Sidney Sheldon's the Tides of Memory

  They both knew this was a rhetorical question. For a few minutes the Daimler glided on in silence, each of them lost in their own private thoughts.

  Alexia watched Sir Edward Manning as he stared out of the window. He looks even stiffer and more controlled today than usual.

  I don’t trust him.

  The realization was instant and unexpected, but it was also total, an instinctive reaction rather than a critical judgment.

  I don’t trust him but I need him. If I’m going to survive in the snake pit of this job, a good PPS is essential. We have to find a way to work together.

  “Do you have any suggestions, Edward?”

  “Suggestions for what, Home Secretary?”

  “For how I make things right with Charles Mosely. I used the word ‘cowardly’ to a man who lost his son in action.”

  “In my experience, Home Secretary, an apology is usually the first step.”

  “Should I call him?”

  “I would write. A letter, not an e-mail. A formal, handwritten apology smacks of an appropriate degree of contrition.”

  Alexia De Vere smiled.

  “Thank you, Edward. That’s what I’ll do.”

  It took less than an hour for Henry Whitman to hear about the fireworks at the Home Office. Charles Mosely gravely offended. An incendiary statement being drafted for the press, without his knowledge or consent. It was only a week since Alexia De Vere had gravely offended the Russians with a stupid, throwaway remark to Parliament about money laundering. And now this.

  He was furious.

  “Should I get the home secretary on the line, Prime Minister?” Joyce, Whitman’s secretary, asked eagerly. Alexia De Vere was even less popular with Tory women than she was with the party’s ruling males.

  “Yes.” Henry Whitman hesitated. “I mean no. Just put a call through to central office and make sure no statement is released to anybody until I’ve seen the wording and approved it.”

  Joyce raised an eyebrow. “You don’t want to talk to Mrs. De Vere, sir? Are you quite sure?”

  “That’s what I said isn’t it?” Henry Whitman snapped.

  The secretary left. Alone in his office at Number Ten, Henry Whitman made a call from his private cell phone.

  “I need that information.”

  “You’ll get it.”

  “When? I’m being made to look like a laughingstock here. I need something I can use.”

  “Soon.”

  “Your source had better be good.”

  “My source is impeccable. Very well placed. Very motivated.” There was a pause on the line. “Would you like to see a picture of him?”

  “A picture?” Before Henry Whitman could answer, an MMS image appeared in his in-box. He clicked it open, and really wished he hadn’t.

  “Jesus Christ.”

  “Jesus Christ, Our Lord and Father, welcomes you into his heart.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  The young female minister was new to St. Luke’s Church and she was going down a storm. Gilbert Drake was normally not a fan of women priests, but even he was prepared to make an exception for this girl, with her loose blond hair, trim figure, and girlishly freckled cheeks.

  “Jesus Christ forgives your sins and washes you in the holy water of His love.”

  “Hallelujah!”

  “Godparents and sponsors, if you would now submerge the postulants.”

  Gilbert Drake put a hand on the young boy’s shoulder and pressed down, till his head was completely beneath the waterline of the baptismal pool. For a few seconds Gilbert watched the boy’s jet-black hair swirl upward, lifted from his scalp by the water like the hair of a corpse.

  How easy it would be to drown someone. To drown a child. All you had to do was stand there.

  It was a sinful thought. Gilbert dismissed it.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.”

  “Amen.”

  “Now raise the postulants up, cleansed of sin, into the Light of the Lord.”

  The children came out of the water as one, gasping a collective breath. The congregation cheered. In the pool, wet hugs were exchanged. Gilbert Drake’s godson looked up at him, gap-toothed and triumphant, his smooth Indian skin the only flash of brown among the other pasty-faced, East End boys.

  “I did it, Uncle Gil! I did it!”

  Gilbert Drake’s eyes filled with tears. “You did it, Nikil. Your big brother would’ve been so proud.”

  The room Billy Hamlin rented in Kings Cross was dark and dank and depressing. A bare lightbulb hung pathetically from the ceiling, the plastic window blinds were broken, and the squalid single bed smelled of cigarette smoke and sweat.

