Sidney Sheldon's the Tides of Memory

  Teddy was asleep beside her now, snoring peacefully with a half-drunk glass of Glenfiddich in one hand and yesterday’s edition of the Times in the other. With typical thoughtfulness Teddy had flown back to Martha’s Vineyard for the final days of their holiday last week rather than staying on in London and waiting for Alexia there. How many other political husbands would clock up eight thousand air miles in a week just so they could keep their wives company?

  Alexia had particularly enjoyed having Teddy with her because Roxie and Michael had both returned to England the week before. Poor Michael had torn himself away from sweet little Summer Meyer with infinite reluctance in order to get back to Tommy and the business. Roxie, not wanting to stay on without her brother, had flown home too. The last few days at the Gables had been like a second honeymoon for Teddy and Alexia, memories that Alexia would cherish for a long, long time.

  I wasn’t in love with him when we married, Alexia thought. But I love him now. I love our life together, everything we’ve built.

  Easing the newspaper out of Teddy’s hand, being careful not to wake him, she flipped through the home news pages. Edward Manning had briefed her by e-mail twice daily during her vacation, so she was already up to speed on all the news that mattered or that required a statement or action from her. But she hadn’t actually held a British paper in her hands for three weeks.

  UNEMPLOYMENT FIGURES RISING

  The headline irritated her. Bloody Times leader writers. It was shameless the way they manipulated that data. Jobs were actually being created across the public and private sectors, a point Alexia had made on the BBC News at One via satellite link only yesterday. The Times might be a Murdoch-owned paper, but as far as Alexia could tell, all the journalists who worked there were bloody Trotskyites.

  She flipped to page two, and a dull piece about wind farms. Renewable energy bored Alexia rigid, but green issues were important to the PM, so like the rest of the party, Alexia paid lip service. She wondered whether any of the rest of the cabinet knew about Henry Whitman’s affair with Laura Llewellyn, the very beautiful, very married eco-lobbyist whose husband, Miles Llewellyn, was the Conservative Party’s single largest financial donor? Alexia doubted it. She’d only found out herself by chance, running into Henry and Laura quite by accident at an obscure Yorkshire hotel the week before last year’s party conference in Blackpool. If gossip had been flying around, Alexia would probably have been the last to hear of it. Her so-called colleagues in the cabinet were the most standoffish bunch of bastards it had ever been her misfortune to work with. And Alexia De Vere had worked with a great many bastards.

  As she turned to page four, a small, single-column story caught her eye.

  FATAL STABBING YIELDS NO CLUES

  Alexia began to read.

  Police currently have no leads into the fatal stabbing of an American man in Edgeware Road on Friday night. William Hamlin, a convicted killer with psychological problems . . .

  Alexia clutched her seat arm for support.

  . . . who had been denied a visa and entered the United Kingdom illegally, was found dead outside his flat with a bread knife still lodged in his heart.

  No. It can’t be true. Not Billy! He’s in America. He’s safe. Edward took care of it.

  She read on.

  Simon Butler, bar manager of the Old Lion in Baker Street, where Hamlin had become a regular over the summer, described the murdered man as “a lost soul.” Mr. Butler had recently contacted Social Services regarding Hamlin’s volatile mental state, but claims to have been “given the brush-off” by staff. Police are appealing for witnesses.

  The print blurred before Alexia’s eyes. Her heart was pounding and her mouth and throat felt dry, as if she’d swallowed sand. She shook Teddy awake.

  “Look at this!”

  Teddy De Vere sat up abruptly, spilling his whiskey down his shirt. “Damn and blast it. What is it, darling?”

  “Look.” Alexia pointed at the picture of Billy, a mug shot that must have been taken well over a decade ago. “That’s him.”

  “That’s who?”

  “The man I was telling you about.”

  “Please don’t speak in riddles, Alexia. I’m half asleep.”

  “William Hamlin!” Alexia said exasperatedly.

  “Ah. So that’s his name. You wouldn’t tell me before, remember?”

