At home in East London, Gilbert Drake devoured the coverage with gleeful relish.
Just as in Exodus, when the Pharaoh refused to release God’s people and the Lord killed every firstborn, both man and animal, in retribution, so Alexia De Vere had been punished for keeping poor Sanjay behind bars.
“She will sacrifice the first male offspring of her womb to the Lord.”
I must guard against the sin of pride, Gil warned himself. Vengeance is the Lord’s, not mine. I am but his instrument.
Gilbert Drake prayed for guidance. Show me your will, O Lord. Show me the way from here.
Retribution had begun at last. But it was far from finished.
Two weeks after Michael’s accident, Alexia met with the prime minister.
“You are entitled to compassionate leave, you know,” Henry Whitman told her. “No one would blame you if you felt you needed to step down for a while, to be with your family.”
Alexia’s eyes narrowed distrustfully. Senior cabinet ministers did not step down “for a while.” They clung to their jobs or they lost them. Henry Whitman knew this as well as she did.
“Trying to get rid of me, Henry?”
“Of course not,” Whitman blustered. “I wouldn’t dare!”
“Good,” Alexia said, not returning the prime minister’s smile. “Michael hasn’t regained consciousness since it happened. According to his doctors, he’s highly unlikely ever to do so.”
“I’m so sorry.”
“Please, spare me the sympathy.” Alexia sounded almost angry. Henry Whitman hoped it was grief talking, but it was hard to tell. “If it were up to me, we’d turn off the damn machines tomorrow. It’s Teddy who insists on keeping them going. But I’ve no intention of wasting my life in a hospital room holding my son’s utterly unresponsive hand when I could be here, being useful, simply because it makes some judgmental hag at the Daily Mail feel better.”
“No one’s suggesting that, Alexia.”
“Aren’t they? I’ll bet Kevin and Charles have been helpfully pointing out how negative my press has been since this happened.”
“Not at all,” Henry Whitman lied. Alexia’s enemies in cabinet had indeed wasted no time renewing their attacks. But Henry hardly needed his cabinet to tell him that which he could read for himself. Whatever her true feelings, Alexia De Vere had come across as cold and heartless in the extreme in the wake of her son’s accident, insisting on “business as usual.” The effect on her image had been catastrophic, and the bad press was rubbing off on the entire Conservative Party.
Charlotte Whitman, the prime minister’s wife, had said as much to him last night in bed. “She’s making you look bad, Henry. You need to get rid of her.”
“I know, but what can I do? I can’t tell the woman how to grieve for her own son.”
“Grieve?” Charlotte let out a mirthless laugh. “If that’s grief, I’m a monkey’s uncle. You’re the prime minister, darling. Reshuffle.”
If only it were that easy! If only Alexia De Vere didn’t have him over the proverbial barrel! Although neither of them ever spoke of it, the elephant in the room was alive and well, and protecting Alexia, even now.
Alexia looked at Henry Whitman and thought, He’s hiding something. The vague sense of unease she’d had before Michael’s accident had now grown into something closer to full-blown paranoia. Where did Henry Whitman fit into it all? He’d pulled out of the Kingsmere party at the last minute, mysteriously; hours later, Michael was in a coma. There was no earthly reason to connect those two events, and yet Alexia found herself searching for meaning, sinister meaning, in everything. Everywhere she turned, she sensed enemies lurking. Enemies from her past and enemies from her present. Enemies at home and enemies at work. Her career was collapsing around her ears. Michael was fighting for life. Billy Hamlin and his daughter were dead. Her own daughter hated her. It felt as if some evil, unseen hand were demolishing her life brick by brick, destroying everything she’d worked for, everything she’d become. Had it not been for Teddy’s unflinching support—Teddy’s and Lucy Meyer’s . . . Lucy had been a rock through this entire nightmare—Alexia would honestly have feared for her sanity.
Back at her parliamentary office, she confided in Sir Edward Manning.
“They’re all out to get me, Edward. All of them. Henry’s just waiting for his chance to strike, I can tell.”
