'What do you mean?'

  She shook her head. 'I'd better go now dear,' she said abruptly, picking up her handbag.

  Alex felt afraid suddenly. 'What do you mean?'

  'It'll be much better if I go, dear, it's not what I thought at all.'

  Alex stared at the round whiteness of her eyeballs, the dark pupils scanning the room, darting about, the furrows of the frown lines in her fleshy forehead. 'Can't you at least tell me what you mean?'

  Iris Tremayne sat down for a moment, rummaged in her handbag and took out her powder compact. She opened it with a loud click and stared at the mirror. 'I look a sight,' she said, dabbing her nose with some powder.

  Alex felt her anger rising. 'Please tell me what this is all about.'

  The woman looked at her, then snapped shut the compact. She hesitated, then shook her head. 'You must believe me dear, it's better if I go, best not to talk about it, forget it dear, forget I came. You were right, you were quite right last time.' She stood up again and edged towards the door. She stopped, tried to give Alex a kindly smile, but she was trembling too much. 'I really think I'd better go; leave it all alone, I think that would be best. Don't worry about my payment.'

  'Look, I want an explanation. Please?'

  There was a dull crash from upstairs; Alex wondered for a moment if she had imagined it, but she saw the woman's nervous glance.

  'He's troubled dear.'

  'I'll just go and see what that was.'

  'No dear, I wouldn't; I've disturbed him, you see,' she said, hesitantly. 'He's not pleased about my coming, not pleased at all.' The woman shook her head. 'Leave it dear, take my advice � I've never had � never known � not like this, you must leave it alone, leave him alone; ignore him.' She suddenly took a step towards Alex and gripped her hand firmly. Alex felt the cold leather of the glove. 'You must dear.' She turned and marched out into the hallway. There was a click of the door and she was gone.

  Alex stared around the room, her head spinning, and walked to the window; she parted the curtains and stared out. She could see Iris Tremayne walking down the street, in short duck-like steps, each one growing faster, more determined, almost as if she was trying to run but wasn't quite able to.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Alex released the curtains and stared around the room. What had Iris Tremayne seen, she wondered? Was she a loony, or -? She lit a cigarette and took a deep drag; it had a foul, unfamiliar taste, like burned rubber. Fabian hated her smoking and she had always tried not to when she was with him; she felt suddenly as if she was cheating on him now, took another drag, almost surreptitiously, and stubbed it out, screwing her nose up at the stench.

  She went through to the kitchen, trying to ignore the crash from upstairs. Just another trick of her mind, she told herself, but she could still see Iris Tremayne's face, the fearful glance upwards. Probably just the boiler again. She opened the freezer door, and rummaged through the frozen packs, wondering what to cook for Philip, then closed the door again, restlessly. She looked at her watch, seven o'clock; he would be here soon. He could decide and she'd bung it in the microwave.

  She looked up at the ceiling and listened. Everything was quiet. What the hell had she meant, that damned woman? She walked down the passageway, climbed the stairs, stood on the landing and listened again. She felt nervous suddenly, uncomfortable, wished for a moment she was not alone. In the distance she heard the siren of an ambulance. She opened her bedroom door and turned on the light; everything was normal. She checked the bathroom; nothing wrong there either. She went down the corridor, stood outside Fabian's room, and listened again. She pushed open his door, turned on the light, and felt the blood drain out of her.

  The trunk was lying upside down on the floor, the contents spewed out all around it.

  She felt herself reeling and clutched the wall for support; it seemed to slide away from her and she stumbled, grabbed the side of his armchair. She closed her eyes, breathed deeply, opened them again, looked around, bewildered for a moment, then went out of the room, down the corridor and into his bathroom. Had there been someone in here? No, impossible; the windows were all closed, secure. Could it have fallen by itself - had she left it balanced on the edge of the bed? No, that was not possible. So how? How?

  She went back into the room, stared at the jumble of belongings on the floor, clothes, books, his diary, his battered straw boater, then up at his portrait. How?

  The doorbell rang. She turned off the light, closed the door and went downstairs.

  'Sit!' she heard, followed by an angry snarl. 'Sit!'

  Shaking, she opened the door and saw Philip Main standing there in a battered cord jacket, holding a crumpled paper bag under one arm and Black's lead, with some difficulty, in the other.

