by Jack Gerson
She was smiling down at him now as Crombie subsided once again.
'See you soon,' she said and, with a reassuring smile, turned and went.
Crombie stared after her, a look of genuine appreciation mingled with the suggestion of a leer.
'Very nice,' he murmured.
Crane felt irritated. 'My wife's best friend,' he felt constrained to affirm.
'Your wife's got taste,' Crombie said and then settled back in his seat. 'So, what's happened?'
Crane told him about the finding of the body but not how he had known where to look, or indeed that he had found her.
'Now why would she go to an old abandoned warehouse and lock herself in just to end it all?' Crombie asked.
'Perhaps to save leaving a mess for people to clear up? Afraid she'd be disturbed in her own house?'
Crombie suddenly looked desolate, even more lugubrious than usual. 'Poor bitch,' he said. 'Who found her?'
'I did.'
'How?' Crombie eyes narrowed with curiosity.
Crane shrugged. Play it cool, calm and collected. Anything but not the truth. 'Couple of clues.'
'The source of which you refuse to divulge?'
'Something like that.'
'Even to your old mate and colleague?'
'Yes.'
'Did the police accept that?'
The question he was still asking himself, Crane thought. At first the answer should have been, no, they hadn't accepted it. Not until Wallace had talked alone to Anne. And received the phone call from higher authority; if there indeed had been a phone call.
'They seemed to accept it,' Crane replied.
'That surprises me,' Crombie said.
Crane tried to be casual. 'They've asked me to check with them before I leave Edinburgh. In any case I was in London, probably in my local boozer when she died. A dozen drunks will support my alibi.'
No sooner had he spoken than he realised his attempt at humour was feeble. But Crombie didn't seem to notice.
'Look, give me some details, description of the body and this factory. Then I'll shoot down to the police station and hear what Superintendent Wallace has to be saying for himself.'
Then Crombie seemed to have another thought. 'Look, Tom, why not come with me. Cover the story for us. I don't mind and my editor would jump at being able to use your by-line. I could do the hard reporting and you could do a commentary. You know the kind of thing?' Crombie was in a full flood of enthusiasm. 'Eminent writer on psychic affairs ponders strange death of Edinburgh woman. How about it?'
'No, no, you handle it yourself,' Crane replied quickly. 'Nothing more to do with me. Anyway I'm meeting my wife at the station this evening and... and I've a call to make before that.'
Crombie shrugged amiably. 'Okay. You could have paid for your trip and more. Still, fill me in on the gory details and then I'll get down to see Wallace.'
Crane talked for another five minutes, describing the warehouse at Fellgate Close and the room with the body. Finally Crombie bought him another whisky and left.
He sat staring at the amber liquid, aware that he had lied to Crombie. Nothing more to do with me, he had insisted and yet he knew he had to find out more about the suicide of Margaret Christie. He had to know more about how he had found the woman's body; about what he had seen and how he had felt. This had never happened to him before, he had never had any experience of precognition, he told himself, until now, until Edinburgh.
And yet as he turned the phrase over in his mind, as he insisted to himself such a thing had never happened to him before, he knew he was lying to himself.
Drexel had seen this ability within him, this new-found, hateful talent. Was it a new-found talent or a surfacing of something else? The same question, again and again.
Drexel had an answer to Margaret Christie's death, he was sure of that. Had he, also, an answer to Crane's visions? Had he, the night before, in that sequence of fear, implanted something in Crane's mind?
Questions to be answered.
Something in his mind.
Something.
What was that something?
SEVEN
It was just after two o'clock when Crane left the Abbots-ford. Three whiskies had left him stone-cold sober but he decided to leave his car where he had parked it for the time being. He would walk to his destination. He was determined to see Drexel again, believing the old man could tell him much more about the dead woman; and even more about how he, Crane, had known where to find her.
He was walking along Princes Street when it happened. As he drew level with a set of traffic lights a large shining Jaguar pulled up. He looked around casually. The driver was Roy Martindale. The thin face behind the wheel was fixed in concentration as if listening intently to the occupant of the passenger seat.
