Whispers Through the Pines

By Lynne Wilding

Is someone or something trying to drive Jessica Pearce insane? Could it be the hereditary factor of insanity in her family tree? Is it Simon, her doctor husband? Or is something darker and more sinister happening to her on Norfolk Island?Jessica Pearce is a successful Perth barrister, until she suffers an emotional breakdown three weeks after the death of her son. In an attempt to heal Jessica and her husband, Simon moves to Norfolk Island for a six month break away from their hectic worlds.Jessica, immersed in her misery, is touched by Sarah, a land-locked spirit, tied to Norfolk Island and unable to leave or rest. Sarah sees Jessica as the one to set her free from her spiritual bonds. Slowly Sarahᱠstory of her brutal death in the times of colonial settlement unravels. the already strained marriage of Jessica and Simon is threatened by the mutual attraction between Jessica and Marcus Hunter, a former psychologist and a native Norfolker who teaches South Pacific history at Auckland University. the marriage is further threatened by Sue Levinski, a nurse who sees the difficulties Simon and Jessica are encountering as a perfect opportunity to perfect her life, being the partner of a successful doctor. With the breakup of Jessica and Simonᱠmarriage, she and Marcus turn to solving the mystery of her haunting. Who is Sarah? What has she done?

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins Publishers Australia
• Release date: Jul 1, 2010
• ISBN: 9780730450849

Lynne Wilding

Lynne Wilding is the author of many bestselling novels, including HEART OF THE OUTBACK and OUTBACK SUNSET

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Rain-laden clouds raced across the sky and in the distance thunder boomed.

She looked up from her contemplation of rocks smoothed by the ceaseless ocean and the passage of time as a lightning bolt discharged itself into the roiling sea. The weather reflected how she felt, for her anger matched the fury of the approaching storm, and the rumbling sounds of nature at its most ferocious echoed her grim mood.

Her gaze moved about the cove, registering the crash of mountainous waves hurling themselves against the rocks. The wind had whipped the tops into foaming crests which, for several seconds, peaked and then curled over to smash again, and again until all that was left were passive ripples.

The ocean was restless, as she was, and ever moving. Had she not been watching such scenes for so long? Waiting. For too long. Waiting for a change in the pattern of life around her that would set her free. Finally.

Her fingers curled into fists and the nails, some broken, others long, curved into her palm so hard that they tore the skin. Opening her fingers she stared at the damage she had wrought the skin and asked the question she asked herself every day. How long must I endure this? I have been waiting for an eternity, or so it seemed to her. Dear God, have mercy on me…

She stood up, legs braced wide apart to withstand the buffeting wind, and then she pushed her arms above her head in a supplicating gesture to the heavens. Please, dear God, let there be an end to this, this emptiness, this void. The wind was her only answer. As if it were a living entity, it plucked at her clothes, whipping them about her limbs. It fanned her long hair across her face in a tangle which obscured the twisted agony of her expression. It whispered and whistled about her but denied the answer she craved.

Her throat muscles constricted and a cry, inhuman in its despair, tore from her lips. ‘Help me. Someone, please help me.’

A kilometre away from the shore, nestled in a grove of pines, a weathered timber cottage bore the force of the wind as it had for over eighty years. Behind the cottage stood a shed disproportionately large when compared to the cottage.

Inside the shed three walls were lined with shelves containing pieces of pottery at various stages of completion. A woman sat at a potter’s wheel, her hands wet and clay-encrusted as she began to work the lump of clay into a wide, low fruit bowl.

The fringe of Nan Duncan’s short cropped hair, once blonde but now flecked with grey, fell across her vision. She impatiently pushed the strands back, leaving a smudge of clay across her forehead in the process. Four and a half months away from her fiftieth birthday, she had raised four unruly children, all grown now and spread between Australia and New Zealand. An early widowhood and a struggle at times to make ends meet, even though she was a talented potter, were reflected in Nan’s face. It had been a life of ups and downs. Deep character lines crisscrossed her face and neck but, somehow, they did not detract from the outdoorsy attractiveness of her features. Grey eyes nestled behind bifocals and her mouth, a little too wide, seemed to bear a perennial smile, despite her problematic life. Slim to the point of being rakishly thin, she wore her working clothes—an old sweater with denim patches at the elbows and frayed at the end of the sleeves, a plaid skirt, red striped socks and clay-spattered sandshoes.

