Because whoever it is, they’re not done yet.
They’re coming after me too.
Chapter Thirty-six
Roxie De Vere looked out of the French doors that led from her room onto the gardens and took a deep, calming breath. There were few places more beautiful than Somerset in springtime. The gardens at Fairmont House, the stately-home-turned-exclusive-rehab where Roxie was currently living, were some of the most exquisite in the county. One couldn’t help but be uplifted by the blossom-laden buddleia bushes, smothered in butterflies, or the peaceful rose garden with its formal box hedges and gently winding gravel paths. There was a lake with a man-made island and folly in the middle, across which “guests” (Fairmont House wasn’t crass enough to have patients) could row for picnics or meditation or sunrise yoga sessions. All in all it was a bit like living in an illustration from a Jane Austen novel: tranquil, idyllic, and utterly unreal.
Opening the doors, Roxie allowed the warm air to flood her room and turned the radio to Classic FM. Today for the first time, she would permit a tiny slice of the outside world to intrude upon her safe cocoon. Summer Meyer was coming to visit her, the first friend Roxie had agreed to see in almost six months. The prospect was both exciting and nerve-racking.
“I feel like an Indian bride about to meet my arranged-marriage husband for the first time,” Roxie told her therapist, Dr. Woods, a gentle, professorial Canadian in his sixties who’d inevitably become something of a father figure. “The stakes seem so high.”
“They’re only as high as you let them be,” Dr. Woods reassured her. “Don’t put too much pressure on yourself. It’s tea with a friend, that’s all. You can do that, Roxanne.”
Roxie had thought she could do it. But now that Summer was actually coming, would be here any moment in fact, she felt all her old nervousness returning.
Roxie had been so ill when she first got to Fairmont, haunted by terrible dreams about Andrew and gripped by daily panic attacks. I mustn’t allow Summer’s visit to set me back. It had taken weeks for her to accept that it was Teddy, her beloved father, who had shot and killed the man she loved. But knowing the truth and changing all one’s emotions to fit it were two very different things. Why couldn’t it have been Alexia? Hating her mother was easy. It had become a habit, like slipping on a familiar overcoat. For the better part of a decade, Roxie had defined herself as a victim of Alexia’s cruelty and selfishness. That had become her identity, her self. But now, in the midst of her shock and grief over Andrew, she was supposed to do a complete about-face. To accept that Alexia had been loving and unselfish all along. Acknowledging that fact meant negating her whole adult life. As Dr. Woods said, it was like another death. Like her death. No wonder it was frightening.
In the course of a few months, Roxie had lost her brother, her father, and Andrew, all over again. Everything she’d believed for the last ten years of her life had been a lie. Nothing was what it seemed. The world outside of Fairmont House had become a frightening place. And now Summer Meyer was arriving to bring her news of it. To remind her that it was still there . . . that one day she would have to go back.
“Wow, Rox. You look so well.”
Summer had walked into the room unannounced. Before Roxie had time to think about it, she found herself enveloped in a hug. Instinctively she hugged her friend back.
Roxie felt relieved. The real Summer was nothing like the frightening visitor of her imagination. Having her here felt right. She smiled.
“It’s a gorgeous day out there. Shall we go for a walk?”
Summer stretched and swung her arms as she strolled down toward the lake, with Roxie wheeling her chair beside her. At Fairmont House, everything was all about helping oneself, becoming independent physically and emotionally. Roxanne’s days of being wheeled around by other people were over.
It had been a long, hot drive down from London. Summer’s joints ached from being cramped up in her tiny Fiat Punto, so the fresh air and space felt like a luxury. European cars all seemed to have been designed for either Munchkins or children.
“This place is stunning.” She sighed. “No wonder you don’t want to leave.”
“I’m not on vacation, you know,” Roxie said defensively. “It’s a hospital. I’m here because I need to be.”
“I know that,” said Summer. “I only meant that it’s a beautiful setting. Peaceful. I didn’t mean to imply anything.”
“Sorry. I guess I’m a little tense. It is peaceful. And you’re right in a way. I am lucky to be here.”
