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 of cast-off jackets, papers, half-smoked cigarettes and the endlessly playing radio that surrounded him. She shook her head, reaching into the fridge 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 mate 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. OK, Jo. Must go.’

      Tim always hurried on the phone. No time for preliminaries or goodbyes.

      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 subsided 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 dialled Pete Leveson’s number.

      ‘Pete? It’s Jo.’

      ‘Well, well.’ The laconic voice on 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 on the other end of the line. ‘I would be honoured of course. Do I gather that Nick is once more out of favour?’

      ‘That’s right.’

      Pete laughed. ‘OK, Jo. But let me take you out to dinner first. How is work going?’

      ‘Interesting. Have you heard of a chap called Bill Walton, Pete?’ Her glance had fallen to the notepad in front of her.

      ‘I don’t think so. Should I?’

      ‘He hypnotises 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 which 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 round her, she 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 ring, however late.’

      Nick groaned again. ‘I spent most of yesterday trying to reach him. Sorry, Judy.’

      ‘Sam? Where the hell have you been all day?’

      ‘Out.’ Sam’s voice echoed down the receiver. ‘I wasn’t sure where to reach you. When I couldn’t get a reply at your flat I thought I’d better try the abode of the latest belle. She did not sound pleased to speak to me.’

      ‘Can you blame her?’ Nick glanced at the bedroom door, which stood ajar, and wished he had closed it. ‘Sam, can I speak to you tomorrow from the office?’

      ‘No chance. Sorry, Nick. If it’s that important, talk now. I’m flying to Basel at eight tomorrow – no, this morning. If I live.’ He coughed loudly.

      Nick swore under his breath. ‘Hold on a minute, Sam.’ He put down the phone and padded across the floor.

      ‘Judy love, shall I close the door, then I won’t disturb you.’

      She was in bed, lying back on the pillow, the sheet drawn up to her waist, her breasts bare. She smiled, trying to hide her irritation. ‘I’ll fall asleep if you do.’

      Nick grinned. ‘I can always wake you.’ He shut the door and went back to the phone. Picking up the receiver again he spoke quietly. ‘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