Tommy Lyon had hurt her deeply, but he had also forced her to accept some home truths. Michael hadn’t been perfect. More importantly, even if Summer succeeded in finding out the whole truth about his accident, it wasn’t going to bring Michael back to her.
But now, stuck as she was in traffic, bored, and with the document in her hand, her interest was piqued. It would be stubborn and foolish, surely, to drive right past Drake Motors without even stopping in. Who knew when she’d be out this way again.
Sir Edward Manning was astonished to hear Alexia De Vere’s voice.
In the months since Mrs. De Vere had left office, Edward had almost forgotten the nightmare his life had been back then. Sergei Milescu’s sadistic threats, the cloud of terror hovering constantly over him, the knot of anxiety coiled permanently in his chest, like a cobra ready to strike. As for the horrifying image of Sergei in the bathtub, his entrails floating around his bloated head like a string of pork sausages . . . that still sometimes came back to him in dreams. But he reassured himself that what it actually meant, for him personally, was that the horror was over. Alexia’s resignation had come too late for Sergei to avert his paymasters’ displeasure. But it had saved Sir Edward Manning’s life.
The police who found Sergei’s body had been to the House of Lords to interview the other members of the janitorial staff. Apparently the method of Milescu’s execution was the one preferred by the Russian Mafia. But nobody knew what links the Romanian custodian might have to any Russians. And nobody linked him with Sir Edward Manning.
Kevin Lomax had his strengths and weaknesses, both as a boss and as a home secretary. It did not escape Sir Edward’s notice that the very first thing Lomax did in office was to withdraw the tax legislation that had threatened London’s wealthy Russian elite. But Sir Edward made no comment. Lomax’s arrival at the Home Office had ushered in a period of peace and safety for Sir Edward Manning.
Alexia’s voice on the telephone shattered that peace in an instant.
“I’m sorry to disturb you on a weekend, Edward. But I wondered if I might ask you a favor.”
“Of course,” Sir Edward Manning blustered. “Although I don’t quite see—”
“I need some information.”
A telling few seconds of silence.
“It’s sensitive information. I’ll understand if you say no.”
“Go on.”
“I want to know everything you’ve got about a man named Milo Bates.”
Nothing to do with Russia. Or Lomax. Or Milescu’s murder. Sir Edward exhaled.
“Milo Bates.” The name was familiar. It took a few moments for him to place it. “Ah yes, I remember. William Hamlin’s partner. Is that who you mean? The one who disappeared.”
Alexia was impressed, though not surprised. Edward had a memory bank bigger than the British Library.
“Exactly. I’d also like a list of all unidentified bodies found in the New York region in the year that Milo went missing.”
The silence was longer this time. Alexia held her breath, but at last Sir Edward Manning said, “I’ll see what I can do. Where can I reach you?”
Drake Motors was an altogether more sophisticated establishment than St. Martin’s garage in Walthamstow. The front showroom, complete with marble floors, fountain, and snooty receptionist in head-to-toe Victoria Beckham, was crammed with top-of-the-line sports cars, from the latest Bugatti in trendy matte silver to gleaming vintage Jags and Bentleys in wine red or sporting green. Summer felt instantly out of place in her sweaty T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Nor was she sure that she was even in the right place. She couldn’t see a single motorbike on display. Perhaps there was another Drake Motors on the A3?
“May I help you?”
The man was middle-aged and handsome, with a cut-glass accent and an expensive suit.
The manager, thought Summer. Unlike his receptionist, he seemed welcoming and not remotely fazed by Summer’s distinctly casual attire. He’s been in the luxury car business too long to judge a book by its cover, or a potential customer’s net worth by the scruffiness of her jeans.
“I hope so. A friend of mine was given a motorbike as a gift about a year and a half ago. It came from your garage. It was a Ducati Panigale.”
A blush crept up Summer’s neck and into her cheeks. It was ridiculous to hate inanimate objects, but ever since Tommy Lyon told her Michael’s bike had been a gift from his lover, she had loathed the thing as vehemently as if it had been a person.
