Sidney Sheldon's the Tides of Memory

  I’m an idiot. A total idiot.

  “Do you know what feels right in my gut?” he asked.

  “What?”

  Grinning, he rolled on top of her. “This.”

  Michael was glad Summer had come to Oxford. He was even gladder she’d decided to surprise him at Bepe’s, and not at his flat a few hours earlier. What a horror story that would have been. Guilt gripped him for a moment, but he batted it aside. What was done was done. Once this crazy party was over, he would focus on Summer more, make up for all his bad behavior.

  As for his secrets, those would go with him to the grave.

  Chapter Twenty-four

  At last the day of the Kingsmere summer party arrived. Alexia De Vere awoke before dawn after another night of broken sleep. Creeping into the bathroom so as not to wake Teddy, she peered at her reflection in the mirror. A hag stared back at her. Wisps of gray were fighting their way through the blond, her skin looked dry and flaky and old, like stale pastry, and lines of exhaustion and stress ran in deep grooves, fanning out from her eyes and lips.

  This wouldn’t do.

  Switching on her BlackBerry, Alexia fired off an e-mail to her personal assistant, Margaret, arranging for a hairdresser and makeup artist to come to the house in the early afternoon and fix the damage. Sir Edward Manning ran Alexia’s political life, but when it came to personal matters, Margaret French was her right-hand woman. Having sent the e-mail, Alexia pulled her cashmere dressing gown tightly around her and went downstairs to her office.

  “Good morning, madam. You’re up early. Can I bring you some coffee?”

  Thank God for Bailey. Good butlers were a dying breed, but Kingsmere’s was the absolute best.

  “Oh, please, Bailey, that would be lovely. As strong as you can make it, with warm milk and sweetener on the side. And some rye toast.”

  “Slightly burned, ma’am. I should hope I know how you like it by now.”

  What a relief to be home, in a place where little rituals mattered and the fundamentals of life never changed. Ever since Paris, and the awful afternoon in Dior when she’d heard about Jennifer Hamlin’s murder, Alexia felt as if the world—her world—had gone mad. By day her schedule at the Home Office was as crammed as ever. Education Committee meetings here, hospital openings there, white papers to be digested on everything from scrapping jury trials for terrorists to the increasingly contentious and unpopular U.S. extradition treaty. But all the time, in the back of her mind, Billy Hamlin’s fate, and that of his daughter, haunted her. When Alexia ate lunch, or went to the bathroom, or slept, or turned on the television, there was Billy’s face like Banquo’s ghost, demanding her attention, demanding justice.

  I came to you about my daughter.

  I needed your help.

  But you turned me away.

  Every day, guilt came knocking like a beggar at the door of Alexia’s heart, demanding to be let in. You owed Billy Hamlin so much. And you gave him so little. But every day, with a supreme effort of will, she turned it away. The crimes of the past were Toni Gilletti’s crimes and Toni Gilletti was dead. She was Alexia De Vere: a loving wife, a competent mother, and a committed politician, changing her adopted country for the good. Alexia De Vere hadn’t killed anyone. It wasn’t her fault.

  Guilt may have been forced out, but curiosity was allowed in, and soon it was running rampant. Who had killed Billy and Jennifer Hamlin, and why? Were the deaths connected to each other, or to her, or were they in fact merely random acts of violence, two isolated incidents of cruelty in a cruel, cruel world? More importantly, had everything possible been done to try to bring their killer, or killers, to justice? Throughout her political career, Alexia De Vere had championed the victims of violent crime, urging ever-tougher sentences for those who terrorized the weak. Billy and Jennifer Hamlin had been weak.

  Toni Gilletti hadn’t helped Billy Hamlin when he needed her. But perhaps Alexia De Vere could use her influence to help him now . . . ?

  The coffee and toast arrived. Revived by both, Alexia opened her briefcase and pulled out the file Sir Edward Manning had compiled for her on Jennifer Hamlin’s murder. Edward had really gone the extra mile, calling in favors from the FBI and Interpol. He’d spoken to New York journalists, sliding through a sea of off-the-record information like a diligent and determined eel, condensing and refining his search so as to present only the most relevant, verifiable facts to the home secretary. As ever, Alexia was impressed and grateful. Edward had become her closest political ally, closer even than family at times. One day she must thank him properly.