A gust of wind bent a high shrub to make a noisy tattoo against the many-paned glass window of the shed, which the family had laughingly dubbed her studio, but above the rat-a-tat-tat of the branches came a thin keening wail.

Nan’s hands stopped their perpetual motion. The smile froze. Fingers that had begun to show early signs of rheumatoid arthritis stretched, stiffened. Her head shot up, her body stilled, her heartbeat quickened as the piercing noise wove its way into her brain, then to her heart and finally to her soul. Her foot eased off the pedal as the unnatural sound penetrated her concentration and distracted her from her task.

She frowned as she sat, statue-like, under the beam of the strong neon light. The sound was familiar, she’d heard it before, many times—for as long as she could remember, in fact. Always it came with the wind from the south and before a storm. She remembered that too. Her mother, God rest her soul, had explained when she’d been small that the noise came from the wind whipping around the rocks of Cresswell Bay. A logical explanation, Nan agreed, but even so, the shrill whistling set her nerves on edge. It always did.

Another gust of wind pushed against the old wall, making the timber joints creak, the tin roof rattle. And then the shrieking faded—within a few seconds—to nothingness.

Nan’s head moved to one side as she allowed herself a moment’s reflection. One day, maybe, her brother Marcus, would find the source of the nerve-rattling noise. He had tried twice but had been beaten by the fierce weather, almost as if nature intended to protect its secret forever. He’d be here soon, when the current semester at Auckland University finished. A smile creased the lines in her cheeks once more. It would be good to see him.

Slowly her fingers relaxed. She dipped her hands into the bowl of water by the side table close to the wheel and her foot pressed down on the pedal. The wheel began to spin, slowly at first, then faster as the pedal which controlled the motor picked up. Fingers lovingly worked the clay, out and up, out and up, smoothing, shaping, creating…the unnatural shriek of the wind stored in the back of her mind as she bent again to her task.

CHAPTER ONE

Atapered finger, nail filed and polished, pushed the elevator floor button. Six. She checked her watch. Twenty-five past eight am. Alone in the elevator she had time to check that her grey suit jacket was done up, the skirt straight, that every strand of chestnut hair was in place, with no locks creeping out from her smooth chignon style, as they were wont to do. As the sixth floor approached, she worked on her facial expression. Calm. Serene. Accepting. Yes, especially that. She took a deep breath as the doors opened, tightened her grip on her attache case and moved confidently across the foyer to the reception desk of Greiner, Lowe and Pearce.

‘Jessica!’ Faith Wollinski’s expression betrayed surprise as she recognised her boss. ‘I didn’t, we didn’t expect you in today. Ummm, yet.’ She bit her freshly lipsticked lips in distraction, not sure of what to say next, other than, ‘I’m so sorry…for your loss.’ Her sigh was an acknowledgement that the sentence was inadequate.

Jessica Pearce held up her hand. ‘Please, Faith, I can read the expression in your eyes. I’m fine. The family agree. The best therapy for me is work and plenty of it.’ She pulled her mouth into the semblance of a smile, forced a touch of nonchalance into her pose as she leant on the reception desk and browsed through a pile of files. ‘David says there’s plenty of that around here.’

‘You’re not wrong, Mrs Pearce,’ Mandy, the twenty-year-old receptionist piped up. ‘Mr Greiner and Mr Lowe have really missed you these last few weeks.’

‘Well, no one has to miss me any more,’ Jessica said brightly. She picked up her case and headed down the corridor towards her office. Half turning back over her shoulder, she asked, ‘Could I impose, Faith? A cup of coffee, black…in ten minutes, after I’ve gone through the mail.’

‘Two sugars,’ Faith confirmed. ‘I haven’t forgotten how you like it.’ She gnashed her teeth at the triteness of the remark, aware of her inability to cope with the awkwardness of the situation. And she was quick enough to note Jessica’s half-smile, saw that it didn’t quite reach the eyes as she turned away. Her expression thoughtful, she studied Jessica’s retreating figure as her boss walked the eight metres or so to her office door. The shoulders were tense, spine stiff as a board. Just hanging on, she suspected.

‘Did you see her eyes—they looked strange,’ Mandy half whispered. ‘Do you think she’s okay, Faith?’

