Relations between Alexia and Teddy were cordial, even warm. They wrote letters to each other about the weather and the garden and Teddy's prison routines, never mentioning Andrew Beesley or Billy Hamlin or any other "difficult" subject. There was nothing to say anyway-nothing that would help. Reverting to their old way of being seemed the easiest and safest course of action. Alexia had long since decided that she was going to stand by Teddy. He had kept her secrets faithfully for forty-odd years. Now it was her turn to return the favor. Being away had helped her to detach emotionally, to push thoughts of Billy Hamlin and Andrew Beesley and everything that had happened out of her mind and to focus on the present. She tried not to think about the past or the future, although she knew that Teddy would go to prison for a long, long time and the thought scared her.
From now on, I'll have to be my own rock. Rebuild my own life. Start afresh. I've done it before, and I'll do it again.
The hardest part was the children. Michael had now been moved to a specialized critical care unit in London. The doctors had been as kind as they could be to Alexia, but she knew what the move meant: Michael would never get better. There was no more hope. At some point she knew she would have to face reality and turn off the life support machines. But not now. Not yet. She wasn't ready. And there were also Summer Meyer's feelings to consider.
Meanwhile a shroud of mental health professionals had descended over Roxie's life, shutting Alexia out completely. Apparently Roxie was staying at an "assisted living" facility somewhere in the west of England. But Alexia was expressly forbidden to visit or even to know her exact whereabouts, on psychiatrist's orders.
I gave birth to her! Alexia wanted to scream. I love her. Who the hell are you to tell me I can't see my own child? But she knew that Roxie was not a child, and that Roxie herself was the one who'd insisted on banishing her. Perhaps a period of separation was best for Roxie's recovery. But it still hurt, a raw wound that bled and bled and that no amount of distance, or time, would ever fully heal.
Meanwhile the radio silence from the people in Alexia's old political life was deafening. She hadn't spoken to Henry Whitman since the day she resigned, and not one of her cabinet colleagues or former constituency staff had called to see how she was doing. Edward, dear Edward, had sent a couple of gossipy e-mails. But that was it. After twenty years of devotion to the Tory Party, such utter abandonment ought to have hurt desperately. But it didn't. On the contrary, it felt liberating. Walking the deserted, windswept beaches and cranberry bogs of Martha's Vineyard, sometimes alone, sometimes with Lucy, Alexia could smell her future in the crisp, wintery air.
Perhaps, despite what she'd said to Michael, she really could leave the past behind this time. Reinvent herself and start again, far away.
This time around, the past seemed willing to let her go.
Lucy Meyer watched Alexia as she pored over her computer screen. It was only a few months ago that Lucy thought she'd lost her friend for good. That some crazy taxi driver's bullet was going to rob her of one of the most important people in her life. But Alexia had survived. She'd recovered and she'd come out here, where Lucy could keep an eye on her. "You're not going to tell me, are you?" Lucy mumbled through a mouthful of cake crumbs.
"Tell you what?" Alexia didn't look up.
Lucy had popped over, ostensibly to borrow a hoe for the garden, and ended up staying for coffee and cake. But from the minute she arrived, Alexia had been itching to get back to her MacBook.
"What you're working on? Beavering away over there, all secret squirrel."
Alexia grinned. "So what am I, a squirrel or a beaver?"
"You're a politician, honey: avoiding the question."
"Not anymore I'm not."
"So what are you working on? It's not Teddy's case, is it? Because I really think you need to put that out of your mind. There's nothing you can do from here."
"I have put it out of my mind." Alexia shut the computer and joined Lucy at the kitchen island. "And it's not Teddy's case."
Lucy had an uneasy feeling. "What then?"
"It's . . . something else I've been working on," Alexia said evasively. "It's not important."
Lucy raised an eyebrow and waited.
"Okay, okay." Alexia capitulated. "It's a cold case I'm looking into. You remember I told you about Billy Hamlin, the boy who-"
"I remember," Lucy cut her off.
"And you know he was killed?"
Lucy nodded.
"Well, so was his daughter. Jennifer. She was murdered last year, in truly horrific circumstances, and no one seems to have any idea why, or who did it, or anything."
Lucy frowned. "Okay. Well, that's sad. But what does it have to do with you?"
"When Billy came to England those times, when he tried to see me and I turned him away, he was trying to tell me something about his daughter. I think he was scared something bad was going to happen to her."
"And then something bad did happen to her."
"Yes."
"And you feel responsible?"