“Is it very expensive?”
Roxie shrugged. “Probably. Dad’s health insurance pays for it, so I haven’t seen a bill.”
The mention of Teddy was unexpected. Part of the reason for Summer’s visit was that it was Teddy’s sentencing next week. Alexia was due to fly to London for the hearing and had asked Summer to sound Roxie out in advance, to see if she might be willing to meet her mother face-to-face.
As Roxie had brought him up first, Summer asked cautiously, “Have you had any contact with Teddy? Since . . . you know.”
Roxie looked away. “No. Absolutely not.”
They walked on in silence for a while. Then Roxie said, “I’ve tried to forgive him. I want to forgive him. It would be easier for me if I could. But I don’t think I can.”
Summer nodded. “I understand.”
“I doubt you do understand,” said Roxie, although she wasn’t angry. “All those years of him comforting me, supporting me, pretending to care.”
Summer played devil’s advocate. “Do you think he was pretending? I’m sure he loved you, Roxie.”
“Maybe. But love’s not enough. He knew what he’d done. He let me believe the worst of Mummy, and of poor Andrew, just to save his own skin. How selfish is that? I thought I knew him as well as I knew myself.” She gave a short, empty laugh, “Then again, knowing myself hasn’t exactly been my biggest forte.”
“You need to cut yourself some slack,” said Summer. “You’ve been through hell, more pain than most people suffer in a lifetime. You’re doing okay.”
Roxie smiled. “Thank you. Anyway, enough about me. What’s been happening in your life? Are you writing again?”
They talked about Summer’s work for a while, until inevitably conversation turned to Michael. Summer still couldn’t bring herself to discuss with anyone what Tommy Lyon had told her about Michael’s mistress. It wouldn’t be fair to burden poor Roxie, or to sully her memories of her brother. But she chatted about his new care facility, the nurses, the encouraging articles she’d read on long-term coma patients making miraculous recoveries.
Eventually, with some trepidation, Summer brought up the subject of Alexia, and how the two of them had become close in recent months.
“She’s flying over for your father’s sentencing next week. She’d like to see you.”
Roxie’s shoulders tensed. “I don’t think that’s a good idea.”
“She misses you,” said Summer. “Your mother has a hard shell, but underneath it all she’s a good person. A compassionate person.”
“You never used to think so.”
“I misjudged her. I didn’t know the facts. Look, Roxie, I know she’s made mistakes.”
“That’s a bit of an understatement, don’t you think?” Roxie spluttered.
“Okay, big mistakes. But she wants to put things right. Won’t you meet her, just for a few minutes?”
Roxie shook her head vigorously. “I can’t.”
“She never meant to hurt you.”
“I know that.” Roxie looked up at Summer with tears in her eyes. “But she did. She did hurt me. Okay, so she didn’t drive Andrew away like I thought. But she’s not blameless, Summer. She still lied. She lied, and lied, and I built my life on those lies! You can’t imagine what it’s like, realizing that everything you thought you knew about yourself and your family was just smoke and mirrors!”
Summer thought, I understand more than you think. Everything I thought I knew about me and
Michael was a lie. But here I am still living that lie, too pathetically in love with him to move on.
“Your family’s so wholesome, so normal,” Roxie went on. “You have no idea how lucky you are to have Lucy for a mother. To have two happy, functional parents.”
“I know,” said Summer.
They walked back up to the house, and the staff served them tea and homemade walnut cake in Roxie’s room. Before Summer left she promised to send Roxie pictures of Michael and to keep in closer touch.
Folding her long legs back into the minuscule car, Summer said, “Think about what I said. Your mother gets here next Friday. She’s desperate to see you. At the end of the day, Rox, whatever her faults, she’s the only mother you’ve got.”
Speeding back down the tree-lined drive, Summer thought about Roxanne. Their lives had taken such different paths. But certain things bound them together.
We’ve both been fools for love. Me for Michael. Roxanne for Andrew Beesley. Even Alexia, standing by Teddy after everything that had happened, was living proof that love was blind.
