‘She wanted me to kill Charles Lasser, didn’t she?’ said Frank. ‘And she didn’t care if I died doing it.’
Nevile nodded. ‘I’m afraid so. She had such hatred, but she couldn’t tell you who had killed her, not directly. Spirits can’t do that, which is something of a pity, as far as we psychic detectives are concerned. It would make our lives so much easier. But . . . she gave you a motive for punishing Charles Lasser, didn’t she? Jealousy, one of the most destructive motives of all.’
He sipped his wine, and then he said, ‘The first time Danny appeared to us, that was Astrid, taking his shape. She was deliberately trying to break up your marriage, so that you would need to find somebody else to comfort you. The last time she appeared as Danny was when she met us at Travel Town. She must have been growing frustrated because she gave us the clue about St John the Evangelist and Orange Grove Avenue – that was about as much information as the laws of natural justice would allow.
‘Charles Lasser insisted that he didn’t know any Astrid because it was true. He didn’t. All of Astrid’s bruises and cigarette burns were totally illusory. If she could appear as somebody else – as Danny – then she could certainly look as if somebody had beaten her up. She never went to see Charles Lasser, Frank, and Charles Lasser never hurt her. At least, not then.’
‘What about the real Danny, when he appeared?’
‘Well, you could certainly tell the difference then, couldn’t you? The real Danny did everything he could to take care of you, and to stop you from being hurt. He untied you, even though that must have taken almost all of his strength.’
‘I guess . . . I guess he must have forgiven me, then.’
Nevile laid a hand on his shoulder. ‘Oh, yes. I’m sure of it. But look here, there’s one more thing I want you to see.’
He sat down next to Frank and switched on the television. Then he started his video player. On to the screen came an episode of Law & Order, the fictional cop drama dealing with sex offenders in New York City.
‘This was one of the early episodes,’ Nevile explained. ‘It took me quite a while to find it. But look, here you are. The two detectives go into this bar to talk to this hooker – and what do you know?’
Frank saw Christopher Meloni and Mariska Hargitay. But he also saw a striking young girl in a silvery sequined top and silver hoop earrings. Astrid.
‘How did you find this?’ he asked. ‘Freeze it – let me take a look at her.’
Nevile froze the picture and there she was, shuddering slightly, with that dreamy look in her eyes and that smile that had tightened his scalp like a drumhead.
‘I looked up Tori Fisher on the Internet,’ said Nevile. ‘You know, the girl suicide bomber at The Cedars. I kept thinking to myself, why did the security guard open the gates and allow that van into the schoolyard, without checking the driver’s credentials? The only feasible answer was that he knew one of the people in the van. He knew Tori Fisher, and the reason he knew Tori Fisher was because she had once attended The Cedars herself, as a pupil. Tori Fisher was the stage name of Amanda Lasser, the only daughter of Charles Lasser and his second wife, Rebecca. Of course, he was on to his fourth wife by the time he popped his clogs.’
‘“Daddy hurt me,”’ Frank quoted. ‘That was what she said when she was impersonating Danny. It wasn’t Danny referring to me at all . . . it was Astrid talking about her father.’
‘That’s right,’ said Nevile. ‘And that’s why she joined Dar Tariki Tariqat. She was the victim of serious sexual abuse and she wanted to get her revenge on society at large. What she didn’t realize, until the instant she was killed, was that her own father had created Dar Tariki Tariqat as a bogus means to a very vindictive end.’
‘How would she have realized that?’
Nevile switched off the television. ‘When you die, Frank, you’ll realize that everything is open to you. There are no secrets in heaven.’
Frank finished his wine. ‘I feel exhausted,’ he admitted. ‘I think I need a good night’s sleep.’
‘You won’t have another glass?’
‘No, thanks.’ He stood up. ‘I just want to thank you for all of your help. If you hadn’t agreed to do those séances . . .’
‘Don’t thank me, Frank. I could have had you killed.’
Frank took hold of both of his hands, and squeezed them. ‘Let’s get together in a couple of days. I’d like to talk some more about this. In fact, I think I need to.’
‘You could always try Margot. I’m sure she’ll listen.’
Frank left the house, climbed into his car, and drove up the steeply winding driveway to the main road. He was about to turn left, back to Hollywood, when he looked into his rear-view mirror and realized that he had left his sunglasses behind. He drove as far as the Earth Mother Juice Stand and did a U-turn. He steered slowly back down the driveway to Nevile’s house, parked the car and climbed out.
To his bewilderment, all of the blinds had been drawn. He went up to the front door, pressed the door chimes, and waited. It was strange, but the front yard was strewn with dead leaves, as if it hadn’t been swept in months. There were even dead leaves up against the front door. He pressed the chimes again.
He waited and waited but nobody answered. ‘Nevile?’ he shouted. ‘Nevile, are you there?’ He listened, but there was only the wind, sighing in the trees.
He pushed the front door and it opened. ‘Nevile? Is everything OK?’ He hesitated, and then he stepped inside.
The house was deserted. There was no furniture, no sculptures, no paintings hanging on the walls. Frank’s footsteps echoed as he walked from room to room. Eventually he opened the door of Nevile’s study, and found it empty. No books, no marble-topped table from Delphi, nothing. Not even marks on the wall where his photographs might have hung.
‘Nevile,’ he said under his breath. A few dry leaves rattled into the hallway, and circled around in a little dance. ‘Nevile, you bastard.’
Frank saw a dark-blue rectangle on the floor. He bent down, picked it up and turned it over. It was a card from the Cats and Moons deck. It showed a star map of Andromeda, and underneath it were the words YOU WILL NEVER PASS THIS WAY AGAIN IN A LIFETIME.
He drove back down Laurel Canyon. As he drove, he started to hum, and then he started to sing. He was singing for Astrid, or Tori, or Amanda. He hoped that she could hear him, wherever she was.
‘The girl I love is so beautiful
She makes the roses look ugly.
Her eyes they shine like a bald man’s bean
And her sweaters fit oooh so snugly.
‘The girl I love is a goddess on earth
But one day she fell from a blimp.
She hit a haystack at fifty-four and a half miles an hour
And she now has a left-footed limp.
‘The girl I love is brilliant and bright,
“But I’m going noplace,” she frowned.
“Every time that I try to walk straightly
I keep going round and around.
‘“I go round, I go round, I go round, I go round
I try but I simply can’t starpet.
I’m a gimp with a limp, a left-footed limp
And I’ve worn a round hole in the carpet.”’
As he reached the intersection of Laurel Canyon and Hollywood Boulevard, he saw two odd figures standing beside the traffic signals. One was an old man in a duck-billed cap and baggy blue shorts, with legs that were gnarled with varicose veins. Next to him, holding his hand, his hair shining in the sunlight, was Danny. They didn’t wave; they just stood there, watching him, and then they turned around and walked away.