Dagger Magic

"Not much, I'm afraid," Heatherton said. "About three months ago, I had a routine report kicked back to me by the Social Works Department, but I can't say I found it terribly illuminating. Let's face it, very few district nurses are qualified to deal with psychiatric disorders of the kind we're talking about here."

"No, that's quite true."

Heatherton coughed a little nervously, then said, "Adam, I realize that your interest in this case is purely academic. I will, of course, be quite happy to furnish you with transcripts of my case notes, subject to all the usual restrictions regarding confidentiality. At the same time, it would ease my mind considerably if I could persuade you to go and talk to this poor woman - maybe see if you could breach the wall of anger she's built around herself since the accident. Who knows, you may be able to succeed where I failed."

Chapter Nine

AFTER his lecture, Adam caught a sandwich in the hospital cafe with several of his students, then returned to his office to find McLeod there before him. The inspector closed a manila folder and presented it to Adam as he rose.

"No luck reaching Somerville yet, about Peregrine's dead body, but here's the full file on Claire Crawford," he told Adam. "You already know the basic facts, of course, but I thought you might want to look over the details on the way out to her house - just to see what, if anything, your intuitions have to say."

"I'll do that," Adam said, slipping off his starched white lab coat and exchanging it for his suit coat. "I've also spoken with her therapist at Stoke-Mandville. I find it interesting that he was my only contact at Stoke, and she'd been his patient. The connection tends to reinforce what I learned last night, on a little astral foray."

He told McLeod about it on the way down to the car, keeping his terminology carefully neutral whenever someone was in earshot.

"If the opportunity presents itself, I want to try regressing her to the night of the accident. Every instinct tells me increasingly that we're dealing with a psychic talent gone wild."

Cochrane was waiting for them outside, at the wheel of an unmarked police car. Leaving McLeod to take the passenger seat up front, Adam slipped into the back with his briefcase and took out the manila folder. He had the Lennox photos as well. By the time they pulled out of the car park, heading west toward the Lanark Road, he was already absorbed in skimming over the additional background.

Prior to the accident, Claire Crawford had been a junior teacher at a local nursery. John Crawford had taught mathematics at Merchiston Castle School, a much-respected institute of secondary education in central Edinburgh. Their shared hobbies had included canoeing, hill-walking, and a variety of other outdoor activities. Realizing just how much Claire Crawford had lost in the space of so short a time, Adam found it all too easy to understand how she could have plunged to such depths of grief and rage.

But however justified such emotions might be, nothing good could be gained from letting them rule the remainder of her life. On the contrary, there was every reason to believe that such passions had already done considerable harm. If so, Adam's very first priority must be to ensure that no more innocent people died.

"The house number we're looking for is thirty-five," McLeod said, jarring Adam from his troubled contemplation as they turned off the Lanark Road. "Pull over right there, Donald. That's got to be the place."

Cochrane complied without comment, setting the brake and switching off the ignition.

"You want me to keep trying Somerville's number, Inspector?" he asked as McLeod and Adam got out of the car.

"Aye, give him another half hour, if we aren't back by then. His sergeant said he'd be back between three and four."

Claire Crawford's house was a detached modern bungalow fronted by a small terraced garden. From the street it looked spruce and trim, the white hading of its outer walls neatly contrasting with the slate-blue paint of the woodwork.

Upon closer inspection, however, it seemed almost too well kept. All the bedding plants were rigorously confined to their borders, and the miniature boxwood hedge had been ruthlessly squared off. The spaces between the plants had been filled in with small colored stones for easy keeping. The effect was well-groomed to the point of severity.

Considering the pattern he was starting to detect, Adam followed McLeod up the garden steps, briefcase in hand, skirting a concrete ramp to the right that gave wheelchair access to the front door. The small brass plaque above the letterbox was inscribed with a single name: c. a. crawford. Trading glances with Adam, McLeod reached out and thumbed the doorbell.