  “Was his name,” said Alexia. “He’s been killed. Murdered.”

  “I thought you said he’d been deported?”

  “He had. He must have come back, somehow. And now he’s dead. Read the article.”

  Teddy read. As he did so he thought back to his conversation with Sir Edward Manning, only a week earlier.

  “Trust me. He doesn’t have the wherewithal to get himself back here.”

  So much for that. Teddy shuddered to think of how close this madman had come to contacting Alexia a second time, perhaps even to hurting her.

  “The journalist doesn’t mention you.” He handed the paper back to her.

  “No. No one seems to have made the connection.”

  “Good.” Dabbing the amber liquid off his shirt with a napkin, Teddy rolled over, replumping his pillow. “Then you’ve nothing to worry about. Good night.”

  Alexia was shocked. “Nothing to worry about? Teddy, he’s been murdered.”

  “Exactly. So he won’t be bothering you again, will he? That’s good news in my book.”

  “Why are you being so callous?” Alexia asked angrily. “He didn’t deserve to die. He was ill. Confused.”

  Teddy sat up wearily. “Look, Alexia, the man threatened you. You can’t expect me to like people who threaten my wife, or to feel sorry for them. I’m not going to be so hypocritical as to feign grief for a complete stranger just to salve your conscience.”

  “You’re right. I’m sorry.” Leaning over, she kissed him on the cheek. “I’m shocked, that’s all. He was a sweet boy once.”

  “So was Hitler,” said Teddy robustly. “Try to get some rest.”

  Within minutes he was snoring loudly.

  The flight attendant came over to Alexia. “Can I bring you something to eat, Home Secretary? A cheese plate perhaps, or some fruit? I know you said you wanted a light meal.”

  Alexia pulled herself together. Teddy was right. What had happened to Billy was awful, but it did draw a line under things. And wasn’t that what she wanted, deep down? It wasn’t as if his death was her fault, or her responsibility. As tragic as it was, maybe it was for the best.

  She smiled at the flight attendant. “I’ll have the cheese, please. No blue. And a strong cup of coffee. I have a lot of work to get through before we land.”

  Chapter Twenty-two

  The next year was a triumphant one for Alexia De Vere. As Britain’s economy rebounded, so the nation’s collective spirit blossomed like a daffodil bursting through the frost after a long, cold winter. A Gallup Poll ranked Henry Whitman the most popular sitting prime minister since Churchill, and the rest of the cabinet basked contentedly in Henry’s reflected glow. As for Alexia De Vere, the home secretary’s personal popularity almost rivaled that of the prime minister.

  How had it happened? Only a couple of years ago, Alexia De Vere had been one of the more loathed figures of minor British politics, a throwback to the bad old days of heartless conservatism. When people thought of Alexia De Vere (if they thought of her at all), they associated her with prison riots and knee-jerk, throw-away-the-key justice. The fact that she was stinking rich, spoke with a plum in her mouth, and had married into a family posher than the Windsors did little to endear her to ordinary voters. But after a year and a half in the job that no one, including Alexia herself, had ever expected her to get, and despite her early hiccups over immigration, Mrs. De Vere had succeeded in winning over the hearts and minds of the British public in a spectacular coup de grace. People respected the way she had strengthened the police force and put more coppers back on the beat. They approved of her defense of hospitals, of her
libertarian stance on education and support for parent-run schools. They liked her Care Homes Act to protect the elderly from exploitation and abuse. Yes, Alexia De Vere was tough. But she was also hardworking, efficient, and ballsy enough to fight for traditional British values and institutions. The rottweiler of old had transformed herself into a British bulldog for the modern age. Her enemies could do nothing but sit back and watch.

  After brokering a deal to establish a vast Renault car plant in the East Midlands, creating tens of thousands of new jobs, Alexia received an invitation to tea at Ten Downing Street.

  “I should have made you foreign secretary.” The prime minister stretched his legs while a butler poured the tea. “The French think the soleil shines out of your derriere. You’re the toast of Paris.”