  Billy didn’t care. He lay down on the bed and closed his eyes and a feeling of peace washed over him.

  In a few days he would see her.

  In a few days it would all be over.

  He slept.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Roxie De Vere observed her naked body in the mirror and frowned. A small curve in her midriff bothered her.

  I’m getting fat. If I stuck it out far enough, I’d look pregnant.

  She tried it, edging forward in the wheelchair the physical therapists at Guy’s Hospital had designed especially for her, to enable her to take showers by herself. Turning sideways, she stroked her bloated stomach and struck a maternal pose.

  “It’s as close as I’ll ever come,” she said out loud.

  Roxie’s hatred for her mother was like a thing then, solid and physical, a teddy bear that she could clutch to her chest and nurture. At other times it felt more like a rock, something heavy and grounded that she could chain herself to while she screamed. One day she would do it. She would hurl that rock into the ocean of her own self-pity and drown. Then her mother would be sorry.

  Or would she? Roxie didn’t know anymore.

  All she knew was that Andrew Beesley was the only man she would ever love. And that thanks to her mother, Andrew was gone.

  Wheeling herself into her bedroom, Roxie got dressed. It took a long time, but thanks to the inventiveness of her medical team, and the hundreds of thousands of pounds thrown at the problem by her father, Roxie could now manage almost all of life’s daily tasks for herself.

  “You could live independently, you know,” Marie, Roxie’s chief physical therapist, had told her repeatedly. “Get your own place. You don’t have to live at home if you don’t want to.”

  Roxie told Marie that she stayed on at Kingsmere for her father’s sake. “Mummy’s away so much. Darling Daddy would be desperately lonely on his own.” But the real reason she stayed was to spite her mother. As much as Roxie loathed living under the same roof as Alexia, she knew that Alexia hated it even more.

  Why should that bitch have a peaceful, happy life with Daddy after what she did to me?

  She should be punished. She should suffer.

  Roxie pulled her blond hair back into a ponytail and dabbed blusher on her cheeks. She was still a beautiful young woman, despite her ruined body. Parliament’s summer recess was coming up. As usual, the De Vere family would decamp to Martha’s Vineyard for the holidays, with Alexia jetting back and forth to London as needed.

  If only there were a way I could really hurt her, thought Roxie. The only thing Alexia had ever truly cared about was her career. By rights, that was what she should lose. Unfortunately, Roxie’s mother had an almost supernatural gift for political survival.

  Still. One day . . .

  In her study at Cheyne Walk, Alexia De Vere flipped through the file that Sir Edward Manning had given her. She’d requested the information only yesterday, but with typical efficiency, Edward had had the file on her desk by eight o’clock this morning. It was a lot thicker and more detailed than she’d expected.

  “You got all this from the U.S. State Department?” she’d asked.

  “I got it from a reliable source, Home Secretary.”

  “And nobody else knows I requested it? You did
n’t discuss it with Commissioner Grant?”

  Sir Edward Manning looked affronted. “You asked me not to, Home Secretary. Of course I didn’t.”

  Alexia thought, Perhaps I was wrong to distrust him. He’s loyal to the department, if not to me personally. As long as I make sure our interests are aligned, Edward’s going to be a useful ally.

  “Are you sure you’re feeling quite well, Edward?” she asked, putting the report aside. “You look as if you’re in pain. Your chest.”

  Belatedly, Sir Edward Manning realized that he was clutching the wound again. He’d had to change his shirt three times yesterday and was crunching down ibuprofen tablets like M&M’s. Sergei Milescu had stopped by last night, to ask about “progress.” He’d insisted on sex, which was agony for Edward, and left with the unspoken threat of violence hanging heavy in the air.

  “My friends are not patient people, Eddie. They want results.”

  “But I don’t even know what I’m looking for!” Sir Edward Manning had pleaded. “I need time. I need to gain her trust. Can’t you explain?”

  Sergei Milescu shrugged. “Not my problem. I’ll see you soon, Eddie.”

  Sir Edward looked at Alexia De Vere. “I had a minor accident, Home Secretary. I fell off my bike on the way into work.”

