Double Blind (16 page)

My stomach was doing flips at the description of the coffee in the autopsy suite. “No, thanks.”

“Dr. Margerison has already been up,” Pauline said. “Asking questions and taking notes. A detective too. What’s going on? I thought Dr. Reid committed suicide?”

“Everyone just wants to be sure of what happened,” said Grace, taking charge. “You were the one the janitor came to when he found Dr. Reid, right?”

“Yes, I was here at the nurses’ station. Maurice rushed up the hallway in a panic. We called down to Emergency at once.”

“And you didn’t see anyone else go into that exam room or come out of it?”

She shook her head. “I was busy supervising the evening medication rounds. And we had an alert in 4C that was a false alarm, but it caused a bit of chaos, happening right then during the shift change.”

“So who was here before you began the medication rounds?”

Pauline seemed to think for a minute. “I can check the roster, but there were four nurses. And Dr. Schwartz. Dr. Reid of course. Dr. Marks was just going off duty. A couple of sales reps were still here, hoping to grab one of the doctors before they left for the day. Macintyre from LBP and Eric Hill from PharmAnew. I remember because that Hill chap was complaining we’d run out of coffee. And a half dozen visitors.”

Pauline dabbed at her eyes. “I wish I could help more. Dr. Reid was a fine man. I’ll miss him. Can I go? We’re very busy today.”

After she hurried out of the kitchen, Grace finished her coffee. “Off to the pharmacy then,” she said as she tossed the paper cup into the rubbish bin.

We followed her to the other end of the building where we found a middle-aged pharmacist working at a computer behind a high counter. The only access to his workspace was through a closed door that bore the sign “Strictly No Admittance.”

“Hey, Grace,” he said. “I didn’t know they let you out during daylight hours.”

“Haha. Listen, Ted, we need a favor. Could you check your records for prescriptions filled in the last couple of days, for flunitrazepam, midazolam, insulin, and digitoxin or an equivalent, and who they were prescribed by?”

“It would take a while. Most of those are standard issues. There’ll be dozens of records.”

“How long?”

“I could do it in two days, maybe a little less. I’ll work on it after hours tonight and tomorrow. Will that work?”

“The faster the better,” Grace said.

“Can you search by the prescribing doctor?” Anita asked.

Ted nodded, his bald head catching the light. “Yep.”

“Can you look up all recent prescriptions requested by Dr. Reid?”

He frowned. “What’s going on?”

Grace leaned across the counter. “I have two tickets to the English National Opera’s production of
Othello
.”

He grinned. “You’d go with me?”

“No, I’d give you both the tickets. You can take your girlfriend or boyfriend or anyone you like. You won’t have to put up with me for the evening.”

“Okay. But you know Dr. Reid was fastidious about medications. He always did everything by the book, writing out proper prescriptions and usually only for a small amount. Just enough to get his patient through the first couple of days. And those drugs you mentioned? Not on his usual list at all.”

“But you could check.”

“Sure, anything for opera,” he said, and began typing on his PC keyboard. He clicked away for a minute or two, the frown lines on his forehead deepening into chasms under the overhead lights.

“Nothing,” he said, looking up at us. “Dr. Reid never requested any of those meds. The last one was just his usual, a three-day supply of vicodin. Notes say it was for Joey Nelson, age sixteen.”

Anita nodded. “Joey came in with complications from a damaged spleen, after a bad fall. He was discharged two days ago.”

“Is that all? I should get back to work,” Ted said.

Grace thanked him, promising to come back with the opera tickets later in the day. The three of us retraced our steps to the lobby where she hugged us goodbye and made me swear I’d come back sometime to talk about auras.

My afternoon was open and unplanned. It was tempting to go visit Bradley Associates, which was close by. I’d be welcomed back like a prodigal daughter. Alan would be happy, even though he wouldn’t show it. I could review the projects, catch up with the team, maybe go for drinks after work. A haven of normalcy shimmered like a gold citadel on a distant hill.

My mobile buzzed. Without checking the caller ID, I answered.

