"Call an ambulance," Chief Inspector Wilmott told his sergeant. "NOW!"
Chapter Thirty-one.
"Interview with Mrs. Alexia De Vere, Sunday, November twenty-sixth, two forty-four P.M. Chief Inspector Gary Wilmott present. Mrs. De Vere, can you please describe your relationship with Andrew Beesley, your daughter's fiance?"
Alexia twisted the gold wedding band on her finger. "Not until I see my daughter."
"Your daughter's been taken to hospital. You'll be given word on her condition in due course."
"That's not good enough. I want to know what's happening now."
"Andrew Beesley, Mrs. De Vere."
"Do you think I care about Andrew bloody Beesley?" Alexia snapped. "All I care about right now is Roxanne."
Chief Inspector Wilmott said, "Most people would probably care that a young man they knew well had been murdered and that his corpse was found buried in their garden."
"Would they? I doubt it. Not if they knew Andrew," Alexia said bitterly. I should stop talking. I should ask for my lawyer. But it felt so good to speak the truth, to vent her hatred at last, she found she couldn't stop herself.
"Andrew Beesley manipulated my daughter in the most cynical, vile way imaginable. I didn't know him well. But I knew him well enough to realize that. All he ever wanted was Roxie's money."
"And was that why you killed him?"
Alexia laughed mockingly, then wished she hadn't as the pain once again shot through her ribs where Gilbert Drake's bullet had hit her. "Don't be preposterous," she said through gritted teeth. "I didn't kill anybody."
"Your daughter doesn't seem to find that idea preposterous."
"My daughter's in shock. Where's my husband? I want to speak to my husband."
"You know you're not helping yourself, or your wife, by refusing to answer our questions."
A few doors down the corridor from Alexia, Teddy De Vere was also being interviewed. Inspector Henry Frobisher, one of the Oxford police's most talented officers, had been drafted in by Chief Inspector Wilmott on the grounds that Teddy might open up more to "another poshy."
No such luck. With his arms folded across his chest and his head turned resolutely away, Teddy repeated the mantra he'd been intoning ever since he left Kingsmere. "I want my lawyer."
"When did you last see Andrew Beesley alive?"
"I want my lawyer."
"Are there any grounds for your daughter's belief that your wife may have been responsible for Mr. Beesley's death?"
"I refuse to answer any questions without my lawyer."
"Mr. De Vere, were you aware that Mr. Beesley was in fact dead, and had not returned to Australia as you told your daughter?"
"Lawyer."
Inspector Henry Frobisher switched off the tape. "Get his solicitor here," he barked at his sergeant. "Now. And make sure someone's with the daughter. We need a statement as soon as she wakes up."
Alexia De Vere was becoming more strident.
"I demand to see my daughter."
"I'm not sure you're in a position to demand anything just now, Mrs. De Vere."
"Turn off that tape recorder."
Chief Inspector Wilmott considered the request for a moment, then did as he was asked. Breaks in a case often happened when witnesses, or suspects, agreed to talk off the record.
"Is there something you want to say to me, Mrs. De Vere?"
"Yes, there is."
Chief Inspector Wilmott felt his excitement building. This is it. She's going to confess.
"I want to remind you that I'm still the home secretary of this country. And that as such, your boss, and your boss's boss, report to me. I could have you suspended. Like that." She snapped her fingers imperiously.
If he hadn't felt so disappointed, Chief Inspector Wilmott would have laughed. Alexia De Vere might be the Iron Lady, but she didn't scare him, and neither did her powerful friends.
"On what grounds?" He squared his shoulders. "A young man was shot to death on your estate, Mrs. De Vere. You may not care about that fact. But I do. What's more"-he paused for effect-"I think you killed him."
Alexia's upper lip curled. "Based on what? Roxie's paranoia? An old watch?"
"As it happens, I found your daughter to be a very convincing witness. I've a feeling a jury may feel the same. I mean, let's face it, ordinary voters haven't exactly been warming to you recently, have they? And that's all juries are, Mrs. De Vere. Just twelve ordinary voters."
Alexia eyed the fat policeman contemplatively.
"Turn on the tape."
Chief Inspector Wilmott pressed a button.
"Interview resumed, three-fifteen P.M."