At first Crane could not see the passenger. Then as the car moved off when the lights changed to green, Martin-dale's passenger leaned forward momentarily. For a fraction of a second Crane saw the passenger quite clearly and then the car moved off, driving east, and was swallowed up by the traffic.
Crane stopped, astonished. The face he had glimpsed in the seat beside Martindale was that of his wife, Julia.
A passer-by bumped into Crane and walked on with a muttered obscenity and a glare. Crane paid no attention. He stood, baffled at what he had seen. He was expecting Julia at seven o'clock that evening. She had phoned from London in the early morning. It wasn't possible, unless she had come up by plane. Yet surely she would have told him. And she had never mentioned knowing Martindale.
He passed his hand across his forehead. A mistake, a trick of the light. Someone else in the car with Martindale, someone with a superficial likeness to Julia.
He walked on. He had to relax, rid himself of tension born of the morning's events. His mind was too active, his imagination over-stimulated.
He walked down the Grassmarket some twenty minutes later. In daylight it seemed a different place from the previous night. The row of street-lamps, which had appeared last night to stretch to eternity, were there, unlit and ugly in their normality. They ran for less than a hundred yards. The telephone box in which he had sought refuge stood at the end of the pavement, one solitary crack running across one pane of glass. Everything in daylight was grey and ordinary. As he reached the narrow lane leading to Drexel's shop a watery sun broke through above the crooked line of the rooftops and the old buildings were transformed, becoming almost beautiful in the yellow light.
Drexel's shop was in shadow. As Crane approached he became aware of a difference. The dusty window, which had previously displayed several large ancient volumes, was empty but for the dust which seemed to form circles and whorls on the wood.
The door of the shop swung open at his touch and he walked in. The light from the window was dim but not so dim that he could not see the interior.
The bookshelves, previously crammed with volume upon volume, were also empty but for tiny mounds of dust. The table was still in the centre of the room but its surface was clear, devoid too of the books which had been there the previous night. In the grate a few ashes were all that was left of the fire the night before. And above the mantelpiece was a large oblong whitish patch where Landseer's 'Stag at Bay' had hung.
Crane stood for a moment in the centre of the room, one hand on the table top, Drexel had gone; meticulously arranging for the shop to be stripped of any trace of his occupancy. But why had he gone so quickly? Fear that he might be linked with the death of Margaret Christie? Or fear of Crane himself?
Crane looked in the door at the rear. A corridor led to three rooms. He went into each of them. One had been a kitchen and apart from a rickety table, a small cooker and a sink the room was empty. One of the other two rooms contained an old mattress and nothing else. The other room had an equally old, single divan bed stripped of bedclothes.
Crane returned to the shop and stood again for a moment, his eyes scanning the room. On one corner of the mantelpiece stood a china mug, its rim
stained with brown cocoa, long since dried. He felt there was something else to be seen, something else he should know.
Eventually he saw it.
On his previous visits there had been small threadbare rugs haphazardly covering areas of the floor. These had gone leaving dark stained floorboards. Crane's eyes fell to the boards at the far end of the table.
He had seen it before in diagrams in old tomes on black magic. He had seen it too drawn out on the floor of a room in Chelsea, the home of a self-professed witch.
Now he was staring at it again.
Painted and etched onto the floorboards below the table was a clearly defined pentagram. Crane was standing on the edge of it.
He left the abandoned shop, walking away quickly. As he had stood on the edge of the pentagram he had felt an unexpected chill, a distinct lowering of the temperature. Without thinking he had moved away and out.
Waverley Station, at seven o'clock in the evening, was damp and cold, an icy breeze from the Forth blowing down Waverley steps. Crane sat huddled behind the wheel of his car, waiting.
In his mind, a new uncertainty now. Was it Julia he had seen that afternoon in Princes Street? And how did she come to know Martindale? Questions, each leading to another question. Until he had come to Edinburgh, his life had been orderly, sane, without complication. Now his waking hours were spent between fear and panic. And in sleep there were the dreams, the other unreal life of images he did not understand.