  The first six pages were pictures of Jennifer Hamlin’s grotesquely mutilated corpse. Alexia had seen them many times now, but their power to shock had not diminished. What sort of animal did this? Billy at least had died cleanly, executed by a single knife wound to the heart. But his poor daughter had clearly been tortured. Each of Jennifer’s limbs was covered in burn marks, and ligature bruises were visible on her wrists, ankles, and neck. According to the autopsy, however, Jenny Hamlin had been alive when she hit the water. The official cause of death was drowning.

  Drowning.

  Alexia shook her head, forcing the unwanted images out. Was it a coincidence? Or was the manner of Billy’s daughter’s death as significant as the fact of it?

  It struck Alexia that all she really knew about Jennifer Hamlin was that she’d been murdered. Her life, her character, remained opaque. Jenny’s mother, Sally, and her friends all painted the same picture to the police of a quiet, thoughtful girl, happy in her job as a legal secretary, and secure in her relationship with her boyfriend, a local baker named Luca Minotti. Partners were always the first suspects in murders involving young women, but there was no question about Minotti’s innocence. He was in Italy visiting relatives the week Jenny disappeared, and more than thirty customers confirmed his presence at the bakery the day she died.

  Poignantly, Jenny Hamlin had been pregnant when she was killed. Luca Minotti knew about the baby and was apparently ecstatic at the prospect of fatherhood. He and Jenny had been saving up for their wedding. It was all just too awful. No one could think of anyone who might conceivably have wanted to hurt this gentle, family-oriented young woman.

  No one, that is, except Billy Hamlin.

  Billy had been convinced for years that Jennifer was in danger. For two years prior to his own death, he had plagued the NYPD, FBI, local newspapers, and anyone else who would listen with complaints about threatening phone calls. “The voice” was going to hurt him. It was going to kill his daughter. Unfortunately, Billy also told police that numerous public figures were in danger. These included two prominent baseball players, the governor of Massachussets, and an Australian swimsuit model named Danielle Hyams, with whom Billy had been briefly obsessed during his last spell of severe depression. Not unsurprisingly, his claims were dismissed as symptoms of his mental illness. Police could find no record of suspicious calls on his cell-phone or landline records, and Billy failed to produce a single recording in evidence. Jennifer Hamlin herself was never contacted, and neither were any of the other individuals Billy mentioned.

  Alexia jumped. Her BlackBerry was ringing. It was barely after six. Who on earth would be calling at this time in the morning?

  “Alexia? It’s Henry. Did I wake you?” The prime minister’s voice sounded strained.

  “No. No, I’m up. Is everything all right?”

  “It’s fine. No crisis. I probably shouldn’t have called so early. I just wanted to let you know that I’m afraid Charlotte and I won’t be able to make it tonight after all.”

  “Oh.” Alexia swallowed her disappointment and her annoyance. If there was no crisis, it was inexcusable to pull out so late in the day. “That’s a shame.”

  “Yes. Something . . . personal’s come up,” Henry said awkwardly. Alexia wondered whether the “something” was a certain donor’s wife by the name of Laura Llewellyn, but she said nothing. “I’m sorry.”

  Alexia hung up. Her initi
al anger gave way to unease. The prime minister had been behaving distinctly strangely around her recently. She sensed a caginess in Henry Whitman now that hadn’t been there before. Those bastards in cabinet would do anything to see me fail. Have they got to him? Perhaps Edward Manning knows something? That might be why Henry was asking me about him the other day, almost pushing me to get rid of him as my PPS.

  Or maybe Charlotte Whitman was the problem. Wives often became jealous of their husbands’ professional relationships with other women. But I’m far too old to be considered a threat.

  Perhaps it really IS Laura Llewellyn? It must be something serious for Henry to perform such a public U-turn on a long-standing commitment.

  It was only after five minutes of prolonged and fruitless speculation that Alexia pulled herself up short. You’re being paranoid. You’re letting the stress get to you. The Hamlin murders had been giving her sleepless nights, to add to the anxiety of tonight’s party and the daily battles of life as a woman at Westminster. What Alexia really needed was a break.

  Her phone buzzed again. This time it was a text, from Lucy Meyer.

  Can’t wait to see you!! it read, followed by a string of smiley, excited, and kissy-face emoticons. Party’s gonna be awesome!!!