“Well,” the manager said smoothly, “we don’t sell very many bikes, to be frank with you. I’d probably remember the sale, if you told me the name of the purchaser.”
“That’s the thing. I know my friend’s name, obviously. I have his certificate of ownership here. But I don’t know who actually paid for the bike.”
She handed the registration document to the manager. It took a few moments for Michael’s name to register.
“De Vere. Not the De Vere? The home secretary’s boy?”
“That’s right.”
Summer waited for the sympathetic platitudes. Instead she was met by a hostile glare.
“How did you get this?” All the manager’s former friendliness was gone. “Are you a journalist? Because if you’re sniffing around for a scandal, you won’t find it here. All our merchandise is checked and double-checked, understand?”
“As a matter of fact, I am a journalist,” Summer said angrily. She resented the way people in Britain put journalists on a par with pedophiles and murderers. As if they didn’t all buy newspapers or watch television. “But as it happens, I’m not here in a professional capacity. I’m Michael De Vere’s girlfriend. And I’m not looking for scandal, just information. There may have been a fault with the Panigale.”
“Not when it left here there wasn’t.”
“Would you have a record of who paid for the bike?” Summer asked wearily. “That’s all I want to know.”
The manager relented a little. If she really was the De Vere boy’s girlfriend, she’d been through a tough time. “I don’t know. We might have. Follow me.”
Summer accompanied him through the marble atrium into a poky office at the side of the building. Here a much less glamorous secretary in a Next polyester suit tapped away at a computer.
“What was the date of the purchase?” the manager asked.
Summer told him, “It would have been some time between July first and July twentieth of last year.”
He turned to his secretary. “Karen, would you check those dates for me? Looking for a Panigale Ducati motorcycle.”
After some more tapping and a few seconds’ wait, the secretary said brightly, “Yup. Here we are. July twelfth. Paid for in full, by wire transfer.”
Summer asked hopefully, “Is there a name?”
More tapping. “Nope. ’Fraid not. No name. Just an account number, and a SWIFT code. Citibank Zurich.”
The disappointment felt like a punch to the stomach.
“Thank you for your help anyway.”
The manager handed Michael’s documents back to Summer, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry about before,” he mumbled. “I got the wrong end of the stick.”
“That’s all right.”
Summer left the office and had almost reached her car when the secretary came running out after her.
“Miss. Miss!” she panted. “Was it red, the bike? A ‘boy racer’ sort of thing?”
Summer nodded. “That’s right.”
“I remember it,” the secretary said triumphantly. “I remember the buyer ’n all. It was a woman. She came to collect it herself.”
“Can you describe her?”
The secretary thought about it. “She was American. Dark hair. Quite pretty.”
Summer’s heart pounded. “How old would you say she was?”
The secretary shrugged. “Middle-aged, I suppose. Not old, not young.”
“But she never gave a name?”
“No. She did say the bike was a present. I think she said it was for her son. But that can’t be right, can it? Not if this was Alexia De Vere’s lad.”
Summer’s head was spinning. “Can I borrow a pen?” she asked. “And a piece of paper?” She wrote down her cell-phone number and e-mail address and handed it to the woman. “If you remember anything else, anything at all, would you give me a call?”
“Of course.” The secretary looked at Summer curiously. “You’re going to think I’m mad. But do I know you from somewhere? Your face looks awfully familiar.”
“I don’t think so,” said Summer.
“You’re not on the telly, are you? An actress?”
“I’m afraid not.”
“Oh well.” The woman smiled cheerily. “Good luck anyway.” She bustled back inside.
Summer suddenly felt extremely tired.
It was time to go home.
Chapter Thirty-seven
Alexia sat in a Starbucks, reading. Edward Manning’s report was dishearteningly short.
Milo James Bates, born in Bronxville, New York. Married Elizabeth (Betsy), three children. Reported missing by business partner and later by his family. Left considerable debts.