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“Probably not. As I say, he has no history of violence. But with schizophrenics, you don’t take any chances. We believe he’s still in this country, and if he is, we need to find him. More concerning is the phone call you received at Cheyne Walk.”
The screen switched again. William Hamlin’s face was gone, replaced by the angry, heavy-set features of another middle-aged man. This man Alexia did recognize. Instinctively her jaw tightened.
“Gilbert Drake.”
“Indeed.”
Sir Edward Manning looked concerned. “Who’s Gilbert Drake?”
“He’s a taxi driver from East London,” said Commissioner Grant.
“And a friend of Sanjay Patel,” Alexia added bitterly.
“Ah.”
Sir Edward knew about the Patel case. Everyone in Britain knew about the Patel case. It was this case, more than any other, that had dogged Alexia De Vere as prisons minister, and that for a while had threatened to derail her career completely.
Whatever human sympathy Alexia herself might once have had for Sanjay Patel had long since been replaced by cold anger. Not only were Patel’s supporters threatening and aggressive, but the tabloid press, and in particular the Daily Mail, blathered on about the man as if he were Gandhi.
“Fill me in on Drake,” said Sir Edward.
“He’s has been cautioned twice before over threats made toward Mrs. De Vere,” Commissioner Grant explained. “He’s also spent four months inside on a separate charge of firearms possession.”
“And you think Gilbert Drake made the phone call last week?”
“It’s possible.”
“How would a taxi driver from East London have obtained the home secretary’s private home number?”
Commissioner Grant frowned. “That’s of paramount concern to us obviously. We don’t know that it was Drake. But certain things do point toward him. He’s known to have issued threats before. The caller last week also used biblical references.”
Alexia’s skin prickled at the memory. “That’s right.”
“We know that Drake has become active as a born-again Christian. He’s written numerous blog posts using similar language. He’s also made two unexplained trips to the home secretary’s Oxfordshire constituency in the last month. So his interest in Mrs. De Vere must be assumed to be ongoing and active.”
Alexia stood up and walked t
o the window. The distorted voice from that phone call had frightened her more than she liked to admit. The idea that a crass bully like Gilbert Drake could have been behind it offended her pride as much as anything.
“I don’t think it was Drake.”
“May I ask why not?”
“I’m as sure as I can be that the call was placed long distance. Plus the fact that it was untraceable and the use of the synthesized voice both show a sophistication that Gilbert Drake simply doesn’t have. He’s a rock thrower, not a strategist.”
Commissioner Grant mulled this over. “You may be right, Home Secretary. I hope you are. But we should talk about the Patel case.”
Alexia rolled her eyes. “Must we? I am so tired of hearing Sanjay Patel’s name, I can’t tell you. Anyone would think he was a saint, not a convicted drug dealer and human trafficker who was punished appropriately and in accordance with British law.”
Commissioner Grant thought, They’re right about her. He liked Mrs. De Vere more than he’d expected to, but she was as tough as old boots.
“Talk me through the case, ma’am. From your perspective.”
“It’s not a question of perspective, Commissioner. Facts are facts. What happened is a matter of public record.”
“Humor me, Home Secretary. We’re on the same team here.”
Alexia sighed. “Fine. A man named Ahmed Khan was arrested in Dover in 2002. He’d arrived in this country with twelve other men, as part of a shipment of illegal immigrants. Drugs, specifically heroin, were found in the van used to transport Khan. When questioned, Khan told police that he was in fear of his life in Pakistan—of course, they all say that—and that his cousin, Sanjay Patel, had arranged to have him brought to England. He denied any knowledge of the heroin.