“What the hell is going on, Kate?” It was Eliza Chapman. “It’s been days since we talked and I’m not seeing anything in the papers. When is the story coming out?”

“It’s on the schedule,” I lied. “I’d have to check with the editor to find out exactly when.”

“Do that and call me back. If I don’t hear from you, I’ll follow up on my own.”

The phone clicked off. I stared at the blank screen, then slid the phone into my bag. To hell with Eliza, to hell with all of it, I thought, walking with intent towards Paternoster Square and my office. I’d go back to work, look after Anita, and leave Scott and Lewis to the professional ministrations of the police and security forces. But, while my feet were doing my bidding, my mind wasn’t cooperating.

I was worried about Eliza. What did she mean by following up on her own? Did she intend to call the editor of the
Messenger
and tell him all about a journalist on his staff who had promised a story? A journalist who in fact wasn’t a journalist and wasn’t on his staff? Or did she mean that she’d take some sort of action against Scott? I stopped suddenly, a bad idea, as two people barreled into me from behind, both looking at their mobiles. One of them muttered “idiot” as he circumnavigated the obstacle in his path. I moved to the side, leaning against the solid limestone wall of a Lloyds TSB Bank and dialed Clarke’s number. He didn’t answer, so I left a message telling him what Eliza had said. Then I called Colin Butler. The least I could do was warn him that his boss might hear from her.

“I appreciate the warning,” he said after I’d explained. “Not to worry. I’ll claim journalistic immunity if Eliza mentions my name.”

There was a pause. In the background, I heard the click of a keyboard. “Was there something else, Kate?”

“Not really,” I said. “Well, yes, actually. I’d like more information on Simon Scott. I told a detective, a friend of mine, about Eliza, Chris Melrose and the binoculars man but I’m not convinced he’s doing anything with the information.”

“Hmmm.” I guessed Butler was concentrating on something else. Then he spoke. “I’m about to take a lunch break.” The clack of the keys stopped. “Let’s have a beer, or whatever you young things drink. How about the Mitre? You know it?”

“Of course.” We agreed to meet at two. The clacking resumed just before Butler rang off.

I checked my watch. It would be too rushed to get to the office and still make it to the pub, so I set off, weaving my way through the crowds. The pub was a quaint and ancient landmark, popular with locals and tourists, tucked away in a narrow street. When I arrived there, Colin was just going in. “I’ll grab a table if you get drinks,” he said.

Getting to the bar was like swimming against the tide. “Lemonade and a pint of something good on tap,” I shouted above the din. The bartender nodded, returning quickly with both the drinks. Wending my way carefully through the crowd, I found Butler at a small table near the door.

He took a deep swallow of beer before speaking. “What do you need?”

“All the background on Simon Scott,” I told him. “His political career, his years as a doctor, his marriage, family, everything.”

Butler shifted on his chair, tapping his fingers on the table. “Can I ask why?”

I knew he was going to ask that and had come up with an answer of sorts. “I have it on good authority that there’s a serious threat to Scott. Maybe not Chris Melrose, although I have my concerns about him. Nor Eliza Chapman, or that binoculars chap. But someone means him harm. So I’m doing some research to see if there’s anything else in his past that might show up as a motive now.”

Butler tilted back in his chair, raising the front two legs from the ground. I winced, thinking of all that weight on two spindly supports. He rocked back and forth several times before coming in for a gentle landing. “And this ‘good authority’ of which you speak? Who would that be?”

“I can’t name my sources,” I said, thinking I’d heard a phrase like that in a movie I’d seen recently.

Butler’s face creased in amusement. “Uh huh. So why don’t you tell me the real reason you’re digging around, Kate?”

“You want the truth?”

“It’s always a good place to start.”

I took a swallow of my drink, which was cloyingly sweet. It was all or nothing now. “I have an unusual gift. I can see auras that predict death. Scott has one. So does Kevin Lewis.”

To be fair to Butler, he didn’t get up and walk out. He ran his finger around the rim of his beer glass several times before looking up at me. “I’ve heard a lot in my long and checkered career, but this is a first. Do you find it amusing to take the mickey out of a grumpy old journalist?”