With a rattling and groaning and squealing of brakes the London train arrived at platform eleven of Waverley Station.
The first passengers, the impatient, the hurried, came through the barrier. Then the mass, lining up at the barrier. And from the mass Crane saw Julia.
Carrying a small suitcase, attractive in a blue dress, her suede coat over her shoulders she came out of the mass, paused, looking around the station and then, seeing the car, she waved and came towards him.
They kissed briefly but warmly. Two minutes later they were driving out of the station and turning left towards the hill leading to the Royal Mile.
'Where are we going?' Julia asked, her eyes sparkling with pleasure at seeing him.
'Dinner,' he explained tersely. 'Out Dalkeith way. Nice old place I found when I was a student.'
She smiled, one eyebrow arched questioningly. 'Are you sure it's still there? After all these years?'
'I phoned and checked. It's still there.'
Julia nestled back in her seat. 'All right! Now tell me what's been happening.'
Crane stared at the road ahead before answering. One thought was in his head. Finally he replied with the question he couldn't hold back any longer.
'You did come off that train, didn't you?'
Julia turned her head and stared at him. Yes, of course I did. What on earth..?'
'Have you ever met a man called Martindale? Roy Martindale?' he interjected.
Julia frowned. 'No, I don't think so. Why?' She stared at him evenly but he thought he detected a slight uneasiness in her eyes.
'I just wondered,' Crane replied, shifting awkwardly in his seat. 'He's a friend of Anne's. This afternoon he passed me in his car and I could have sworn you were with him.'
A car shot out of a side street in front of them and Crane brought his foot down heavily on the brakes. The brakes squealed, the car shuddered as it lost speed; and then the car in front was away and Crane eased his accelerator down, regaining speed.
Julia said, 'Obviously someone like me, darling. Which shows Mr Martindale's good taste. Either that or you're seeing things.'
Momentarily Crane took his eyes away from the road ahead and looked at her. He gave a brief, tight smile that lacked all humour.
'That's been happening too,' he replied.
'What do you mean?'
'I'll tell you over dinner.'
They drove out of Edinburgh in comparative silence. As the darkness of the countryside closed around the car, broken only by the bright eyes of headlights coming towards them and the twin beams from his own headlights, they talked about Anne and the evening Crane had spent at her flat.
Their destination was a small old-fashioned country inn on the far side of Dalkeith. Low, timbered ceilings seemed to curve down towards the candle-lit tables. Julia looked around the tiny dining room with concealed pleasure.
'You old romantic,' she said as they sat at a corner table.
'It comes naturally,' he smiled and for the first time since coming to Edinburgh he felt truly relaxed.
A bottle of Chablis accompanying Sole Meunière followed Pâté Maison. And as they ate, Crane told her all that had happened since he had left London. He finished by describing his visit to Drexel's abandoned shop that afternoon.
Julia listened in silence, her only reaction being of concern when he described the terror of leaving Drexel's shop the previous night. When he had finished she sat back, her face pale and strained. She refused a dessert and they both settled for two large brandies with their coffee.
'I need this,' she said, sipping her brandy. 'Tell me, why do you think Drexel got out?'
Crane shrugged. 'He didn't want me to find that woman's body. Yet he couldn't stop me. He knew... how I don't know... that I would find her. And he was... is afraid of me.'
He cradled his brandy glass in his hand and, as he did so, another thought struck him. 'You know, you looked concerned, worried when I told you about last night, Julia, but... but you don't seem surprised.'
'Should I be?' Julia didn't look at him but stared straight ahead. Again Crane imagined a wary look had crept into her eyes?
He pressed on. 'No astonishment at my sudden psychic talent. Yes, you should be surprised! When have I ever shown the slightest sign..?'
'Your nightmares!' she cut in quickly.
Crane frowned, genuinely surprised. 'Damn it, those were simple nightmares! Everybody has nightmares. Eat a piece of green cheese and dream of giant mice!'