“I doubt that’s the case, Home Secretary,” Sir Edward said smoothly.
“It is, believe me. You’re the only one I trust, Edward. I need your help now more than ever.”
“And I’m delighted to give it, Home Secretary. Quite delighted. Try not to worry. We shall weather the storm together.”
Lucy Meyer was in Oxford, having coffee with Summer. It had been two weeks since Michael’s accident, and Lucy and Arnie were preparing to head back to the States. Lucy was eager for Summer to join them—“you can’t stay here forever, darling”—but so far at least, Summer was insistent that she couldn’t leave Michael’s bedside. Unlike some people she could mention.
“Do you realize Alexia hasn’t visited him once—not once—since the day after it happened? She just disappeared.”
Lucy sipped her coffee. “I’m sure she has her reasons.”
“She does. Selfishness,” Summer said furiously. “It’s like you have a total blind spot with that woman. Why do you always let her off the hook?”
“What hook?” said Lucy. Much to Summer’s chagrin, Lucy had had lunch with Alexia in London yesterday and tried to offer a shoulder to cry on. “Honestly, sweetheart, I know you want someone to blame. But what happened to Michael was not his mother’s fault. It was an accident.”
“Maybe.”
“What do you mean, maybe? It was an accident!”
“Michael was a good driver,” said Summer. “An experienced driver. It was an empty road in broad daylight. Why would he suddenly career out of control?”
“Because he was going too fast,” Lucy said reasonably.
“Yes, but why?”
“Young men on powerful motorbikes do sometimes drive too fast, honey. They don’t need a reason.”
“Sure, but not that fast. He must have been distracted. He was acting so strange the night before it happened. He kept talking about a secret and asking me weird questions. Like if I knew a secret about someone I loved, would I tell?”
Lucy put her coffee cup down. “What sort of secret?”
“That’s just it. I have no idea. He was so cryptic about it. But it was obviously something bad. I got a strong sense it was about Alexia.”
Lucy twisted the ring on her right hand thoughtfully. It was a family ring, a gift her father had given her when she was young. She’d always used it like a worry bead, to calm her nerves and help her think. Lucy had encouraged Summer’s romance with Michael De Vere. But now that tragedy had struck, she just wanted her daughter home, back in the States and far away from all this mess. Lucy already knew more about the De Vere family’s secrets than she wanted to. Summer, at least, should be spared such knowledge.
Summer finished her double espresso. “I have to find out what Michael meant. What was distracting him when he . . .”
She realized guiltily that she was about to say died. I mustn’t give up on him. Not when everybody else already has. Where there’s life there’s hope.
“When he had his accident.”
Lucy said, “Has it occurred to you that maybe he didn’t want you to know? This secret, whatever it was. He had a chance to tell you, and he didn’t. Maybe Michael wants you to let it be. To move on with your own life.”
“I am moving on with my life,” Summer said defiantly. “Being here for Michael. Supporting his recovery. That is my life.”
“Summer, sweetheart . . .”
“Hadn’t you better go, Mom? You don’t want to miss your flight.”
Lucy Meyer looked at her watch. She did have to go. As much as she wanted Summer to come with her, she knew couldn’t live her daughte
r’s life for her.
“All right. I’ll go. But we need to talk more about this.”
“Sure,” Summer said dismissively.
“Your father already called the dean’s office at NYU. He persuaded them to grant you a compassionate study leave, but at some point they’re going to want to know when you’re coming back.”
“Of course. I’ll let you know. Bye, Mom.”
Summer watched her mother leave.
I’m never coming back. New York and college and my internship at the Post. They’re all part of another life. Meaningless and puerile. None of it matters without Michael.
Summer took the long way back to Michael’s flat, through the maze of alleyways that ran behind Exeter and Lincoln colleges down toward Magdalen and the river. Her mother’s visit had left her feeling anxious and unhappy, unable to enjoy the warmth of the late-summer sun on her back or the beauty of the spires that towered above her. The streets of Oxford were filled with smiling lovers in shorts and sunglasses, taking pictures of themselves amid the “dreaming spires” or kissing on the ancient bridges. As Summer walked, willow trees bathed their branches languidly in the Cherwell’s gently flowing waters. Children ate ice cream cones and skipped and cooled their toes in the water, as a family of swans glided regally by.
