Sidney Sheldon's the Tides of Memory

  It was hard to believe that that conversation had taken place more than thirty years ago. And now here she was, home secretary. I always had ambition. But Teddy was the one who pushed me. He gave me the confidence and he opened the doors.

  “Home Secretary? Commissioner Grant has arrived.”

  Alexia’s permanent private secretary, Sir Edward Manning, broke her reverie. Immaculate as ever in a bespoke three-piece suit, with his hair smoothed flat against his scalp, Edward smelled faintly of the same Floris aftershave that Teddy wore.

  “About bloody time. I’m supposed to meet the Russian ambassador at four-fifteen, you know. My day just got completely squeezed.”

  “I know, Home Secretary. This shouldn’t take too long.”

  A couple of influential Russian oligarchs based in London were spitting teeth at the new regulations Alexia had proposed to Parliament, designed to close tax loopholes for the super rich and to prevent Russian money from being laundered through the City. As a result, the ambassador had demanded a meeting, and Sir Edward had granted it. Russian oligarchs were not the sort of people whom the Home Office wanted as enemies. Commissioner Grant was going to have to cut to the chase.

  “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 t
o 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.”

  “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.” r />
  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.