire and my brother."

"I certainly understand your frustration, Mrs. Reid," Adam said. "And hers. Once we've spoken to her, perhaps we'll be able to persuade her that she has nothing to lose and everything to gain by helping us prove her wrong."

"Well, you're certainly welcome to try, so far as I'm concerned," Ishbel said. "Come this way, and I'll take you to her."

With Ishbel leading the way, they moved off down the hall. A door at the opposite end of the passage let them through into a sunny, open-plan sitting and dining room. At first glance, the place seemed a model of good housekeeping, fitted out with a tasteful array of new drapes, furnishings, and wall-coverings. At the same time, Adam was left with the distinct impression that there was something missing.

He took a second look around the room, then realized that the missing ingredient was what Peregrine might have termed the human element. There were no keepsakes or decorative objects left casually around on the tables. Though there were several prints hanging on the walls, these were all geometric abstracts without any reference to human form. Most significant of all, to Adam's way of thinking, there were no family photographs.

"I see your sister-in-law has recently had this room redecorated," he observed out loud.

"Yes." Ishbel's acknowledgement had a note of constraint in it. "It was done in conjunction with having alterations made so that someone in a wheelchair could live here. I still haven't quite got used to the new decor. If you'd seen this room a year ago, you'd hardly believe, to see it now, that it could be the same place."

"In what way?" Adam asked.

Ishbel pulled a slight grimace as she turned back to face them.

"In almost every way you could think of, actually. You know, of course, that Claire used to be a nursery teacher? Well, what your records and reports probably didn't tell you is how much she loved her job. She was wonderfully dedicated, and so clever with her hands. She used to spend all her free time making things to use in her lessons - hand puppets, models, mobiles, posters - just about anything you could think of that children would enjoy. And this room is where most of the work got done."

She sighed wistfully. "What with all the clutter of paints and glue pots and half-finished projects lying about, the place usually looked as if it had been hit by a cyclone. On top of that, Claire kept a virtual menagerie of small pets for the children - cats, budgies, guinea pigs, gerbils, goldfish - you name it. Back then, the house was always messy. But it was a lively, happy mess, and I rather liked it."

"What did she do with all the animals?" McLeod asked.

Ishbel turned her gaze his way. "She gave them away to various play groups and schools round about. All except the cats. Funny, they're the only things she's kept, when nothing else about the house has been allowed to remain the same. The way this room looks now is very neat and pretty, I suppose, but I can't say I feel at home in it."

"Sometimes it takes a while for a newly furnished room to look lived in," Adam remarked, the casual lightness of his tone masking the intensity of his interest in Ishbel's revelations. "I have no doubt that once your sister-in-law has had time to get a few more of her own things out of storage, the place will start to seem more familiar. It's been my experience that even so small an addition as a photo or two can sometimes make all the difference."

Ishbel's soft lips tightened. "I wouldn't even dare to suggest such a thing to Claire. After the accident, she asked me to gather up all the photographs in the house and put them in a suitcase. I thought she wanted to take them away with her to Stoke-Mandville, but it turned out that wasn't it at all. When I presented her with the case, she just stared at it for a long moment. Then she ordered me to take it out and have it burnt."

"Indeed?" Only Adam's rigorously acquired self-discipline prevented him from reacting outwardly. Keeping his voice studiously devoid of expression, he asked, "And did you?"

Ishbel gave him a swift, searching look. Apparently satisfied by what she saw, she allowed herself a small, strained smile and shook her head.

"No, I didn't. But please don't let Claire know. When I asked why she wanted me to do that, she claimed it was because she wanted to put the past completely behind her, but it seemed to me that it was a decision she might later regret. So instead of packing the suitcase off to the incinerator, I stowed it away in the loft at my house. I hope the time will come someday when she can deal with the memories of her life before the accident. And if that time comes, some part of her previous life will still be waiting for her to reclaim it."

"I share your hopes," Adam said gently. "And your secret is safe with us, I promise. When that time comes, I'm sure your sister-in-law will thank you for not acting in accordance with her wishes."

"I hope you're right," Ishbel said. "It's been almost a year now, and so far she's shown no sign of changing her mind. But maybe if the police could catch the man who did this to her, and she could feel that justice had been done…"

"Believe me, Mrs. Reid," McLeod, "we're as eager as you are to see justice done. May we see her now?"

"Of course."

So saying, she led them on through the dining area into the kitchen, from which a small glass-walled conservatory gave access to an outdoor patio set with paving slabs. The garden beyond was large, fenced in on either side, with a high hedge at the back. The view beyond the hedge was partly screened by the spreading branches of two sturdy-looking apple trees that had been planted in opposite corners of the yard.

