by Diane Hester
‘I should bloody well hope not.’
‘I won’t say the concept isn’t intriguing. I have no experience in it personally, of course, but popular opinion certainly suggests the phenomenon exits.’
‘Popular opinion?’ Mac spread his hands in a show of bewilderment. ‘Is there something going around at the moment? Some kind of bug infecting everyone? You’re telling me you think a person can get messages from beyond? That they can somehow just know what’s happened in another time or place without ever being there?’
‘Well, I’m sure not all—’
‘You’re damn right, not all. Not bloody any. What’s next, Sam? You going to tell me you believe in the laying on of hands? The power of faith, divine intervention?’
‘Hey, Mac, I’m just saying—’
‘What you see is what you get in this world. You rely on yourself. You use your own brains and your own bloody judgement. You don’t turn over your life to a charlatan and trust in miracles. You don’t stop taking the medication that’ll save your life and then leave it to someone else to deal with the consequences.’
Mac stopped abruptly, as surprised by his words as the man across from him was. He sighed and raked a hand through his hair. ‘Yeah, okay. Could be I’m not in the best frame of mind to be open-minded about this sort of thing at the moment.’
‘Fair enough. So if you don’t accept Cavenaugh’s story, does that mean you think she’s involved in Daniels’ murder?’
‘Oh, she’s involved all right.’ Mac slowly leafed through the photos again. ‘Though I’m not sure she actually took part in the killing. For one thing she didn’t know the girl.’
‘So she claims.’
‘That much of her story did check out. According to admin and students I talked to, the two girls had no friends or classes in common.’
‘What about the new missing student, Bethany Willas? Cavenaugh have any connection with her?’
‘Claims she doesn’t, and again it’s supported.’
Sam nodded. ‘So what does that leave? How does Cavenaugh fit into all this?’
‘You want to know what I think?’ Mac dropped the photos back on his desk. ‘I think she’s casing victims for the killer, supplying him information on their habits and movements. She picks them, he grabs them.’
Sam thought a moment then shook his head. ‘Doesn’t follow. Assuming she lied about having a vision, the only way she could know where the body was is if she found it herself or someone told her. If she found it herself why lie about it? If she didn’t, and she’s covering for the killer, why tell police where it was?’
‘Because I don’t think she’s helping him willingly. She had bruises on her neck when I talked to her this morning. She did her best to hide them but I caught a clear glimpse every now and then. They weren’t there the other day when I questioned her.’
‘You think the guy turned on her?’
‘I think he gave her a warning, yeah. I think he realised she wanted to pull out of their arrangement and gave her a taste of what she’d get if she tried.’
Sam rolled out his thick lower lip. ‘If that’s the case, I’d say it was pretty gutsy of Cavenaugh to make even an anonymous call to police.’
Mac frowned as he recalled the girl sitting anxiously before him—her trembling hands, her defiant words, her pitiful insistence that no-one would believe her. The thought of a madman’s hands about her throat, the thought of her face staring up, like Daniels’, from a shallow grave …
He crammed his concern back in its box. Bad enough he’d not yet uncovered the truth, he’d be damned if he’d sympathise with a woman consistently feeding him lies.
‘I’ve probably got it all wrong,’ he said. ‘She could’ve gotten those marks any of a dozen other ways. Hell, I wouldn’t be surprised if she gave them to herself.’
Sam looked appalled. ‘Why would she do that?’
‘To throw us off, set herself up as another victim.’ Speaking the words gave them more credence. To make me feel exactly what I’ve been feeling. How could he have missed such an obvious ploy?
He clenched his jaw. Whatever had clouded his judgement the first time, it would not happen again.
Chapter 10
Mac wiggled his toes inside his shoes. He couldn’t feel them. Two hours sitting in his car in the freezing cold had numbed most of him to a similar state.
He blew into his hands as he watched the door of the building up ahead. Wedged between a lane and a row of shops, and less than two blocks from campus, the apartment housed mostly university students. One of whom was Lindsay Cavenaugh. He’d all but decided to give up and head for the nearest pub when she stepped out the door into the night.