Eight years of loyalty made the middle-aged Faith’s answer positive. ‘Of course. Jessica’s been through a dreadful trauma, but she’s strong. She’ll survive it.’ She glanced at the younger woman and added in an authoritative tone. ‘I’m sure that what she doesn’t want is people here hovering over her and looking worried. Buzz David and Max. Let them know she’s in.’

Jessica, aware that she’d been holding her breath as she walked away from the two women, exhaled in a mighty burst as she closed the door behind her. She closed her eyes. First ordeal, contact—over. She allowed her body to rest against the timber door as if trying to gain strength from the solidity of the object.

With her eyes still closed, she listened to the hum of the air conditioning, observing that it still had that annoying rattle. Outside the window muted sounds of peak-hour traffic as vehicles proceeded to build up along St George’s Terrace wafted up without noisy intrusion. Through closed lids she perceived light streaming in through the waist-high glass window from which an expansive view of the Swan River and part of Perth’s city skyline could be seen. Otherwise, there was silence, complete and utter, except for the ridiculously fast beating of her heart.

Her lids slowly opened and she looked around the office that had been almost a second home to her for so many years.

Everything looked the same as it had three weeks ago. The cedar-panelled wall behind her desk. A Pro Hart rested on the left wall, far away from her own watercolour of a bush scene painted near New Norcia, which had won second place in a state art competition when she’d been twenty-five. The two teak filing cabinets, the glass-topped desk, so neat, thanks to Faith’s pathological need to be tidy, and on the windowsill stood a lone bromeliaed about to flower. Photos of her and Simon taken at the Pinnacles Desert were the only adornment atop the filing cabinets. The wall opposite the window was a bookcase filled with legal volumes. The beige carpet, nice, thick, toned with the room’s neutral colours. Familiar. Comfortable. The same…

Yes, the room was the same, but she was different, changed. Forever.

Her limbs felt suddenly heavy, and it took a conscious effort of will to force herself to advance to the desk. She draped her jacket and purse over the hat stand behind the desk, sat in the padded swivel chair. Breathed in, breathed out. Control it, she told herself. Don’t think about him. Work, hard work’s the only cure for you, you know. It will numb the pain, the memories, that’s what her commonsense told her, what everyone had told her, but she wasn’t sure.

She glanced at her in-tray. Several briefs enclosed by pink binding ribbon awaited her attention. A blank message pad stood at the ready, its corner tucked under the right-hand side of the leather-edged blotter. Messages rested in a neat pile and were tucked in an adjacent corner. Unopened letters sat to the right of the desk blotter. As she reached for them, she realised that her hand was trembling, noticeably. She curled the fingers into a fist for several seconds, then picked up the top letter and slit the envelope open. It was a handwritten note of condolence…

Though the temperature of the room was a pleasant 22° Celsius, beads of perspiration formed across Jessica’s forehead and above her upper lip. She twitched as nerve endings under her skin pulsed erratically. She longed to scratch them to ease the irritation. Don’t, she commanded. Get to work. She pushed the pile of letters aside and reached for a brief, put it before her and opened the folder. The text blurred. Reading glasses, stupid! She took the gold-rimmed spectacles out of her attache case and put them on. She began to read…Smithers versus Smithers.

Family Law was Jessica’s specialty within the firm of Greiner, Lowe and Pearce, and she had been appointed junior partner late last year. Over the previous five years, she had earned a reputation as a successful and fair-minded lawyer in the law courts of Perth. And, sadly, there was no shortage of cases. Divorces, property settlements, disputes over children’s visiting rights. The cases, the emotional stress clients brought with them were never ending.

She made herself read the first three pages of the Smithers brief and then a renegade thought intruded upon her concentration.

Her head snapped up. Her gaze roamed the room, searching every nook and cranny of it. Something was amiss. Something important was missing from the room’s interior, from the corner of her desk. A panicky, increasing heartbeat had her hands twisting together, pulling at her engagement and wedding ring as she sought the missing item. She got up, went over to the filing cabinets and pulled each drawer open. Not there. Then she checked every drawer in her desk. Nothing.

The door opened and Faith came in with the coffee.

Jessica, her gaze narrowing in suspicion, asked outright. ‘Where did you put it?’

‘Put what, dear?’

Exasperation hissed in her tone. ‘You know. Did they tell you to hide it?’ She studied Faith’s bland expression and the frustration, the anger that had been building inside her grew. The nerve endings under her skin were driving her crazy, as if something were alive under the first layer. Unconsciously she rubbed the inside of her forearms. ‘The photo, Faith. Where’s the photo?’

