Sidney Sheldon's the Tides of Memory

by Sidney Sheldon

  “Well, you can’t have it. Not without more evidence.”

  Chief Inspector Wilmott got up to leave. The chief constable called after him.

  “She might be telling the truth, you know. Just because you don’t like her. It is a possibility.”

  “Pigs might fly.”

  After Wilmott had gone, Cyril Redmayne read through Alexia De Vere’s statement for a third time. If it were true, then a lot of people had misjudged the home secretary. Not least her own daughter.

  Statement to police,

  Andrew Beesley was an Australian tennis coach who came to work for my family eight years ago. Shortly afterward, he began a romantic relationship with my daughter, Roxanne, which quickly became serious. Too quickly, in my view, although it was my husband who most vehemently disapproved of the match. Teddy felt Andrew was a blatant gold digger, and that it was our duty to protect Roxie and stop her from marrying him.

  We discussed the idea of offering Andrew money to leave. I was against it, mostly on the grounds that I thought it unlikely the boy would accept, and that he might well tell Roxie we’d approached him, which would only make things worse between our daughter and ourselves. We agreed that our son, Michael, would talk to Andrew privately instead and see if he could warn him off. Anyway, not long after that, Andrew disappeared. He failed to show up for work one day, and that was that. Initially I didn’t question it. I was delighted he’d pushed off; we all were. But weeks went by, and Roxie was becoming increasingly distraught and unable to cope. She couldn’t accept that Andrew had dumped her so suddenly. That’s when Teddy told me that he had paid Andrew off, even though I thought we had agreed not to. The boy had bitten his hand off apparently, and was only too eager to hightail it back to Australia with Teddy’s check in his pocket.

  The problem was Roxie. She’d suffered from depression as a teenager, quite badly, and her mental health was fragile at the best of times. Teddy and I had a private meeting with Dr. Lizzie Hunt, Roxie’s psychiatrist, to discuss how we should handle Andrew’s departure. Lizzie felt that having been abandoned by one man she loved, Roxie would not be able to cope with a second betrayal from Teddy—that she would see her father’s intervention as a betrayal. So we agreed, the three of us, that I would allow Roxanne to believe it was me who had bribed Andrew to leave. That way Roxie’s relationship with Teddy would remain intact, and hopefully she would one day rebuild enough trust in men to start a new, more appropriate romantic attachment.

  Of course, things didn’t work out as we’d hoped. Instead of facing her demons head-on, my daughter attempted suicide. She was lucky to survive. She wouldn’t have recovered had it not been for her close, intensely close relationship with her father. So in that regard, I don’t regret deceiving her. But Roxanne spent the next eight years of her life, right up until a few weeks ago, hating me for what she believed I did. That’s been difficult.

  I know that Teddy was telling the truth about paying Andrew off. Partly because he’s a very honorable man. But also because Andrew cashed the check Teddy gave him. I saw that money leave our account. As far as Teddy and I knew, Andrew Beesley was still living somewhere in Australia. I have no idea how or when he died, and no explanation to offer as to how he came to be buried at Kingsmere. However, I can state categorically that I had nothing whatsoever to do with his death or the disposal of his remains.

  Signed: Alexia De Vere

  Chief Constable Redmayne had read thousands of statements. He prided himself on his instincts, his ability to read through the lines of the half-truths that most people chose to tell. But this one was tricky.

  On balance, Cyril Redmayne disagreed with Chief Inspector Gary Wilmott. He was inclined to believe the home secretary’s version of events. But there were anomalies. Clearly it would take a supremely loving mother, and wife, to make the sacrifices that Mrs. De Vere claimed to have made and take the blame for her husband’s actions. Yet throughout her public life, and especially recently, since Michael’s accident, she had become famous for being a cold and distant parent.

  Still, you couldn’t hold people in police custody because you found them cold and distant. The psychiatrist backed up Alexia’s story. No doubt her husband, once he started talking, would do the same. The only two people able to contradict this version of events were the De Veres’ son, Michael, who’d been involved in the family discussions about Andrew Beesley and his sister all those years ago . . . and Beesley himself.

  One of those people was in a persistent vegetative state.