  'Black, sit!' Main looked at her. 'Sorry if I'm a bit early, couldn't remember what time.' He turned back to the dog. 'Sit!'

  'I don't think I said a time.'

  He thrust the paper bag at her. 'Didn't know what we were eating, so I bought red and white.'

  'Thanks.' She took the bag.

  Main was physically jerked backwards. 'Black, sit!'

  The dog let out a slow rumbling growl, like a powerful motorbike idling. 'Come in.'

  Main jerked the dog's lead hard and Black gave a surprised choking cough. 'He's - er - not best pleased - hasn't had much of a walk today.' The dog dug its toes into the concrete step and slid, reluctantly, a few inches under Main's determined pull. 'Black!' The dog looked up, sensing defeat, and reluctantly followed its master into the house, then stopped inside the hallway and sat down.

  'Hallo, boy,' said Alex, patting him but the dog ignored her completely and stared, suspiciously, at the ground. Main unclipped the lead. 'Gets these moods.'

  'Must be difficult, keeping a dog in London.'

  'Sometimes.' He rolled the lead up and pushed it into his pocket. 'We seem to manage.'

  They went through into the drawing room. 'What would you like?'

  'You look terrible.'

  'Thanks a lot,' she smiled.

  'White; you look white as a sheet.'

  'Scotch?'

  'I don't suppose you've any Paddy?'

  'Paddy?'

  'Irish whisky.'

  She shook her head. 'Sorry.' She was conscious of his stare and felt uncomfortable. 'I'm probably a bit tired.'

  He sat down and slowly eased his cigarette pack out of his jacket pocket.

  She handed him his drink. 'Actually, I've had a bit of a bummer of a day. How was yours?'

  'All right.' He leaned forward and sniffed his whisky.

  'Make any progress? Am I any nearer getting a book?'

  'A little bit.' He sniffed the whisky again. 'A little bit.'

  'I wouldn't make much of a living if all my clients were like you; three years and I still don�t know what it's about.'

  'Did all right with the last one, girl.'

  She smiled; his last one had been published in fifteen countries; it had been translated into twelve languages, and it was incomprehensible in all of them. 'Will I be able to understand this one?'

  'The whole world will be able to understand it, girl. But they won't want to.' He struck a Swan Vesta match and held it to the end of his cigarette.

  'You're very determined, aren't you?'

  'Determined?'

  'To prove that God does not exist.'

  He shook out the match. 'Hokum, girl; there's too much hokum in the world.'

  'Are you sure it's not a vendetta?'

  'Vendetta?'

  'Against your father. He was a clergyman, wasn't he?'

  He shook his head in a cloud of smoke, then stared sadly at the carpet. 'Lost his faith; decided he had it all wrong, that he wasn't a vicar at all.'

  'So what was he?'

  'He became a medium.'

  Alex stared at him. 'You never told me that.'

  'No, well, there are certain things one doesn't tell.'

  She shrugged. 'Why not, it doesn't matter. Did he get you involved in anything?'

  'Good Lord yes; all the time.'

  She watched him sitting there, his tall frame crumpled awkwardly in the chair, gripping his glass clumsily with both hands, like an old man. She felt comfortable with him, safe with his mysteries and his answers and his knowledge; he always gave her the impression that somewhere, deep inside him, was the truth about life, that only he knew it and one day, if she pried hard enough and deeply enough, he would reveal it to her. 'In what sort of things?'

  He went red and stared hard at his glass, as if trying to read something that was written in the whisky. 'Spirit rescues, he used to call them.'

  'Spirit rescues?'

  'Hmmm!' He shuffled awkwardly about in the chair.

  'Tell me about them.'

  He looked around, embarrassed, as if to check no one else was listening, then gave her an apologetic smile. 'Used to take me along, as a sort of earth.' He shrugged. 'Exorcisms, spirit rescues, that sort of thing.'

  'I don't understand.'

