“I do to a degree, Home Secretary. Everybody needs hope, even criminals. Take that away and you get some very desperate people.”
For a moment a tense silence hung in the air. Then Alexia smiled broadly. It was refreshing to have someone stand up to her for a change, or at least to hold their ground. Commissioner Grant was quite wrong, of course. But Alexia found she liked him increasingly.
“Well,” she said convivially, “Sanjay Patel clearly agreed with you. He hung himself in his cell on Christmas Day 2008. His supporters have blamed me for his death ever since.”
If she felt any guilt about this, or any regret, she didn’t show it. Sir Edward Manning had worked with politicians for thirty years. Rarely had he seen one quite so ruthlessly without emotion.
“Am I correct in thinking that Sanjay Patel always maintained his innocence?” Commissioner Grant asked.
“Convicted criminals usually do, in my experience.”
“Yes, but in Patel’s case the evidence against him was felt to be particularly weak.”
“Felt by whom? The Daily Mail?”
Sir Edward Manning watched the two of them square off, like a pair of expert fencers.
“Wasn’t Patel convicted purely on Khan’s statement? No DNA or prints ever linked him to the drugs, nor were any middlemen ever found or any evidence linking Patel to any sort of drug deal.”
“Clearly the jury considered the evidence sufficient. It is not for me, or indeed you, Commissioner, to question their verdict.”
“No indeed, Home Secretary. It’s for the court of appeal. Only there was no appeal in Patel’s case.”
“No.”
“Because of your sentencing reforms?”
“Because of the reforms passed into law by a majority of MPs and overwhelmingly supported by the British public, yes.” Alexia smiled. “Is there a point to all of this, Commissioner?”
“Only that we consider Sanjay Patel’s supporters to be a genuine potential threat to your security. From now on we will be treating them on an equal risk level with the other terror threats made against the Home Office, or against you personally.”
“Okay.” Alexia nodded seriously. This was no longer a game of verbal dexterity. The commissioner meant what he said. “What about William Hamlin?”
“We’ll keep an eye on him too. Once we find him. Hamlin and Drake are persons of interest. We’ll keep you informed.”
“Please do. And on Danny’s poisoning too.”
For a moment the commissioner looked confused. “Danny?”
“Our dachshund. I realize it may have been an accident. But he was a dear little dog. I’d like to know what happened.”
Outside in the lobby, Sir Edward Manning spoke to Commissioner Grant privately.
“Do you really think these Patel people are dangerous?”
“I think Gilbert Drake could be, given the right set of circumstances. And there may be others. Some of the anonymous letters she received last year didn’t mince their words. Slitting throats and rivers of blood and what have you. Then again, putting something on paper, or saying it over a telephone line, and actually doing it are two very different things.”
“And the American man?”
“Harmless. I did want to ask you something, though, Edward. Off the record.”
“Yes?”
“This business with the dog. I’m playing it down in front of the home secretary. No need to create undue anxiety. But I don’t like it.”
“And you have no leads?”
“No. What do you know about the family dynamic?”
“Not as much as I’d like to,” Sir Edward said truthfully. “Mrs. De Vere is a frustratingly closed book. I know the rumors. There’s tension with the daughter. Apparently she loathes her mother, but that may be exaggerated. She still lives at home.”
Commissioner Grant rubbed his chin thoughtfully.
“So did the dog.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sergei Milescu rearranged the pillows on the bed. Lying back, he checked the angle of the flat-screen television over the fireplace, making sure that any images would be clearly visible to someone lying flat on their back. This would be the first time he’d had sex in Sir Edward Manning’s flat. Everything had to be perfect.
Sergei glanced at the clock on the wall: 6:23 P.M. Edward would be home soon, awaiting his pleasure. He’d given Sergei his keys this morning.
“Get everything ready. The game starts the moment I walk through the door.”
Sergei could hardly believe it when Edward had suggested a night of role reversal. For months Sergei been angling to shift the dynamic between them, to establish himself as more of a boyfriend and less of a plaything. Just when he’d begun to think it was hopeless, that the old bastard would never change, Edward had not only agreed to have sex at home but had actually offered to let Sergei dominate. For days now, the young Romanian had been quivering with excitement at the prospect. But as the moment of truth drew nearer, he shook as much from fear as from arousal.
What if I fuck it up?
I can’t. I can’t fuck it up.
This may be my only chance.
The door to the apartment opened, then closed. Sergei heard the thud of Edward’s briefcase hitting the floor, followed by the quiet rustle as he removed his jacket and shoes.
“Where are you?”
“In here.”
Sir Edward Manning felt a frisson of excitement shoot through him as he entered his bedroom. How long had it been since he’d brought a lover back here? Years, certainly. He couldn’t remember the last time. But neither could he remember the last time a boy had excited him as much as Sergei. It was that intoxicating combination of hatred and desire that did it. Sergei Milescu thought he hid his hatred, but it was as obvious to Sir Edward Manning as the rock-hard dick between the young Romanian’s legs, and every bit as arousing.
Am I being foolish, bringing him here? Allowing him to take the lead?
Probably. But it’s the danger that makes it so sweet.
“Nice place.”
“Thank you.”
“Take your clothes off and lie down on the bed.”
Edward hesitated, taking in the various props around the room. There was a video camera on a tripod in the corner, and a spool of rope in plain view on top of the dresser.
“No filming. In my position I can’t allow—”
The slap came out of nowhere, hard and sudden. “I said get undressed.”
Sir Edward Manning did as he was told.
I’m going to enjoy this.
For the first thirty minutes he did. Sergei was such a natural submissive, it was incredible how readily and skillfully he took to the dominant role. Tying Edward to the bed, first by his wrists alone and later by his ankles as well, he did things to his body that Edward had never even imagined. Probing, teasing, hurting occasionally but never to the point where it became a turnoff, the boy had the energy of a young bull and the ingenuity of a chess grand master. Time after time Sergei brought Edward to the brink of orgasm, only to deny him the ecstasy of release. After a long, difficult day of serving the needs of his demanding new female boss, this night of unbridled male pleasure was exactly what Edward needed. Why would anyone want to come out of the closet when life inside was as exquisitely pleasurable and verboten as this?
“Stay there. I’ve got a little something I want you to watch.”
Spread-eagled on his back, with patches of still-warm wax congealing around his nipples and groin, Edward had no choice but to comply. He hoped the porn would be good. Generally speaking, he wasn’t a fan, preferring his own imagination to the crassly performed scenarios of the “actors” on-screen. But perhaps this was more of a young man’s thing, a price one paid for having such delectably nubile lovers.
The film began predictably enough, with a young hitchhiker servicing an improbable-looking group of truck drivers at a truck stop. But about ten minutes in, things became too violent for Edward’s taste. The boy was being choked, and was clearly in distress.
“This isn’t working. Turn it off.”
When Sergei turned around there was no mistaking the wild arousal in his eyes. For the first time Edward felt a flicker of real fear.
“Turn it off? How about I turn you off, old man.”
Pulling a rolled-up pair of socks out of the top drawer of Edward’s dresser, Sergei stuffed them into the civil servant’s mouth. Then, as casually as if he were snuffing out a candle, he closed Edward’s nostrils, pinching them between finger and thumb.
The panic was immediate and total.
He’s going to kill me.
Edward struggled wildly, aware that his efforts were futile but unable to stop himself from straining at the ropes. He could hear the blood in his brain, the pressure building up like a swollen damn. He felt as if his skull would explode, imagined his eyeballs popping out of their sockets. He was aware of losing consciousness, of the white stucco ceiling above his antique mahogany bed blurring then turning to black. He braced himself for death.