Everybody’s happy. Everybody’s living their lives as if nothing has happened. As if the world hasn’t stopped.
Summer looked at strangers with wonder and then with anger, an irrational resentment taking root in her heart. How dare life go on? How dare it? With Michael fighting for breath just a few miles away.
But another voice in her head, her mother’s, was equally insistent.
What happened to Michael was an accident.
It was nobody’s fault.
Just come home.
Was her mother right? Was Summer looking for meaning in what was really a simple act of fate, a motorcycle accident, an everyday cruelty that happened to millions of people all over the world? Maybe. But right now she needed to believe there was a reason Michael had crashed that day. There was something she needed to know, something she was supposed to find out. Whether Michael wanted her to or not. She would look at it like a job, like a story she’d been assigned to investigate.
All her investigative instincts told her to start with Michael’s mother, the steely, ruthless Alexia De Vere.
Back at the apartment, Summer kicked off her shoes and padded into Michael’s study. His computer was still on the desk, set to hibernate, as if he might walk back in at any moment and pick up where he left off. Next to it, messy stacks of paper spilled everywhere—receipts, lists, bills, most of them having to do with the Kingsmere party. More were stuffed into the various drawers, or piled on top of the printer, chair, and sofa that filled the small work space. Clearly, Michael hadn’t been a big believer in filing. Summer wondered idly how on earth he’d managed to run a successful business amid such chaos, and whether Tommy Lyon’s desk looked the same. Or perhaps Tommy was the sensible one, the one who held it all together while Michael shot off ideas and plans and concepts like fireworks from his brilliant, scattered mind?
I must call Tommy.
Sitting down in Michael’s chair, she was surprised to feel her heartbeat spike when she turned on his computer. Was it really only a couple of weeks ago that she’d taken the train up to Oxford, convinced she’d catch Michael cheating on her? He’d reassured her that night, made her believe in him again, believe in the two of them as a couple. But now, alone in his study as she was, doubts began to creep back in. Did Summer really want to go through Michael’s in-box, his photos, his Facebook contacts? What if she couldn’t handle what she found?
Password. The screen blinked at her demandingly.
Stupid of me. Of course, the computer’s password protected.
She typed in Michael’s pin number: his zodiac sign and date of birth. Obvious, but you never know. No joy. Next she tried various permutations of his family members’ names, adding her own name on a whim, but again, nothing. Oh well. I’ll have to get a professional to hack into it later. Unless maybe Tommy or Roxie knows.
Pushing the laptop to one side, Summer began to leaf through the nearest pile of papers. Not knowing what she was looking for, and with nothing better to do, she began to sort them methodically into piles. Invoices to the right, receipts to the left. She divided everything into business, personal, or junk, running to the kitchen for a trash bag to use for envelopes, flyers, and other rubbish. The work was consuming. By the time she looked up, it was already six P.M. and the sun was beginning its long, slow descent into the horizon, casting orange beams through the shutters and onto the study floor.
Summer stood up and stretched like a cat. She was just about to fix herself a drink when a box in the corner of the room caught her eye. Everything else in Michael’s home office was messy to the point of being deranged, but this box—crate really—had been carefully divided into color-coded sections, with newspaper and magazine clippings as well as photocopied letters stacked sensibly together. It had also been wedged between the bookcase and a large fire extinguisher, not hidden exactly, but definitely moved to a safe place, out of plain sight and where it wouldn’t be contaminated by the general mayhem.
Carefully, Summer pulled out the box and carried it into the kitchen. The clippings were organized by date. Almost all of them related to cases affected by Alexia’s sentencing reform laws.
Some of the stories were genuinely harrowing.