Roxie De Vere opened her eyes.
Everything was white and bright and beautiful. For a moment she felt a rush of intense happiness. I'm in heaven. I'm in heaven with Andrew. He never left me. He loved me, he loved me after all.
Then she saw the uniformed policeman standing by the door and her dream crumbled to dust.
This wasn't heaven. And Andrew wasn't some luminous white angel.
He was a rotted corpse, with dogs chewing the putrid flesh still hanging from his bones.
Her screams echoed down the hospital halls.
Chief Constable Redmayne of the Thames Valley police read the statement for a second time, carefully weighing each word, before handing it back to Chief Inspector Wilmott.
The chief constable was a vastly fat man with ruddy cheeks and a shock of white hair that gave him a jovial, Father Christmaslike air. In fact, Cyril Redmayne had a razor-sharp mind and was driven by the sort of ruthless ambition normally associated with politicians or rock stars. He was not at all happy to hear that the home secretary had been dragged down to Oxford police station like a common criminal. One misstep in a case like this and Cyril Redmayne's brilliant career could be over in a blink.
On the other hand, a man had been murdered. And no one, not even the likes of Alexia De Vere, should be able to consider themselves above the law.
Chief Inspector Gary Wilmott asked, "What do you think, sir?"
"What do you think, Gary?"
"I think she's lying. Through her perfectly white teeth."
The chief constable considered this.
"Hmm. I've had a call from Downing Street, you know. The prime minister wants to know if we're going to charge her."
"I can't. Not yet. I'd like to keep her in for questioning, though."
"Absolutely not."
"For another day at least. The husband too."
"Out of the question."
"But, sir . . ."
"Gary, she's the home secretary."
"So? She's involved in this, sir, I know she is."
"Then prove it. Find this psychologist. See if she corroborates Mrs. De Vere's story."
Chief Inspector Wilmott looked uncomfortable. "We have."
"And?"
"And she does corroborate the story. But that means nothing. They could easily have cooked it up together. Made a contingency plan, in case the body was ever found. I need more time with Mrs. De Vere."
"Well, you can't have it. Not without more evidence."
Chief Inspector Wilmott got up to leave. The chief constable called after him.
"She might be telling the truth, you know. Just because you don't like her. It is a possibility."
"Pigs might fly."
After Wilmott had gone, Cyril Redmayne read through Alexia De Vere's statement for a third time. If it were true, then a lot of people had misjudged the home secretary. Not least her own daughter.
Statement to police, Andrew Beesley was an Australian tennis coach who came to work for my family eight years ago. Shortly afterward, he began a romantic relationship with my daughter, Roxanne, which quickly became serious. Too quickly, in my view, although it was my husband who most vehemently disapproved of the match. Teddy felt Andrew was a blatant gold digger, and that it was our duty to protect Roxie and stop her from marrying him.
We discussed the idea of offering Andrew money to leave. I was against it, mostly on the grounds that I thought it unlikely the boy would accept, and that he might well tell Roxie we'd approached him, which would only make things worse between our daughter and ourselves. We agreed that our son, Michael, would talk to Andrew privately instead and see if he could warn him off. Anyway, not long after that, Andrew disappeared. He failed to show up for work one day, and that was that. Initially I didn't question it. I was delighted he'd pushed off; we all were. But weeks went by, and Roxie was becoming increasingly distraught and unable to cope. She couldn't accept that Andrew had dumped her so suddenly. That's when Teddy told me that he had paid Andrew off, even though I thought we had agreed not to. The boy had bitten his hand off apparently, and was only too eager to hightail it back to Australia with Teddy's check in his pocket.
The problem was Roxie. She'd suffered from depression as a teenager, quite badly, and her mental health was fragile at the best of times. Teddy and I had a private meeting with Dr. Lizzie Hunt, Roxie's psychiatrist, to discuss how we should handle Andrew's departure. Lizzie felt that having been abandoned by one man she loved, Roxie would not be able to cope with a second betrayal from Teddy-that she would see her father's intervention as a betrayal. So we agreed, the three of us, that I would allow Roxanne to believe it was me who had bribed Andrew to leave. That way Roxie's relationship with Teddy would remain intact, and hopefully she would one day rebuild enough trust in men to start a new, more appropriate romantic attachment.