‘Oh!’ Comprehension. ‘Yes. The partners and I,’ Faith noted Jessica’s increasing agitation and said in a rush, ‘we thought it best to put it aside for a while. Till you, until…sufficient time had passed and…’

‘Get it. Now.’ Jessica hadn’t meant to scream, but that’s how it came out, high-pitched, uncontrolled. She regretted the lapse instantly.

Faith placed the coffee mug on the desk and turned towards the filing cabinet. She opened the bottom drawer and from the back, wrapped in brown paper, took out the photo.

‘Put it on the desk.’

‘Are you sure you want to, Jessica?’ Faith asked as she put the photo of fourteen-months-old Damian Pearce on the side of the desk where it had stood for the last three months. ‘It’ll be a constant reminder. You’ll see it, his face, every time you…’

Blue eyes brimmed with tears. ‘Do you think I don’t see his face, hear his voice every bloody second of the day and night? Do you?’ Again, the pitch. She sighed. Too high. No control. A hand flicked across her eyes, pushed the tears back. She took a deep breath, strove for a balance she was fast losing. ‘I’m sorry…’ The words sounded lame even to her own ears.

‘Are you all right, Jessica?’ Faith’s frown returned.

Jessica felt Faith’s gaze on her, watching her struggle to maintain her composure. The woman knew that self-control had always been one of her strong points. In the past such strength had won her many a court case. What was Faith thinking? she wondered. That Jessica was on the brink of something, she didn’t quite know what?…Or was she mentally berating Simon for letting her come into the office when she wasn’t up to it? Oh, hell, what did it matter! She shook herself out of her mind games and stared at her secretary.

‘No, I’m not all right but’—Jessica took in a deep calming breath—‘I will be.’ She looked at the brief she’d been reading. ‘Would you check with Max, see if he’s free in half an hour? I want to familiarise myself with the Smithers case, then discuss it with him as he’s done the preliminaries.’

‘I’m sure he’s free until twelve. He’s working on a court presentation for tomorrow. I’ll tell him ten o’clock, shall I?’

Jessica nodded. She kept her eyes downcast until Faith had left the room. Then slowly, almost unwillingly, her gaze rose to the gilt-edged photograph of her son. Blue eyes so like her own looked back at her from the two dimensional photo. He had Simon’s—his father’s—blonde hair and olive skin, and his smile. Damian’s smile. She shut her eyes tight as tentacles of pain grabbed at her. They invaded every muscle, every tissue inside her body. She couldn’t bear it…there was no relief from the ache, the sense of loss. It was eating away at her internally, destroying her muscles, tissues, energy, paralysing her ability to think. From her throat came a guttural, sobbing sound, and she swallowed it unreleased, unrelieved. She had to bear it.

Gone, her son, and with him every vestige of happiness, of future joy, even the desire to live.

Living. She rocked backwards and forwards, her arms embracing herself, trying to hug the pain, keep it in, keep it under control. This wasn’t living. This was surviving, but only just. And what for? All so pointless, without him. She blinked rapidly as the question came to her. Why bother?

She took another breath and her tortured mind imagined the delicious sweet smell of his baby skin, the freshness of his shampooed hair. Stop doing this to yourself! a voice inside her head said. This torture will get you nowhere, accomplish nothing of worth.

But there is nothing of worth any more, a separate voice argued back. Without Damian what did she have to look forward to? At thirty-eight, closer to thirty-nine, there would be no more children. Damian had been a small miracle for her and Simon after eleven childless years of marriage which had included three miscarriages. Besides, no one could replace Damian. He had been so…special—her little son had made the miracle of motherhood worth the wait. She drew in another breath, and willed the control back…

She put her glasses back on and recommenced reading. For several minutes she maintained a level of concentration, but when a single tear slipped from her cheek onto the printed page, she acknowledged defeat and took her glasses off. Her hand reached for the photo and she put it against her breast, where the pain was centred. The coolness of the glass and metal frame permeated through the thin material of her blouse to her skin. She remembered how warm he had felt against her, how he had loved to be cuddled. Tears began to stream down both her cheeks and drop onto her blouse.

Memories…

Laughter. His tottering gait, his few words: ‘Dadda,’ ‘tar,’ ‘Mum’. And how adorable he had looked asleep and when absorbed by something that captured his interest…She closed her eyes and myriad mental pictures flooded her brain.