"Not responsible, exactly. But I feel I owe it to Billy to help now."
"Why?"
"Because I didn't help then," Alexia said simply. "I could have. I should have. But I turned my back on him. Maybe, if I'd listened, Jenny would still be alive today."
"That's crazy talk," Lucy said robustly. "This has nothing to do with you."
"I started looking into Jenny's murder last year, back when I was still in office. But there was so much going on then, at home and at Westminster. I didn't have time to focus on it. Now I have nothing but time."
Lucy pushed away her half-eaten cake. "I thought you came here to get away from the past. From all the stresses back home."
"I did," Alexia admitted. "And I have. Mostly."
"Then why reopen such an awful can of worms?"
"Because nobody else is going to, Luce. No one cares who killed Jenny Hamlin. The media moved on after a couple of weeks. The police have totally given up. Maybe, if I can uncover the truth, if I can find some justice for Billy's daughter, I can make amends."
"Amends to whom?"
"To Billy. To my own children. I don't know, Luce, I can't explain it. It just feels right to do something. To at least look into it."
Lucy shook her head. She knew Alexia well enough to realize that nothing she said was going to change her mind at this point.
"What does that mean, 'look into it'?" she asked. "If the police couldn't find anything, what makes you think you'll be able to, sitting at a computer on Martha's Vineyard?"
Alexia smiled. "I don't. That's why I'm going to New York."
"New York? When?"
"Soon. Tomorrow, if I can get a flight."
Lucy cleared away the coffee. "Okay, it's official. You've lost your mind. You're supposed to be relaxing, switching off, regaining your strength, remember? Not running around the city on some ludicrous wild-goose chase, all for the sake of a girl you never even met. A girl whose father, by the way, was probably trying to ruin you."
"I don't believe Billy meant me any harm," Alexia said. "And I've regained my strength. I need to do something, Lucy. I need a purpose. You do understand, don't you?"
"I guess. Just be careful, Alexia. There are doors that, once opened, can't easily be closed again. Start digging around in this girl's life and who knows what you might find."
Tommy Lyon sat at the American Bar in London's Savoy Hotel, checking out the businesswomen and sleek yummy mummies as they wandered in. Most wore wedding rings, although the curvaceous brunette at the corner table had a promisingly bare left ring finger, despite sporting a plethora of diamonds everywhere else.
Late thirties? No, early forties with good, subtle Botox. Divorced. Rich. Probably a tigress in the sack.
Tommy prided himself on being a good judge of women, the same way that a betting man might pride himself on a good knowledge of horseflesh. Michael had been the master, of course. Michael De Vere could smell a woman's likes and dislikes, her desires and weaknesses, from a thousand paces. Tommy Lyon had never quite matched his friend as a ladies' man. Despite being tall, blond, and athletic, with a strong jaw and soulful brown eyes, every bit as handsome as Michael, somehow Tommy had always ended up playing second fiddle. He lacked the De Vere dazzle, that ineffable charisma that used to draw women to Michael like dust into a vacuum cleaner.
Tommy Lyon missed Michael De Vere dreadfully. But it was nice occasionally to be the guy that got the girl. The brunette caught Tommy's eye and smiled. He smiled back, and was about to send a glass of champagne over to her table, when a showstopping girl walked into the bar. She was wearing jeans, sneakers, and a pale green T-shirt from the Gap, and had no makeup covering her lightly freckled face. In a bar full of overdone, stiletto-wearing cougars, she stood out like a fresh orchid amid a sea of cheap plastic flowers. Miraculously, the goddess seemed to be walking toward him.
"Tommy?"
"Summer?"
Tommy had never met Michael's girlfriend. She'd been away in America for most of their relationship, and when she was around, Michael had kept her under wraps. Now Tommy understood why. Michael always managed to land gorgeous girls, but this one was exceptionally attractive. Every man in the room was gazing at her, and glaring at Tommy. Suddenly he felt a rush of pride that it was he she'd come to meet.
"Thanks for seeing me." Summer kissed him on both cheeks, European-style. "I know you must be crazy busy."
"Not at all. It's a pleasure." Tommy patted the bar stool next to him. "What can I get you? Wine? Champagne?"
"Thanks, but I'm fine. It's a bit early for me."
"Nonsense. If Michael were here you'd be drinking. Come on. How about a nice glass of Cristal?"
Summer wrinkled her nose. Cristal? Really. Michael would never have trotted out a cheesy line like that. Not wanting to be rude, she said, "I'll take a beer. Budweiser, if they have it, in a bottle."