Of course, things didn't work out as we'd hoped. Instead of facing her demons head-on, my daughter attempted suicide. She was lucky to survive. She wouldn't have recovered had it not been for her close, intensely close relationship with her father. So in that regard, I don't regret deceiving her. But Roxanne spent the next eight years of her life, right up until a few weeks ago, hating me for what she believed I did. That's been difficult.
I know that Teddy was telling the truth about paying Andrew off. Partly because he's a very honorable man. But also because Andrew cashed the check Teddy gave him. I saw that money leave our account. As far as Teddy and I knew, Andrew Beesley was still living somewhere in Australia. I have no idea how or when he died, and no explanation to offer as to how he came to be buried at Kingsmere. However, I can state categorically that I had nothing whatsoever to do with his death or the disposal of his remains.
Signed: Alexia De Vere Chief Constable Redmayne had read thousands of statements. He prided himself on his instincts, his ability to read through the lines of the half-truths that most people chose to tell. But this one was tricky.
On balance, Cyril Redmayne disagreed with Chief Inspector Gary Wilmott. He was inclined to believe the home secretary's version of events. But there were anomalies. Clearly it would take a supremely loving mother, and wife, to make the sacrifices that Mrs. De Vere claimed to have made and take the blame for her husband's actions. Yet throughout her public life, and especially recently, since Michael's accident, she had become famous for being a cold and distant parent.
Still, you couldn't hold people in police custody because you found them cold and distant. The psychiatrist backed up Alexia's story. No doubt her husband, once he started talking, would do the same. The only two people able to contradict this version of events were the De Veres' son, Michael, who'd been involved in the family discussions about Andrew Beesley and his sister all those years ago . . . and Beesley himself.
One of those people was in a persistent vegetative state.
The other was dead.
Something in the back of Chief Constable Cyril Redmayne's mind stirred uncomfortably at the neatness of it all. But he quashed his misgivings. All that mattered at the end of the day were the facts.
The facts were that Gary Wilmott had nothing on Alexia De Vere. The sooner they released her, the better.
By six P.M., reporters were camped excitedly outside the Oxford city center police station, occupying the streets like fanatical tennis fans before a Wimbledon final. The line of television camera crews, both British and international, stretched back almost as far as Christchurch Meadows.
To their disappointment, and Chief Constable Redmayne's relief, the outgoing home secretary left the building by a back door. In the backseat of a blacked-out Range Rover, Sir Edward Manning was waiting, as unruffled and professional as ever.
"To London, I assume, Home Secretary? I told Number Ten we'd call from the car. Understandably the prime minister is eager to talk to you in person. In the meantime I've taken the liberty of preparing a preliminary statement."
"Thank you, Edward. But I'm afraid all that will have to wait. I need to go to the hospital to see Roxie. Then I want to find out what's happening with Teddy. They're still questioning him. Can you believe it?"
"Well, Home Secretary, I-"
"I distinctly heard Angus Grey's voice in the corridor, so at least he had the good sense to ask for a lawyer. But I want him out of there, ASAP. That vile little man Wilmott's clearly engaged in some sort of tiresome class warfare. He's been gunning for Teddy since the moment we got home."
"Be that as it may, Home Secretary-"
"When all this is over I want his head on a plate."
Sir Edward Manning gave up trying to reason with her. Alexia was quivering, whether from anger or from shock over the events of the last twelve hours, he couldn't tell. Soon, he prayed, he would be working for a new home secretary, and his inability to read Alexia's moods would no longer matter. Sir Edward Manning hadn't heard from Sergei Milescu in weeks. He'd dared to hope that the nightmare was over-that now that Alexia had immersed herself in so much public scandal, Sergei's mysterious masters no longer needed any additional, private information from him. But the lingering doubt still cast a shadow over his every waking moment, like a cancerous tumor that could return at any time.
The blacked-out car pulled out into the street, gliding past the assembled media like a shadow.
"Very good, Home Secretary. To the hospital it is. But we must call Henry Whitman on our way. The government will need to make some sort of official statement to the media before tomorrow morning."
Alexia gazed out of the window as they left the city. "Don't worry, Edward. By tomorrow morning it will all be over."