by Diane Hester
From the middle of the room, Lindsay stood frowning. ‘Was that all you wanted?’
‘I was just wondering … do you know “My Funny Valentine”?’
She blinked at the sudden change in topic. ‘The Richard Rogers song? Yes, I know it.’
‘Can you play it on piano?’
‘I might have the music around somewhere. Why?’
‘The next time you go to Jamison House, play that song. There’s someone there who’d love to hear it.’
‘Jamison House?’ Her breathing stopped. ‘How do you know I play piano there?’
He cursed himself. Such a stupid mistake!
‘You’ve been following me?’ She stared a moment then let out a laugh. ‘Actually, you know what, that doesn’t surprise me.’
‘Why do you play in places like that?’
Her look of contempt morphed to a frown. ‘This part of your investigation?’
‘No, not really.’
She searched his face. ‘I do it because I like old people. Because I miss my Nan.’
‘What was it about her you miss?’
‘She was good to me. I was a freak to everyone else, but to Nan I was just special. She gave me my first piano lessons, taught me all her favourite songs. Whenever I play them, I feel that she’s listening.’
He nodded and smiled.
‘So who do you know at Jamison House?’
The question snapped him out of his lapse. Again he’d let himself get distracted. ‘Thank you, that’s all I’ll be needing for now.’ He turned to leave.
‘Hang on a minute.’ Incredulous, she hurried after him. ‘So it’s all right for you to ask personal questions, but I can’t reciprocate.’
He never slowed as he went out the door.
***
Mac strode into Ikeman’s lab and went straight to his desk. The doctor looked up from the papers in his hand, his expression souring.
‘Doctor. A minute.’
‘Is that a request?’
‘I understand you’ve begun treating Lindsay Cavenaugh.’
Ikeman sighed and set down his papers. ‘Not treating in the professional sense. I’m consulting with her on a personal matter related to my research.’
‘So she isn’t a patient.’
‘I would classify her more as a friend.’
Mac’s lip curled. ‘That friendship sprang up rather quickly. You’ve only known the girl four days.’
‘Perhaps I don’t alienate her as much as some people.’
‘All the better.’ Mac pulled a chair out and made himself comfortable. ‘We won’t have to worry about doctor-patient confidentiality. You’ll be able to answer all my questions.’
Ikeman leaned forward. ‘You know, detective, I have to say I wasn’t impressed with your behaviour the last time you were here. You might have mentioned you were investigating one of my subjects.’
‘So tell me, doctor,’ Mac pulled the notebook from his pocket, ‘what are you and Lindsay conducting if it isn’t research? I’d’ve thought anything extra-curricular would be frowned upon by your employer.’ He enjoyed the look on Ikeman’s face.
‘I’m helping Lindsay deal with the experiences she’s been having lately. She’s found her visions so distressing she’s asked me to help her put a stop to them.’
‘Is that even possible?’
‘To be honest, I don’t know. I would say it’s unlikely. But the poor girl was so distraught I have to try.’
Of course, how gallant. ‘So how did you plan to approach the problem?’
‘Through my research and the study of others, I have, over the years, formed a loose hypothesis. I’ve never been able to test it, of course, but Lindsay was prepared to proceed on those grounds.’
‘And what’s this theory?’
Ikeman steepled his fingers in thought. ‘Humans exhibit five types of measurable brainwave activity. Among the slower are the Theta waves which, for most of us, occur only during deep relaxation. Some Zen and religious masters are able to produce these low-frequency brainwaves through meditation. The result is a profound trancelike state.’
‘Like what Lindsay experiences when she has a spell.’
‘Possibly. That’s my theory at least. It’s also possible that this is what distinguishes a psychic individual from the rest of us. Either because of some abnormality—or superiority, depending on how one chooses to look at it—psychics can slip into this brainwave state far more readily than you or I.’
‘Do all people who reach this Theta level have psychic experiences?’
