As she turned to page four, a small, single-column story caught her eye.
FATAL STABBING YIELDS NO CLUES
Alexia began to read.
Police currently have no leads into the fatal stabbing of an American man in Edgeware Road on Friday night. William Hamlin, a convicted killer with psychological problems . . .
Alexia clutched her seat arm for support.
. . . who had been denied a visa and entered the United Kingdom illegally, was found dead outside his flat with a bread knife still lodged in his heart.
No. It can’t be true. Not Billy! He’s in America. He’s safe. Edward took care of it.
She read on.
Simon Butler, bar manager of the Old Lion in Baker Street, where Hamlin had become a regular over the summer, described the murdered man as “a lost soul.” Mr. Butler had recently contacted Social Services regarding Hamlin’s volatile mental state, but claims to have been “given the brush-off” by staff. Police are appealing for witnesses.
The print blurred before Alexia’s eyes. Her heart was pounding and her mouth and throat felt dry, as if she’d swallowed sand. She shook Teddy awake.
“Look at this!”
Teddy De Vere sat up abruptly, spilling his whiskey down his shirt. “Damn and blast it. What is it, darling?”
“Look.” Alexia pointed at the picture of Billy, a mug shot that must have been taken well over a decade ago. “That’s him.”
“That’s who?”
“The man I was telling you about.”
“Please don’t speak in riddles, Alexia. I’m half asleep.”
“William Hamlin!” Alexia said exasperatedly.
“Ah. So that’s his name. You wouldn’t tell me before, remember?”
“Was his name,” said Alexia. “He’s been killed. Murdered.”
“I thought you said he’d been deported?”
“He had. He must have come back, somehow. And now he’s dead. Read the article.”
Teddy read. As he did so he thought back to his conversation with Sir Edward Manning, only a week earlier.
“Trust me. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to get himself back here.”
So much for that. Teddy shuddered to think of how close this madman had come to contacting Alexia a second time, perhaps even to hurting her.
“The journalist doesn’t mention you.” He handed the paper back to her.
“No. No one seems to have made the connection.”
“Good.” Dabbing the amber liquid off his shirt with a napkin, Teddy rolled over, replumping his pillow. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Good night.”
Alexia was shocked. “Nothing to worry about? Teddy, he’s been murdered.”
“Exactly. So he won’t be bothering you again, will he? That’s good news in my book.”
“Why are you being so callous?” Alexia asked angrily. “He didn’t deserve to die. He was ill. Confused.”
Teddy sat up wearily. “Look, Alexia, the man threatened you. You can’t expect me to like people who threaten my wife, or to feel sorry for them. I’m not going to be so hypocritical as to feign grief for a complete stranger just to salve your conscience.”
“You’re right. I’m sorry.” Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek. “I’m shocked, that’s all. He was a sweet boy once.”
“So was Hitler,” said Teddy robustly. “Try to get some rest.”
Within minutes he was snoring loudly.
The flight attendant came over to Alexia. “Can I bring you something to eat, Home Secretary? A cheese plate perhaps, or some fruit? I know you said you wanted a light meal.”
Alexia pulled herself together. Teddy was right. What had happened to Billy was awful, but it did draw a line under things. And wasn’t that what she wanted, deep down? It wasn’t as if his death was her fault, or her responsibility. As tragic as it was, maybe it was for the best.
She smiled at the flight attendant. “I’ll have the cheese, please. No blue. And a strong cup of coffee. I have a lot of work to get through before we land.”
Chapter Twenty-two
The next year was a triumphant one for Alexia De Vere. As Britain’s economy rebounded, so the nation’s collective spirit blossomed like a daffodil bursting through the frost after a long, cold winter. A Gallup Poll ranked Henry Whitman the most popular sitting prime minister since Churchill, and the rest of the cabinet basked contentedly in Henry’s reflected glow. As for Alexia De Vere, the home secretary’s personal popularity almost rivaled that of the prime minister.
