Sidney Sheldon's the Tides of Memory

  An hour later, alone in a nondescript Italian restaurant in Chelsea, Alexia forced herself to eat lunch. She’d lost too much weight since Michael’s accident. Since her trip to Paris, in fact, when she first heard about Jenny Hamlin’s murder, her appetite had deserted her. As for sleep, she was lucky if she got more than three hours a night, so relentless were the dark thoughts dancing through her mind. Plowing on with her job at the Home Office, fueled on coffee and adrenaline and a desperate fear of stopping, Alexia knew that the moment she did stop, the dark thoughts would rush in like floodwaters and drown her. When she did sleep, the drowning dreams were back with a vengeance: rising waves, riptides sucking her in, pulling her under, starving her lungs of air.

  “Your cioppino, Mrs. De Vere. Enjoy.”

  Alexia stared down at the lumps of monkfish and squid bobbing grotesquely in the saffron-scented soup and felt sick. Pushing the bowl aside, she tried to eat some bread, but she felt weak and nauseous with stress.

  Maybe Edward’s right. Maybe I do need a break. I’m so desperately worried about Michael and paranoid about being pushed out of my job. But maybe the PM really is trying to help me.

  Suddenly an image of Martha’s Vineyard and the Gables floated into her mind. She pictured the wisteria trailing over the trellis in her backyard; the pitch-black night sky full of dazzling stars; the low, growly croak of the bullfrogs, lazily mating.

  That’s where I should go. I feel safe on the island. Safe and sane and rested.

  It would mean leaving Michael. But Alexia was no good to her son at the moment. If she didn’t take some sort of a mental and physical break soon, she’d be no good to anyone. I’ll wind up in hospital myself.

  Lucy Meyer was in Washington with Arnie at the moment, but Alexia wondered if she could persuade her friend to fly out and join her? It wasn’t as if Lucy had a job or any real commitments at home, especially now, with Summer away. How wonderful it would be to talk to Lucy, with no husbands or children around to distract them!

  The two women had spoken by phone about Michael’s accident. Unlike the rest of the world, Lucy had understood instinctively why Alexia had to work afterward. Why she had to keep going. Why she couldn’t break down and be the weak, hair-tearing mother the British public seemed to demand she be. Alexia had even confided in Lucy about Jenny Hamlin’s murder, and her fears of being the target of some sort of bizarre conspiracy, some nameless evil that she couldn’t put her finger on. Colleagues would have laughed, or thought she was losing her mind. But Lucy didn’t judge her, any more than she had judged her when Alexia told her about her dark past. She simply listened, as silent and patient and unchanging as a stone.

  Teddy loved her. But he didn’t know her the way that Lucy Meyer did. With Lucy—only with Lucy—Alexia could let go completely and be herself. That was what she needed, now more than ever.

  Alexia’s soup had grown cold. She asked for the bill. She had a Select Committee meeting at two-thirty and a vote at four. After that she would go home and sleep. Then she would call Lucy, arrange to take this break that everyone seemed to want her to.

  It will be all right, she told herself. It will all be all right.

  “Forget it, mate. That’s my spot.”

  The burly photographer pushed his colleague out of the prime position on Cheyne Walk, directly opposite Alexia De Vere’s house.

  “Says who?”

  “Says me. I’ve been ’ere since ten o’clock this morning. I only nipped over the road for a packet of fags.”

  “That’s your problem.”

  As the two men noisily fought out their turf war, a growing crowd of protesters lined up along the home secretary’s Chelsea Street house, waving placards imprinted with Sanjay Patel’s face. So far the anniversary of Patel’s death had been a subdued affair. The dead man’s supporters were being respectful of the police line keeping them twelve feet back from the De Veres’ property, even though it was only marked with tape. But as afternoon turned to evening, the chants of “No Regrets, No Reelection” and “De Vere OUT!” grew louder and less good-natured. The home secretary was due home any minute. Despite the presence of both police and television crews, the potential for violent confrontation hung in the air like a rotten smell.

  In the middle of the crowd, Gilbert Drake said a silent prayer.

