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Statement to police,
Andrew Beesley was an Australian tennis coach who came to work for my family eight years ago. Shortly afterward, he began a romantic relationship with my daughter, Roxanne, which quickly became serious. Too quickly, in my view, although it was my husband who most vehemently disapproved of the match. Teddy felt Andrew was a blatant gold digger, and that it was our duty to protect Roxie and stop her from marrying him.
We discussed the idea of offering Andrew money to leave. I was against it, mostly on the grounds that I thought it unlikely the boy would accept, and that he might well tell Roxie we’d approached him, which would only make things worse between our daughter and ourselves. We agreed that our son, Michael, would talk to Andrew privately instead and see if he could warn him off. Anyway, not long after that, Andrew disappeared. He failed to show up for work one day, and that was that. Initially I didn’t question it. I was delighted he’d pushed off; we all were. But weeks went by, and Roxie was becoming increasingly distraught and unable to cope. She couldn’t accept that Andrew had dumped her so suddenly. That’s when Teddy told me that he had paid Andrew off, even though I thought we had agreed not to. The boy had bitten his hand off apparently, and was only too eager to hightail it back to Australia with Teddy’s check in his pocket.
The problem was Roxie. She’d suffered from depression as a teenager, quite badly, and her mental health was fragile at the best of times. Teddy and I had a private meeting with Dr. Lizzie Hunt, Roxie’s psychiatrist, to discuss how we should handle Andrew’s departure. Lizzie felt that having been abandoned by one man she loved, Roxie would not be able to cope with a second betrayal from Teddy—that she would see her father’s intervention as a betrayal. So we agreed, the three of us, that I would allow Roxanne to believe it was me who had bribed Andrew to leave. That way Roxie’s relationship with Teddy would remain intact, and hopefully she would one day rebuild enough trust in men to start a new, more appropriate romantic attachment.
Of course, things didn’t work out as we’d hoped. Instead of facing her demons head-on, my daughter attempted suicide. She was lucky to survive. She wouldn’t have recovered had it not been for her close, intensely close relationship with her father. So in that regard, I don’t regret deceiving her. But Roxanne spent the next eight years of her life, right up until a few weeks ago, hating me for what she believed I did. That’s been difficult.
I know that Teddy was telling the truth about paying Andrew off. Partly because he’s a very honorable man. But also because Andrew cashed the check Teddy gave him. I saw that money leave our account. As far as Teddy and I knew, Andrew Beesley was still living somewhere in Australia. I have no idea how or when he died, and no explanation to offer as to how he came to be buried at Kingsmere. However, I can state categorically that I had nothing whatsoever to do with his death or the disposal of his remains.
Signed: Alexia De Vere
Chief Constable Redmayne had read thousands of statements. He prided himself on his instincts, his ability to read through the lines of the half-truths that most people chose to tell. But this one was tricky.
On balance, Cyril Redmayne disagreed with Chief Inspector Gary Wilmott. He was inclined to believe the home secretary’s version of events. But there were anomalies. Clearly it would take a supremely loving mother, and wife, to make the sacrifices that Mrs. De Vere claimed to have made and take the blame for her husband’s actions. Yet throughout her public life, and especially recently, since Michael’s accident, she had become famous for being a cold and distant parent.
Still, you couldn’t hold people in police custody because you found them cold and distant. The psychiatrist backed up Alexia’s story. No doubt her husband, once he started talking, would do the same. The only two people able to contradict this version of events were the De Veres’ son, Michael, who’d been involved in the family discussions about Andrew Beesley and his sister all those years ago . . . and Beesley himself.
One of those people was in a persistent vegetative state.
The other was dead.
Something in the back of Chief Constable Cyril Redmayne’s mind stirred uncomfortably at the neatness of it all. But he quashed his misgivings. All that mattered at the end of the day were the facts.
The facts were that Gary Wilmott had nothing on Alexia De Vere. The sooner they released her, the better.
By six P.M., reporters were camped excitedly outside the Oxford city center police station, occupying the streets like fanatical tennis fans before a Wimbledon final. The line of television camera crews, both British and international, stretched back almost as far as Christchurch Meadows.
To their disappointment, and Chief Constable Redmayne’s relief, the outgoing home secretary left the building by a back door. In the backseat of a blacked-out Range Rover, Sir Edward Manning was waiting, as unruffled and professional as ever.
“To London, I assume, Home Secretary? I told Number Ten we’d call from the car. Understandably the prime minister is eager to talk to you in person. In the meantime I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a preliminary statement.”
“Thank you, Edward. But I’m afraid all that will have to wait. I need to go to the hospital to see Roxie. Then I want to find out what’s happening with Teddy. They’re still questioning him. Can you believe it?”
“Well, Home Secretary, I—”
“I distinctly heard Angus Grey’s voice in the corridor, so at least he had the good sense to ask for a lawyer. But I want him out of there, ASAP. That vile little man Wilmott’s clearly engaged in some sort of tiresome class warfare. He’s been gunning for Teddy since the moment we got home.”
“Be that as it may, Home Secretary—”
“When all this is over I want his head on a plate.”
Sir Edward Manning gave up trying to reason with her. Alexia was quivering, whether from anger or from shock over the events of the last twelve hours, he couldn’t tell. Soon, he prayed, he would be working for a new home secretary, and his inability to read Alexia’s moods would no longer matter. Sir Edward Manning hadn’t heard from Sergei Milescu in weeks. He’d dared to hope that the nightmare was over—that now that Alexia had immersed herself in so much public scandal, Sergei’s mysterious masters no longer needed any additional, private information from him. But the lingering doubt still cast a shadow over his every waking moment, like a cancerous tumor that could return at any time.
The blacked-out car pulled out into the street, gliding past the assembled media like a shadow.
“Very good, Home Secretary. To the hospital it is. But we must call Henry Whitman on our way. The government will need to make some sort of official statement to the media before tomorrow morning.”
Alexia gazed out of the window as they left the city. “Don’t worry, Edward. By tomorrow morning it will all be over.”
“Home Secreatry?”
“My family needs me. I’m going to resign.”
It was all Sir Edward Manning could do not to weep with relief.
The doctor was kind and scrupulously polite. But he was also firm.