  The other was dead.

  Something in the back of Chief Constable Cyril Redmayne’s mind stirred uncomfortably at the neatness of it all. But he quashed his misgivings. All that mattered at the end of the day were the facts.

  The facts were that Gary Wilmott had nothing on Alexia De Vere. The sooner they released her, the better.

  By six P.M., reporters were camped excitedly outside the Oxford city center police station, occupying the streets like fanatical tennis fans before a Wimbledon final. The line of television camera crews, both British and international, stretched back almost as far as Christchurch Meadows.

  To their disappointment, and Chief Constable Redmayne’s relief, the outgoing home secretary left the building by a back door. In the backseat of a blacked-out Range Rover, Sir Edward Manning was waiting, as unruffled and professional as ever.

  “To London, I assume, Home Secretary? I told Number Ten we’d call from the car. Understandably the prime minister is eager to talk to you in person. In the meantime I’ve taken the liberty of preparing a preliminary statement.”

  “Thank you, Edward. But I’m afraid all that will have to wait. I need to go to the hospital to see Roxie. Then I want to find out what’s happening with Teddy. They’re still questioning him. Can you believe it?”

  “Well, Home Secretary, I—”

  “I distinctly heard Angus Grey’s voice in the corridor, so at least he had the good sense to ask for a lawyer. But I want him out of there, ASAP. That vile little man Wilmott’s clearly engaged in some sort of tiresome class warfare. He’s been gunning for Teddy since the moment we got home.”

  “Be that as it may, Home Secretary—”

  “When all this is over I want his head on a plate.”

  Sir Edward Manning gave up trying to reason with her. Alexia was quivering, whether from anger or from shock over the events of the last twelve hours, he couldn’t tell. Soon, he prayed, he would be working for a new home secretary, and his inability to read Alexia’s moods would no longer matter. Sir Edward Manning hadn’t heard from Sergei Milescu in weeks. He’d dared to hope that the nightmare was over—that now that Alexia had immersed herself in so much public scandal, Sergei’s mysterious masters no longer needed any additional, private information from him. But the lingering doubt still cast a shadow over his every waking moment, like a cancerous tumor that could return at any time.

  The blacked-out car pulled out into the street, gliding past the assembled media like a shadow.

  “Very good, Home Secretary. To the hospital it is. But we must call Henry Whitman on our way. The government will need to make some sort of official statement to the media before tomorrow morning.”

  Alexia gazed out of the window as they left the city. “Don’t worry, Edward. By tomorrow morning it will all be over.”

  “Home Secreatry?”

  “My family needs me. I’m going to resign.”

  It was all Sir Edward Manning could do not to weep with relief.

  The doctor was kind and scrupulously polite. But he was also firm.

  “There’s absolutely no way I can let you see her, Mrs. De Vere.”

  “But I’m her mother.”

  “I know that.”

  “She thinks I’ve done something terrible. That’s what’s caused all this. But she’s wrong. She needs to know the truth.”

  “Roxanne is extremely unwell, Mrs. De Vere. She’s experienced what we call a psychotic break. Above all else she needs re
st and calm, and to avoid all stress triggers.”

  “And that’s what I am, is it? That’s what I’ve been reduced to. A ‘stress trigger’?”

  “I’m afraid so.”

  “And the truth be damned, is that it?”

  She was angry, but not with the doctor. It was her own lies that had brought her and her family here, well intentioned or not.

  Back in the car she turned her frustrations on Edward. “Any word on Teddy?”

  “No, Home Secretary. Not yet.”

  “Then take me back to London.”

  “Of course, Home Secretary.”

  “And stop calling me that! I’ve already told you I’m going to resign. In fact, give me the phone. I’ll do it right now.”

  Sir Edward Manning looked alarmed. “Are you sure that’s wise?”

  “Just do as I ask!”

  “No disrespect, Home Sec . . . Alexia. But you’re very emotional. Wouldn’t it be better if you spoke to the prime minister in a calmer frame of mind?”

  “I am not emotional,” Alexia shouted. And without warning, she burst into tears.