Roxie was right. Her mother had lied to her.
But aren’t we all liars when it comes to love? Liars to others and liars to ourselves?
She drove on.
The drive back to town was a nightmare, with the single-lane A303 winding endlessly into the distance like the Yellow Brick Road of Oz.
NO SERVICES FOR 35 MILES read the sign. Summer hadn’t been hungry before, but the unexpected announcement that no food would be available for at least an hour suddenly started her stomach rumbling. Reaching across to the passenger side of the car, she began rummaging in the glove box for candy, accidentally sending papers fluttering all around. Picking one up, she saw it was the registration document for Michael’s Ducati, the one she’d taken from Kingsmere almost a year ago now, the night she had dinner with Teddy.
It listed the name of the dealership that had delivered the bike: Drake Motors. There was an address too, in Surrey, just off the A3. She was going to drive right by it.
Since the evening at the Savoy when she met Tommy Lyon, Summer had abandoned her investigation into Michael’s accident. Her feelings were still so conflicted, and in any case the whole thing had begun to feel like a monumental waste of time. She wasn’t ready to leave England, to turn her back on Michael completely. But in other respects she’d decided to take her mother’s advice and focus on her own life, her own future. Michael had behaved selfishly, after all. Why should she sacrifice her every waking moment trying to get justice for him?
Tommy Lyon had hurt her deeply, but he had also forced her to accept some home truths. Michael hadn’t been perfect. More importantly, even if Summer succeeded in finding out the whole truth about his accident, it wasn’t going to bring Michael back to her.
But now, stuck as she was in traffic, bored, and with the document in her hand, her interest was piqued. It would be stubborn and foolish, surely, to drive right past Drake Motors without even stopping in. Who knew when she’d be out this way again.
Sir Edward Manning was astonished to hear Alexia De Vere’s voice.
In the months since Mrs. De Vere had left office, Edward had almost forgotten the nightmare his life had been back then. Sergei Milescu’s sadistic threats, the cloud of terror hovering constantly over him, the knot of anxiety coiled permanently in his chest, like a cobra ready to strike. As for the horrifying image of Sergei in the bathtub, his entrails floating around his bloated head like a string of pork sausages . . . that still sometimes came back to him in dreams. But he reassured himself that what it actually meant, for him personally, was that the horror was over. Alexia’s resignation had come too late for Sergei to avert his paymasters’ displeasure. But it had saved Sir Edward Manning’s life.
The police who found Sergei’s body had been to the House of Lords to interview the other members of the janitorial staff. Apparently the method of Milescu’s execution was the one preferred by the Russian Mafia. But nobody knew what links the Romanian custodian might have to any Russians. And nobody linked him with Sir Edward Manning.
Kevin Lomax had his strengths and weaknesses, both as a boss and as a home secretary. It did not escape Sir Edward’s notice that the very first thing Lomax did in office was to withdraw the tax legislation that had threatened London’s wealthy Russian elite. But Sir Edward made no comment. Lomax’s arrival at the Home Office had ushered in a period of peace and safety for Sir Edward Manning.
Alexia’s voice on the telephone shattered that peace in an instant.
“I’m sorry to disturb you on a weekend, Edward. But I wondered if I might ask you a favor.”
“Of course,” Sir Edward Manning blustered. “Although I don’t quite see—”
“I need some information.”
A telling few seconds of silence.
“It’s sensitive information. I’ll understand if you say no.”
“Go on.”
“I want to know everything you’ve got about a man named Milo Bates.”
Nothing to do with Russia. Or Lomax. Or Milescu’s murder. Sir Edward exhaled.
“Milo Bates.” The name was familiar. It took a few moments for him to place it. “Ah yes, I remember. William Hamlin’s partner. Is that who you mean? The one who disappeared.”
Alexia was impressed, though not surprised. Edward had a memory bank bigger than the British Library.
“Exactly. I’d also like a list of all unidentified bodies found in the New York region in the year that Milo went missing.”