  Alexia laughed out loud. She’d missed Lucy this year, with her relentless good spirits and her endless enthusiasm. The woman would have exclamation marks carved into her gravestone.

  Carefully lifting the Hamlin file, Alexia slipped it into her desk drawer and locked it away.

  Screw Henry Whitman. Teddy and I are going to see our friends tonight and relax.

  It’s going to be fun.

  Michael De Vere revved his new Ducati Panigale superbike, letting the roar of its powerful engine drown out the tumult of thoughts in his head.

  He knew the route from Oxford to Kingsmere like the back of his hand, but today he’d deliberately taken obscure back roads, through Witham Woods, the ancient forest bordering North Oxford and into the Evenlode Valley beyond. It was a perfect day—how could it be anything other for his mother’s perfect party?—blue-skied and sunny and clear. On either side of the lane, high hedgerows teemed with life, honeysuckle and bumble bees and butterflies of all sizes and colors frothing like a fountain of buzzing, sweet-scented energy. Frightened by the noise of Michael’s motorbike, starlings and blue tits and lapwings took to the sky as he passed, in a stunning aerial salute. In other circumstances, Michael would have felt exhilarated, racing through the landscape that he loved with the wind in his face and the sun on his back. As it was, he felt agitated and jumpy, angry at the emotions whipsawing him as he leaned into each bend.

  Some of them were easy to identify. Guilt, for example, squatting like a fat toad over his heart, suffocating his happiness. It had been a close call with Summer last night. Too close. He hated himself for lying to her, for becoming the cliché of the unfaithful boyfriend, a parody of the very worst side of himself. When they were apart, he told himself that he had things under control. That he could compartmentalize his relationship with Summer and his life here in England. That it would all be all right. Last night had brought home to him what a hollow self-deception that was.

  I love her.

  I love her and I’m an idiot and this has to stop.

  Michael’s tangled love life was far from the only thing on his mind. For weeks now he’d been acting as if everything were normal. As if he didn’t know. He’d driven back and forth to Kingsmere, installing lighting and working on the ill-fated pagoda, as if nothing had happened.

  But something had happened. Something terrible.

  And Michael De Vere hadn’t the first idea what to do about it.

  He needed to talk to someone. But who? Talking to his mother was impossible. Even if he knew what to say, Alexia’s schedule was so jam-packed there was simply no opportunity to get her alone and focused. As for his father, Teddy De Vere had always lived in his own world, a fantasy of past family glories attached to some archaic concept of chivalry that Michael had never fully understood. Teddy could no more handle the truth than a four-year-old child could handle Michael’s new gleaming red Ducati. The truth would break him, shatter him into a thousand shardlike fragments like a dropped Christmas tree ornament. Michael couldn’t tell his father.

  Which left him with Roxie.

  Angrily Michael twisted the bike’s handlebars, pumping more gas into the already shrieking engine. Poor Roxie, his once-vivacious, outgoing sister, reduced to a lonely, embittered cripple for the sake of a worthless former lover. If Roxie were to suffer any more, it wouldn’t be because of Michael. She too was a closed door.

  Last night he’d come close to confiding in Summer. But he’d stopped himself before he went too far. Saying the thing out loud, talking to another person about it, would have made it real. Michael De Vere had realized with sudden clarity last night that he did not want this to be real. He wanted it to be gone, hidden, buried, as it had been for so long. He wanted his innocence back, but he couldn’t have it, and it made him so mad he wanted to scream and scream and never stop.

  I have to get through the party. Make it a success, smile through it for all our sakes. After that, I’ll deal with this. Decide what the hell to do.

  He was approaching the top of Coombe Hill. From the peak one could see the spires of Oxford on one side and the slumbering Cotswolds on the other, mile after mile of honeyed villages and lush green valleys, still dotted with the white sheep that had once been the region’s lifeblood and primary source of income. Glancing down at his speedometer—he was already doing sixty, but it felt much faster on such narrow, deserted roads—Michael twisted the gas again, accelerating on the climb so that his wheels briefly left the ground as he cleared the top of the hill. He remembered the rush from childhood, doing wheelies off of humpback bridges with Tommy on their BMX push bikes. But the Ducati was a different beast altogether, wild and dangerous, like riding a leopard bareback.