  “I don’t know about that,” Alexia said modestly. She never quite knew where she stood with Henry Whitman. Cabinet colleagues complained that he supported her unreservedly, but Alexia often felt an undercurrent of dislike beneath the prime minister’s smiles.

  “Try the chocolate cake,” Henry urged her. “It’s from Daylesford. Tastes like heaven.”

  “Thanks, but I’ll pass.” Alexia enjoyed being a size eight far too much to indulge her sweet tooth. “You should be careful not to let Ian hear you take his job in vain. He’s doing well at the Foreign Office, isn’t he?”

  “He is,” Henry admitted. “But no one’s putting Ian James’s ugly mug on the front page of Le Figaro, let’s put it that way.”

  Alexia laughed. It was true that her photogenic looks and brusque, no-nonsense manner had helped make her a popular figure in France and a great ambassador for the British government. But she couldn’t imagine that Henry Whitman had summoned her to Downing Street merely to flatter her.

  “Was there something in particular you wanted to see me about?”

  “Not really.” Whitman sipped his tea. Alexia felt his eyes on her, studying her. There was a distrust there, a wariness that she didn’t understand. What does he want to know? And whatever it is, why doesn’t he just ask me? “Do you have any plans for the summer? You’ll be heading back out to the States, I presume.”

  The interview was getting stranger and stranger. Why does Henry Whitman care where I take my vacation? Is he trying to get rid of me?

  “Actually no, not this year. We’re staying in England. This ridiculous party Teddy’s organizing at Kingsmere, it’s more work than the G7 Summit.”

  “Ah, yes.” Henry nodded. “The party.”

  By now the whole of Westminster knew that Alexia De Vere’s charming old duffer of a husband was celebrating three hundred years of De Vere family history with a huge event at Kingsmere, arguably one of the most exquisite houses in England. Anyone who was anyone in European politics would be attending, as well as the great and the good from the entertainment and business worlds. It would be like Elton John’s White Tie & Tiara Ball, minus the vulgarity factor.

  “You’re coming, I take it?” Alexia asked.

  “Of course.”

  “With Charlotte?”

  Henry Whitman’s brow knit into a frown. “Naturally with Charlotte. I’m not in the business of attending social events alone, Alexia.”

  “Of course not.”

  There it was again. The chill.

  “We get back from Sicily the night before, but we’ll definitely be there.”

  After an awkward silence, the prime minister asked some polite questions about Alexia’s upcoming trip to Paris with Kevin Lomax. As rade secretary, Kevin’s department had also been involved in the Renault deal, although everybody knew it was Alexia who had clinched it.

  “How are things between the two of you these days?” Henry Whitman asked.

  “Fine,” Alexia lied. “Cordial.” Everybody knew that Kevin Lomax wanted her head on a pike, so much so that she wondered why Henry had even asked the question.

  “You don’t foresee any problems on the trip?”

  “No, Prime Minister. None whatsoever.”

  “Good.”

  Henry Whitman stood up, signaling that their awkward interview was over. But as Alexia reached the door, he called after her.

  “There was one more thing I wanted to ask.”

  Alexia stopped. “Oh?”

  “Your PPS. Are you happy with him?”

  Alexia looked surprised. “With Edward? Absolutely. He’s fantastic.”

  “Good.” Henry Whitman smiled. “Terrific.”

  “Why do you ask?”

  “Oh, no reason, no reason. I think of the Home Office as the government’s mother ship, that’s all. Just checking that things are steady belowdecks.”

  Alexia raised an eyebrow. “Why wouldn’t they be?”

  “No reason at all. Honestly. You’re reading too much into it. I simply want to make sure that you have the support you need. If that’s Sir Edward Manning, then fine.”

  “It is Sir Edward Manning.”

  “Fine!” The PM laughed. “Then there’s no problem.”

  “No problem at all, Henry.”

  Five minutes later, once Alexia had left the building, Henry Whitman made a phone call.

  “It’s me. She just left. I think we have a problem.”

  Michael De Vere bounced down the Broad in Oxford with a spring in his step, whistling happily.

