“Right! I need to walk off that lunch,” she said. “Any suggestions?”
“Yes, I’ll take you up to Hambledon Hill. Climb in, milady.” Marcus opened the passenger door of the car for her.
They stepped out a few miles later, and Joanna looked up at the gentle rise of a tall hill. It was now three in the afternoon and the sun was just beginning to set, sending golden rays skipping over the snow-covered slope. It reminded her so much of home on the Yorkshire moors that she felt a lump in her throat.
“I love this place,” Marcus said, crooking his arm through hers. “I used to come up here a lot when I was staying with my grandfather during the holidays—I’d just sit on the top of the hill to have a think and get away from everything.”
They walked upward, arm in arm, and Joanna reveled in how still and peaceful her mind felt here with Marcus, so far away from London. They stopped to sit down on a tree stump halfway up the hill, and admire the view.
“What did you think about when you came up here?” she asked him.
“Oh, you know . . . boy stuff,” he hedged.
“I don’t know. Tell me,” she encouraged him.
“I thought about what I was going to do when I was older,” he said, looking into the distance. “My mum . . . she really loved nature and was passionate about protecting it. She was what one might call an ‘eco warrior’ and used to go on Greenpeace marches and lobby Parliament. I just always wanted to do something that she’d be proud of, you know?” He turned and looked at her, and she found herself captivated by his gaze. “Something important, something that mattered, I—” He broke off, and kicked at the snow. “But since then, it’s all gone wrong, so I think she’d be disappointed.”
“I don’t believe she would be,” Joanna said eventually.
Marcus turned to her with a sad smile. “You don’t?”
She shook her head. “No. Mums always love their kids, no matter what. And the main thing is, you’ve tried. And your new film project really sounds worthwhile.”
“It is, if I can get the funding for it. To be honest, Jo, I really am crap with money. I’ve realized recently that I let my heart rule my head, jump in with both feet first because I’m excited by the idea, and never see the risks. I’m like that with relationships too . . . all or nothing, that’s me,” he confessed. “Just like my mum was.”
“There’s nothing wrong with being passionate, Marcus.”
“There is when you’re using other people’s money to fund it . . . I’ve been thinking recently that if I get this new project off the ground, I’m going to shadow Ben MacIntyre, the director, as an assistant. Maybe I should concentrate on the ‘vision’ in future, rather than the finances.”
“Maybe you should,” Joanna agreed.
“Now, I’m freezing my knackers off, why don’t we head home?”
“Soft southerners,” she said in her broadest Yorkshire accent. “Can’t ’ack the cold!”
They returned to the relative warmth of Haycroft House, and while Marcus heaved the boxes back into the attic, Joanna tidied the kitchen.
“All set?” Marcus stood in the hall as she arrived downstairs, having collected her holdall.
“Yes. Thanks for the weekend, Marcus. I’ve really enjoyed it. And I really don’t want to go back to London.”
Marcus returned the key to its hiding place before jumping behind the wheel next to her and starting the engine. Turning out of the drive, he caught a flash of the gray car he’d seen the day before, and Joanna followed his glance.
“Who’s that? Nosy neighbors?” she said.
“Probably just some bird-watchers out to freeze their rocks off over some robins,” he answered. “They were here yesterday too. Either that, or they’re going to nick all the valuables in the place.”
Joanna stiffened. “Don’t you think you ought to let the police know?”
“Jo, I was joking!” he said as they passed the parked car.
Joanna was not calmed by his casual reply. The earlier peace she had felt evaporated, and for the rest of their drive to London, she surreptitiously kept an eye on the rearview mirror, tensing at every gray car they saw.
On Highgate Hill, Marcus parked the Golf in front of Simon’s building.
“Thanks, Marcus. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.”
“Just make sure you get the family and me at least a double-page spread on the memorial fund in that rag of yours. Listen, Jo.” He leaned over the gearstick and gripped her hand before she could escape. “Can I see you again? Maybe dinner on Thursday evening?”