  For the next twenty-four hours, Sir Edward Manning took over everything. Rather than take her home to Cheyne Walk, where scores of reporters were bound to be waiting, he checked Alexia into Blakes Hotel in South Kensington and put her to bed with a strong sleeping pill. When she awoke, disorientated but deeply rested, it was almost noon.

  “The prime minister was very understanding,” Sir Edward told her over a late breakfast of croissants and strong black coffee. “He’s expecting your call this afternoon. I’ve drawn up a formal resignation letter, whenever you’re ready to take a look at it.”

  “Thank you.” Alexia took the proffered sheet of paper gratefully. “I’m sorry if I was rude to you yesterday, Edward.”

  “Think nothing of it, Home Secretary. I quite understand.”

  “And Teddy? Is he back at Kingsmere? Does he know where I am?”

  “Ah, yes. Unfortunately he’s still being held by Thames Valley police.”

  Alexia’s eyes widened. “They kept him overnight?”

  “It appears so.”

  “On what grounds?”

  “Further questioning, I assume. I’ve arranged a meeting for you with Angus Grey at two-thirty P.M. It’s at his offices in Gray’s Inn Road. I tried to do it here but Mr. Gray has court at four P.M., then drives straight back to Oxford to see Teddy, so it wasn’t possible.”

  “That’s wonderful, Edward, thank you so much.” Alexia took all this in. She felt immensely relieved to be seeing Angus. Angus would know what to do. “And the hospital?” she asked Sir Edward Manning. “I don’t suppose you had a chance . . .”

  “I called both hospitals and inquired after both Roxanne and Michael.”

  Alexia looked at him hopefully.

  “No change, I’m afraid.”

  Her face fell.

  Sir Edward Manning thought: She seems vulnerable this morning. Fragile. If only voters and colleagues could see this side to her. The side that cares more about her children and her husband than the fact that she’s about to end her political career.

  Still, it was too late now. Alexia had lost her political career. And Sir Edward Manning was about to get his life back.

  Angus Grey, QC’s office reeked of power and privilege the way a racehorse reeks of sweat. From the oak-paneled walls, to the Oxford University Boat Club photographs on the wall, to the signed pictures of Angus with various Tory Party grandees that littered the desk, it was a room that reflected its owner’s elite, establishment background to a T.

  Angus Grey himself was a fit, still-attractive man in his early sixties with gunmetal-gray hair, a light tan from a recent week’s break on the Italian Riviera, and a pair of intense blue eyes, which he focused now wholly on Alexia.

  “My dear girl. You look tired. How are the ribs?”

  “Fine,” Alexia said truthfully. With so much else going on, her brain seemed to have tuned out the pain from her bullet wound.

  “Good. Well, you must keep up your strength. Joan, bring Mrs. De Vere some tea, would you? And a slice of Battenburg.”

  Alexia sank down into a leather chesterfield sofa and closed her eyes for a moment.

  “Sir Edward Manning tells me you’ve resigned.” Angus had known Alexia a long time. He could afford to be direct.

  She nodded. “They’ll announce it tomorrow morning. Although if you listen closely, you can probably hear the trade and industry secretary rubbing his hands together with glee as we speak.”

  Angus smiled.

  “I can’t go on. I’m finished politically. And even if I weren’t, too much is happening at home.”

  “I quite understand.”

  “First Michael, now this. Andrew Beesley, dead. Just when I thought he couldn’t cause my family any more heartache! Roxanne’s in utter pieces, blaming me. What on earth’s happening, Angus? The world’s gone mad. My world anyway.”

  “Best to tackle these things one at a time,” Angus Grey said sensibly. “Let’s talk about Teddy.”

  “Yes. Why haven’t they released him yet? No one will tell me anything.”

  “I don’t think there’s anything fundamental to worry about. I was with him until eleven last night, and again this morning for two hours of questions. He admitted to offering the boy money to go back to Australia all those years ago, so your stories dovetail completely.”

  “That’s because they aren’t stories,” said Alexia. “Is he a suspect?”

  “Yes,” the QC said bluntly. “Have you heard from Roxanne?”

  Alexia slumped down in her chair, defeated. “No. They won’t let me see her. What am I going to do, Angus? I feel completely lost.”