A paved path, wide enough for a wheelchair, extended out from the patio to a small arbor laced over with close-clipped tendrils of honeysuckle. At the end of the path, parked in the sun beside an ornamental fishpool, a figure in a wheelchair sat with head slightly bowed. The face in profile was that of Tom Lennox's phantom lady. Her nearer hand was moving slightly, scratching the ears of a large grey and white cat draped across her rug-covered lap. Her wide-open gaze appeared to be fixed on nothing in particular.

At the sound of footsteps on the path, the cat started up and made a bound for the nearest patch of shrubbery. Roused from her private reverie, Claire turned her head. A stony expression descended over her features as she caught sight of her sister-in-law and the two visitors, warning Adam that he and McLeod were likely to have their afternoon's work cut out for them.

"You weren't asleep, were you, Claire?" Ishbel asked, summoning a determined smile. ' 'These gentlemen are from the police. This is Detective Chief Inspector McLeod, and this is Dr. Sinclair, his associate. They want to talk with you about the accident."

McLeod displayed his warrant card again and murmured a vague apology for dropping in unannounced, and Adam took a moment to study their subject. On her feet, Claire would have been tall. She gave the impression of having been strongly built, but her frame was now more bones than flesh. Her hair was as luxuriant and dark as it had appeared in Lennox's photos, but it had been cropped brutally short in this present time. The bright blue eyes were deeply hollowed, their expression restlessly introspective.

"You won't be needing me, will you, Claire?" Ishbel asked, breaking into Adam's preoccupation. "I'm still waiting for that pesky plumber, and I don't want to miss him, in case he comes or calls."

She turned around and retreated toward the house without giving Claire a chance to object. Claire Crawford spared her sister-in-law a single, unfathomable glance, then shifted her attention back to Adam and McLeod.

"It's been months since the police last demonstrated any interest in my case," she said, speaking for the first time. "May I ask what lies behind this sudden renewed curiosity?"

"You certainly may," McLeod replied. "We're attempting to tighten up our procedures for dealing with drunk drivers. To that end, you can probably appreciate the value of our reviewing and reappraising any and all unsolved drunk-driving incidents still on the books. Since the accident involving you and your late husband constitutes one of the most glaring offenses on recent record, it seemed worthwhile for us to sit down with you yet again to review everything you can remember from the night in question."

Claire heard him out in a tight-lipped silence, her measured stare never deviating from his face.

"I don't mean to be rude, Inspector, but I've already said all I have to say on that subject. Since offering up my testimony almost a year ago now, I've been working very hard trying to put the whole affair out of my mind and start my life over again. I can't even get it out of my dreams! I hope you'll understand me when I say I see nothing to be gained from raking over old ground."

"Normally, I would be inclined to agree with you," McLeod said with gruff frankness, exchanging a glance with Adam. "That's why, in this particular instance, I've enlisted the assistance of Dr. Sinclair. Besides being a highly qualified psychiatric physician, Dr. Sinclair has had considerable training and experience as a hypnotherapist. He's helped us out in numerous cases. We were hoping you might agree to let him use hypnosis to help you remember more about the accident."

"Hypnosis?" She repeated the word in a tone of incredulity.

"You needn't feel threatened, Mrs. Crawford," Adam said. "If you know anything at all about it, you'll know that it can be an effective tool for assisting the subject to remem- her things he or she may have otherwise forgotten or overlooked."

Even as he spoke, he could sense Claire's growing resistance and see fire beginning to smolder behind her eyes. Gripping the arms of her wheelchair with taut fingers, she countered his gaze with a withering look before turning the full force of her anger on McLeod.

"Is this what passes for police work these days?" she demanded harshly. "No wonder you people haven't caught the man who murdered my husband and child! Haven't I had to put up with enough official incompetence already, without being asked to submit to this charade? If you want to play cheap stage tricks, go and do it somewhere other than here!"

The suppressed violence in her tone was nothing compared to the accompanying blast of psychic reverberations as she spun her chair away from them. Moved to wonder at the raw force of Claire Crawford's emotions, Adam mentally braced himself to withstand the rising storm, exchanging another glance with McLeod.

"I can't blame you for being skeptical, Mrs. Crawford," he said quietly. "No doubt you know your own mind. If you're so opposed to the idea, it's doubtful we would have much success anyway. Before we take our leave, however, I wonder if I might ask you to at least take a look at a few photographs - so our trip won't have been a complete waste of time."

Claire turned her head to eye him with suspicion. When he did not flinch from her gaze, she said grudgingly, "All right. Provided that afterwards you'll agree to go away and leave me in peace."

Breathing a tiny mental sigh of relief - for the concession was a foot in the door - Adam said, "Thank you. The photos are in my briefcase. Inspector, if you'd be so good as to give me a hand?"

