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“As I said, Home Secretary, the threat isn’t active. And your security is vitally important. If I may . . .”
Without waiting for approval, Commissioner Grant pulled a laptop out of his briefcase and plunked it down on Alexia’s desk. Pushing a stack of documents to one side, he launched directly into a PowerPoint presentation.
“As prisons minister, you received more threats last year than any other Tory politician.”
It was a punchy opening. Alexia thought, He’s not frightened of me. That’s good.
“I did upset a few people.”
“More than a few, Home Secretary. This is a list of incidents relating to your security. Everything from protest marches to egg throwing to hate mail is listed here, in order of seriousness. My job is to isolate the genuine danger from the, er . . .”
“General sea of loathing?” Alexia smiled. The commissioner smiled back.
“I was going to say ‘from the merely unpleasant.’ ”
“Right. How can I help?”
“If I understand correctly from Sir Edward, there have been three specific incidents since your appointment as home secretary. The individual who tried to gain admittance to your country residence. The poisoning of your husband’s dog. And the threatening phone call made to your London home.”
“That’s correct. Do you think the three are linked?”
“No.”
Alexia raised an eyebrow. It was a more unequivocal response than she’d expected.
“At least, the death of the dog may be connected to the late-night visit to Kingsmere. But the phone call we’re treating as a separate incident. Here’s what we know so far.”
With a click of the mouse, Commissioner Grant brought up a new screen. Alexia found herself looking into the face of a man about her own age. He had thinning blond hair, striking azure-blue eyes, and a gentle, if somewhat confused, expression on his face.
“William Jeffrey Hamlin. We’re pretty sure this is the man who came to Kingsmere the other night.”
Alexia sounded suitably amazed. “How on earth do you know that?”
“Our technicians did some work on the CCTV footage. We got a partial on the face. Your gatekeeper remembered that the man had an American accent, so we sent the images to our friends at the State Department and the FBI on the off chance. We got lucky. If he hadn’t had a prison record, we’d never have found him.”
Sir Edward Manning asked, “What sort of prison record?”
“Second-degree murder.”
Alexia bit her lower lip nervously.
“It’s not as bad as it sounds. A child drowned, back in the early 1970s, while in Hamlin’s care. He got out in the late eighties. No history of violence, no subsequent offenses. From everything we know, I’d be highly surprised if he poisoned your dog, Home Secretary.”
Alexia looked at William Hamlin’s kind eyes and agreed.
“What’s he doing here?” asked Sir Edward. “In this country, I mean.”
“We don’t know. He may just be on vacation. What we do know is he has a long history of psychiatric problems.” The commissioner turned to Alexia. “Home Secretary, are you aware of any reason why this man might be interested in you?”
Alexia shook her head. “None whatsoever.”
She gazed at the face on the screen. There was something so sad about it.
“And the name William Hamlin means nothing to you?”
“Sorry. No.”
Sir Edward asked, “Is he dangerous?”