  May it be as Isaiah said: “I will punish the wicked for their iniquity. I will cause the arrogance of the proud to cease, and lay low the haughtiness of the terrible.”

  Alexia De Vere’s son might be on life support, but that wasn’t punishment enough for the suffering she’d caused poor Sanjay, and so many others. All Alexia De Vere cared about, all she had ever cared about, was herself, her own self-serving, godless life. That was what she had to lose.

  An eye for an eye.

  Beneath his parka, Gilbert Drake lovingly fingered the cold metal of his gun.

  Henry Whitman was on his private line.

  “How many of them are out there?”

  “About fifty or sixty, Prime Minister.”

  “Is that enough? It doesn’t sound like much of a crowd.”

  “It’s enough.”

  “So we’re a go?”

  The voice on the other end of the line sounded amused.

  “That’s up to you, Henry. You’re the boss, remember?”

  Henry Whitman closed his eyes and made a decision.

  “I don’t like it, Alexia. I don’t like it at all.” Teddy De Vere’s voice was full of concern. “I saw some of them on the television earlier and they looked distinctly aggressive. Can’t you come back here tonight, to Kingsmere?”

  In the back of her ministerial car, Alexia pressed the phone to her ear, trying to conjure up Teddy’s presence, the comfort of his arms. I must spend more time with him. Lean on him again like I used to. Her committee meeting had dragged on longer than expected—didn’t they always?—and the vote was interminable. The brief peace she’d felt at lunchtime, planning her escape with Lucy Meyer, was all gone now. She wished Teddy were with her. But the thought of schlepping all the way out to Oxfordshire, not reaching her bed till ten or eleven at night, made her want to cry.

  “I truly can’t, Teddy. I’m exhausted. Anyway, Edward’s briefed me, there are plenty of police at the house. If things get rowdy, they’ll simply clear people out.”

  “Why risk it, though, my darling? You can sleep in the car if you’re tired. Please come down, Alexia. I miss you.”

  “I miss you too.” Changing the subject, Alexia said, “I’ve been thinking of taking some holiday.”

  “Really? That’s marvelous.” She could practically hear Teddy’s smile all the way from Oxfordshire. “When should I start packing?”

  “Actually I thought I might take a short break with Lucy. Hole up on Martha’s Vineyard for a while. Would you mind?”

  There was a split second of hesitation. Then Teddy said, “Of course not, my darling. I think it’s a wonderful idea.”

  “Great. I’ll clear it with Henry tomorrow. I’d better go now, darling. We’re here.”

  The line went dead before Teddy had a chance to say good-bye.

  The Daimler pulled up outside the house, its occupants hidden behind the smoked-glass windows. Gilbert Drake slipped the safety catch off his pistol and gripped it tightly. It was hard to tell which were louder, the jeers of the protesters or the click, click, whir of multiple camera shutters as Alexia De Vere stepped out of the car.

  The day of the Lord is at hand, when destruction comes from the Almighty.

  They were about to get one hell of a picture.

  Henry Whitman turned on the television. He watched Alexia De Vere step out of her car, excruciatingly thin, like a couture-clad skeleton.

  “My God,” said his wife. “She looks ill.”

  “Yes.”

  “Why doesn’t she just resign? Why does she cling like this? It’s pathetic.”

  “Yes,” said Henry. But he wasn’t really listening. He was watching the pr
otesters on the screen booing his home secretary as she walked past. They really do hate her.

  He was beginning to hate her himself.

  In Michael De Vere’s hospital room, Summer Meyer was also watching the news.

  The nurse who was plumping Michael’s pillow said cheerfully, “That’s his mum, isn’t it? She’s dead glamorous. Bit skinny, though.”

  That’s an understatement, thought Summer. Alexia looked as frail as a bird as she stepped out of her car. Her black Chanel suit with gold bouclé detailing hung off her like rags on a scarecrow.

  “Crowd don’t like her much, do they?”

  “No. They don’t.”

  “You’d think they’d give her a break, what with her son being so ill and that. Still, it’s a rough old game, isn’t it? Politics.”

  Summer focused on the screen, tuning out the nurse’s prattle. Just as Alexia was about to reach the safety of the police cordon, something caught her eye. A glint of silver, flashing at the front of the crowd.

