Double Blind (12 page)

“Any more details on Phoena?” I asked.

“I’ve checked and there aren’t any records of other children nor did Phoena remarry. However, when she and Melrose were married, they bought a house in their joint names at Morgan Street in Shepherd’s Bush.“

“That’s where Chris is living,” I said. “And that would explain the pink carpet and the flowery sofa. I wonder where Phoena was last night?”

“Dead,” said Butler. It felt like a punch to my stomach, even though I hadn’t known her. “Death certificate dated, let’s see, just under two months ago.”

“Poor Chris,” I said. “So he’s all alone now. He must be grieving.”

Butler looked at me with an eyebrow raised. “You’re quick to jump to conclusions and that’s not good journalistic methodology. Maybe Chris was happy when she passed away. Now he gets the house and any money she had, and doesn’t need or want your sympathy at all.”

“I don’t think there was much money going round that household. Chris told me he works a night shift to pay for his college fees, and the house was pretty shabby.” I crossed my arms, a little miffed at Butler for criticizing me.

He smiled. “Okay, okay, my comment was uncalled for. But you have to review every fact and decide if it’s relevant to the story and you have to dig deep for the truth, not take things at face value.”

I nodded. “All right. And there’s one more thing.” I gave him the photo of the man with the binoculars and told him I’d seen him watching Scott in the park and then at the rallies. “Is there any way you can find his name?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Unlikely, but I’ll see what I can do.” He looked at his watch. “I should get back to the office before my editor sends out a posse to find me. Let me know how things go, and be careful. Don’t make assumptions and don’t run around putting yourself in danger.”

He closed his computer, pulled on his anorak and wrapped a beige scarf around his neck. We left the pub under charcoal clouds swollen with rain.

On my way to the tube station, I called DCI Clarke, eager to share my latest information with him. He sounded distracted when he answered the phone, but said he could meet me if I went straight over to his office.

Twenty minutes later, I stood waiting for him in the entry hall of the police station. He arrived in a flurry of activity, with several people in tow, one of them taking notes. It was usually like that with him. He was the source of energy at the center of a massive machine. Although he wore a traditional tie and oxblood loafers, his fair hair was stylishly cut. He resembled a wrestler more than a police officer, with wide shoulders under a leather bomber jacket and thigh muscles that looked ready to burst out of his jeans. As always, I was struck by how young he was to be a Detective Chief Inspector.

“I thought we’d get out of the office and walk for a while, if that’s okay?” he asked, wrapping a scarf around his neck.

“Sounds good,” I said, falling into step beside him. We strolled towards St. James’s Park, turning in through the ornate iron gates. A few young women pushed strollers or trailed after toddlers, everyone bundled up in coats and hats and scarves. The park was one of my favorite places in London. In summer, the old plane trees offered pools of welcome shade for visitors who sat in striped deck chairs and admired the views to the lake. And, even in the winter, I usually found the park appealing, with its broad sweeps of lawn, assorted evergreen shrubs and the constant activity of dozens of species of water birds. Today, though, the water sat flat and dull, and the leafless trees were black and menacing, their branches swaying in the blustery wind.

When we reached the lake, Clarke indicated a bench. “Let’s sit down and you can tell me why you wanted to meet.”

The wooden slats were cold, so I pulled my coat tighter around me. “Did you get in touch with Eliza Chapman?” I asked.

“Yep. One of my men is working on it.”

“Really? When she and I last talked, she didn’t say anything about the police contacting her. I think she’d have told me because she’d know I was the one who put you on to her.”

Clarke sighed. “I’ll check into it. Remind me, how did you meet her?”

I decided not to tell him about Colin Butler. I didn’t want to drag the journalist into anything after he’d been so helpful. “Friend of a friend,” I said. “She drinks, she’s demented, but she’s angry enough to do damage, maybe.”

“Is that it? We could have covered this on the phone.”

I took the photos out of my bag. “There’s more.” I showed him Chris’s photo. “This man has a motive to be a threat to Simon Scott. His name is Chris Melrose. He’s a graduate student studying chemical engineering here in London. He knows how to make explosives.”

Clarke shrugged. “I don’t get the connection.”