  Alexia looked horrified. “When?”

  “Oh, a few days ago. At the end of last week.”

  “Well, why on earth didn’t you say so? You must go home and rest.”

  “There’s no need, Home Secretary.”

  “There is need. You’re in your sixties, Edward. You must take these things seriously.”

  “It’s only a few scrapes and bruises. I’m perfectly fit to work.”

  Alexia shook her head. “I won’t hear of it. I’m working from home myself this afternoon, so there’s no need for you to be here. Go home. I’ll have my driver take you.”

  Rereading the report Edward had given her in her home office, Alexia wondered whether her PPS had actually gone to bed, or whether he’d sneaked back into the office to work. Career civil servants like Sir Edward Manning—“lifers,” as they were known in Parliament—were almost all workaholics, addicted to their jobs and the buzz of Westminster life. But she quickly forgot Edward as his report once again engrossed her.

  CONFIDENTIAL PSYCHIATRIC EVALUATION:

  WILLIAM J. HAMLIN.

  The patient displays classic paranoid schizophrenic symptoms, including delusions and auditory hallucinations, frequently triggered by the telephone or television. He claims to hear one specific voice, a classic dominant negative hallucination combining critical commentary with specific instructions to the patient. He intermittently describes this voice as female. (Mother?? Deceased during patient’s infancy. Patient alluded in treatment to feelings of abandonment and betrayal.) Generally suffers from obsessional thoughts about women, mostly nonsexual/family-oriented, e.g., acute anxiety about his daughter. His divorce also seems to be an underlying factor in his delusional thinking and psychosis, although relations with ex-wife appear good.

  Intermittent depression but no suicidal thoughts. No self-aggrandizing. No recorded violent tendencies. Very limited aggression.

  The patient’s condition is manageable with medication and home care, when accepted. Atypical antipsychotics have been highly effective in this patient’s treatment, esp. Geodon (ziprasidone). Unfortunately his track record of staying on meds is poor. Alcohol abuse remains an ongoing aggravating factor.

  The psychiatrist had signed and dated the report eighteen months ago. Alexia read the doctor’s notes again and again, trying to piece together William Hamlin’s tortured inner life both from what was written and from what she gleaned between the lines: Who was this man who was looking for her?

  And what did he want from her?

  He has close relationships with women, his wife, his daughter—yet women are at the root of his mental instability.

  He feels abandoned and betrayed by women. And yet this is not an angry man, not a violent man.

  He hears voices, frightening voices.

  Alexia smiled. I guess that’s one thing we have in common. Only my voices are real. No amount of ziprasidone is going to make them stop.

  On balance, everything she read in Sir Edward Manning’s file confirmed Commissioner Grant’s view. William Hamlin had not poisoned Teddy and Alexia’s dog. Nor, in all likelihood, did he mean Alexia any harm. Even so, the thought of him out there, wandering confusedly around England looking for her, hunting her down, was not a happy one. Commissioner Grant had gotten no further in locating him.

  “It’s very difficult with psychiatric patients. Unless they actively seek help, or offend, they quickly slip off radar. As a tourist with no National Health Service number, no fixed address, no National Insurance, Hamlin’s effectively a ghost here.”

  Alexia De Vere was afraid of ghosts.

  It was time to see just how far Sir Edward Manning’s loyalty might stretch.

  James Martin, Downing Street’s chief of communications, put his head in his hands.

  Henry Whitman asked, “How bad is it, James? Honestly.”

  “Honestly, Prime Minister? It’s not good. I hesitate to use the word ‘disaster,’ but . . .”

  The two men sat at a round conference table with a sea of this morning’s newspapers spread out in front of them. Alexia De Vere’s statement on the agricultural workers affair had caused an uproar in the liberal press. It had also lit a fire under the more right-wing elements of the British public, inciting racist violence and public unrest on a scale not seen since Enoch Powell’s famous “Rivers of Blood” speech in the 1960s.