  “Oh my God!” Summer said aloud. “Oh my God!”

  Alexia looked straight ahead as she walked toward her front door, ignoring the shouts and chants and angry faces surrounding her.

  “OUT, OUT, OUT!” they yelled. But Alexia wouldn’t be pushed out, not by her enemies in the cabinet and certainly not by this ignorant rabble.

  Just keep walking. It’ll be over soon. Oh, look, there’s Jimmy.

  Her secret-service officer smiled as Alexia reached the line of tape dividing the pavement from her private property. Alexia smiled back. The cameras instantly caught the exchange, clicking frenziedly like a swarm of cicadas.

  It was a strange thing—a split-second thing—but one of the clicks sounded different from the others. Searching out the noise, Alexia spun around. She found herself staring into two eyes alight with raw hatred.

  “I’ve got something for you, Home Secretary.”

  The shot rang out as loudly as a thunderclap. Alexia felt a sharp pain and a moment’s intense surprise.

  Then everything went black.

  Chapter Twenty-eight

  “Alexia! Alexia, can you hear me?”

  Sir Edward Manning’s voice sounded very far away. Alexia thought, How strange that he’s using my first name. He never uses my first name. Something serious must have happened.

  Opening her eyes, Alexia found her vision was distorted. She could make out Edward’s concerned features, and a sea of other, blurred faces behind him. But everything was lurching, as if they were on a ship on the high seas. She had no idea where she was. The light hurt her eyes, and a wave of nausea combined with a searing pain in her side.

  Then the blackness returned and she felt nothing at all.

  Henry Whitman spoke grimly into the phone.

  “Is she alive?”

  “Yes, Prime Minister.”

  For a brief, unworthy moment, Henry Whitman felt disappointed.

  “He shot her at close range, but somehow the bullet lodged in her rib. They’re operating now, but I understand she’s going to make it. She was incredibly lucky.”

  Yes, thought Henry Whitman. She usually is.

  “They arrested the man?”

  “Yes, sir. Gilbert Drake. A cabbie from North London, no prior record. He was a friend of Sanjay Patel’s, apparently. Gave himself up, no trouble.”

  “All right. Keep me informed.”

  The prime minister hung up, poured himself a whiskey, and took two long, deep swallows. Gilbert Drake. What kind of an idiot must the man be to have missed at point-blank range? Henry Whitman hoped they locked Drake up and threw away the damned key.

  Black became white. White walls, white ceiling, white bed, white light.

  Am I dead?

  Alexia blinked against the brightness. Slowly reality reasserted itself.

  A hospital. The pain in her side was gone, replaced by a warm, fuzzy feeling she hadn’t felt since her teens. Morphine. She looked down. Sure enough, there were the tubes, pumping some unnamed painkiller into her arm.

  Suddenly it all came back to her.

  The Patel protesters. The clicking cameras. The eyes full of hatred, blazing out at her.

  “What happened?”

  The words came out so faintly she could barely hear them herself, but they were enough to bring the staff nurse running.

  “You were shot, Mrs. De Vere, but you’re going to be fine. Try not to panic.”

  Alexia smiled wanly. “I never panic. Will I need an operation?”

  “You’ve already had it. Everything went perfectly. Try to rest. I’ll page the surgeon now and he’ll come and explain things.”

  The nurse ran out. Almost immediately there was a knock on the door.

  “Mummy?”

  Roxie looked awful. White as a sheet and with her mascara running all over her face, she had clearly been crying. She wheeled herself over to Alexia’s bedside.

  “I saw it on TV. I thought you were dead.” To Alexia’s astonishment, her daughter reached over the bed and took her hand. For a moment Alexia was too stunned to respond. It was the first genuinely kind gesture Roxie had made toward her in so many long years. But then she pulled herself together and squeezed back, caressing her daughter’s fingers as though they were precious jewels.

  “You’ve been crying,” she said gently.

  Roxie nodded. “I’ve already lost Michael. I . . . I can’t lose you too.”

  Alexia’s eyes welled up with tears. All the emotion she’d repressed since Michael’s accident erupted out of her now, like floodwaters breaching a levee.