She walked to a white Corolla parked three spaces ahead of his Prado. After a cautious look around—for what? the killer? muggers? to see if anyone was watching her?—she got in, and eased the car out onto Pultney Street. He waited till she’d reached the corner, stopped for a light, then started his engine and pulled out after her.
His dashboard clock read seven forty-two. According to the temporary security log police had placed at the building’s desk, Lindsay had left her flat at about the same time on both Monday and Thursday nights of the previous week. There was always the chance she actually conducted the fitness class she had specified in the log. But if she was going there now and the class was on campus, why was she turning right away from the uni?
After rounding the corner, he spotted his target in the left-hand lane, stopped at a light half a block on. When flow resumed he maintained a safe distance, keeping the Corolla in sight while giving the driver no cause to suspect she was being followed.
They made their way through light evening traffic to the southern suburb of Torrens Park. On a street of respectable middle-class houses, trimmed hedges and standard roses, the Corolla pulled over.
Mac parked half a block back and quickly cut his lights and engine. He watched Cavenaugh get out of her car, enter the grounds of a sprawling, two-story bluestone structure and disappear inside.
So much for the fitness class.
Decision one. Wait where he was until she came out, or try for a closer look and possibly see what she, or they, were up to inside. With the life of Bethany Willas possibly hanging in the balance he opted for the second.
Leaving his car, he started casually up the footpath, a man of the neighbourhood out for a stroll to the corner deli. As he passed the bluestone, he scanned its grounds—stately garden, a wheelchair ramp and what appeared to be a row of rocking chairs on its raised verandah. Two houses further along the street he turned and went back.
He approached as before, the casual stroller, until he saw what he’d not seen the first time—the unlit sign nestled in the boughs of a large grevillea. He walked up the path, climbed the verandah and stepped through the building’s front door without knocking.
The entryway was thickly carpeted, the desk before him unattended. An antique hall-stand stood against one wall. A huge tank of goldfish gurgled merrily in the opposite corner.
Overheated air caught in his throat, thick with a blend of cooked cabbage, op-shop clothing and lily of the valley talcum powder. The door to his left stood ajar. He leaned around it and found an empty dining room—a dozen or so tables, each with seating for six to eight.
From the room now behind him he heard the dull murmur of voices, a piano playing. He crossed the foyer and stood in the doors of a spacious lounge.
Forty or so people, mostly women, all grey-haired, sat in a semicircle around the room. Some were in wheelchairs, others on lounges, most with tea and biscuits in hand.
The focus of their misty-eyed attention was a woman at the piano at the far end of the room. He didn’t know the song she was playing but recognised it as something of the grey-hair vintage. The murmur of voices, he now realised, wasn’t their talking but the steady drone of toneless singing.
Mac stood coming to terms with his shock. It wasn’t often he was so totally thrown.
With her trendy hair and designer clothes, Lindsay Cavenaugh seemed more the type to frequent nightclubs, pop Ecstasy and have various parts of her body pierced. Playing piano in a nursing home didn’t fit with the image he had of her.
‘Can I help you?’
He turned to find a middle-aged woman in a prim white dress standing behind him, her name tag declaring her one of the staff. As it turned out he had a legitimate reply to her query.
‘Yes, I hope so. My mother is currently recovering from surgery and a stroke. I’m hoping she’ll soon be well enough to move into a residential place and I’m looking around for something suitable.’
‘We prefer such inquiries be made during normal business hours.’
‘I understand. It’s just that hours are difficult for me. I don’t get off work till after six and on weekends I like to visit her if I can.’
The matron nodded. ‘Yes, I know it can be awkward. I tell you what …’ She stepped back and grabbed something off the desk. ‘Take this brochure. It’ll tell you all about our facility, and I’ll get Mrs Holland to ring you to set up an appointment.’
Mac thanked the woman and gave her his contact details. As she wrote them down he looked back over the gathering in the lounge, his gaze moving swiftly to the figure at the piano.