  'There was a stretch of road, near Guildford, that people seemed to think was haunted; some chap wandering around in the middle of the road. Several police patrols saw him too. My father went along, took me with him, took me because I wasn't psychic, couldn't be affected by spirits; I was like an earth wire on a plug.' He pushed his cigarette into his mouth and drew deeply on it. 'It turned out to be a lorry driver who had been killed in a crash a few years before; he didn't realize he was dead, was wandering around trying to find his wife and kids. My father told him what had happened, explained he was dead and put him in contact with some spirit guides; they took him off and he was quite happy.' Main looked up at Alex, sheepishly, then looked down at his whisky and turned the glass around in his hand.

  'Did you see this man?'

  'Lord, no. Just heard my father speak to him.'

  'And what did you think about it?'

  He drank some whisky and looked up at her. 'I thought my father was round the twist.'

  Alex stared at him, and they sat in silence for a long time. 'I don't think you did,' she said, finally.

  He shifted again, uncomfortably. 'It was all a long time ago.' He paused. 'Gosh yes, a very long time.'

  'And you've spent the rest of your life trying to prove him wrong?'

  Main sat and stared silently at her. 'My father ended up in a funny farm.'

  'I'm sorry,' she said.

  He shrugged.

  'Perhaps he couldn't cope with his powers.'

  'Hmmm.'

  She shuddered. 'Creepy.'

  'There's a link between the old brain, mental illness and psychic powers. Weird lot, mediums.'

  'I've never heard of a vicar becoming a medium.'

  'Have you ever heard of a vicar who ended up in a funny farm?'

  She looked at him, uncertain whether to smile. 'Was there ever a time when you did believe in it?'

  'It destroyed my father.' He looked down at his drink.

  'Don't you think sometimes good comes of it? People with healing powers?'

  'The National Health has healing powers; and statistically a better record.'

  'And when they fail?'

  He stared into his whisky. 'Nothing's proven.'

  'People have been healed when doctors have given up hope.'

  'They've done that for centuries, girl; long before mediums.'

  'And before Christ?'

  He shifted again. 'You need rest, girl, a holiday; get away from it all; you don't need mediums stirring it all up again for you.'

  'One came round this afternoon.'

  'That explains it.'

  'What?'

  'Why you looked white as a sheet when I arrived.'

  'She was odd. She really spooked me.' She looked at him, but he said nothing. 'I hadn't asked her to come; she said she sensed I was being troubled, that - Fabian � was still around.' Alex smiled nervously and pulled out a cigarette. 'She sat down, in here, closed her eyes and started shaking like a leaf; then she stood up, looking very frightened and said she had made a mistake, a terrible mistake, that I should leave him alone.'

  'Very sensible.'

  'Then there was a crash upstairs.'

  Main looked at her, his eyes probing. 'Some stupid woman trying to con you into something.'

  'No,' said Alex, 'that's the point � she wasn't. She just left; wouldn't say anything, wouldn't answer me. Just rushed out, looking terrified.'

  'Loonies; they're all loonies.'

  'Even Morgan Ford?'

  'Yes, girl. Bound to be.'

  Thanks a lot; I should have a great time with him tomorrow then.'

  'I've already told you.'

  She shrugged. 'I want to go; I can make up my own mind. I especially want to go now, after what's happened -I-'

  He was looking at her, his eyes penetrating. 'Something else has happened, hasn't it?'

  She twiddled with her cigarette. 'I brought Fabian's old school trunk down from Cambridge yesterday; it was on his bed, full of stuff, very heavy. The crash I heard � I went upstairs; it had fallen off his bed, on to the floor. There's no way it could have fallen on its own, Philip.'

  'So how do you think it got there?'

  She smiled, nervously, and felt herself blushing. �This may sound crazy � maybe you should put me in a funny farm too � Fabian always used to have a violent temper; most of the time he was sweet and gentle, but when he didn't get his way, particularly as a child, he used to have the most terrible tantrums. Sometimes he was so strong, I couldn't hold him. Maybe he got angry just now, with that woman.' She smiled again and stared at Main, hopefully.

  He grinned. �There are a hundred reasons why something can fall on to the floor.'

  She shook her head adamantly. 'No. There's no way; that trunk did not fall.' She looked at him. 'Why are you grinning?'

  He shook his head, slowly. 'Yesterday you were being attacked in your office; today someone's throwing trunks around your bedrooms; think about it.'

  'It's different, Philip; last night I was all wound up, I admit that; but not tonight, tonight I was feeling O.K.' She paused. 'Come and see for yourself.'