How had it happened? Only a couple of years ago, Alexia De Vere had been one of the more loathed figures of minor British politics, a throwback to the bad old days of heartless conservatism. When people thought of Alexia De Vere (if they thought of her at all), they associated her with prison riots and knee-jerk, throw-away-the-key justice. The fact that she was stinking rich, spoke with a plum in her mouth, and had married into a family posher than the Windsors did little to endear her to ordinary voters. But after a year and a half in the job that no one, including Alexia herself, had ever expected her to get, and despite her early hiccups over immigration, Mrs. De Vere had succeeded in winning over the hearts and minds of the British public in a spectacular coup de grace. People respected the way she had strengthened the police force and put more coppers back on the beat. They approved of her defense of hospitals, of her libertarian stance on education and support for parent-run schools. They liked her Care Homes Act to protect the elderly from exploitation and abuse. Yes, Alexia De Vere was tough. But she was also hardworking, efficient, and ballsy enough to fight for traditional British values and institutions. The rottweiler of old had transformed herself into a British bulldog for the modern age. Her enemies could do nothing but sit back and watch.
After brokering a deal to establish a vast Renault car plant in the East Midlands, creating tens of thousands of new jobs, Alexia received an invitation to tea at Ten Downing Street.
“I should have made you foreign secretary.” The prime minister stretched his legs while a butler poured the tea. “The French think the soleil shines out of your derriere. You’re the toast of Paris.”
“I don’t know about that,” Alexia said modestly. She never quite knew where she stood with Henry Whitman. Cabinet colleagues complained that he supported her unreservedly, but Alexia often felt an undercurrent of dislike beneath the prime minister’s smiles.
“Try the chocolate cake,” Henry urged her. “It’s from Daylesford. Tastes like heaven.”
“Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Alexia enjoyed being a size eight far too much to indulge her sweet tooth. “You should be careful not to let Ian hear you take his job in vain. He’s doing well at the Foreign Office, isn’t he?”
“He is,” Henry admitted. “But no one’s putting Ian James’s ugly mug on the front page of Le Figaro, let’s put it that way.”
Alexia laughed. It was true that her photogenic looks and brusque, no-nonsense manner had helped make her a popular figure in France and a great ambassador for the British government. But she couldn’t imagine that Henry Whitman had summoned her to Downing Street merely to flatter her.
“Was there something in particular you wanted to see me about?”
“Not really.” Whitman sipped his tea. Alexia felt his eyes on her, studying her. There was a distrust there, a wariness that she didn’t understand. What does he want to know? And whatever it is, why doesn’t he just ask me? “Do you have any plans for the summer? You’ll be heading back out to the States, I presume.”
The interview was getting stranger and stranger. Why does Henry Whitman care where I take my vacation? Is he trying to get rid of me?
“Actually no, not this year. We’re staying in England. This ridiculous party Teddy’s organizing at Kingsmere, it’s more work than the G7 Summit.”
“Ah, yes.” Henry nodded. “The party.”
By now the whole of Westminster knew that Alexia De Vere’s charming old duffer of a husband was celebrating three hundred years of De Vere family history with a huge event at Kingsmere, arguably one of the most exquisite houses in England. Anyone who was anyone in European politics would be attending, as well as the great and the good from the entertainment and business worlds. It would be like Elton John’s White Tie & Tiara Ball, minus the vulgarity factor.
“You’re coming, I take it?” Alexia asked.
“Of course.”
“With Charlotte?”
Henry Whitman’s brow knit into a frown. “Naturally with Charlotte. I’m not in the business of attending social events alone, Alexia.”
“Of course not.”
There it was again. The chill.
“We get back from Sicily the night before, but we’ll definitely be there.”
After an awkward silence, the prime minister asked some polite questions about Alexia’s upcoming trip to Paris with Kevin Lomax. As rade secretary, Kevin’s department had also been involved in the Renault deal, although everybody knew it was Alexia who had clinched it.