‘No. But I would say that those with psychic tendencies have episodes more often when in this state. Some yoga masters can attain at will such phenomenon as astral projection, precognition, out-of-body experiences, to name a few.’
Mac stifled a laugh. ‘So that’s why you’ve got Lindsay meditating.’
‘Recognition of the state was the first step, I felt. Then, with luck and a great deal of practice on her part, perhaps some semblance of control would result. To be perfectly frank I’m clutching at straws. I have no idea if the practice will help her.’
‘So basically you’re using her as a guinea pig to further your research.’
Ikeman’s look hardened. ‘I resent that, detective. At the very least meditation will help Lindsay cope with the enormous stress she’s under. Stress, I might add, which you are largely responsible for.’
Mac got up. Shaking his head, he paced a few steps, then turned back. ‘Doctor, you’re an intelligent man, educated, in touch with reality. Do you honestly believe Lindsay Cavenaugh learned the whereabouts of the two dead women by psychic means?’
Ikeman’s smile was full of pity for the narrow-minded. ‘Haven’t you ever had a hunch, detective? In regards to a case perhaps? An inexplicable certainty that something would or had already happened, though you had no hard evidence?’
‘No. And neither has any other cop. Plenty might think they have. But all that’s going on in a case like that is a logical, unconscious assessment of the facts by an experienced mind. No hocus-pocus, just good old, solid, deductive reasoning.’
‘So how would you explain Lindsay’s test results?’
‘Two correct answers out of a hundred? I’d say it means absolutely nothing.’
‘To those unacquainted with the scientific method I suppose it would.’
Condescending prick. ‘All right, let’s look at your take on the matter. You say her low score is evidence she’s trying to put a lid on her ability.’
‘Well, that’s obvious now, isn’t it? That’s exactly what she’s asked me to help her do.’
‘And you think it might have something to do with a past experience she’s had.’
‘Yes. Possibly something that frightened or traumatised her as a child.’
‘Has she mentioned anything like that to you?’
‘No, not yet. But it’s one of the things I had hoped to explore with her.’
‘Explore how?’
Ikeman frowned. ‘Lindsay seems reluctant to pursue the matter at this stage so I’m not pressing her. But in time I hope to persuade her to permit me to recall the episode using hypnosis.’
‘Hypnosis.’ Mac stepped closer to the desk. ‘Yes, of course. You can dredge up things she’s forgotten that way. Things she doesn’t even realise she knows.’
‘It’s a standard psycho-analytical technique.’
‘How about things she might have forgotten from her visions? Details about the killer’s identity?’
The man cocked his head. ‘But you don’t believe she’s having visions.’
‘Whatever she’s having. The same would apply.’
Ikeman appeared to grow troubled at this. ‘You must understand, if a person blocks something from conscious memory, they have a very good reason for doing it. Usually because they don’t feel equipped to deal with it on an emotional level. To push Lindsay beyond that point before she’s ready could result in serious consequences.’
Ikeman bristled. ‘Detective, I’ll make this as clear as I can for you. I will not do anything to jeopardise Lindsay’s already fragile state of mind. Neither will I let you convince her to submit to a procedure that could have far-reaching consequences to her health.’
Mac’s smile vanished. ‘We’ll see about that.’
Chapter 22
Lindsay stepped from the music building and paused on its stairs. The mist enshrouding the campus lights wasn’t quite thick enough to be termed a drizzle but it would chill her just the same if it reached her skin. She turned up her collar, drew her raincoat close around her and set out for her flat.
She skirted puddles in the pot-holed drive that ran across campus. The buildings either side cut the wind at least, but they gathered to them strange whispers of sound. Almost as though …
She paused to listen. The sound stopped as well. The clock of her boot heels bouncing back and forth off the buildings’ walls was all it had been. She continued on.
Her practice session had been long and tiring. But that’s how she’d wanted it. Not only had it furthered her preparation for her assessment performance, it had distracted her, if only briefly, from the pressures and turmoil of the past two weeks.