Lindsay sat regally on the bench, swaying slightly to the flow of the music. Her long legs were clad in slim-fitting jeans, and a high-collared sweater hid her neck. Her slender fingers moved over the keys in a way he found unexpectedly erotic.
‘Is the young woman one of your employees?’
The sister looked up. ‘The one playing piano? Oh no, she’s a volunteer. Studying at one of the local unis I believe. Lovely girl. Our residents adore her.’
‘Does she have a parent or grandparent living here?’
‘No, she just comes because she likes to play for them.’ The woman paused to reflect on the fact. ‘She knows all their favourite songs. Not something you’d expect of the younger generation. Most can’t stand to be around old folks. Yet she seems to enjoy their company almost as much as they enjoy hers.’
‘How wonderful you can have such occasions for your residents. Does she play for them often?’
‘The third Thursday night of every month. And they do look forward to it, I can tell you that. Does your mother like listening to music, Mr Macklyn?’
‘She does indeed.’
‘Then I think she’d be very happy here.’
‘Yes,’ he said absently, his attention drawn again to the other room. Lindsay had finished a toe-tapping number, acknowledged the soft applause of her audience and started a ballad.
Had the building been on fire he could not have looked away. It was a beautiful, hauntingly familiar tune, one he was certain his mother had listened to. It seemed to have special meaning for Lindsay. She touched the keys tenderly, a smile on her lips. Judging from the misty eyes of her listeners it was a sentimental favourite with them as well.
‘What’s that song she’s playing now?’ he said.
A blush of youth touched the sister’s cheeks. ‘Yes, I know this one. “Someone To Watch Over me” it’s called. And doesn’t our Lindsay play it beautifully?’
Chapter 11
It was a lovely old building. Despite its primary focus of study, Lindsay felt warmed by the sunlight streaming in through ceiling-high windows along its main corridor. Glass-fronted offices lined the right side, bright and airy, with smiling secretaries and huge potted ficus. Jarrah wood floors and polished wall panels gave off a subtle spicy tang and coloured the scene with old-world charm.
What had she expected, snake pits and straitjackets? It was a department building like any other. Classes were held in its lecture halls, research conducted in its modern facilities. All above board. All without mayhem, bloodshed or torture.
So why was she shaking?
She marched grimly on, passing through a set of open doors that demarcated the research wing. The rooms here were numbered. She found number 26 and stopped before it.
Through its glass door she got her first look at the black-topped benches of the lab beyond. Most of the room appeared to stretch away to her left out of sight. She pressed her forehead to the glass but couldn’t see anyone. She raised her hand to knock and froze.
After a moment, hand still poised, unable to knock, she lowered her brow to the glass again. He was going to help her. It would be different this time. She was an adult now—twenty-four, not a child of ten. He could do nothing to her she didn’t permit.
She shut her eyes. So why had the thought of meeting this man kept her awake for most of the night? Why had the simple prospect of coming here made her feel like she was going to be sick?
‘Because this isn’t just any building,’ she whispered. ‘And Doctor Ikeman isn’t just any professor. He’s a bloody shrink.’
‘I sincerely hope you won’t hold that against me.’
Stifling a yelp, she spun around. The man before her was tall and dark-haired, with a teasing sparkle in his sea grey eyes. Despite the peppering of silver at his temples she judged him to be in his mid to late thirties. He wore faded jeans and a tan corduroy jacket over a burgundy shirt.
‘Ronald Ikeman.’ He put out his hand. ‘How do you do?’
‘Dr Ikeman, I … I’m so … I didn’t …’ She took a deep breath and accepted his hand. ‘I’m Lindsay Cavenaugh.’
‘Pleased to meet you.’ His smile had grown at her befuddlement but oddly it didn’t seem condescending. ‘Are you here about a class or to take part in the research study?’
‘The latter. I think.’
‘You think?’ He pulled a jangle of keys from his pocket. ‘Well, why don’t you come in, we’ll talk about it, and you can decide.’