  Angus Grey leaned across the desk. “Try not to panic. Look at this rationally. Roxanne’s in a safe place, getting the help she needs. As for Teddy, this isn’t pleasant, but it’s par for the course. The boy was murdered, okay? And he was buried on your land. By your own admission, you and Teddy wanted rid of him. It’s only natural that the police would focus their suspicions on your family first.”

  “It may be natural, Angus. It just happens to be wrong.”

  “What about Michael?”

  Alexia stiffened. “What about him?”

  “He didn’t approve of this boy Andrew either, did he? Is it possible the two of them met to discuss things and got into a fight? They might have been drinking. Things could have got out of hand.”

  “Andrew was killed with a shotgun, Angus. At least that’s what the police told Teddy and me. Two bullets to the back of the head. That’s not a ‘fight that got out of hand.’ That’s an execution.”

  “Is it possible that Michael . . . ?”

  “No.” Alexia shook her head vehemently. “My son isn’t capable of that.”

  Angus Grey raised an eyebrow but Alexia was unequivocal. “No.”

  “Think about it, Alexia. Michael’s unconscious and likely to remain so. If he were to be convicted of this, he’d know nothing about it. Nothing would change.”

  “Except that he’d have been branded a murderer. Falsely branded.”

  “Okay. But if they pin this on Teddy, he’ll go down for life.”

  Alexia laughed despairingly. “This is insanity! Neither of them killed Andrew Beesley.”

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I know them, Angus. I know them!” With an effort, Alexia calmed herself down. “Look. I don’t know who killed Beesley and I don’t know why whoever it was buried him at Kingsmere. Maybe they hoped to frame me for the murder? There are plenty of crackpots out there.”

  “It’s possible, of course.”

  “I daresay Roxanne wasn’t the first girl Andrew had ever deceived or hurt. Who knows how many enemies the boy may have made.”

  “Yes, but to dispose of the body in your grounds? There must be a link, a connection to your family.”

  “Not necessarily. Maybe the killer was simply a local who thought t
he corpse was unlikely to be disturbed in an obscure part of the estate. They were right, in a way. It was the pagoda that brought the remains to the surface. If that had never been built . . . or, if it had been finished, and the concrete foundations poured like they were supposed to be . . . no one would ever have found him. He’d have had his own, private mausoleum. Which was more than he deserved, by the way. He was a thoroughly unpleasant young man.”

  She watched Angus Grey’s brilliant mind ticking.

  “You mentioned the possibility of somebody trying to frame you. Is there anyone in particular you were thinking of? Anyone with a vendetta against you or a reason to go to such drastic lengths?”

  “No. The Patel people, I suppose. But I don’t think they’d kill a man just to get back at me.” Alexia thought about it. “There were a couple of incidents around the time I first took office. Teddy’s dog was poisoned.”

  “Where? At Kingsmere?”

  Alexia nodded. “It was horrible actually. Poor Teddy was terribly cut up at the time.”

  “I’ll bet he was.”

  “Yes, but come on, Angus. It was a dog. Not quite the same thing as slaughtering a man in cold blood, is it?”

  Sir Edward Manning looked at his watch as he hurried along the Strand.

  Two forty-five. He couldn’t be long. He must be available when the home secretary got out of her lawyer’s meeting. But he needed to give Sergei the good news.

  Alexia De Vere was about to resign.

  Sergei’s bosses, whoever they were, would get what they wanted.

  In the back of his mind, Sir Edward Manning feared that this might not be the last he heard of Sergei Milescu. The bastard had those pictures, after all. He could still blackmail him, still use him for his own ends in the future, if he chose to. But for now, at least, the immediate danger was past. Sir Edward sensed that Sergei had become as scared as he was. He would want to know this. He would be grateful that Edward had told him personally, as soon as he was able.

  Sergei’s new flat was in a modern building on the Embankment. While not luxurious, it was certainly far more than he could afford on his salary as a House of Lords janitor. Running up the stairs to the second floor, Sir Edward Manning wondered briefly who was paying Sergei’s rent. Then he put the thought out of his mind. By tomorrow morning, it wouldn’t matter.