Music had always had a calming effect on her. Perhaps that was one reason Nan had taught her. The old woman was perceptive enough to see she would need something like that in her life. Something to replace all the normal things she could never have.
The image of Macklyn sprang suddenly to her mind. Summoned by thoughts of things she’d never have?
Though it pained her to admit it, she knew it was so. Loneliness had carved a deep hollow in her life and she ached with the longing for someone to fill it. Not Macklyn of course but someone like him. She could never be happy with a man who didn’t trust her.
And yet … how often had she thought of him in the last two weeks? And in ways not related to the investigation. How often had she visualised his haunted expression, let her mind linger on that cat’s-whisker scar, brushing it softly with her lips?
She shoved at the truth but it wouldn’t yield. She could take the suspicions of anyone else, dismiss their contempt as narrow-minded ignorance. But not Macklyn’s. His accusations cut to the bone. Made her feel strange and inept and inadequate. Where no-one else was able to breach her defences, he could wound with just a look. A look that was becoming all too familiar.
And for that she hated him.
Lindsay stopped walking. The echo of her heels had reached her again. Except it couldn’t be, she realised, frowning. She had passed from the canyon of the two tall buildings into open ground. The fringe of low bushes that bordered the walk here would absorb, not reflect, any sounds she made.
She turned around. The drive lay empty. But that didn’t mean he wasn’t there. ‘Give it up, Macklyn, I know it’s you.’ If he’d tracked her to the old folks’ home it made sense he could be tracking her now.
She strained to listen. The distant murmur of off-campus traffic. The reptilian hiss of moisture hitting a nearby transformer. Her own hurried breathing.
‘Damn it, Macklyn, step out where I can see you.’
No-one answered.
Icy certainty slithered up her spine. Mac was a professional. He might question, investigate, even follow her, but he wouldn’t stalk her. He wouldn’t let her think it was someone else, possibly the killer, that was after her now. If it was him back there he’d have shown himself.
She backed a few steps in the direction she’d been going. Her toes made no more than a slight scraping against the bitumen. The sound that came back to her was rhythmic and fast. Coming straight towards her. Someone running.
Lindsay turned and did the same.
***
The living room was in darkness except for the small end table lamp. Lindsay came in, closed the door and slumped back against it in relief.
‘Why are you so out of breath?’
She started at the voice from out of the gloom. She hadn’t even seen Shaunwyn sitting in the lounge chair. ‘I was just coming back from a practice session and ran the last stretch to beat the rain.’
She stepped to the closet to hang up her coat. She saw no reason to tell her friend that she’d been followed. Might have been followed. Whatever she’d heard had failed to pursue her once she’d reached the bright lights of North Terrace. Probably just her imagination.
‘What are you doing sitting here in the dark?’ she said. ‘Your exams are over. How come you’re not out partying?’
‘Who says I’m not?’ Shaunwyn held up the glass in her hand.
Something in her tone tweaked Lindsay’s antenna. She walked towards the dark shape slouched in the chair. ‘Isn’t partying something you do with lots of people?’
‘This is a private celebration.’ When her mobile chirped, Shaun snatched it up, read the message and tossed it on the couch with a curse. ‘Bloody Jason. That’s the twelfth one tonight.’
‘Still not getting the just-friends message?’
‘If he’s not texting, he’s calling. Or accidentally running into me somewhere. I can’t get rid of him. Here, have a drink.’ As Shaun bent forward to hand her a glass a picture frame slid from her lap to the floor.
Lindsay picked it up, took in the photo of a woman and young girl standing in front of a suburban home, then handed it back and accepted the glass. ‘That you and your mum?’
Shaun gave the image a wistful smile. ‘This was the last picture taken of the two of us before she disappeared.’ She set it on the end table beside her. ‘So how about you tell me what you were really running from before you got here? That bastard Macklyn after you again?’