“He’s Simon Scott’s illegitimate son.”

It was good to see an expression of surprise flit across Clarke’s face. “He has a hate wall in his house,” I continued. “Press clippings and photos of Scott, all mutilated, slashed with a knife or disfigured with a marker.”

Clarke turned so he could look at me. “Tell me exactly how you know Scott has an illegitimate son. And stick to the facts please. No embellishments.”

“I did some research. Well, a journalist and I did it together. We found records online. Based on what Eliza told me about Scott’s girlfriend at Cambridge, we were able to trace her. She married someone called Melrose when Chris was about five.”

I gave Clarke a photo of Simon Scott. “Compare that and the one of Chris. The resemblance is obvious.”

Clarke tapped Chris’s photo with his forefinger. I could almost see the wheels spinning as he wrestled with his natural desire to know more, in spite of the highly untrustworthy source.

“How do you know this Chris Melrose?”

“He’s volunteering on Scott’s campaign, as am I. We met at a local campaign office. That’s the point. He’s volunteering in order to be close to Scott.”

In the silence that followed, I heard the distant hum of traffic, the wind in the trees, and the splashing of a water bird on the lake. I took a copy of the photo of binoculars man from my bag. “There’s one more person you should look into. He keeps turning up wherever Scott is. I saw him in a rowboat on the Serpentine when Scott was jogging, and again at a campaign rally.”

“Good God, Kate. Anyone else on your roster of villains?”

I decided not to grace that with an answer.

Clarke flipped through the three photos one more time. “So my next obvious question is, why are you so sure anyone means harm to Simon Scott?”

“He’s running for office. He could be our next Prime Minister. It’s inevitable he’d be a target.”

There was a chance that Clarke would accept my explanation at face value. But he didn’t.

“Inevitable?” He cocked his head to one side, his green eyes narrowed. “Please don’t tell me this has anything at all to do with your, how can I put this, psychic abilities?”

I clutched my bag to my chest. I hated talking to Clarke about auras, but there was no choice. “Simon Scott has an aura. So does Kevin Lewis. There is a real danger. I’m not imagining it.”

Clarke failed to suppress a sigh. “Kate, I know you mean well, but I can’t take action based on these aura things. They don’t really tell us anything useful. Nothing about how and when. They’re not much more than monsters in a closet and are just as ephemeral as those childhood fears. They come, they go, they’re indeterminate, and only you can see them.”

I closed my eyes for a few seconds, willing myself to stay calm and not say anything that would give Clarke an excuse to get up and walk away.

“You know I’m not imagining them,” I said. I twisted on the bench to look him in the eye. “A person with an aura will die. And the faster the aura is moving, the sooner death will occur.”

“Yes, I remember you telling me all this last year.”

“And I was right! You can’t deny it. I helped you find the killer.”

He held the photos out for me to take. “There’s nothing I can do. I can’t just drag people in off the street to interrogate them without cause.”

“The police are always asking the public to report suspicious activity, for God’s sake. What’s the point if you won’t follow up?”

He gave me a sidelong grin. “You’re tetchy today.”

“And so would you be if you were being ignored and patronized.”

“Scott has a security detail everywhere he goes,” he said. “He’s already as protected as it’s possible to be.”

I shook my head. “I was at a rally earlier this week. A man threw a stone at him. It hit him in the head and drew blood. What if the assailant had had a grenade or something else more deadly than a rock? Scott was completely exposed.”

Clarke nodded. “I heard about it,” he admitted.

“So…”

“I’m going to lose my job one day. If my boss knew I was even listening to you, I’d be out on my ear.”

“Your boss needs to widen his horizons.”

Clarke smiled and stood up. “How about a hot chocolate?”

Without waiting for an answer, he started walking again, forcing me to stride fast to keep up with him. Passing a woman and a little boy feeding nuts to two squirrels, we soon reached the stand that sold drinks and sandwiches. Once I had the warm cup in my hands, I followed Clarke as he strode out again, apparently determined to do a complete loop of the huge park. I’d finished my rich, creamy chocolate by the time we reached the exit.

“Thanks for listening to me,” I said.