“Colin, I’m telling you the truth. The problem is that almost everyone reacts like you. They don’t believe me and therefore they don’t take any action that might save a life. My only option is to identify what the source of the threat to Scott is. If I can come up with a credible scenario, maybe I can persuade the powers that be to take me seriously.”

Without saying a word, he got to his feet, carrying his empty beer glass to the bar. He returned with a replenished pint. “Let’s talk,” he said. “Tell me more about these death-predicting auras. What do they look like?”

My glass, sweating with condensation, was slippery in my hand. I put it down, carefully positioning it in the dead center of a cardboard coaster. Then I told him everything. Good journalist that he was, Butler listened without interrupting, just nodding his head occasionally. The lenses of his glasses shone like yellow headlights when they caught a ray of the pale lemon sun coming through the bottle-glass window.

When I finished, I hunched forward over the table. Describing my ability always left me exhausted, as though I was using all my energy up in an effort to convince my listener to believe me.

“Remarkable,” he said. We sat looking at each other. I was suddenly aware of noise around us, the hum of voices and the clink of glasses, as though someone had turned the volume dial. “So, let’s talk about Scott and what you hope to find?”

“Does that mean you believe me?”

“I have no reason not to. Based on our acquaintance, brief though it is, I believe you to be an intelligent and responsible young woman. This gift of yours would explain several things, like your rather pathetic attempt to be a journalist at the event when we first met and your willingness to go to Cambridge to visit Eliza Chapman. This gift is a rather better rationale for your recent behavior than your sudden purported interest in politics.”

“I am interested,” I protested.

“I think it’s very hard to be interested in something you know nothing about,” he said. “It would be like me expressing an interest in quantum mechanics.”

“
Nothing
is rather harsh,” I said. “I know as much as any average voter.”

“True. Sad, but true. So let’s get on with it then. The best place to start is at my office. We’ll have access to a range of resources there.”

He drained his beer, wiped a foamy moustache from his top lip and stood up.

“Now?” I asked

“I’m under the impression that there is some urgency to the matter, so yes, now.”

It turned out that the
Messenger
offices were only a couple of blocks away, a short walk passed in silence. When we arrived, we walked through a spacious lobby, which was surprisingly and rather disappointingly modern, with a massive “Messenger” logo on the wall behind a reception desk. Comfortable couches, interspersed with plants in shiny black pots, gathered comfortably around coffee tables holding glossy magazines and back copies of the
Messenger.

My disappointment lasted only a few minutes though as we turned out of the lobby into a narrow corridor with a tan lino floor and beige walls. It led into a large room crammed with cubicles, most of which were occupied. A general buzz of noise hovered like a swarm of bees, the sound of dozens of people on phones or talking loudly over the cubicle walls to their neighbors.

The days of ink and cigarettes were long gone, replaced by computer keyboards and the stale odor of burned coffee, but the flickering light and the cramped workspace had something satisfyingly Dickensian about it.

Colin led the way to his cubicle, set down his bag and draped his huge brown jacket over the back of a rickety chair. His computer screen filled the tiny area with blue light.

“Take a seat,” he said. “I’ll be back.”

He returned a few minutes later with a stack of folders. “Work your way through these,” he said. “If anyone asks what you’re doing here, tell them you’re my intern. I’ve got some things to finish up. Just take your time.”

Opening the first folder, I found a stack of papers that were creased and coffee-stained, pierced with staples or held together with paper clips. The name Scott was highlighted in yellow throughout. It didn’t take long to realize that sometimes his name was mentioned only in passing or that the article related to something where he was only marginally involved.

I’d already spent hours researching him on the Internet, and nothing new jumped out at me from the contents of the first folder. I skimmed the second folder and opened the next one, already feeling the disappointment of wasted time. On the second page, I found a collection of news clippings about his wife, an heiress who ran in the same circles as some of the minor royals. Her father, I learned, had founded a luxury food company. Her money and connections had been of huge benefit to Scott when he first went into politics. It seemed from some of the later clippings though, that Daddy had been losing money. He was selling the family house in Hertfordshire as well as several racehorses.