  Luckily, Michael was a skilled rider. Bringing the bike back down with ease, he leaned gracefully into the turn as the ground fell away beneath him. As the gradient grew steeper, he eased off the gas, but the speedometer needle kept rising, propelled by the Panigale’s own momentum. Michael squeezed lightly on the front brake. Nothing happened. Surprised but not especially alarmed, he squeezed more forcefully, instinctively pushing down on the front wheel with his body weight to slow the bike’s progress.

  Nothing. What the hell?

  The bottom of the hill was fast approaching. Adrenaline began to course unpleasantly through Michael’s veins. Mercifully there were no other cars on the road, but the bend at the valley floor was almost forty-five degrees, after which the lane almost immediately fed into a T-junction with the busy A40. Forcing himself to stay calm, he looked at the speedometer again.

  68 mph.

  71 mph.

  At this speed, using the rear brakes alone could be highly dangerous, with bikes tending to skid out of control, but there was no other option. What were you supposed to do to keep control in a rear-brake skid? He willed himself to remember. That’s it. Keep your eyes on the horizon.

  He looked up, but as he did so tears of panic stung his eyes. The horizon was no longer a placid, flat line. It was a tidal wave of fields and sky, hurtling toward him at breakneck speed.

  78 mph.

  82 mph.

  Michael’s arms and legs shook as he gripped the rear-wheel brake, abandoning caution and wrenching it toward him with all his strength. His whole body tensed, waiting for the skid, for the jolting halt, but there was nothing. The brake rolled loose and limp in his hands.

  That was when he knew.

  Jesus Christ. I’m going to die.

  A strange peace came over him, slowing his heart rate and reactions and immersing all his senses in a sort of muffled slow motion. He knew it was the end. But it was as if it were happening to someone else. As if someone else were watching the trucks on the main road race closer and closer, unable to stop
or move or even swerve aside, passively succumbing to the inevitable like a paralyzed spectator.

  The last thing Michael De Vere thought was, I left Summer this morning without saying good-bye. I should have said good-bye.

  Then came the impact and the blackness and there were no more thoughts and nothing mattered anymore.

  Roxie De Vere gazed at her reflection in her dressing room mirror.

  She claimed not to care about her appearance. There would never be another man for her after Andrew. Even if her body weren’t broken and useless, she had no heart left to give, no sexual desire, no appetite for life or love and the inevitable pain that came with both. And yet, on a night like tonight, with the whole world watching, Roxie took a certain perverse pleasure in making herself look beautiful. If there was anything more poignant than a young girl confined to a wheelchair, it was surely a ravishing beauty confined to a wheelchair. More importantly, Roxie knew that when she looked her best, even now, it irritated her mother.

  She’d pulled out all the stops tonight. Her naturally thick, blond hair was swept up into an elaborate chignon, fixed in place with antique Victorian hairpins studded with prettily colored glass beads. Her drop diamond earrings had once belonged to Teddy’s grandmother, Lady Maud De Vere. The light they reflected contrasted perfectly with Roxie’s smooth, softly sun-kissed skin. Her gown was simple, nothing like the fancy Dior confection that Alexia had been planning to buy for her in Paris. Left to her own devices, Roxie had opted for a plain, cream silk column that discreetly covered her shattered legs while encasing her full, smooth breasts in a subtly boned corset. The result was both innocent and sensual, an effect that Roxie highlighted with subtle makeup—palest pink lips and cheeks flushed with a dusting of shimmery peach blush. A simple, heart-shaped gold pendant hanging sweetly at her neck completed the picture.

  Pushing herself over to the window, Roxie looked down at the legions of liveried staff running back and forth like ants. Tommy Lyon was striding around the grounds, a worried general in the hours before battle, shouting and gesticulating and generally marshaling the troops in Michael’s absence. Very unusually, Michael had failed to show up at Kingsmere on this most crucial of afternoons. Tommy had no idea where he was, and Michael’s cell phone, usually glued to his ear, was switched off. With the firsts guests due to start arriving in an hour, tensions were understandably running high. Roxie hoped that her friend Summer Meyer’s unexpected appearance in Oxford last night wasn’t behind her brother’s disappearing act. If Summer had caught Michael in flagrante with one of his bimbos, anything could have happened. Not that he wouldn’t deserve everything that was coming to him. But Roxie liked Summer and she liked Summer and Michael together. She’d be sorry to see Michael fuck that one up.