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Everything was white and bright and beautiful. For a moment she felt a rush of intense happiness. I’m in heaven. I’m in heaven with Andrew. He never left me. He loved me, he loved me after all.
Then she saw the uniformed policeman standing by the door and her dream crumbled to dust.
This wasn’t heaven. And Andrew wasn’t some luminous white angel.
He was
a rotted corpse, with dogs chewing the putrid flesh still hanging from his bones.
Her screams echoed down the hospital halls.
Chief Constable Redmayne of the Thames Valley police read the statement for a second time, carefully weighing each word, before handing it back to Chief Inspector Wilmott.
The chief constable was a vastly fat man with ruddy cheeks and a shock of white hair that gave him a jovial, Father Christmas–like air. In fact, Cyril Redmayne had a razor-sharp mind and was driven by the sort of ruthless ambition normally associated with politicians or rock stars. He was not at all happy to hear that the home secretary had been dragged down to Oxford police station like a common criminal. One misstep in a case like this and Cyril Redmayne’s brilliant career could be over in a blink.
On the other hand, a man had been murdered. And no one, not even the likes of Alexia De Vere, should be able to consider themselves above the law.
Chief Inspector Gary Wilmott asked, “What do you think, sir?”
“What do you think, Gary?”
“I think she’s lying. Through her perfectly white teeth.”
The chief constable considered this.
“Hmm. I’ve had a call from Downing Street, you know. The prime minister wants to know if we’re going to charge her.”
“I can’t. Not yet. I’d like to keep her in for questioning, though.”
“Absolutely not.”
“For another day at least. The husband too.”
“Out of the question.”
“But, sir . . .”
“Gary, she’s the home secretary.”
“So? She’s involved in this, sir, I know she is.”
“Then prove it. Find this psychologist. See if she corroborates Mrs. De Vere’s story.”
Chief Inspector Wilmott looked uncomfortable. “We have.”
“And?”
“And she does corroborate the story. But that means nothing. They could easily have cooked it up together. Made a contingency plan, in case the body was ever found. I need more time with Mrs. De Vere.”
“Well, you can’t have it. Not without more evidence.”
Chief Inspector Wilmott got up to leave. The chief constable called after him.
“She might be telling the truth, you know. Just because you don’t like her. It is a possibility.”
“Pigs might fly.”
After Wilmott had gone, Cyril Redmayne read through Alexia De Vere’s statement for a third time. If it were true, then a lot of people had misjudged the home secretary. Not least her own daughter.