“Yes,” she said without hesitation. She leaned over and kissed him lightly on the lips. “I’ll see you on Thursday. Bye, Marcus.”
“Bye, Jo,” he answered wistfully as she climbed out of the car and pulled her holdall out of the trunk.
“I’ll miss you,” he whispered as she gave him a wave and a smile and walked up to the front door.
As Joanna soldiered up the long flight of stairs, she decided that there was far more to Marcus Harrison than she had expected. But as she turned the key in the lock, the warmth in her belly was immediately replaced by the cold fear that she had been followed again. By whom? And what exactly could they want with her?
She took off her coat, with a renewed gratitude for the modern convenience of timed central heating, then placed the photograph she had acquired from Haycroft House on the coffee table. She went to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea and make a sandwich, then settled down at the table. Collecting the pile of biographies, then pulling the music-hall program and the photocopy of the love letter Rose had given her out of her rucksack, she placed everything in front of her. She reread both Rose’s note and the love letter, then flicked through the old program from the Hackney Empire, studying the photographs of the cast. Her heart began to pound as she finally recognized a face.
Mr. Michael O’Connell! Impersonator Extraordinaire! the program read beneath the photograph.
Joanna put the picture she had brought back from Dorset beside it and compared the faces of James Harrison and Michael O’Connell. Even though the picture in the program was old and grainy, there was little doubt. With his dark blond hair and devoid of a moustache, the young actor calling himself Michael O’Connell was a double for James Harrison. Unless they were twins, they had to be one and the same man.
But why? Why would Michael O’Connell alter his name? Yes, it was quite possible he would have decided to acquire a stage name that he felt suited him better, but surely he’d have done that right at the beginning of his career, not a few years later? By the time he’d married Grace in 1929, he’d apparently dyed his hair black and grown a moustache. And none of the biographies noted any change of name. The early details all related to the “Harrison” family.
Joanna shook her head. Maybe it was just coincidence that the two men looked so alike. And yet, it would finally explain the significance of the program, and the reason why Rose had sent it to her.
Had Sir James Harrison once been someone else? Someone with a past he wished others to forget?
STALEMATE
An impasse, wherein no legal move is possible
14
Alec was not at his desk when she arrived in the office the following morning. When he did appear an hour later, she pounced on him immediately. “Alec, I’ve found something on—”
Alec held up a hand to stop her. “Deal’s off, I’m afraid. You’re being moved to Pets and Gardens.”
Joanna stared at him. “What?”
Alec shrugged. “Nothing to do with me. The whole point in your first year here is that you work on every section of the paper. Your time on the news desk is over. You no longer belong to me. Sorry, Jo, but there it is.”
“I . . . but I’ve only been on the section for a few weeks. Besides, I can’t just let this story go. I . . .” Joanna was so shocked she couldn’t take in what he was saying. “Pets and bloody Gardens?! Jesus! Why, Alec?”
“Look, don’t as
k me. I just work here. Go and see the ed if you want. He suggested a move round.”
Joanna glanced down the corridor at the threadbare carpet in front of the glass-paneled office, worn down by nervous hacks facing a demolition job from their boss. She swallowed hard, not wanting to cry in front of Alec, or anyone else in the office for that matter.
“Did he say why?”
“Nope.” Alec sat down behind his computer screen.
“Doesn’t he like my work? Me? My perfume?! Everybody knows that ‘dog poo and mulch’ is the armpit of the newspaper. I’m literally being buried alive!”
“Jo, calm down. It’ll probably only be for a few weeks. If it makes you feel any better, I did stand up for you, but it was a no-go, I’m afraid.”
Joanna watched as Alec typed something on the screen. She leaned forward. “You don’t think . . .”
He looked up at her. “No. I don’t. Just type up that frigging piece about the memorial fund, then clear your desk. Mighty Mike is doing a direct swap with you.”
“Mighty Mike? On news?!”