The pain intensified, her breathing laboured through throat muscles constricted by emotion. More pain. Maybe she was having a heart attack. Good. That might end the suffering. But then she thought of Simon and a deeper sadness enveloped her as his image swam before her closed lids. Simon. What good was she to him anyway? She could barely function, didn’t want to function, didn’t want to live with this kind of misery. Her body began to rock in the chair again, backwards and forwards, little moans escaping her lips and evaporating into nothingness. Blot out the pain, blot out the pain, she intoned the mantra over and over. Blot it out. For all eternity.

Then, inside, something snapped and her body went limp…

Seconds, or it may have been minutes later, Jessica opened her eyes. The stare was vacant, fixed on no particular object. Her breathing evened out and an eerie calmness descended upon her like a welcoming blanket. She knew what she had to do. Damian, remember Damian.

Placing the photo of her son on the desk blotter, she began to undo the chignon she had rolled her hair into this morning, placing the pins neatly on the desk top. She ran her fingers through the chestnut locks, which had a tendency to curl at the ends, especially in wet weather. Her lips moved as she crooned a lullaby, one of Damian’s favourites…‘Hush, little baby, don’t you cry, Mamma’s gonna sing you a lullaby…’

In a jerky, automated movement she opened the top right-hand drawer of her desk and took out a pair of scissors. With trancelike precision she began to cut chunks of hair off and place them around Damian’s photo, in a form of homage. She spied a lipstick in the drawer and, still crooning, her concentration returning to the photo, she rolled the lipstick up and began to outline her eyes and her mouth in wide circles of bright red. Once that was accomplished to her satisfaction, she then drew lipstick circles on her pristine white blouse, but that wasn’t enough, and so she took the scissors and, pulling the blouse out from her skirt, began to slice pieces out of it and place them around the photograph. The itch beneath her skin intensified. She scratched, and scratched and soon ugly welts appeared on both forearms.

‘They’re changing guards…’ Hum, hum, ‘at Buckingham Palace…’

The intercom on the phone beeped. She ignored it but, in a single, angry gesture, stretched out her arms and cleared her desk. Files clattered to the ground, as did the phone, pens, paperclips. Everything, until only the desk blotter and the photo of Damian remained.

Accidentally, the sharp end of the scissors pricked the underside of her arm, and she began to bleed. Seemingly fascinated by the blood running down her fair skin, her fixed gaze watched it make a miniature rivulet along her arm. Blood was life. Of course! She chuckled maniacally, she knew that. She stared at Damian’s photo, then bent her arm over it and pricked the skin again, allowing the droplets to fall on his photo. Then, carefully, she put the scissors aside and waited. Damian’s image didn’t spring back to life, and a low wail erupted from her lips. She began to rock again, backwards and forwards, backwards and forwards, faster, faster.

Max Lowe, the firm’s senior partner, rose from his office chair, checked his watch and strode outside and down the corridor. Jessica hadn’t come to talk to him about the Smithers case, which was odd. She was usually very punctual with appointments. He’d see what was keeping her…

Max’s forehead furrowed in a frown as he heard a strange sound, coming from Jessica’s office. Had she hurt herself? His hand grasped the knob and he pulled the door open.

A seasoned lawyer, well into his fifties, not much could shock Max, but his mouth dropped open at the sight of his junior partner. Jessica looked like a mad woman. Her chestnut brown hair stuck out in strange chunks—she’d hacked it unmercifully. There were red spots all over her face, and her blouse was ripped in several places. And, almost as an afterthought, he noted the God-awful mess all around her desk.

But what sent a chill through him even more than how she looked was the unblinking stare, the non-recognition in her eyes. Jesus, she’s lost it!

He eased back from the open doorway, turned his head and caught the movement of Mandy, the receptionist, strolling across the foyer. ‘Mandy,’ he barked, ‘get Faith. Quick!’

CHAPTER TWO

The man stood at the foot of the bed, his figure finely illuminated by the wall light above the patient’s bed. Tall, dressed in a hand-tailored pinstripe suit, the white shirt, muted pattern tie and Italian shoes proclaimed him as a person comfortable with a certain amount of power and respect.

