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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.”
