I arrived at the pub before Butler did, and took a mineral water to a table near the window. The bar was packed with lunchtime patrons, their chatter competing with the sound from two televisions showing replays of the previous weekend’s football matches. Black beams held up sagging plaster ceilings. The floor undulated and creaked underneath tired red carpeting. When Butler arrived, I gave him a little wave, not sure that he would recognize me. In brown cord trousers and a brown jacket belted around a substantial gut, he reminded me of a bear. He shambled to the bar and then joined me at the table.
“So, Kate, what did you make of Eliza Chapman?” he asked, taking a long swallow of his drink.
“Well,” I said carefully, “She has a good reason to dislike Scott for cheating, but her hostility to him is extreme. She seems a little unbalanced, to be honest.” I’d told Butler by email about Eliza’s account of the pilfered thesis, but I hadn’t mentioned her story of the pregnant girlfriend. That seemed like malicious gossip, not something that a journalist at a serious newspaper would be interested in. But my discovery about Chris changed all that.
“There was something else,” I said. “She said he got his girlfriend pregnant, and then dumped her when his family told him to.”
Butler’s bushy eyebrows ascended towards his thinning hairline. “Tell me more.”
I gave him a brief summary of what Eliza had told me about Scott’s relationship with Phoena Stamos. “So Scott behaved badly, but why did it bother her so much?” I mused. “I mean, I’ve had friends who’ve shown significant lapses in judgment, but it doesn’t mean I hate them for it. Her reaction seems irrational.”
He wiped foam from his lip and nodded. “I think she was in love with Scott.”
I hadn’t thought of it, but it made sense in terms of explaining her animosity towards him. The woman scorned and all that.
“What makes you think so?”
“Just something she said when I interviewed her about the scandal with the vaccine dosage,” he said. “She didn’t name Scott, just mentioned the pain of some unrequited love in her past. She never married, you know. I daresay she didn’t really mean to talk about her personal life like that, but it came out during our conversation.”
I smiled. “I’m sure you’re a better interviewer than I am. And that makes me wonder why you sent me to talk to her?”
Butler’s eyes blinked rapidly behind his thick-lensed glasses. “Yeah, that’s a fair question. The decision to not pursue any rumors came from high up and I really did have a pile of other articles to write, but I was curious. So I thought if I sent you to meet Eliza, I’d find out what she knew without directly contravening instructions from my editor. When I heard what she’d told you, I decided that there really isn’t a story there. So, I have to say, my editor’s happy, I’m happy. Eliza won’t be, but that’s life.”
“I think we need to be careful,” I said. “She made a threat. Said she’d take things into her own hands if you didn’t put her story in the paper. I think she could be a danger to Scott.”
Butler took another drink of his beer before answering. “You’re conflating two things, it seems to me. She seems to hate Scott. She resents his success. She’d like to see the details of his past indiscretions covered by a serious newspaper. That’s not the same thing as being a danger to him.” He took another long swallow from his glass. “I don’t like to be harsh about a fellow human being, but Eliza is a sad fish. I did my best for her once and that’s as far as it goes.”
I sipped my mineral water, which tasted flat. Butler’s words depressed me for some reason.
“But you said you have something new to tell me?” he asked.
I sat up straighter. “According to Eliza, after Scott broke off the relationship, Phoena left for London to have an abortion.” I said. “Eliza told me that Scott later got a postcard from Phoena saying she was back in Greece. But I think it’s possible she had the baby, and he’s here in London.”
I was gratified to see a flicker of excitement in Butler’s eyes. He set his glass down on the sticky tabletop. “And what is the basis for that hypothesis, may I ask?”
It took a while to explain how I’d met Chris, the chance visit to his house, and the discovery of the hate wall in the upstairs bedroom.
“I didn’t see it before, but now I’ve caught a glimpse of the similarity in the photos, it seems obvious. Chris has darker hair, but the same fair skin and light eyes. He has the same nose as Scott, and they’re about the same height. I believe he could be Scott’s son.”
“Very interesting,” Butler said. “And by ‘interesting’ I refer to your investigative methods. Snooping around people’s bedrooms and finding a casual resemblance between two photos doesn’t exactly present a cast iron case.”
I pulled the photos out and put them on the table facing him. “Take a look for yourself.”
He studied the photos for a while. “You may be right.”
When I grinned in self-satisfaction, he held up a hand. “But I still don’t think the story is newsworthy. An illegitimate son makes an appearance just before the election.” He turned his hands palms up. “So what?”
“You don’t think that would cause a scandal?” I asked. “I’d take a bet Scott’s wife doesn’t know about Phoena. If Chris went public, it might be enough to upset Scott’s supporters. Women might decide not to vote for him.”
“Well, that is possible, but the putative son is leaving it awfully late if he wants his grand entrance to influence the election.”
“What about the mangled press clippings? Do you think Chris intends harm to Scott?”
Butler drained the rest of his beer. “Not really my field of expertise. It sounds a little melodramatic, actually.”
If he thought that sounded melodramatic, what would he make of a death-predicting aura?
“So that’s it? You said you needed my help?”
“Do you have access to databases, records, anything that might show if Phoena Stamos had a baby and lives in England?” I asked him. “I know you don’t think it’s newsworthy, but I’m still interested. I’d like to know but I already searched the Internet and nothing showed up.”
He nodded. “Well, I do, but I can’t give you access,” he said.
“You could look it up for me, couldn’t you? It wouldn’t take long and I just feel that I need to know more about Chris before I see him again, even if he’s not a danger to Scott.”
“I do owe you for doing that trek up to Cambridge,” he said slowly. He leaned over to retrieve a laptop from a black canvas bag on the floor by his feet. I was surprised. I’d thought of him as a paper and pencil man. He smiled at my expression. “I’m very handy with a keyboard. While I get this booted up, why don’t you buy another round?”
It was hard to suppress my excitement. I jumped to my feet and headed to the bar. When I got back to the table, I pulled my chair round to sit next to Butler, who was looking at a website I didn’t recognize. He might look like a slow and lumbering bear, but his fingers flew across the keys and he seemed to read at a great pace, putting screens away and pulling up new ones before I’d got much past the top few lines.
“Aha.”
I peered at the words on the screen as he pointed a finger at an entry halfway down. “Marriage certificate for Phoena Stamos and William Melrose, dated 14th September 1993 at the Islington office.”
“I knew it! Phoena must have settled in London after she came back from Greece, assuming that she ever went back there. And she married Melrose about five years after leaving Cambridge. Chris must have taken his stepfather’s name. Look up William Melrose.”
“Pushy, pushy,” said Butler, but he carried on typing. “What makes you think that Chris isn’t William Melrose’s son by birth?”
“The timing. Chris is in his late twenties. If Melrose and Phoena had a child together, he’d only be early twenties, five years too young to be Chris.”
“Ok, give me a minute. There are lots of listings
for William Melrose, but let’s see if I can whittle down the list a bit.” He glanced up at me. “Drink your water or something. I can’t work with you breathing down my neck.”
I sat back in my chair, giving him some space, and checked my watch. It was only one in the afternoon, at least another hour before Anita would be free.
“All right,” murmured Butler to himself. “This could be our man. Oh dear, yes it is. Death certificate dated November 2005. So he and Phoena weren’t married for very long.” He stopped typing, cracked every finger on both hands and then took a big swallow of his beer. “Did you get any snacks?” he asked. Obediently, I went back to the bar and bought two bags of salt and vinegar crisps.
“Mmm, thanks. Love these things,” he said. “Wife tells me not to eat them but she doesn’t understand that I need salt to focus my brain.”
“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.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
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 h
as 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?”
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