His trained gaze took in the patient’s appearance. The hair had been brushed into a semblance of order, so it didn’t look too bad. His fingers twitched as he recalled the thick lustrousness of it, how it could shine like burnished copper in certain lights and how he loved to run his fingers through it. He comforted himself with the knowledge that it would regrow. The remains of the lipstick had been removed, but her skin remained blotchy and, enveloped in an ill-fitting hospital gown which disguised her shapely body, she lay in deep sedation, breathing evenly. But even though the slumber was deep, her limbs would occasionally twitch, evidence of her disturbed mind.

Dr Simon Pearce picked up the chart board hooked over the end of the bed, and reached into the breast pocket of his coat for his glasses to read the obs sheet. The light failed to pick up the tightness around his mouth as he held back his sense of frustration. His wonderfully capable wife, who had up to now met every challenge in her life and triumphed over them was, the chart said it all, brought to this—an emotional wreck. A muscle in his jaw spasmed, his Adam’s apple bobbed as his throat tightened. Jessica had had a complete emotional breakdown—at least he had to assume that’s what it was until Nikko told him differently. He quickly forced the words from conscious thought, unable to deal with it at this point in time.

He put the chart back and continued to stand there, staring, the muscle flexing in his jaw as his mind replayed the events which had led to his wife being in a hospital bed in a private sanatorium for the mentally and physically unstable.

Damian…Dead. There was no disputing that, but he had to squeeze his eyes shut to hold the moistness back. His son. So little, so precious. And he hadn’t been able to do a damned thing to prevent it, him with his honours medical degree, his FRCS and his years of experience.

Death had come in the still darkness of night and claimed its charge painlessly…for that he had a small amount of gratitude. Very small. But he would never forget Jessica’s scream—it had reverberated around his brain almost constantly until he’d buried it in his subconscious. Otherwise he couldn’t have functioned. It had ripped from her lips in the predawn light as she’d called him to the nursery.

God, how he’d worked. Frantically. Yelling at Jess to get his bag. Ramming the stethoscope into his ears, trying to find a heartbeat. Nothing. Feeling the tiny neck for a pulse. Sticking his fingers into the child’s mouth to make sure the airway was clear. He’d stripped the terry towelling jumpsuit off, laid the little body on the change table and, refusing to acknowledge the blue tinge to his skin, applied mouth-to-mouth, then heart massage. He remembered his hollow yell for Jess to call the emergency number and then, continuing CPR until the ambulance had arrived.

And later, on a perfect, sun-drenched day, carrying the white lacquered coffin adorned with a blanket of white roses, laying it beside the yawning hole…He swallowed the lump in his throat and the muscle in his jaw worked agitatedly for several moments until, slowly, he began to calm.

Simon’s fingers tightened around the base of the bed, the knuckles whitening as skin strained to contain the muscle, bone and tissues beneath. SIDS: sudden infant death syndrome, every parent’s potential nightmare. And absolutely no bloody warning until it was too late. His right hand moved to pinch the bridge of his nose as one thought tumbled after another. Had there even been minimal signs and he’d missed them? Had the baby monitor been on? Had they both slept through the alarm? How often had he gone over every minute detail, wondering, wishing…Jesus Christ, his son, their son. It wasn’t fair.

‘Dr Pearce?’ The night sister queried from the doorway.

Simon turned. ‘Yes?’

‘Dr Stavrianos will be with you in a few minutes. Perhaps you’d care to wait in his office, it’s at the end of the corridor.’

Simon nodded in brief acknowledgement. Nikko, his old university buddy,—the man who’d brought him and Jessica together, was being extraordinarily diligent as usual. ‘Thanks, I will.’ He moved to the side of the bed, reached down and dropped a kiss on his wife’s forehead, smoothed the hair back, then turned and left the room.

Alone in Nikko Stavrianos’ cramped office, where files were spread untidily across every available surface, Simon allowed the control to slip a little. He sat with his head cradled in his hands. Shock waves raced through him as he mentally recapped the moments from the phone call from Max Lowe, delayed because he’d been in the theatre, to now. He’d insisted that the ambulance take Jess to Belvedere Sanatorium, where she’d get the best of attention, and had come as soon as he’d given instructions for the suturing of his patient by the hospital’s registrar.

Coping with Damian’s death had stretched his inner resources to the limit, especially as he partly blamed himself for not being able to save his baby son—no matter that the autopsy had shown clear evidence of SIDS. Deep down he would always believe he should have been able to do something. His head shot up in sudden contemplation: he wondered if Jess thought that, too?

And now she had fallen apart. God, he was a doctor—why hadn’t he recognised the signs of her inability to cope?