Mike O’Driscoll was the butt of many office jokes. He had the physique of an undernourished gnome and suffered from severe sincerity overkill. Alec only offered her another shrug. Joanna stomped back to her desk and sat down.
“Problem?” asked Alice.
“You could say that. I’m being swapped with Mighty Mike onto Pets and Gardens.”
“Blimey, give the Express details of a scoop, did you?”
“I’ve done absolutely bugger-all,” moaned Joanna, folding her arms and resting her head on them. “I just can’t believe it.”
“You think you’ve got problems—I’ve got Mighty Mike moving to the desk next to mine now,” said Alice. “Oh well, no more freezing your tits off on someone’s doorstep, just gentle little articles on canine psychology and what time of year to plant your begonias. I wouldn’t mind a rest like that.”
“Nor would I, when I’m sixty-five with a great career as a journalist behind me. Jesus!”
Joanna began to type aggressively, too upset to concentrate. Ten minutes later, there was a tap on her shoulder and a huge bouquet of red roses was pressed into her hand by Alec.
“These should cheer you up.”
“Alec, I didn’t know you cared,” she quipped harshly as he returned to his desk.
“Blimey!” Alice looked at her with envy. “Who’re they from?”
“A sympathizer, probably,” Joanna muttered as she tore the small white envelope from the cellophane and opened it.
These are to say good morning. I’ll call you later.
Yours ever, M x
Despite her bad mood, Joanna could not help but smile at Marcus’s note.
“Come on then, spill the beans. Who is it?” Alice studied her. “It’s not . . . is it?”
Joanna blushed.
“It bloody well is! You didn’t, did you?”
“No, I didn’t! Now, will you just shut the hell up!”
Joanna finished her particularly uninspired article on Marcus and the memorial fund, feeling guilty that she wasn’t giving it everything, despite the flowers and how good he’d been to her. Then she cleared her desk and traipsed her belongings to the other side of the office.
Mighty Mike was virtually hopping up and down with excitement, which made the whole thing even worse. It transpired that it wasn’t the news desk he was looking forward to, but the prospect of sitting next to Alice, whom he’d had a crush on for months.
At least that’ll pay her back a little, thought Joanna bitchily as she sat down at Mighty Mike’s recently vacated chair and studied the photos of cute pooches he’d pinned on the corkboard.
That night, the thought of going home alone to an empty apartment was just too much, so she went with Alice to the local to drown her sorrows in a few gin and tonics.
Forty-five minutes later, she saw Alec arrive. She left Alice and made a beeline for him. She perched on a bar stool next to him as he ordered his whiskey.
“Don’t even start, Jo. It’s been a hell of a day.”
“Alec, answer me one question: am I a good reporter?”
“You were shaping up nicely, yes.”
“Okay.” Joanna nodded, trying to collect her thoughts and doing her best not to slur her words. “How long exactly does a junior usually stay on your section before being moved on?”
“Jo . . . ,” he groaned.
“Please, Alec! I have to know.”
“Okay, about three months minimum, unless I want to get rid of them faster.”
“And I’ve only been here nine weeks. I counted. You just said I was shaping up very nicely, so you didn’t want to get rid of me, did you?”
“No.” Alec gulped down his whiskey.
“Therefore, I must deduce that my sudden demotion has nothing to do with my work, but with something else that I might have stumbled over. Yes?”
He sighed, then finally nodded. “Yup. I tell you, Haslam, if you ever say it was me who tipped you the wink, it won’t be Pets and Gardens, it’ll be the dole queue for you. Understand?”
“I swear, I won’t.” Joanna indicated both her empty glass and Alec’s to the barman.
“If I were you, I’d keep your head down, your nose clean, and hopefully this whole thing’ll soon be forgotten about,” Alec said.
Joanna handed Alec his whiskey—anything to keep him there for a few more minutes. “The thing is, I discovered something more over the weekend. I wouldn’t put it on state-secret level, but it is interesting.”
