“Home Secretary, I do apologize. We had a developing situation to deal with in Burnley this morning, a possible Islamic terrorist cell.”
Commissioner Grant was in his late forties, overweight and altogether unattractive, with a pale, doughy face, piggy little eyes, and thin lips that he permanently wetted with a nervously darting tongue. Next to Edward Manning he looked horribly disheveled in a crumpled nylon suit, his cheap Tie Rack tie splattered with coffee stains.
Alexia was not reassured. I hope his mind is less disordered than his dress sense.
“Is this something I need to be aware of?”
“Yes, ma’am. The threat has been neutralized but your office has been given a full briefing.”
“I thought we’d go through everything after this meeting,” Sir Edward Manning said smoothly.
“Surely a terror threat takes priority over a few nutters showing up at my house or making crank calls?”
“As I said, Home Secretary, the threat isn’t active. And your security is vitally important. If I may . . .”
Without waiting for approval, Commissioner Grant pulled a laptop out of his briefcase and plunked it down on Alexia’s desk. Pushing a stack of documents to one side, he launched directly into a PowerPoint presentation.
“As prisons minister, you received more threats last year than any other Tory politician.”
It was a punchy opening. Alexia thought, He’s not frightened of me. That’s good.
“I did upset a few people.”
“More than a few, Home Secretary. This is a list of incidents relating to your security. Everything from protest marches to egg throwing to hate mail is listed here, in order of seriousness. My job is to isolate the genuine danger from the, er . . .”
“General sea of loathing?” Alexia smiled. The commissioner smiled back.
“I was going to say ‘from the merely unpleasant.’ ”
“Right. How can I help?”
“If I understand correctly from Sir Edward, there have been three specific incidents since your appointment as home secretary. The individual who tried to gain admittance to your country residence. The poisoning of your husband’s dog. And the threatening phone call made to your London home.”
“That’s correct. Do you think the three are linked?”
“No.”
Alexia raised an eyebrow. It was a more unequivocal response than she’d expected.
“At least, the death of the dog may be connected to the late-night visit to Kingsmere. But the phone call we’re treating as a separate incident. Here’s what we know so far.”
With a click of the mouse, Commissioner Grant brought up a new screen. Alexia found herself looking into the face of a man about her own age. He had thinning blond hair, striking azure-blue eyes, and a gentle, if somewhat confused, expression on his face.
“William Jeffrey Hamlin. We’re pretty sure this is the man who came to Kingsmere the other night.”
Alexia sounded suitably amazed. “How on earth do you know that?”
“Our technicians did some work on the CCTV footage. We got a partial on the face. Your gatekeeper remembered that the man had an American accent, so we sent the images to our friends at the State Department and the FBI on the off chance. We got lucky. If he hadn’t had a prison record, we’d never have found him.”
Sir Edward Manning asked, “What sort of prison record?”
“Second-degree murder.”
Alexia bit her lower lip nervously.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. A child drowned, back in the early 1970s, while in Hamlin’s care. He got out in the late eighties. No history of violence, no subsequent offenses. From everything we know, I’d be highly surprised if he poisoned your dog, Home Secretary.”
Alexia looked at William Hamlin’s kind eyes and agreed.
“What’s he doing here?” asked Sir Edward. “In this country, I mean.”
“We don’t know. He may just be on vacation. What we do know is he has a long history of psychiatric problems.” The commissioner turned to Alexia. “Home Secretary, are you aware of any reason why this man might be interested in you?”
Alexia shook her head. “None whatsoever.”
She gazed at the face on the screen. There was something so sad about it.
“And the name William Hamlin means nothing to you?”
“Sorry. No.”
Sir Edward asked, “Is he dangerous?”
“Probably not. As I say, he has no history of violence. But with schizophrenics, you don’t take any chances. We believe he’s still in this country, and if he is, we need to find him. More concerning is the phone call you received at Cheyne Walk.”
The screen switched again. William Hamlin’s face was gone, replaced by the angry, heavy-set features of another middle-aged man. This man Alexia did recognize. Instinctively her jaw tightened.