'Every night when the moon is full, turn into a werewolf,' Julia smiled, relaxing again. 'I know.'
She took another sip of brandy and changed the subject. 'Tom, do you believe Drexel was somehow responsible for making this woman kill herself?'
Crane nodded with assurance. 'Martindale seemed to believe he'd done it before. People he knew who'd stood in Drexel's way. Of course I don't know how Margaret Christie stood in his way...'
Julia became serious. 'But, Tom, have you thought, it could apply to you, couldn't it? You've landed in Drexel's way...'
Crane stared at his brandy glass. I don't think I'm as impressionable as those people.' He hesitated, shivering slightly, and then went on. 'At least I used to think I wasn't impressionable.'
'What about what happened to you last night?'
He took time to reply. He laid the brandy glass, its contents barely touched, on the table in front of him. The taste of brandy had become acid on his tongue.
You finish that!' he said to her, pushing the glass towards her. She frowned.
'I'm... I'm driving.' He pulled the explanation out quickly, the conjuror with instant logic and words. He knew it wasn't true. He'd driven often after drinking much more than he'd had tonight. Something else? Always now, something else. Wine into vinegar, brandy into acid.
You haven't answered me,' Julia insisted.
'I don't know the answer! I don't know whether I imagined last night. I don't know what happened.'
He lit a cigarette, his hand trembling and as an afterthought offered her one. She shook her head.
'I'm sorry, darling,' she said reaching out and taking his hand. 'A shame spoiling a lovely dinner. Soft lights, sweet music, everything romantic, corny and nice and cosy. And I go and spoil it. The subject must be changed. So let's change it.'
'It's changed,' he replied, forcing a smile. 'Mind you, you might not find it so romantic after a night with me in Michael's single bed!'
She held his hand tightly. 'Can't wait!'
Twenty minutes later they got into the car.
With a smile Crane slipped a tape into the cassette under the dashboard. The music filled the car. It was a tape from the sound tracks of old Hollywood movies. Julia smiled with pleasure.
'Erich Wolfgang Korngold!' she affirmed. 'From The Sea Hawk.'
Crane grinned. 'Followed by the incidental music from King's Row.'
As he started up the engine she made a face. 'Charles Coburn was an absolute swine in that film.'
He released the brake and the car moved out of the forecourt of the hotel onto the road. 'He amputated Ronald Regan's legs.'
Julia made a face. 'And it wasn't necessary.'
'Mind you, when he went out of movies into politics a lot of people thought he should have had more than his legs amputated.'
Crane turned the car back towards Edinburgh. The dominant themes of Korngold's music boomed out at them. He lowered the volume control. Julia nodded her agreement.
'He does get very passionate, does old Erich Wolfgang,' she said, leaning cosily against Crane's shoulder.
They drove for five minutes in silence and just when the opening theme from King's Row started there was a slight tearing sound and the tape stopped.
'Damn!' Crane exclaimed. 'That tape was so old it was bound to go. And it's the only one I've got in the car. All the rest are back at the flat in London.'
'Doesn't matter. We don't need music when we've got us.'
'You're sending us up.'
'Of course,' she yawned. 'All lovers should make fun of themselves at least once a day,' she frowned. 'It makes up for things.'
'What things?'
'Oh, some things,' she became evasive. 'Tell you later.'
In the beam of the headlights the road narrowed ahead and faintly Crane could make out the outline of large trees on either side. They drove quite suddenly into a patch of mist. For a moment Crane was disorientated. The sides of the road disappeared, the line of cats' eyes in the centre of the road became indistinct, some of them disappearing completely. Then as quickly as it was there the mist was gone. Yet it seemed to leave a chill in the car's interior.
Crane reached into his pocket for a cigarette. As he gripped the packet in his pocket, he stopped and shook his head. Faintly he had heard a sound just above the noise of the engine. He took his hand from his pocket, leaving the cigarette packet. The acid taste was again in his mouth.