If the place was a state-of-the-art functioning facility he kept it well hidden. Papers and books covered every surface. Cold half-empty cups of coffee and crusts of sandwiches lay beside computers and banks of machinery. At the room’s furthest end was a freestanding cubicle with a window and a door. She couldn’t help smiling—it could have been Dr Who’s time travel machine.
‘As you can see I’m swamped at the moment,’ Ikeman said, shifting a stack of papers from the chair beside his desk. ‘Exams to grade, papers to file. I have a doctoral student who usually helps me but he’s been out sick for the last week.’
‘It looks like my flat half the time.’ Lindsay took the seat he’d cleared for her and did her best to appear at ease. Ikeman wasn’t what she’d expected. He seemed more absent-minded professor than heartless analyst. But that was only a first impression.
He settled at his desk and regarded her intently. ‘Well now Ms Cavenaugh, you think you might be interested in our study.’
She felt her cheeks colour. Despite the teasing note to his words his smile was warm. ‘Yes, I’m interested. And it’s Lindsay, please.’
‘Very well, Lindsay. Students call me Ron or Dr Ike. And as it turns out I’ve got the next two hours free so we can get started straight away if you like.’
She swallowed hard. ‘That would be fine.’
He pulled a clipboard from the debris on his desk and inserted what looked like a blank questionnaire. After recording some basic details, he paused to explain what would come next.
‘The first part of our assessment is fairly straightforward. It’s basically to determine what, if any, ESP experiences you may have had in the past. I’m going to read out a number of statements. After each one I’d like you to respond by saying “often”, “sometimes” or “never”, whichever you feel is most appropriate. Understand?’
Lindsay nodded.
‘Okay, here we go. Statement one: I make decisions based on intuition rather than logic.’
‘No, I don’t think so. I’m fairly rational about making decisions.’
‘Often, sometimes or never,’ he prompted.
‘Never.’
‘I sometimes know the phone will ring before it does.’
She s
hifted and forced her voice to stay neutral. ‘No. I mean, never.’
‘I’ve experienced the phenomenon commonly referred to as deja vu.’
‘Not that I recall.’ She plucked at the cuff of her sweater sleeve.
‘I have visited a place and known the location of certain objects, rooms or buildings even though I’d never been there before.’
‘No, never.’
‘I’ve seen what I thought was a shadow or movement out of the corner of my eye but when I turned to look, there was nothing there.’
She had sucked in a breath and now tried to mask it by clearing her throat. Even then her voice was tight. ‘No, never.’
‘I dream in colour.’ Ikeman looked up when she failed to answer.
‘Well, you see, the thing is I don’t dream. I haven’t in a very long time.’ Her voice dropped further. ‘Until recently that is.’
Ikeman studied her. His face remained open with a tentative smile. It was hard to pick what he was thinking. ‘Lindsay, you do understand no-one is required to participate in this study.’
‘Yes, of course.’
‘The reason I say that is … Well, to be honest, the questions appear to be making you uncomfortable.’
She stared at her hands. He’d given her an opening—the perfect opportunity to tell him everything or back out entirely. She so desperately needed help. But would he understand? On the surface he seemed different from the others. Yet a small voice inside her kept saying it was still too soon to trust.
‘Lindsay?’ he coaxed.
She looked up. ‘I’m fine. Let’s keep going.’
Chapter 12
Mac stepped through the apartment-building door and into a spacious but empty foyer. An unmanned desk stretched down one wall with lounge seating on the opposite side and a hallway leading off the back. The girl he had arranged to meet here was nowhere in sight. He pulled out his phone to call her again then heard the ding of an unseen elevator from up the corridor.
A young woman with flame-red hair—a shade that could only have come from a bottle—stepped around the corner, wearing a turquoise sweater, lime green scarf and pink knee-high Ugg boots. He recognised her as the friend who’d been accompanying Lindsay the first time they’d spoken in the uni lounge. From memory she’d been wearing something equally outrageous then, her flamboyant style a curious contrast to her flatmate’s cool, conservative manner.