Adam had already been giving some thought to precisely this problem. "To begin with," he said, "I should like to admit you to hospital."
"I spent six months at Stoke-Mandville," she retorted, turning her face away slightly. "It didn't help those people who died."
"Perhaps not - but these auxiliary tragedies didn't start occurring until after you came back from Stoke-Mandville. This would seem to suggest that the dreams have more potency - or you yourself are more susceptible to them - the closer you are to the site of the original trauma.
"So I'd advise putting some physical distance between you and this stretch of the Lanark Road - which may enable you to gain some psychological distance as well. And I'd also like to prescribe some appropriate medication at night, to take you quickly past the normal transition between wake- fulness and sleep, in which you're most apt to dream. If there is some strange connection between your dreams and the accidents, this should stop it."
Though he did not say so aloud, it also was in the back of his mind that he and McLeod could probably arrange to ward Claire's hospital room in order to prevent her spirit-self from venturing too far afield.
"Beyond that," he continued, "I should very much like to continue working with you, using hypnosis. One of the functions of hypnotherapy is to assist a subject to retrieve detailed information from memory. This being the case, it offers an effective means of redirecting your desire to 'see' what there is to remember from your accident. There's no guarantee that you will be able to 'see' the driver of the car that ran you down," he allowed. "However, 1 would be prepared to conduct a session with a forensic artist present. From your description, it's possible he might be able to produce a recognizable drawing of the perpetrator. This could even aid the police in locating him."
At his glance, McLeod said on cue, "I'll be glad to arrange it. Just tell me where and when."
"You want to hospitalize me, then," Claire murmured, wringing her hands. Then, after a long pause, she added abruptly, "What about my cats?"
Adam breathed a mental sigh of relief. "I expect your sister-in-law would be willing to look after them and your house. She seems to be quite devoted to you."
She looked away, tight-lipped, then returned her glance to Adam.
"How long would I have to stay?"
"1 can't begin to predict that yet," Adam said honestly. "The sooner we begin, however, the sooner we'll find out just how much work we have to do. Are you willing to make the effort?"
Claire drew herself up, once more taut and angry.
"I don't have much choice, do I?" she said with brutal bluntness. "I don't want to be a murderer."
Adam let this piece of self-condemnation pass without comment.
"My medical practice is out of Jordanburn," he said quietly. "That's part of the Royal Edinburgh Hospital. If you'll allow me to use your telephone, I'll make the necessary arrangements to have you transported cross-town. Assuming that you have no objections, I would advise that we start work first thing tomorrow morning."
Claire gave a perfunctory nod. She was staring off into space, her gaze fixed upon some distant point.
"That bastard has a lot to answer for," she muttered. "Because of him, it seems I'm not only a widow, but also guilty of manslaughter. I find myself asking, Is forgiveness possible?''
The tone of her question, however, left Adam wondering if she was thinking of herself or of the unknown driver of a red Mercedes.
Chapter Twelve
McLEOD met the ambulance at the curb when it arrived half an hour later. Ishbel Reid accompanied Claire and Adam to the door, carrying Claire's overnight bag.
"Here you are," she said, looping its strap over the back of the wheelchair. "I'll be along to visit you tomorrow, once you've had time to get settled in. If you think of anything else you need or want in the meantime, just ring me and I'll bring it with me when I come."
"Thank you," Claire murmured. Her tone was very subdued. "Please be sure to phone the polytechnic and let my instructors know I've been recalled to hospital."
"I will," Ishbel promised. "And don't worry about Bogart and Bacall. I'll do whatever it takes to get them in at night, even if it means bribing them with salmon. Maybe I'll even smuggle them in for a visit, if Dr. Sinclair will turn a blind eye."
As Ishbel glanced sidelong at Adam, only half-serious, a crooked smile touched Claire's pale lips.
"I don't know what I'd do without you, Ishbel," she said - and held out her arms.
Ishbel's gaze widened. Stepping forward, she bent down to exchange a heartfelt hug with her sister-in-law, who then turned her chair about without saying anything more and wheeled herself down the garden ramp to the curbside, where the ambulance attendants were opening the rear doors. Left alone on the doorstep with Adam, Ishbel gave him a strange, rather awed look.
"You must be some kind of magician," she murmured.
"That's the first time since the accident that she's shown affection to anyone but the cats. What on earth did you say to her out there in the garden?''
"Sometimes it isn't a matter of words, but of timing," Adam said evasively, biting back a smile. "Let's hope that this means your sister-in-law is beginning to wake up to her true self."
"You think she'll be all right, then?"
"I think the chances are excellent," Adam replied.
With these words, he bade her goodbye and went to join Claire in the ambulance for the cross-town ride back to Jordanburn. McLeod likewise offered her his courteous best wishes before closing the rear doors and making his way back to his waiting police car.
Donald Cochrane was slouched behind the wheel reading over a copy of Motorsport. At the sound of McLeod's approaching footbeats, he tossed the car magazine into the back and straightened up. The cellular phone was resting in the passenger seat beside him, together with McLeod's scribbled note of his colleague's office phone number in Dumbarton.
"Any luck getting through to Somerville?" McLeod asked, opening the door.
Shaking his sandy head, Cochrane scooped up the phone and note so McLeod could get in. "No, sir. He's still in a meeting that was supposed to have ended twenty minutes ago. I tried again, just before the ambulance arrived. Shall I give it another go?"
"Thanks, I'll do it." McLeod took the phone. "Why don't you head us back to the office?"
As Cochrane started the engine and pulled into traffic, McLeod belted up, consulted his note, then punched in the Dumbarton number, which answered on the first ring.
"Inspector Somerville here," said a gruff Glaswegian voice.
McLeod's brow cleared, and he gave Cochrane a thumbs-up. "Hello, Jack. This is Noel McLeod."
"Oh, aye? My sergeant told me you've been trying to get in touch with me. What can I do for you?"
"I'm hoping you can give me some information," McLeod said. "What, if anything, do you know about a dead man who was washed up yesterday on Mull of Kintyre?"
"You seem pretty well-informed already," Somerville said. "I only got the case this morning."
"The young couple who found the body are friends of mine," McLeod said. "They asked me to find out if the police have been able to identify the man."
"I suppose you told them that that's classified information, for as long as the police choose to withhold it?"
"No need for that. Young Lovat's no stranger to police work. He's a professional artist - a damned good one - and he does forensic work for me now and again. You can take it from me that he knows how to keep his mouth shut."
"I'm damned glad to hear that," Somerville said frankly. "I was dreading the thought of having this whole thing leak to the media before we'd got a chance to piece some answers together."