  “You’re crying!” Roxie sounded astonished.

  “It’s the drugs.” Alexia laughed, then winced as the pain in her side reasserted itself,

  “What the devil’s going on here?” An overbearing man in a three-piece suit, obviously a surgeon, came storming into the room. “I gave very clear instructions. You need rest. No visitors.”

  Roxie swiveled around in her chair. “Bugger off,” she said firmly. “I’m her daughter and I’m not going anywhere.”

  “Oh, yes you are, young lady.”

  Watching the two of them argue, Alexia felt suffused with happiness.

  Her daughter had come back to her.

  Nothing, absolutely nothing else mattered anymore.

  Chapter Twenty-nine

  The mechanic looked at the mangled Ducati Panigale and shook his head sadly.

  “That’s a shame, that is. A real shame. Beautiful bike.”

  Summer begged to differ. As far as she was concerned, Michael’s bike was the ugliest thing she’d ever seen, a hideous, lethal weapon.

  Armed with the ownership papers that Teddy had given her, Summer had convinced the Oxfordshire police to release what was left of the motorbike into her care. No tests had been done on it. As far as the police were concerned, Michael De Vere’s accident was just that: an accident, not a crime to be investigated. As such, the bike wasn’t evidence, it was simply private property. His girlfriend was welcome to it.

  In full investigative journalist mode, Summer chipped away at every possible angle, determined to uncover Michael’s “secret” and what relation it might bear to his accident. With this in mind, she’d hired a van, dumped the bike’s twisted hulk in the back with the help of a neighbor, and driven down to East London at the crack of dawn. According to the Internet reviews, St. Martin’s Garage and Body Shop in Walthamstow was the top Ducati specialist in the country. Certainly the young man in front of Summer now seemed to know what he was talking about, earnestly informing her about belt drives and cylinder heads and twist-and-go transmissions as he ran his hands lovingly over the Panigale’s scraped red chassis.

  “It’s not salvageable, I’m afraid. I mean, technically we could rebuild it. But it’d be more new parts than old and it’d cost a fortune.”

  “What if I needed you to look at individual parts for me?”

  “Such as?”

  “I don’t know. The steering. The brakes. If
there were a technical fault of some kind, would you be able to find it? Or is it too far gone for that?”

  The mechanic looked up at the gorgeous girl in front of him. Not many of St. Martin’s clients looked like Summer Meyer, with those endless legs and that glossy mane of hair, like polished wood, rippling down her back. But there was something else about the girl, a steely determination in her eyes and the jut of her jaw that he hadn’t noticed when she walked in. It was seriously sexy.

  “I won’t know for sure till I take her apart,” he said. “But if there was a fault with the bike, then yeah, I reckon I’d clock it.” He hoped he was impressing her. “I know these bikes like the back of me ’and.”

  “And how long might that take? Roughly.”

  “Come back at six and I should have some answers for you. I gotta tell you, though, these bikes are beautifully made. I’d be surprised if you find anything wrong with her.”

  Summer left her car in the garage forecourt—it was impossible to park in central London, so she might as well keep it here—and took the tube to Sloane Square. If the bike wouldn’t be ready till six, it made sense to stay the night in town and head back up to Oxford tomorrow.

  Everywhere she went, people were talking about the attempt on Alexia De Vere’s life. Pictures of Gilbert Drake, the man who’d shot her, were on the front page of every newspaper, and updates on the home secretary’s condition remained the lead item on every radio station’s news. Summer had watched the thing happen live on television. Sitting at Michael’s bedside, she’d even seen the glint of Drake’s gun before he fired the shot. She wanted to call Teddy immediately, then realized this might be seen as an intrusion. Besides, with her mother calling her every five minutes for updates on Alexia’s condition, she barely had time.

  Now that she was up in London, however, and a few days had passed, she probably should give Teddy a call. She checked into the Orange, a pretty pub-cum-hotel on Pimlico Road and had a long soak in the Victorian copper bath before lying down on the bed with her phone. Her first call was to the John Radcliffe to check on Michael. (No change.) Then, steeling her nerves, she dialed Teddy De Vere’s number.