Had he been too caught up in his own grief to see that she had sunk into a deep depression, resulting in a complete emotional breakdown? Jessica, who had such strength! It was hard to comprehend, even though he knew well enough that the death of a child could unhinge the most intelligent mind, the strongest will and…in Jess’s case, there was the family’s hereditary factor. He sighed. Christ, another worry.

He heard the door click open and stood up to shake Nikko’s hand.

‘Rotten luck that we have to meet like this, old mate,’ Nikko greeted Simon as he moved around to sit at his desk. A black-haired, swarthy man dressed in a creased, ill-fitting suit, Nikko appeared the antithesis of the man opposite. Squared-off hands shuffled papers from one pile to another, pulled out one folder and spread it open before him. He made a series of facial expressions as he speed-read the contents. Then he looked across the desk to Simon.

Simon waited for Nikko to speak. He knew it was pointless to mentally pre-empt the eminent psychiatrist’s diagnosis.

‘About Jessica. I only did a brief preliminary, she was too distressed for anything more intense.’

That Nikko said little allowed Simon to fill in the gaps. She’d probably babbled incoherently, then broken into fits of tears followed by helpless, uncontrolled laughter that sounded more like a crone’s cackle than a responsive, intelligent laugh. Oh, yes, it would have been that bad, he didn’t doubt it.

Nikko studied Simon’s bleak expression for a few moments before saying, ‘She needs rest, Simon. I’d say she’s had little therapeutic sleep since…Damian died. I prescribed a sedative that’ll put her into a deep sleep for close to thirty-six hours. That should give her body and her mind a chance to relax. Then we’ll see.’

‘Hell, can’t you be more specific than that, old chum?’

‘Fraid not.’ Nikko’s black eyes snapped at the tone, understanding his friend’s concern, but then he shrugged his shoulders and scratched the stubble of dark whiskers growing about his chin. ‘Until I talk to her, gauge the level of her mental distress, I’d be medically irresponsible to try to give you a prognosis. You know that.’

‘So…?’

‘We wait. I’m putting a grief counsellor on standby. Penny Matheson, she’s the best. She’ll work with Jessica when she’s calm enough to deal with the more painful aspects of Damian’s passing. Of course, that may be weeks away.’ He glanced again at his old friend—the Pearces’ were godparents to his daughter—and seemed to take pity. ‘Simon, what Jessica’s going through is not uncommon. Many women have been broken by the grief which accompanies the death of a child. Sometimes it’s the strongest who are the most affected…’

‘I know, but I’m a little concerned about…about…well, you know, I mentioned about her grandfather. I don’t know too much about him, but evidently old Henry Ahearne spent the last four years of his life in a mental institution. Jessica was twelve, and in the house when attendants came and carted him off in a straitjacket, with him foaming at the mouth and yelling obscenities like the madman he was. That memory has had a profound effect on her and I believe that deep down, though she’d never admit it even to me, she and her sister, Alison, may fear Henry’s weakness is in them, too.’

‘There’s no absolute proof that insanity or more precisely schizophrenia is hereditary though, occasionally, there’s a predilection for mental weakness in some families. I’m checking into the details of Henry’s case. But remember, that occurred nearly thirty years ago. Psychiatry has come a long way since then.’

Simon’s mouth creased in a wry smile. ‘Thank God for that.’ Agitatedly he ran a hand through fair hair, which showed signs of receding at the temples. ‘God, I wish I hadn’t given up the smokes three years ago, I could do with one now.’

Nikko gave him a sympathetic grin. ‘Old mate, you look pretty done in. Why don’t you push off? There’s nothing you can do here. Go home and get a decent night’s sleep. I’ll have the matron call you in the morning to tell you how Jessica spent the night. Okay?’

Simon sighed. Nikko was right. He couldn’t do anything at the moment to help Jessica, but the thought of being alone in the city townhouse or their large home at Mandurah didn’t appeal. Too many unhappy memories now. He pushed himself up and out of the chair. ‘You’re right. As usual. We’ll talk again tomorrow. Night.’

Scrambled eggs, baked beans and toast, washed down with a can of Fosters. Not exactly a gastronomic delight, he admitted. Jessica would be appalled. In the kitchen she’d had the uncanny knack of being able to make something palatable out of practically nothing. He had no such skill, he decided as, with a morose chuckle, he relaxed back into the leather armchair