I came to you about my daughter.
I needed your help.
But you turned me away.
Every day, guilt came knocking like a beggar at the door of Alexia’s heart, demanding to be let in. You owed Billy Hamlin so much. And you gave him so little. But every day, with a supreme effort of will, she turned it away. The crimes of the past were Toni Gilletti’s crimes and Toni Gilletti was dead. She was Alexia De Vere: a loving wife, a competent mother, and a committed politician, changing her adopted country for the good. Alexia De Vere hadn’t killed anyone. It wasn’t her fault.
Guilt may have been forced out, but curiosity was allowed in, and soon it was running rampant. Who had killed Billy and Jennifer Hamlin, and why? Were the deaths connected to each other, or to her, or were they in fact merely random acts of violence, two isolated incidents of cruelty in a cruel, cruel world? More importantly, had everything possible been done to try to bring their killer, or killers, to justice? Throughout her political career, Alexia De Vere had championed the victims of violent crime, urging ever-tougher sentences for those who terrorized the weak. Billy and Jennifer Hamlin had been weak.
Toni Gilletti hadn’t helped Billy Hamlin when he needed her. But perhaps Alexia De Vere could use her influence to help him now . . . ?
The coffee and toast arrived. Revived by both, Alexia opened her briefcase and pulled out the file Sir Edward Manning had compiled for her on Jennifer Hamlin’s murder. Edward had really gone the extra mile, calling in favors from the FBI and Interpol. He’d spoken to New York journalists, sliding through a sea of off-the-record information like a diligent and determined eel, condensing and refining his search so as to present only the most relevant, verifiable facts to the home secretary. As ever, Alexia was impressed and grateful. Edward had become her closest political ally, closer even than family at times. One day she must thank him properly.
The first six pages were pictures of Jennifer Hamlin’s grotesquely mutilated corpse. Alexia had seen them many times now, but their power to shock had not diminished. What sort of animal did this? Billy at least had died cleanly, executed by a single knife wound to the heart. But his poor daughter had clearly been tortured. Each of Jennifer’s limbs was covered in burn marks, and ligature bruises were visible on her wrists, ankles, and neck. According to the autopsy, however, Jenny Hamlin had been alive when she hit the water. The official cause of death was drowning.
Drowning.
Alexia shook her head, forcing the unwanted images out. Was it a coincidence? Or was the manner of Billy’s daughter’s death as significant as the fact of it?
It struck Alexia that all she really knew about Jennifer Hamlin was that she’d been murdered. Her life, her character, remained opaque. Jenny’s mother, Sally, and her friends all painted the same picture to the police of a quiet, thoughtful girl, happy in her job as a legal secretary, and secure in her relationship with her boyfriend, a local baker named Luca Minotti. Partners were always the first suspects in murders involving young women, but there was no question about Minotti’s innocence. He was in Italy visiting relatives the week Jenny disappeared, and more than thirty customers confirmed his presence at the bakery the day she died.
Poignantly, Jenny Hamlin had been pregnant when she was killed. Luca Minotti knew about the baby and was apparently ecstatic at the prospect of fatherhood. He and Jenny had been saving up for their wedding. It was all just too awful. No one could think of anyone who might conceivably have wanted to hurt this gentle, family-oriented young woman.
No one, that is, except Billy Hamlin.
Billy had been convinced for years that Jennifer was in danger. For two years prior to his own death, he had plagued the NYPD, FBI, local newspapers, and anyone else who would listen with complaints about threatening phone calls. “The voice” was going to hurt him. It was going to kill his daughter. Unfortunately, Billy also told police that numerous public figures were in danger. These included two prominent baseball players, the governor of Massachussets, and an Australian swimsuit model named Danielle Hyams, with whom Billy had been briefly obsessed during his last spell of severe depression. Not unsurprisingly, his claims were dismissed as symptoms of his mental illness. Police could find no record of suspicious calls on his cell-phone or landline records, and Billy failed to produce a single recording in evidence. Jennifer Hamlin herself was never contacted, and neither were any of the other individuals Billy mentioned.
Alexia jumped. Her BlackBerry was ringing. It was barely after six. Who on earth would be calling at this time in the morning?
“Alexia? It’s Henry. Did I wake you?” The prime minister’s voice sounded strained.
“No. No, I’m up. Is everything all right?”
“It’s fine. No crisis. I probably shouldn’t have called so early. I just wanted to let you know that I’m afraid Charlotte and I won’t be able to make it tonight after all.”
“Oh.” Alexia swallowed her disappointment and her annoyance. If there was no crisis, it was inexcusable to pull out so late in the day. “That’s a shame.”
“Yes. Something . . . personal’s come up,” Henry said awkwardly. Alexia wondered whether the “something” was a certain donor’s wife by the name of Laura Llewellyn, but she said nothing. “I’m sorry.”
Alexia hung up. Her initial anger gave way to unease. The prime minister had been behaving distinctly strangely around her recently. She sensed a caginess in Henry Whitman now that hadn’t been there before. Those bastards in cabinet would do anything to see me fail. Have they got to him? Perhaps Edward Manning knows something? That might be why Henry was asking me about him the other day, almost pushing me to get rid of him as my PPS.
Or maybe Charlotte Whitman was the problem. Wives often became jealous of their husbands’ professional relationships with other women. But I’m far too old to be considered a threat.
Perhaps it really IS Laura Llewellyn? It must be something serious for Henry to perform such a public U-turn on a long-standing commitment.
It was only after five minutes of prolonged and fruitless speculation that Alexia pulled herself up short. You’re being paranoid. You’re letting the stress get to you. The Hamlin murders had been giving her sleepless nights, to add to the anxiety of tonight’s party and the daily battles of life as a woman at Westminster. What Alexia really needed was a break.
Her phone buzzed again. This time it was a text, from Lucy Meyer.
Can’t wait to see you!! it read, followed by a string of smiley, excited, and kissy-face emoticons. Party’s gonna be awesome!!!
Alexia laughed out loud. She’d missed Lucy this year, with her relentless good spirits and her endless enthusiasm. The woman would have exclamation marks carved into her gravestone.
Carefully lifting the Hamlin file, Alexia slipped it into her desk drawer and locked it away.
Screw Henry Whitman. Teddy and I are going to see our friends tonight and relax.
It’s going to be fun.
Michael De Vere revved his new Ducati Panigale superbike, letting the roar of its powerful engine drown out the tumult of thoughts in his head.
He knew the route from Oxford to Kingsmere like the back of his hand, but today he’d deliberately taken obscure back roads, through Witham Woods, the ancient forest bordering North Oxford and into the Evenlode Valley beyond. It was a perfect day—how could it be anything other for his mother’s perfect party?—blue-skied and sunny and clear. On either side of the lane, high hedgerows teemed with life, honeysuckle and bumble bees and butterflies of all sizes and colors frothing like a fountain of buzzing, sweet-scented energy. Frightened by the noise of Michael’s motorbike, starlings and blue tits and lapwings took to the sky as he passed, in a stunning aerial salute. In other circumstances, Michael would have felt exhilarated, racing through the landscape that he loved with the wind in his face and the sun on his back. As it was, he felt agitated and jumpy, angry at the emotions whipsawing him as he leaned into each bend.
Some of them were easy to identify. Guilt, for example, squatting like a fat toad over his heart, suffocating his happiness. It had been a close call with Summer last night. Too close. He hated himself for lying to her, for becoming the cliché of the unfaithful boyfriend, a parody of the very worst side of himself. When they were apart, he told himself that he had things under control. That he could compartmentalize his relationship with Summer and his life here in England. That it would all be all right. Last night had brought home to him what a hollow self-deception that was.