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Beneath the posh British accent, Billy recognized the earnest, concerned tone of the professional social worker. He’d heard it so often back in the States, it was depressingly familiar. But who would have reported him here? Who even knew he was in England?
“Look, I’m fine. I don’t need help.”
“We all need help, Billy, now and then. It’s nothing to be ashamed of.”
“I don’t know who sent you. But I’m fine. Please leave me alone.” Billy fumbled in his pockets for his door key.
“Here.” The stranger came up behind him. “Let me help you with that.”
The knife was so sharp, Billy Hamlin barely felt it slice between his shoulder blades and puncture his heart.
Chapter Twenty-one
Alexia De Vere sipped her iced cranberry juice as she gazed out of the plane window. On her lap, a thick ministerial brief lay open reproachfully. Immigration Solutions for 21st-Century Britain. Somehow even the title sounded dispiriting, a glass of cold water in the face. Alexia couldn’t face it just yet.
Her vacation on Martha’s Vineyard had done her a world of good. Lucy Meyer in particular had lifted her spirits and strengthened her resolve. Alexia had done the right thing by closing the door on Billy Hamlin and her past. Lucy had confirmed it. No good could come of her and Billy meeting now, of conjuring up the ghost of Toni Gilletti and the life she, Alexia, had worked so hard to leave behind. Gradually she started to rewrite the story in her head. She hadn’t callously turned Billy Hamlin away. Billy was ill, and she had gotten him help. Edward Manning had dealt with things, and Alexia trusted Edward Manning. It was time to move on, and get on with the business of government. As for Teddy, put simply, what he didn’t know wouldn’t hurt him.
Teddy was asleep beside her now, snoring peacefully with a half-drunk glass of Glenfiddich in one hand and yesterday’s edition of the Times in the other. With typical thoughtfulness Teddy had flown back to Martha’s Vineyard for the final days of their holiday last week rather than staying on in London and waiting for Alexia there. How many other political husbands would clock up eight thousand air miles in a week just so they could keep their wives company?
Alexia had particularly enjoyed having Teddy with her because Roxie and Michael had both returned to England the week before. Poor Michael had torn himself away from sweet little Summer Meyer with infinite reluctance in order to get back to Tommy and the business. Roxie, not wanting to stay on without her brother, had flown home too. The last few days at the Gables had been like a second honeymoon for Teddy and Alexia, memories that Alexia would cherish for a long, long time.
I wasn’t in love with him when we married, Alexia thought. But I love him now. I love our life together, everything we’ve built.
Easing the newspaper out of Teddy’s hand, being careful not to wake him, she flipped through the home news pages. Edward Manning had briefed her by e-mail twice daily during her vacation, so she was already up to speed on all the news that mattered or that required a statement or action from her. But she hadn’t actually held a British paper in her hands for three weeks.
UNEMPLOYMENT FIGURES RISING
The headline irritated her. Bloody Times leader writers. It was shameless the way they manipulated that data. Jobs were actually being created across the public and private sectors, a point Alexia had made on the BBC News at One via satellite link only yesterday. The Times might be a Murdoch-owned paper, but as far as Alexia could tell, all the journalists who worked there were bloody Trotskyites.
She flipped to page two, and a dull piece about wind farms. Renewable energy bored Alexia rigid, but green issues were important to the PM, so like the rest of the party, Alexia paid lip service. She wondered whether any of the rest of the cabinet knew about Henry Whitman’s affair with Laura Llewellyn, the very beautiful, very married eco-lobbyist whose husband, Miles Llewellyn, was the Conservative Party’s single largest financial donor? Alexia doubted it. She’d only found out herself by chance, running into Henry and Laura quite by accident at an obscure Yorkshire hotel the week before last year’s party conference in Blackpool. If gossip had been flying around, Alexia would probably have been the last to hear of it. Her so-called colleagues in the cabinet were the most standoffish bunch of bastards it had ever been her misfortune to work with. And Alexia De Vere had worked with a great many bastards.
As she turned to page four, a small, single-column story caught her eye.
FATAL STABBING YIELDS NO CLUES
Alexia began to read.
Police currently have no leads into the fatal stabbing of an American man in Edgeware Road on Friday night. William Hamlin, a convicted killer with psychological problems . . .
Alexia clutched her seat arm for support.
. . . who had been denied a visa and entered the United Kingdom illegally, was found dead outside his flat with a bread knife still lodged in his heart.
No. It can’t be true. Not Billy! He’s in America. He’s safe. Edward took care of it.
She read on.
Simon Butler, bar manager of the Old Lion in Baker Street, where Hamlin had become a regular over the summer, described the murdered man as “a lost soul.” Mr. Butler had recently contacted Social Services regarding Hamlin’s volatile mental state, but claims to have been “given the brush-off” by staff. Police are appealing for witnesses.
The print blurred before Alexia’s eyes. Her heart was pounding and her mouth and throat felt dry, as if she’d swallowed sand. She shook Teddy awake.
“Look at this!”
Teddy De Vere sat up abruptly, spilling his whiskey down his shirt. “Damn and blast it. What is it, darling?”
“Look.” Alexia pointed at the picture of Billy, a mug shot that must have been taken well over a decade ago. “That’s him.”
“That’s who?”