Tommy bought the beer, and they decamped to a quieter table, passing the disappointed brunette on their way. Watching Summer put the beer bottle to her lips, Tommy registered a familiar stirring of desire. He tried to remind himself that this was Michael's girlfriend. On the other hand, Michael was never going to wake up, a fact that Tommy Lyon had long ago come to terms with, even if Summer Meyer had not.
He made polite conversation. "So, you're at Vanity Fair now?"
"Not exactly. I'm freelance, but I'm working on a piece for them."
"What's it about?"
"Wealthy young Russians in London. The excesses of their lifestyle, that sort of thing."
Tommy warned, "Mind where you tread. Russian oligarchs don't tend to take kindly to exposes, of any sort. I'm sure you've read the stories of Western journalists in Moscow being found with a bullet to the back of the head."
"My piece is hardly Woodward and Bernstein stuff," said Summer. "It's more which shoes is Dasha Zhukova wearing this week? Boring and vacuous. Not that I'm complaining. It's a job and it means I can stay in London, close to Michael."
Tommy tried not to be distracted by the rise and fall of her breasts beneath the fitted cotton T-shirt. "You still go to the hospice every day?"
"Of course. And it's not a hospice," Summer said defensively. "It's a long-term care facility. He hasn't gone there to die."
Oh, yes he has, thought Tommy. But he didn't say anything.
"I've been meaning to talk to you for months," said Summer, "but what with Michael getting moved down to London, and me having to find a flat and a job and everything, it's been crazy. You know I've been researching his accident."
"I didn't know that." Tommy rubbed his chin thoughtfully. "Is there much to research? Wasn't it . . . well, an accident?"
"You'd be surprised."
Summer told him about her trip to the Ducati mechanic in East London, and her suspicions that Michael's bike might have been deliberately sabotaged.
Tommy asked the obvious question. "Why would anybody do that?"
"That's what I was hoping you might be able to tell me," said Summer. "You know about Teddy, of course?"
"The body in the garden, you mean? Sure," said Tommy. "He'll go down for life, I reckon. Still find it hard to believe, though. Teddy always seemed so . . . soft."
"I know," Summer agreed. "Anyway, it looks likely that Michael found the body when he was excavating the pagoda and reburied it."
"Christ." Tommy blew out air through his teeth. "Really?"
"Yeah. And I'm wondering, if Michael knew about Andrew Beesley's murder, perhaps there was some connection between that and what happened to him."
"Like what?"
"I don't know. I was hoping you might."
Tommy looked blank.
"Was there anything unusual, anything at all that happened in the days leading up to the party that struck you as strange? Did Michael meet anyone new?"
"No one sinister," said Tommy. "Suppliers, caterers, bar staff. It was a crazy time . . . we were run off our feet."
Ignoring Summer's protests, Tommy bought another round of drinks and ordered some bar snacks. Privately he thought her theories about foul play were nonsense, a fantasy she'd created to prevent her having to deal with the loss of Michael. But she was a stunning girl, so sexy and sensual with that silken mane of hair and those long, long legs. He didn't want her to leave.
She resumed her questioning while Tommy shelled pistachios.
"Did Michael ever talk to you about being threatened?"
"No. Never."
"And he never confided in you about the body?"
"No."
"You're sure?"
"I'm not likely to forget something like that."
"Did he have any enemies that you knew of?"
"You know Michael. Everybody loved him."
"Not everybody, it appears. Someone wanted him dead. Or at the very least silenced. And they got what they wanted."
"Look," said Tommy. "I think you're barking up the wrong tree, I really do. But if it's enemies you're looking for, you should focus on Michael's mother. Alexia had plenty of nutters out to get her. Like those Patel people. That was the nature of her job."
"Yes!" Summer brightened. "Michael kept a file on all of them in the flat. I want you to take a look at it, when you get a chance." After her second drink the room was spinning slightly. Summer realized she must have forgotten to eat lunch. "But you're right, Tommy," she went on excitedly. "Alexia could well be the key to this. Cutting her brake cables would be almost impossible. As home secretary, she'd have had a security detail, a driver, people watching her vehicles twenty-four/seven. Michael's bike would have been a far easier target. And what better way to hurt a parent than to injure her child, right?"
She was so adorably earnest, Tommy could stand it no longer. Leaning over, he slipped a hand around the back of Summer's neck and pressed his lips to hers.