“Yes, well. You take care of yourself. Don’t approach any of these people. Leave it with me.”

“Ok, but time is running out.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he said by way of farewell.

I was on my way back to the tube station when Anita called me. “Lunch?” she said. “I’ll bring sandwiches. Let’s go the British Museum. I haven’t been there for months.”

We’d often spend a few hours together there or at the Tate or National Gallery, chatting quietly in front of a Turner landscape or a Caulfield still life. Anita had a theory that we’d absorb knowledge and culture just by being close to the artworks. Osmosis, she called it.

We found a bench in the Egyptian rooms, where we gazed at painted and gilded coffins and linen-wrapped mummies. It was quiet, mercifully free of groups of schoolchildren on field trips. Most of the visitors were elderly locals or American tourists in tennis shoes. A few auras drifted past over grey-haired ladies, but I ignored them.

Anita’s aura, on the other hand, demanded my full attention, although it hadn’t changed much from the day before. It was strong but no worse, moving sinuously around her hair. The sight of it made me feel nauseous. She leaned back against the wall, legs stretched out in front of her.

“I’m knackered,” she said. “I barely slept last night in spite of going to bed early, and I was back in the hospital at the crack of dawn. I’m not sure what’s wrong with me. I can usually keep up the pace with no problem.”

“Did you get all the check-ups I asked you to?”

“Yes, I did. EKG, blood work, all the standard stuff. I’m fit as a fiddle, Kate. Just a little tired. And Dad’s driving me crazy.”

“Anita, I know it seems far-fetched, but let’s just run through some scenarios. Think about those suitors your dad is lining up. Have you had any strange interactions with any of them?”

“All the interactions are strange. Completely bizarre. My mum cooks a fabulous meal, which I don’t eat because I’m too worked up about the stranger sitting opposite me. My dad conducts the Indian equivalent of the Spanish Inquisition, bombarding the poor chap with questions about his education, his job, his prospects. And whatever his name is can’t eat because he’s too occupied answering my father.”

“That does sound weird,” I said. “But seriously, has any of these potential
inamorati
behaved inappropriately? You know, like stalking?”

“No, of course not,” Anita said, but then she frowned. “Well, there is Kai. I have to admit he’s odd. He inundated me with texts for a while until I told him to stop or I’d call the police. And I saw him lurking outside the hospital a couple of times.”

“When was that?”

She shrugged. “I don’t remember exactly. Six months ago, I think.”

“Ok, then keep an eye open for him.”

“He might be weird, but he’s not going to do me in, Kate. That’s more than just far-fetched, that’s absurd.”

I sighed. “It’s all absurd at some level,” I said. “But humor me and promise to watch out. Please?”

She shifted on the bench to find a more comfortable position.

“Was Dr. Reid at work this morning?” I asked, still clicking through possible connections in my head.

“No, he’s on duty this afternoon and evening. Why? Do you want to check on his aura again?” She said “aura” as though it was a swear word.

“I do, actually,” I said. “Maybe I’ll come over there tomorrow. Has he been okay? No more incidents?”

“No. He’s been fine. Maybe he just had a touch of flu or something, because he’s back to his normal self now.” She frowned. “Oh, and he asked to meet with me tomorrow. It was a little odd, actually, because he looked really uncomfortable about it. That kind of look your boss has when he’s going to fire you. I hope he’s not going to tell me I’m doing a bad job. I’m giving it all I can.”

“Did you ask him what it was about?”

“I tried, but he was in a hurry. I’ll just have to be patient until ten tomorrow morning.”

“It’s probably nothing important. Try not to worry.”

Anita stood up suddenly. “Come on, let’s go to Asia. I’ve had enough of staring at dead people.”

We strolled slowly to the Asian gallery and found another empty bench. In front of us was a group of painted earthenware figures, guardians of a tomb from the Tang dynasty. It seemed that getting away from dead people was a bit of a challenge in the British Museum.

“I have some interesting news for you,” I said. I told her about Chris Melrose. She sat up straight and looked at me, all signs of fatigue gone. “Chris is Simon Scott’s son? You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“No really.”

She grabbed my hand. “We have to go talk to him, don’t you think? I want to see that wall for myself.”