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Her phone buzzed loudly.
“Sorry to disturb you, Home Secretary. But I have Ten Downing Street on line one. I assume you’ll take the prime minister’s call?”
Alexia De Vere shook her head, willing the ghosts of the past away.
“Of course, Edward. Put him through.”
South of the river, less than a mile from Alexia De Vere’s opulent Westminster office but a world apart, Gilbert Drake sat in Maggie’s Café, hunched over his egg and beans. A classic British greasy spoon, complete with grime-encrusted windows and a peeling linoleum floor, Maggie’s was a popular haunt for cabbies and construction workers on their way to work on the more affluent north side of the river. Gilbert Drake was a regular. Most mornings he was chatty and full of smiles. But not today. Staring at the picture in his newspaper as if he’d seen a ghost, he pressed his hands to his temples.
This can’t be happening.
How is this happening?
There she was, that bitch Alexia De Vere, smiling for the camera as she shook hands with the prime minister. Gilbert Drake would never forget that face as long as he lived. The proud, jutting jaw, the disdainful curl of the lips, the cold, steely glint of those blue eyes, as pretty and empty and heartless as a doll’s. The caption beneath the picture read Britain’s new home secretary starts work.
Reading the article was painful, like picking at a newly healed scab, but Gilbert Drake forced himself to go on.
In an appointment that surprised many at Westminster and wrong-footed both the media and the bookies, junior prisons minister Alexia De Vere was named as the new home secretary yesterday. The prime minister, Henry Whitman, has described Mrs. De Vere as “a star” and “a pivotal figure” in his new-look cabinet. Kevin Lomax, the secretary of state for trade and industry, who had been widely tipped to replace Humphrey Crewe at the home office after his resignation, told reporters he was “delighted” to hear of Mrs. De Vere’s appointment and that he “hugely looked forward” to working with her.
Gilbert Drake closed his newspaper in disgust.
Gilbert’s best friend, Sanjay Patel, was dead because of that bitch. Sanjay, who had protected Gilbert from the bullies at school and in their Peckham public housing project. Sanjay, who’d worked hard all his life to put food on his family’s table and faced all life’s disappointments with a smile. Sanjay, who’d been imprisoned, wrongly imprisoned, set up by the police, simply for trying to help a cousin escape persecution. Sanjay was dead. While that whore, that she-wolf, Alexia De Vere, was riding high, the toast of London.
It was not to be borne. Gilbert Drake would not bear it.
The righteous will be glad when they are avenged, when they bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked.
Maggie, the café’s eponymous proprietress, refilled Gilbert’s mug of tea. “Eat up, Gil. Your egg’s going cold.”
Gilbert Drake didn’t hear her.
All he heard was his friend Sanjay Patel’s voice begging for vengeance.
Charlotte Whitman, the prime minister’s wife, rolled over in bed and stroked her husband’s chest. It was four in the morning and Henry was awake, again, staring at the ceiling like a prisoner waiting to face the firing squad.
“What is it, Henry? What’s the matter?”
Henry Whitman covered his wife’s hand with his.
“Nothing. I’m not sleeping too well, that’s all. Sorry if I woke you.”
“You would tell me if there were a problem, wouldn’t you?”
“Darling Charlotte.” He pulled her close. “I’m the prime minister. My life is nothing but problems as far as the eye can see.”
“You know what I mean. I mean a real problem. Something you can’t handle.”
“I’m fine, darling, honestly. Try and go back to sleep.”
Soon Charlotte Whitman was slumbering soundly. Henry watched her, her words ringing in his ears. Something you can’t handle . . .
Thanks to him, Alexia De Vere’s face was on the front page of every newspaper. Speculation about her appointment was rife, but no one knew anything. No one except Henry Whitman. And he intended to take the secret to his grave.
Was Alexia De Vere a problem that he couldn’t handle? Henry Whitman sincerely hoped not. Either way it was too late now. The appointment was made. The deed was done.
Britain’s new prime minister lay awake until dawn, just as he knew he would.
No rest for the wicked.
