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But no. The bedroom was empty, a pile of neatly folded clothes the only sign that Sergei had been home at all. Did he leave in a hurry and forget to close the front door behind him? Maybe. But again, there was nothing lying around to suggest such a rush. Everything was as it should be, ordered, organized, clean.
Sir Edward Manning pushed open the door to the bathroom. If Sergei had left town, he’d have taken his toiletries, his personal things. The boy’s mind might be a depraved sewer, but his hygiene habits were irreproachable.
The bath was on a raised platform, a sort of marble pedestal. The first thing Sir Edward Manning noticed was that it was overflowing.
The second thing he noticed was that it wasn’t overflowing with water.
It was overflowing with blood.
Sergei Milescu’s corpse bobbed grotesquely in the water, sliced down the middle like a butchered pig. He’d been disemboweled.
Sir Edward Manning turned and ran.
Emerging from the QC’s office into the bright afternoon light, Alexia walked down Gray’s Inn Road with no sense of where she was going or why. With Teddy by her side, she felt strong, capable, resilient. Without him, and without her political career to anchor her and give her focus, she was lost, drifting, as insubstantial and helpless as a feather in the wind.
I’m frightened.
The realization came as a shock. She stopped. Part of her wanted to run back to Angus Grey’s office, to have Angus reassure her that Teddy was bound to be released tonight, that it would all be all right. The police could only hold him for forty-eight hours unless they charged him. But Angus would be on his way to court by now.
She could go to Oxford and wait for news, but where would she stay? The thought of another night in a hotel depressed her deeply. I can’t live my life on the run. But she could hardly go home either, not with her resignation about to be announced tomorrow. Kingsmere was still a crime scene, and would be crawling with police and news reporters for the next few weeks at least. Cheyne Walk was her best bet, but that too would be surrounded by journalists awaiting news of her resignation like wolves slavering at the prospect of fresh meat. I can’t face them yet. Not alone. Not without Teddy.
“Excuse me.”
An unseen hand tapped her on the shoulder. She jumped.
“What? What do you want?”
The hand belonged to a woman. She looked at Alexia curiously.
“Your phone’s ringing.”
In a daze, Alexia pulled the cell out of her bag. “Hello?”
Lucy Meyer’s voice was like a message from another planet. “Alexia. Thank Gaaad you picked up. What on earth’s going on over there? We saw something on the news about a murder at Kingsmere, but Summer hasn’t told us anything. Is it true?”
“It’s true,” Alexia said bleakly. “They found a body. It was Andrew, Roxie’s ex.”
Lucy gasped. “No way.”
“I know. It’s insanity, Luce. The police are still questioning Teddy.”
“But surely they don’t think Teddy—”
“I don’t know what they think. I’ve resigned from the cabinet.”
“Oh my God, Alexia, no! You can’t.”
“I had to. Roxanne’s had a collapse. I really . . . I can’t begin to describe how bad things are.” Her voice was breaking. Aware that people on the street were staring at her, Alexia ducked into an alleyway. “I don’t know what to do. I don’t know where to go.”
“I do,” Lucy said immediately. “Come here.”
Alexia pictured Lucy in her kitchen at Martha’s Vineyard, apron on, hands covered in flour. How she longed for that wholesomeness, that normality, that safe, stable predictable cocoon in which Lucy Meyer lived her life. A life without ambition, without risk, without tragedy.
“You’re so sweet.”
“I’m not sweet,” said Lucy. “I’m serious. Come here. You need to recuperate anyway. It was only a couple of weeks ago that you got shot, for God’s sake. You’re not superwoman.”
“So it would seem,” Alexia said sadly.