Daya Ginescu, a Romanian immigrant originally given four years for shoplifting but who’d seen her sentence increased to seven years, had not been allowed to be at her son’s bedside when he died of leukemia.
Others were cheap sob stories, whipped up to tragic proportions by the press. Summer found it hard to feel much compassion for Darren Niles, for example, a career burglar whose fiancée had jilted him at the prospect of a further eighteen-month wait for their wedding date.
But the overwhelming bulk of the coverage related to one man, Sanjay Patel. Convicted for drug trafficking on what his supporters clearly believed to be trumped-up evidence, Patel had hanged himself in prison in despair over a lengthening of his sentence.
Summer traced her fingers over the pictures of Patel’s face. There was something sweet about him, sweet and gentle and sad. If Sanjay Patel had smuggled heroin, she could see why the cartels chose him. He had the perfect face for a drug mule, utterly guileless, his dark eyes shining with innocence and integrity even from beyond the grave.
His so-called friends, however, were far from innocent. Next to the Patel clippings, Michael had kept photocopies of three threatening letters sent to his mother. Two of them were handwritten, if you could call it writing—the spelling and grammar would have made a five-year-old blush—and were clearly from the same individual. A man, judging by his liberal use of the C-word and other explicitly sexist, borderline gynecological slurs. But it wasn’t the language in the letter that shocked Summer so much as the hatred resonating from each line. The writer wanted to slash Alexia’s “throte” until she screamed like a “squeeling fucking pig.” He looked forward to “slicing” her tits off, making her pay “for what you done, you stinking c—t.” The third letter was much more erudite, liberally quoting scripture and invoking the wrath of a vengeful God, in punishment for Alexia’s “sins.” Summer didn’t know which of the letters chilled her more. She was no fan of Alexia’s, especially not at the moment. But the letters made even her blood run cold.
She wondered how Michael had gotten hold of them and why he kept them. Were they connected to this secret, whatever it was, this “bad thing” that someone close to him had done? Or was he merely concerned about his mother’s safety generally, or her security at the Kingsmere party in particular?
Possibly. But that didn’t really add up either. As home secretary, Alexia had plenty of police and secret-service protection at her disposal 24/7. She wouldn’t have needed Michael’s amateurish efforts. Someth
ing wasn’t right.
There were other things in the box that Summer found curious. In the middle of the file, diligently tagged with dated yellow stickers, was a stack of documents relating to the prime minister. Some were letters that Henry Whitman had written to Alexia around the time of her appointment as home secretary. Others were copies of replies that Alexia had sent him. Still others bore no obvious relation to Alexia at all. There were articles about Whitman opening a hospital, about his wife, Charlotte, attending a charity event. Innocuous pieces about the prime minister’s commitment to renewable energy projects, each one carefully cut out, dated, and filed. Michael—or someone—must have thought them significant.
Why?
The telephone rang, scaring her half to death. Who on earth would be calling here? As far as she knew, no one used Michael’s landline number as a contact number for her. Except the hospital. For emergencies. Oh God, no.
“Hello?” The panic in her voice was audible.
“You sound terrible, my dear. Is everything all right?”
“Teddy!” She let out a long breath. Thank God. “I’m fine. I thought it might be the hospital calling.”
“No, no. Only me. Now listen. Your ma rang earlier and asked me to keep an eye on you while you’re in Oxford. I’m to make sure you’re not wasting away in that gloomy flat or starving to death on hospital food.”
Summer laughed. “You can tell my mother I’ve been cooking for myself for some time now. Years, actually.”
“Be that as it may, I was hoping you might want to join us at Kingsmere for dinner.”
Join “us.” Did that mean Alexia too?
As if reading her mind, Teddy said, “Alexia’s away in London, so Roxanne and I are rattling around here on our own like two lost pebbles. You’d be doing an old man a favor.”
Suddenly Summer wanted to see Teddy and Roxie, kind, familiar faces of people who loved Michael as much as she did. They too were infrequent visitors at the hospital, but somehow Summer could tell that their absence at Michael’s bedside was born of heartache, not callousness, like his mother’s.
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