Lindsay settled on the couch and took a deep swallow from her glass. The Baileys sent a welcome wave of heat through her chest. Just what she needed. ‘No, but he was here this morning. Came right up to the flat. He knocked and when I didn’t answer fast enough he just walked in.’
‘You’re kidding. What did you do?’
‘Asked him to leave.’
‘You’re too nice. It’s a good thing I wasn’t here or I’d have bent his badge for him.’
Lindsay smiled at her friend’s drunken words. ‘I’d like to have seen that.’
‘You’re not letting him get to you, are you? You know it’s important to have ways to relax in this place, to unwind and escape.’
She held up her glass. ‘This certainly helps.’ Her second big swig was doing just that, filling her with a pleasant sense of release. How much her methods had changed since childhood.
‘You know how I used to escape as a kid? Play with my Nan’s doll’s house.’ Lindsay rested her head back and smiled. ‘It was the most beautiful thing. A perfect replica of a nineteenth-century Victorian town house. My great-granddad built it for Nan when she was a girl. She and I made all sorts of things to go in it.’
Another deep swallow and more of that childhood magic came back to her. ‘I used to pretend I was a tiny person walking from room to room. In a different time, a different world. Far away from … everything else that was happening in my life.’
‘Where is it now?’ Shaunwyn slurred. ‘The doll’s house I mean.’
‘I suppose it’s still at my parents’ place.’
‘Up in the Hills? Why don’t you drive up there and get it? I won’t tell anyone you play with dolls.’
Lindsay swirled Baileys around her glass. ‘I can’t.’
‘Seems like the perfect time to me. Exams are finished, term break’s coming up. You could go this weekend.’
‘I’ve got a performance assessment the first week back. I have to practise.’ Even to herself the excuse sounded lame.
Shaun wasn’t fooled. ‘You know, whatever’s wrong between you and your folks, maybe it’s time you sorted things out. They might be able to help you through what’s been happening to you lately.’
‘You mean like they used to? By having me committed?’
Shaunwyn laughed. ‘Things never got that bad, I’m sure.’
Lindsay stared back.
The glass stopped halfway to Shaunwyn’s lips. ‘No way. You’re not telling me they actually—’
‘For three weeks. After Nan died.’ She took another generous swallow of Baileys.
‘I don’t believe it.’ Shaunwyn sat forward. ‘Why, what happened? Was it just because you were having those spells?’
Maybe it was the Baileys, or maybe she just finally needed to tell someone. The words were out before she realised it. ‘My parents didn’t know what was happening to me so they sent me for all sorts of medical tests. In the end the experts agreed there was nothing physically wrong with me. They suggested my problem was psychological.’
‘So your folks just sent you off—’
‘No, not straight away. They were reluctant to accept the idea at first. It took something fairly major to convince them.’
Shaunwyn waited.
‘My Nan lived in a granny flat off the back of our house. I used to spend a lot of time there—drawing, doing homework, playing piano for her. I didn’t have many friends growing up. Once a kid saw me have a spell they didn’t come back.
‘One day Mum came to fetch me from Nan’s and overheard a conversation we were having. She was furious. Blamed Nan for all the problems I’d been having. The next day she packed up all Nan’s things and sent her away to an old folks’ home.’
‘She kicked her out? Oh my god, what were you two talking about?’
‘Actually it wasn’t Nan I was talking to. It was … her husband.’
‘Your grandad? What’s so terrible about that?’
‘Pa had been dead for seven years.’
Shaun’s eyes widened. ‘You’re saying it was your grandad’s ghost you were talking to?’
‘I did it all the time. It comforted Nan to know he was there.’ She swallowed against a tightening in her throat. ‘When they took Nan away, her health started to fail almost at once. I begged my parents to let me see her but they wouldn’t take me. She died two months later.’
‘Oh, Lins, I’m so sorry.’