  He shrugged and stood up.

  For a dreadful moment Alex thought they were going to walk into the room and see the trunk lying on the bed again, still neatly packed. She pushed open the door and turned on the light; the trunk lay there, everything spilled out on the floor, as she had left it.

  'See?'

  He looked down at the trunk, studied the clothes and the books strewn around. 'It was on the bed?'

  'Yes.'

  Main looked around the room, stared up at the portrait of Fabian, and lingered on it, thoughtfully; he walked over and fondled the telescope. 'Fine instrument.'

  'You can have it, if it's useful.'

  Main knelt down and stared through it; he focused the eyepiece.' 'Bad place, London, for astronomy; too much pollution in the air.'

  'Take it, if you like.'

  He shook his head. 'Not my field. Queen Victoria used to loathe microscopes. Said they enabled you to see things so closely, you could not tell what they were. I feel that way about telescopes; they enable you to see things so far away you still cannot tell what they are.'

  She smiled.

  'Give me a microscope any day. It's all there, girl, under the microscope; all of it.' He stood up, stretched, looked down at the trunk. 'Want a hand?'

  'No. I've got to sort it out, anyway; might as well leave it there.' She saw Main stare at the portrait, then look away, uncomfortably. 'Has that effect, doesn't it?'

  'The portrait?'

  She nodded.

  'Looks like one of those van Eyck characters.' He looked up, then turned away again, sharply.

  'Are you hungry?'

  'Well,' he sighed, 'I suppose a chap could eat something.'

  'Perhaps a chap would like to choose it? And the chappess will cook it.'

  'Bona,' he said, turning and staring at the picture again. A perturbed look came across his face and he walked out of the room, a little too hurriedly, thought Alex, surprised at the sudden change that had come over him.

  CHAPTER FOURTEEN

  Black made a noise like a child gargling, and Alex jumped. The pitch deepened again into a low rumble.

  Main prised some lasagne out of his moustache, dabbed his lips with his napkin, then turned his head towards the passageway. 'Quiet, boy!'

  The rumble continued. He picked up his wine glass and drained it. 'Bona,' he said.

  'You've been very quiet.'

  He leaned back in his chair and pulled his cigarettes out of his jacket. He lifted the bottle and poured some wine into Alex's glass, then refilled his own.

  'Nice wine.'

  'Montepulciano d'Abruzzo.'

  'Pardon?'

  There was another rumble from Black. Philip turned and looked at the passageway again. 'Quiet!' he shouted. 'Some remarkably good wines, from Italy. Stunning.'

  'You should get together with David; write a book.'

  He paused, then looked up at her. 'Jesus knew a bit about wine.'

  'Jesus?'

  'He didn't turn the water into ordinary plonk. Someone asked the host why he'd saved the best wine to the end.'

  She smiled. 'Italian?'

  'No, good God no. Probably Lebanese.'

  Black rumbled again. Philip frowned but said nothing.

  'So what do you think about the trunk?'

  He did not speak until he had lit his cigarette, as if it was a drug he needed to give him the power of speech. 'I think you had it too near the edge of the bed.'

  She looked down. 'No, Philip, I didn't, and you know I didn't.'

  Main stood up and ambled towards the doorway. 'Black!' He walked down the passage and saw the dog standing staring up the stairs. It started its low growl once more. 'What's the matter, boy?'

  The dog ignored him.

  'There's nothing up there, boy.' Main stared at the dog, puzzled, beginning to feel uncomfortable himself. He turned back, walked a short way down the passage and went into the lavatory under the stairs. He closed the door, turned on the light and lifted the seat. He found himself shivering. It was like an icebox in here. He looked at the sharp black and white pattern on the wallpaper and noticed a sheen on it; he ran his finger along a strip and it felt wet. He looked at the moisture on his finger; the temperature seemed to be dropping as he stood. There was a crack like a pistol beside his right ear, he saw a shadow and flinched reflexively. An entire panel of paper fell away from the wall and on to him. He fielded it off with his arm and it dropped down beside him; he saw another panel in front of him begin to slide slowly down. He opened the door, snapped off the light and backed out, closing the door firmly. He stood in the passageway for a moment, wondering if he had imagined it. He put his hand on the handle again, then turned away and walked back into the kitchen.