As McLeod wordlessly complied, supporting the case from beneath, Adam tripped the catches and retrieved Lennox's brown envelope. Abstracting three of the most recent photographs, he passed them over to Claire.

"Here you are," he said casually. "I'd be obliged if you'd tell me what you think. These were taken at the scene of yesterday's accident. I'm sure you must have heard about it."

Two of the photos were overall shots of the smashed Austin Rover, the third a detailed enlargement. Claire gave the pictures an initial cursory glance, then stiffened in her chair and subjected them to a closer look. The color drained from her face.

"What kind of stupid hoax is this?" she whispered.

Adam had been watching her intently. Warning McLeod to silence with a quick glance, he said to Claire, "It's no hoax, I assure you. Does the name Tom Lennox mean anything to you?"

"No." Claire gave her head an emphatic shake. "I've never heard of him before. Who is he?"

"A professional photojournalist who works for the Edinburgh Evening News," Adam said. "He doesn't know you either. But for the past six months, he's been doing the photo coverage for all the accidents along Carnage Corridor. And ever since the beginning, your image has been turning up in his photographs."

So saying, he handed over the rest of Lennox's pictures. Claire leafed through them, her fingers none too steady, only staring at the last photo for a long moment before absently squaring up the stack.

"I don't understand," she murmured, not looking at him. "I was nowhere near the scene of any of these accidents. This can't possibly be me. How could it be?"

She was visibly shaken. Adam decided to take the plunge. "I have a theory about that," he told her. "But I'll warn you right now it's going to sound a bit unorthodox."

"Tell me anyway."

"All right. First answer me this, though: Would you consider yourself a religious person?''

Claire's jaw tightened. "There was a time when I would have said I was. Now…" She broke off with an embittered shrug.

"Let me rephrase the question, then. Do you believe that you possess an immortal soul?"

Swallowing audibly, Claire bowed her head and looked away. "I don't dare believe otherwise," she said with bleak candor. "If I thought this were all the life I was ever going to have - " She shook her head bitterly. "What has any of this to do with your theory?"

"Perhaps everything," Adam replied, dropping to a crouch to put himself more on her level, aware that he was embarking on precarious ground. "Allow me to lapse into my lecturer's mode for a moment. If we grant that a soul exists at all, then it is not stretching credulity too far to suggest that it exists as a subtle emanation of energy. Researchers into the paranormal have demonstrated time and again that photo and X-ray films both are sensitive to such emanations. Given the present circumstances, I'm tempted to suggest that what Mr. Lennox has inadvertently captured on film are images of what students of modern occultism would call projections of your astral self. Or, if you prefer, your wandering soul."

When Claire offered no comment, only looking off into the fishpond, he forged ahead.

"It's a documented fact that many people have experienced the sensation of their souls parting company temporarily with their bodies. By virtue of special training, the ascetics and holy men of the Far East profess themselves able to control the comings and goings of this spiritual aspect of themselves.

"Here in the West, where such experiences are not governed by any formalized religious tradition, such periods of astral separation tend to occur spontaneously and unconsciously, usually in response to acute physical pain or intense emotional stress. I expect you may have heard of out-of-body experiences in connection with near-death episodes. The individual doesn't necessarily have to believe in the possibility of astral travel in order to experience it, if the triggering circumstances are sufficiently extreme."

Claire's gaze hardened incredulously. "Is that what you think I'm doing? Astral travelling?"

Adam raised an elegant eyebrow. "I'm suggesting that it could account for your likeness in these photographs."

"But - this is crazy!" Claire protested. "Even if you were right - which I don't believe for a minute! - what possible reason could I have for wanting to visit the scenes of these accidents? Believe me, that's the last place I want to be!"

"That's precisely what I've been wondering myself," Adam said. "It may be worth noting that all of these accidents have occurred in almost the exact same place as your own. Perhaps your astral self is being drawn to the scene of these later accidents because you need to search out and retrieve some forgotten piece of evidence that would help the police track down the driver of the car that hit you."

Claire was shaking her head, as if in blank denial. The look in her eyes, however, told Adam that she was almost convinced.

"This whole thing is insane," she muttered. "Even if I were astral travelling, wouldn't I have some memory of having done it?"

"No conscious memory, perhaps," Adam said. "What the unconscious mind records may be another matter. Hypnosis might allow me to test the theory. If you could bring yourself to reconsider it."

Claire was silent for a long moment, nervous fingers plucking at the rug over her lap. The silence drew itself out until every small sound from the surrounding garden seemed strangely amplified.

"All right," she finally whispered, her voice almost inaudible. "I don't know what's going on, but I want to find out."