The silence was longer this time. Alexia held her breath, but at last Sir Edward Manning said, “I’ll see what I can do. Where can I reach you?”
Drake Motors was an altogether more sophisticated establishment than St. Martin’s garage in Walthamstow. The front showroom, complete with marble floors, fountain, and snooty receptionist in head-to-toe Victoria Beckham, was crammed with top-of-the-line sports cars, from the latest Bugatti in trendy matte silver to gleaming vintage Jags and Bentleys in wine red or sporting green. Summer felt instantly out of place in her sweaty T-shirt, jeans, and sneakers. Nor was she sure that she was even in the right place. She couldn’t see a single motorbike on display. Perhaps there was another Drake Motors on the A3?
“May I help you?”
The man was middle-aged and handsome, with a cut-glass accent and an expensive suit.
The manager, thought Summer. Unlike his receptionist, he seemed welcoming and not remotely fazed by Summer’s distinctly casual attire. He’s been in the luxury car business too long to judge a book by its cover, or a potential customer’s net worth by the scruffiness of her jeans.
“I hope so. A friend of mine was given a motorbike as a gift about a year and a half ago. It came from your garage. It was a Ducati Panigale.”
A blush crept up Summer’s neck and into her cheeks. It was ridiculous to hate inanimate objects, but ever since Tommy Lyon told her Michael’s bike had been a gift from his lover, she had loathed the thing as vehemently as if it had been a person.
“Well,” the manager said smoothly, “we don’t sell very many bikes, to be frank with you. I’d probably remember the sale, if you told me the name of the purchaser.”
“That’s the thing. I know my friend’s name, obviously. I have his certificate of ownership here. But I don’t know who actually paid for the bike.”
She handed the registration document to the manager. It took a few moments for Michael’s name to register.
“De Vere. Not the De Vere? The home secretary’s boy?”
“That’s right.”
Summer waited for the sympathetic platitudes. Instead she was met by a hostile glare.
“How did you get this?” All the manager’s former friendliness was gone. “Are you a journalist? Because if you’re sniffing around for a scandal, you won’t find it here. All our merchandise is checked and double-checked, understand?”
“As a matter of fact, I am a journalist,” Summer said angrily. She resented
the way people in Britain put journalists on a par with pedophiles and murderers. As if they didn’t all buy newspapers or watch television. “But as it happens, I’m not here in a professional capacity. I’m Michael De Vere’s girlfriend. And I’m not looking for scandal, just information. There may have been a fault with the Panigale.”
“Not when it left here there wasn’t.”
“Would you have a record of who paid for the bike?” Summer asked wearily. “That’s all I want to know.”
The manager relented a little. If she really was the De Vere boy’s girlfriend, she’d been through a tough time. “I don’t know. We might have. Follow me.”
Summer accompanied him through the marble atrium into a poky office at the side of the building. Here a much less glamorous secretary in a Next polyester suit tapped away at a computer.
“What was the date of the purchase?” the manager asked.
Summer told him, “It would have been some time between July first and July twentieth of last year.”
He turned to his secretary. “Karen, would you check those dates for me? Looking for a Panigale Ducati motorcycle.”
After some more tapping and a few seconds’ wait, the secretary said brightly, “Yup. Here we are. July twelfth. Paid for in full, by wire transfer.”
Summer asked hopefully, “Is there a name?”
More tapping. “Nope. ’Fraid not. No name. Just an account number, and a SWIFT code. Citibank Zurich.”
The disappointment felt like a punch to the stomach.
“Thank you for your help anyway.”
The manager handed Michael’s documents back to Summer, looking a little sheepish. “Sorry about before,” he mumbled. “I got the wrong end of the stick.”
“That’s all right.”
Summer left the office and had almost reached her car when the secretary came running out after her.
“Miss. Miss!” she panted. “Was it red, the bike? A ‘boy racer’ sort of thing?”
Summer nodded. “That’s right.”
“I remember it,” the secretary said triumphantly. “I remember the buyer ’n all. It was a woman. She came to collect it herself.”