“Look, Jo, I’ve been in this game a long time”—he lowered his voice—“and from the way those up there are acting, whatever you’re onto might well be ‘state-secret level.’ I’ve not seen the ed so jumpy since Di’s Gilbey tapes. I’m telling you, Jo, leave it be.”
She sipped her gin and tonic and studied Alec—his greasy gray hair, which stuck up in tufts from constantly running his hands through it; the belly that strained over a worn leather belt; and a pair of whiskey-sodden eyes.
“Tell me something.” She spoke quietly so Alec had to lean in to hear her. “If you were me, just at the start of your career, and you had stumbled onto something that was obviously so hot that even the editor of one of the bestselling dailies in the country had been warned off, would you ‘leave it be’?”
He thought for a minute, then looked up and gave her a smile. “Course I wouldn’t.”
“Thought not.” She patted his hand and hopped off the bar stool. “Thanks, Alec.”
“Don’t say I didn’t bloody warn you. And trust no bugger!” he called as Joanna crossed the bar to retrieve her coat. She saw Alice was being chatted up by a photographer.
“You off?” Alice asked.
“Yes. I’d better go and do my homework on how best to prevent snails from eating one’s pansies.”
“Never mind, you’ve always got Marcus Harrison to console you.”
“Yeah.” Joanna nodded, too tired to argue. “Bye, Alice.”
She hailed a taxi to take her to Simon’s apartment, wishing she’d not had so many gin and tonics. On arrival she made a large mug of strong coffee, then checked the answering machine for messages.
“Hi, Jo, it’s Simon. You weren’t answering your mobile. I should be back by ten tonight, so don’t lock the door from the inside. Hope all’s well. Bye.”
“Hi, Simon, Ian here. Thought you’d be home by now and can’t get through on your mobile, but would you give me a call when you get in? Something’s come up. Okay, bye.”
Joanna wrote the message down on the pad, then saw the card lying there that Simon had given her with his friend’s number on it.
IAN C. SIMPSON
Digging in her rucksack, she pulled out the pen she’d found after the break-in and studied the initials engraved on the side of it.
I. C. S.
“Bloody hell!” she said out loud to the empty room.
Trust no bugger . . .
Alec’s words floa
ted into her head. Was it the gin and the awful day she’d had that were making her paranoid? After all, there had to be a lot of people whose initials were I. C. S. On the other hand, how many robbers carried an initialed gold fountain pen when they were trashing a home?
And the love letter . . .
She’d never even paused to consider whether Simon’s offer might be anything other than genuine. Yet he’d been so insistent he take it, now that she thought about it. And what exactly did he do as a “civil servant”? This was a man who’d got a first at Cambridge, with a big brain that was hardly likely to be utilized processing parking tickets. And he was a man with convenient “mates” in a forensics lab . . .
“Damn!”
Joanna heard the sound of footsteps up the stairs. She stuffed the card and the pen into her rucksack and jumped onto the sofa.
“Hi, how are you?” Simon came in, put down his holdall, and walked over to kiss the top of her head.
“Fine, yes, fine.” She feigned a yawn and uncurled her legs from under her. “I must have dozed off. I had a few drinks at the pub after work.”
“It was that good a day?”
“Yeah. That good. How was your trip?”
“A lot of boring presentations to sit through.” Simon went into the kitchen and switched on the kettle. “Want a cuppa?”
“Go on then. Oh, by the way,” Joanna added casually, “there was a message from someone called Ian for you on the answering machine when I got home. He wants you to ring him back.”
“Sure.” Simon made two cups of tea, then sat down next to her. “So, how’ve you been?”
“Okay. My apartment’s almost back to normal and I’ve filled in all the insurance forms and everything’s being processed. My new bed is arriving tomorrow and the computer guy is coming to set everything up. So I’ll ship out of here now that you’re back.”
“Take your time. There’s no rush.”
“I know, but I think I’d like to get home.”
“Of course.” Simon took a sip of his tea. “So, any more progress on strange little old ladies and their correspondence?”
The Royal Secret Page 15