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Others were cheap sob stories, whipped up to tragic proportions by the press. Summer found it hard to feel much compassion for Darren Niles, for example, a career burglar whose fiancée had jilted him at the prospect of a further eighteen-month wait for their wedding date.
But the overwhelming bulk of the coverage related to one man, Sanjay Patel. Convicted for drug trafficking on what his supporters clearly believed to be trumped-up evidence, Patel had hanged himself in prison in despair over a lengthening of his sentence.
Summer traced her fingers over the pictures of Patel’s face. There was something sweet about him, sweet and gentle and sad. If Sanjay Patel had smuggled heroin, she could see why the cartels chose him. He had the perfect face for a drug mule, utterly guileless, his dark eyes shining with innocence and integrity even from beyond the grave.
His so-called friends, however, were far from innocent. Next to the Patel clippings, Michael had kept photocopies of three threatening letters sent to his mother. Two of them were handwritten, if you could call it writing—the spelling and grammar would have made a five-year-old blush—and were clearly from the same individual. A man, judging by his liberal use of the C-word and other explicitly sexist, borderline gynecological slurs. But it wasn’t the language in the letter that shocked Summer so much as the hatred resonating from each line. The writer wanted to slash Alexia’s “throte” until she screamed like a “squeeling fucking pig.” He looked forward to “slicing” her tits off, making her pay “for what you done, you stinking c—t.” The third letter was much more erudite, liberally quoting scripture and invoking the wrath of a vengeful God, in punishment for Alexia’s “sins.” Summer didn’t know which of the letters chilled her more. She was no fan of Alexia’s, especially not at the moment. But the letters made even her blood run cold.
She wondered how Michael had gotten hold of them and why he kept them. Were they connected to this secret, whatever it was, this “bad thing” that someone close to him had done? Or was he merely concerned about his mother’s safety generally, or her security at the Kingsmere party in particular?
Possibly. But that didn’t really add up either. As home secretary, Alexia had plenty of police and secret-service protection at her disposal 24/7. She wouldn’t have needed Michael’s amateurish efforts. Someth
ing wasn’t right.
There were other things in the box that Summer found curious. In the middle of the file, diligently tagged with dated yellow stickers, was a stack of documents relating to the prime minister. Some were letters that Henry Whitman had written to Alexia around the time of her appointment as home secretary. Others were copies of replies that Alexia had sent him. Still others bore no obvious relation to Alexia at all. There were articles about Whitman opening a hospital, about his wife, Charlotte, attending a charity event. Innocuous pieces about the prime minister’s commitment to renewable energy projects, each one carefully cut out, dated, and filed. Michael—or someone—must have thought them significant.
Why?
The telephone rang, scaring her half to death. Who on earth would be calling here? As far as she knew, no one used Michael’s landline number as a contact number for her. Except the hospital. For emergencies. Oh God, no.
“Hello?” The panic in her voice was audible.
“You sound terrible, my dear. Is everything all right?”
“Teddy!” She let out a long breath. Thank God. “I’m fine. I thought it might be the hospital calling.”
“No, no. Only me. Now listen. Your ma rang earlier and asked me to keep an eye on you while you’re in Oxford. I’m to make sure you’re not wasting away in that gloomy flat or starving to death on hospital food.”
Summer laughed. “You can tell my mother I’ve been cooking for myself for some time now. Years, actually.”
“Be that as it may, I was hoping you might want to join us at Kingsmere for dinner.”
Join “us.” Did that mean Alexia too?
As if reading her mind, Teddy said, “Alexia’s away in London, so Roxanne and I are rattling around here on our own like two lost pebbles. You’d be doing an old man a favor.”
Suddenly Summer wanted to see Teddy and Roxie, kind, familiar faces of people who loved Michael as much as she did. They too were infrequent visitors at the hospital, but somehow Summer could tell that their absence at Michael’s bedside was born of heartache, not callousness, like his mother’s.
“All right. That would be lovely, thanks. What time would you like me to arrive?”
“Now, my dear. My driver should be with you at any minute.”
“Now? But I haven’t changed or showered or—”
“Never mind that. Just pack an overnight bag and hop in the car.”
An overnight bag? Summer considered protesting but changed her mind. Why not get away for a while? As long as she was back in Oxford by tomorrow night, in time for her daily visit to Michael.
Throwing some clothes into a bag, she waited for the doorbell to ring. How thoughtful of Teddy to send a driver. He really was the kindest man in the world.
Chapter Twenty-six
Gravel crunched satisfyingly beneath Summer’s feet as she pushed Roxie De Vere’s wheelchair down the long drive at Kingsmere.
“It’s so beautiful here. You must wake up every morning and pinch yourself.”
Roxie smiled. “Not exactly. But it is lovely. I’m not sure I could live anywhere else.”
After a hearty breakfast of kedgeree and strong black coffee, the girls were out for a morning walk. Whether it was the cloud-soft, goose-feather bed in the guest room, last night’s wonderful food and wine, or the simple pleasure of being in the company of old friends, Summer didn’t know, but she felt revived and refreshed this morning in a way she hadn’t felt in a long time. The blue sky, and slight crispness to the air, somehow brought a sense of hope, and the rooks cawing in the treetops seemed to be heralding a new start.