  “There’s been looting in Burnley, an arson attack at an immigration holding facility in Dover, and violent protests at the docks in Southampton. The British National Party are calling for simultaneous mass rallies in London, Manchester, and Birmingham on Saturday. They’re calling themselves the ‘Reclaim Britain Movement.’ ”

  “Jesus. What do the newspapers say?”

  “Nothing you want to hear. The Guardian calls Alexia a ‘loose cannon.’ The Times wonders whether the Home Office is running the government and the Indie thinks the home secretary should be charged under the Incitement to Racial Hatred Act. Then you have the Sun, hailing Alexia as a hero. Oh, and this cartoon from the Telegraph.”

  James Martin handed his boss the relevant page. It showed Alexia De Vere, dressed as Lady Britannia and seated on a throne, with the prime minister as a lapdog under her feet. Alexia was offering Henry a bone, labeled European Union. The caption read Chew on that, boy.

  “I thought you told her to tone the statement down.”

  Henry Whitman said grimly, “I did.”

  “We can’t go on like this, Prime Minister. You must be seen to regain control.”

  “I’ll fly up to Burnley this morning. Can you organize a press conference for six o’clock tonight here?”

  “I can. But I suggest we do it this morning, as soon as possible. The one thing you don’t want is for the Home Office to get in there first.”

  Alexia took the call in the car.

  She’d expected the prime minister to be angry. But not this angry.

  “I told you, I expressly told you, to tone the statement down.”

  “And I did tone it down.”

  “You changed one word! Have you seen what’s going on out there? It’s a major public order situation, Alexia. People are going to get killed.”

  “People are angry, Henry,” Alexia said coolly, “and I don’t blame them. The British public are tired of being held hostage by a bunch of disrespectful immigrants who sponge off our benefits and piss on our flag. I’m standing up for ordinary voters.”

  “Horseshit. You’re trying to make personal political capital. If you want to indulge in some power struggle with cabinet colleagues, do it in private.”

  “But, Henry—”

  “Be QUIET!” It was the first time Henry Whitman had ever raised his voice to he
r. “You say NOTHING, do you understand? Nothing. Not to me, not to the press, not to anyone. You lay low and you let me handle this mess. Are we clear?”

  Alexia was silent.

  “Have you any idea how many people are calling for your resignation, Alexia?” The prime minister’s frustration was palpable. “How much pressure I’m under to rein you in?”

  “No idea whatsoever,” Alexia said defiantly. “Nor do I care.”

  “Well, you should care. I can be pushed too far, you know, Alexia. Remember that.”

  “So can I, Henry. Perhaps you should remember that.”

  She hung up. Sitting beside her, Sir Edward Manning noticed that her hands were shaking. Whether it was from fear or anger, he couldn’t tell.

  “Can I help, Home Secretary?”

  “No. Thank you, Edward. I’m fine.”

  They drove on in silence. The traffic eased as they merged onto the Embankment. In a few minutes they’d be at Parliament Square.

  “There is one thing, Edward. It’s about the file you gave me last night, on our friend Mr. Hamlin. The American.”

  Sir Edward Manning’s ears pricked up. The prime minister had clearly just ripped Mrs. De Vere a new asshole. Her career was on a knife edge over this immigration furor. And yet her prime concern seemed to be a single, harmless crackpot.

  Why?

  “What about him, Home Secretary?”

  “Well, the police have had no success in tracking him down. I wondered if you might know of any . . . alternative channels.”

  “I see.”

  “I’d like to locate him.”

  Sir Edward paused for just a moment, as if about to ask a question, but he obviously thought better of it.

  “Of course, Home Secretary. Consider it done. Oh, goodness!”

  The scene in Parliament Square was chaotic. Mob would be putting it too strongly, but there were angry groups of protesters from all sides of the debate waving placards and shouting competing slogans. Alexia’s photograph was being held aloft like an icon, triumphantly by some groups and ironically by others. One gathering of mostly male, Eastern European faces had drawn devil horns on the home secretary’s head. Through the Daimler’s blacked-out windows Alexia heard the abuse, both the English chants of “racist bitch” and the hate-loaded shouts in various Slavic languages.