“Gilbert Drake.”
“Indeed.”
Sir Edward Manning looked concerned. “Who’s Gilbert Drake?”
“He’s a taxi driver from East London,” said Commissioner Grant.
“And a friend of Sanjay Patel,” Alexia added bitterly.
“Ah.”
Sir Edward knew about the Patel case. Everyone in Britain knew about the Patel case. It was this case, more than any other, that had dogged Alexia De Vere as prisons minister, and that for a while had threatened to derail her career completely.
Whatever human sympathy Alexia herself might once have had for Sanjay Patel had long since been replaced by cold anger. Not only were Patel’s supporters threatening and aggressive, but the tabloid press, and in particular the Daily Mail, blathered on about the man as if he were Gandhi.
“Fill me in on Drake,” said Sir Edward.
“He’s has been cautioned twice before over threats made toward Mrs. De Vere,” Commissioner Grant explained. “He’s also spent four months inside on a separate charge of firearms possession.”
“And you think Gilbert Drake made the phone call last week?”
“It’s possible.”
“How would a taxi driver from East London have obtained the home secretary’s private home number?”
Commissioner Grant frowned. “That’s of paramount concern to us obviously. We don’t know that it was Drake. But certain things do point toward him. He’s known to have issued threats before. The caller last week also used biblical references.”
Alexia’s skin prickled at the memory. “That’s right.”
“We know that Drake has become active as a born-again Christian. He’s written numerous blog posts using similar language. He’s also made two unexplained trips to the home secretary’s Oxfordshire constituency in the last month. So his interest in Mrs. De Vere must be assumed to be ongoing and active.”
Alexia stood up and walked to the window. The distorted voice from that phone call had frightened her more than she liked to admit. The idea that a crass bully like Gilbert Drake could have been behind it offended her pride as much as anything.
“I don’t think it was Drake.”
“May I ask why not?”
“I’m as sure as I can be that the call was placed long distance. Plus the fact that it was untraceable and the use of the synthesized voice both show a sophistication that Gilbert Drake simply doesn’t have. He’s a rock thrower, not a strategist.”
Commissioner Grant mulled this over. “You may be right, Home Secretary. I hope you are. But we should talk about the Patel case.”
Alexia rolled her eyes. “Must we? I am so tired of hearing Sanjay Patel’s name, I can’t tell you. Anyone would think he was a saint, not a convicted drug dealer and human trafficker who was punished appropriately and in accordance with British law.”
Commissioner Grant thought, They’re right about her. He liked Mrs. De Vere more than he’d expected to, but she was as tough as old boots.
“Talk me through the case, ma’am. From your perspective.”
“It’s not a question of perspective, Commissioner. Facts are facts. What happened is a matter of public record.”
“Humor me, Home Secretary. We’re on the same team here.”
Alexia sighed. “Fine. A man named Ahmed Khan was arrested in Dover in 2002. He’d arrived in this country with twelve other men, as part of a shipment of illegal immigrants. Drugs, specifically heroin, were found in the van used to transport Khan. When questioned, Khan told police that he was in fear of his life in Pakistan—of course, they all say that—and that his cousin, Sanjay Patel, had arranged to have him brought to England. He denied any knowledge of the heroin.
“None of the other refugees in the case had mentioned any specific individuals. Patel’s was the only name put forward, and he had also recruited the driver. Patel was arrested, and confessed to having helped his cousin, Khan, but feigned ignorance about the heroin. Anyway he was tried and found guilty of drug smuggling and human trafficking. The judge sentenced him to a minimum term. I believe it was twelve years.”
“Fifteen,” Commissioner Grant corrected her.
“Was it? Right. In any event, his appeal had been scheduled for June 2004, but after my sentencing reforms came in, it was scrapped and Patel’s sentence was retrospectively raised.”
“To twenty-two years.”
“That’s right.”
“Quite a steep hike.”
Alexia’s eyes narrowed. “You sound as if you sympathize, Commissioner.”