  It was strange, but in the two years he’d spent at Balliol, Oxford’s glorious baroque architecture and fabled “dreaming spires” had completely passed him by. All Michael remembered were dry-as-dust lectures, rain, and a lot of dreary nights at the Old Boar Inn, with girls who talked too much and didn’t believe in shaving their armpits. But now that he was a free man—Kingsmere Events was thriving, so much so that even his father had finally started to come around—Michael appreciated all that the city had to offer. Today, with the sun out and the cherry trees in bloom, the feeling of optimism and energy on the streets was palpable. Like all university towns, Oxford belonged to the young. As he walked past Exeter and University colleges, Michael felt all the joy of being in his twenties and successful, building a business that he loved and was good at. When they started the company, Michael and Tommy had rented office space in Oxford to avoid paying London rents. Now, with eight full-time employees and big-money assignments rolling in, they could easily have afforded to move, but neither of them wanted to. Life didn’t get any better than this.

  Michael checked his watch. Twelve-fifteen.

  Mustn’t be late.

  He was headed to San Domingo’s, probably the most expensive restaurant in Oxford, for a lunch date with his mother. Michael would pay, then bill it back later under Client Expenses Misc. Having one’s parents as clients had its advantages. To Michael’s shock and delight, Alexia had persuaded Teddy to let him and Tommy organize the Kingsmere summer party. They’d put the event together on the cheap, slashing their usual rates—Teddy De Vere would have had a coronary had Michael charged him the sort of fees he charged wealthy London clients for similar dos—but the PR for Kingsmere Events would be priceless.

  Michael’s partner, Tommy, had marveled at the updated entertainment list only this morning.

  “Have you seen this? Mick Hucknall’s coming out of retirement to perform a live solo, Princess Michael of Kent’s proposing the toasts, and Nigel Kennedy’s just given a yes to a violin recital on the terrace during the predinner drinks. And we have your mother to thank for all of it.”

  “Actually, I got Kennedy,” said Michael. “We hit it off last year at the book launch for his autobiography.”

  But he took Tommy’s point. The Three Hundred Years of Kingsmere celebrations might have been Teddy’s idea, but it was Alexia’s social and political pulling power that was going to make this a major media event. Thanks to Michael’s mother, the guest list read like the love child of Vanity Fair’s “100 most powerful” and Debrett’s, with just a splash of Hello! magazine glamour thrown in for good measure. Henry Whitman and his wife would be rubbing shoulders with the French president
and the crown prince of Spain. At another table, Simon Cowell, Gwyneth Paltrow, and Sir Bob Geldof would be sharing after-dinner coffee with the Dowager Duchess of Devonshire, Nicola Horlick, and Sir Gus O’Donnell, former head of the Civil Service in Whitehall and popularly known by his initials: GOD. Michael thought it a safe bet that if Jesus Christ were alive today, He would make room in His miracle-working schedule for the Kingsmere summer party. After all, if it was good enough for Matthew Freud and Elizabeth Murdoch . . .

  San Domingo’s was full—San Domingo’s was always full—but Michael was shown to a spacious table by the window, overlooking the river and the famous Magdalen College deer park. He’d just had time to sit and order a bottle of sparkling water when Alexia swept in, looking powerful and glamorous in a dark green Prada pantsuit and cream silk blouse, a ministerial briefcase in one hand and a BlackBerry in the other.

  “Darling. Have you been waiting long?”

  “Not at all. You look fabulous as ever, Mum.”

  She gave him an “oh, this old thing” eye roll, kissed him on both cheeks, and sat down, ordering the steamed monkfish and a green salad without so much as glancing at the menu. Michael plumped for his usual steak and fries. “Sorry to seem so rushed,” Alexia said. “But unfortunately—”

  “You are so rushed.”

  “Yes. I’ve got this bloody Paris trip tomorrow with the trade secretary, who loathes me. I’ve barely had a second to read the brief, and now your father’s insisting I spend the night in Oxfordshire before I leave.”

  “Why?”