The prime minister went back to her flat at Number 11, sadly took another pill, then a steaming hot shower. Afterward she sat buck naked in her favorite chair, clipping and polishing her toenails as she mentally prepared herself for the days to come. There would be a record-setting firestorm from the media over David Heaton’s murder. She was sure Burnlee and his group would cover it up and expose some lurid criminal side of David’s life that had overcome him. Some Russian mob or another would be blamed. It would be perfectly papered over and eventually die down, she was sure of that.
She would do as she said, though. In the coming months, she would figure out how to lance the government of Burnlee and the others. She would smoke them out from the places of power they were nestled into, and then she’d be done. She’d resign.
She dressed, dried her hair, and then called her father. Fighting more tears, she told him she needed “help.” After her phone call, she made herself a tea. She sipped it slowly as she looked out the leaded windows onto the Horse Guards Parade grounds, trying as hard as she could to not think about Davina Steel.