“Simon? You’re home.” It was Joanna.
“I am.”
“I thought you might be off back to Auckland for some sheep-shearing.”
“Very funny. I called to see if you were free for supper tomorrow night.”
“No.”
“A hot date with Marcus?”
“No, a hot date at some agricultural event in Rotherham. A new form of revolutionary weed killer is being premiered. As you can imagine, it’s hugely exciting. I’m not going to be back until late tomorrow, but I can do Sunday lunchtime.”
“Fine, although I’m working in the afternoon, so come early and I’ll make brunch.”
“Okay. Yours at elevenish then?”
“Great. See you then.”
Simon put the receiver down, thinking how sad it was that there was a cool breeze blowing through their relationship. Ever since, he admitted to himself, he’d failed to return the letter to her. There was no doubt that Joanna was suspicious of him, especially now she knew he wasn’t a simple civil-service bod. And that it was his fault. He’d compromised both her trust and their friendship for the sake of his job. Simon stood up, removed a beer from the fridge, and took a large gulp, wanting to knock off the edges of his betrayal . . .
Like Ian.
He had not yet killed a man—or a woman—but he wondered how he would feel after he had. Surely, once he’d done that, taken another human’s life, all bets were off? Beyond that, nothing felt morally relevant.
Is it worth it . . . ?
Simon walked to the sink and poured the rest of the beer down the drain, telling himself it hadn’t happened yet. He loved his job, his life, but the situation with Joanna had brought things into sharp focus.
And he knew that one day, he would have to choose.
The front doorbell rang. Simon groaned, then went to the intercom.
“Hello?”
“It’s me.”
Speak of the devil . . .
“Hi, Ian. I was just hitting the sack.”
“Can I come up? Please?”
Reluctantly, Simon pressed the buzzer. He studied Ian as he stumbled through the door. He looked ghastly. His face was red and bloated, his eyes bloodshot pinpricks. Always known for his collection of Paul Smith and Armani suits, tonight Ian resembled a vagrant with his dirty mac and plastic carrier bag, from which he retrieved a half-empty bottle of whiskey.
“ ’Lo, Simon.” He slumped in a chair.
“What’s up?”
“The bastards have put me on compassionate leave. For a month. I have to go and see the quack twice a week, like I’m some kind of loony basket case . . .”
“What happened?” Simon perched on the edge of the sofa.
“Oh, I blew a job last week. Went to the pub for a few jars, lost track of time, lost the target.”
“I see.”
“You know, it’s not exactly a fun job, this, is it? Why do I always have to do the nasty stuff?”
“Because they trust you.”
“Did trust me.” Ian burped, then swallowed more whiskey straight from the bottle.
“Sounds like you’ve got a paid holiday. I’d enjoy it if I were you.”
“You think I’ll be allowed back? No way. It’s over, Simon, all those years, all that work . . .” And then he began to cry.
“Buck up, Ian, you don’t know that. They won’t want to lose you. You’ve always been one of the best. If you get your act together, prove that this was a blip, I’m sure you’ll get another chance.”
Ian hung his head. “No, Si. It’s parking tickets for me, if I’m lucky. I’m scared, I really am. I’m a risk, aren’t I? Drunk in charge of all those secrets. What if they . . . ?” Ian’s voice trailed off and fear filled his eyes.
“Course they won’t.” Simon hoped he sounded convincing. “They’ll look after you. Help you get better.”
“Bullshit. You really think there’s a special rest home for burned-out intelligence officers?” Ian started to laugh. “It was James Bond that made me want to go into the service in the first place. I used to look at those gorgeous women and think, If they’re a free perk, then that’s the job for me.”
Simon remained silent, knowing there was little he could say.
“This is it,” Ian sighed, “the end. And what do I have to show for my years of faithful service? A bedsit in Clapham and a clapped-out liver.” He smirked at his own sad summary.
“Come on, mate. I know things look bleak now, but I’m sure if you stay off the juice for a while, things’ll get better.”
“The booze is the only way I can make it through. Anyway”—Ian’s eyes lit up suddenly, whether with anger or remorse Simon couldn’t tell—“at least I’ve got some money saved. And the last little ‘sideline’ has netted me a serious windfall. You know”—Ian swayed as he walked toward Simon—“I was actually feeling a bit guilty about it. You said she’s a nice person, apparently, and it was a shit thing to do to someone nice.” He hiccupped. “Now, I’m glad I did it.”
“Who are you talking about, Ian?”
“Nothing. Nothing . . .” Ian stood up. “Sorry to disturb you. Got to go. I wouldn’t want to see you tainted by association.” He staggered toward the door, then wagged his finger at Simon. “You’re going to go far, old chap. But just watch your back, and tell that journo girlie of yours to get the hell out of Marcus Harrison’s bed. It’s dangerous, and besides, from what I’ve heard through the headphones, he’s a crap lover.” Ian managed a ghost of a smile, then disappeared out of the front door.
* * *
On Sunday morning, after a quiet Saturday watching the rugby and reading, Simon woke from his first restful sleep in days. He saw that his clock read eight thirty-two—far past his usual infallible seven a.m. inner alarm clock. Switching on Radio Four and leaving the coffee to brew, he was just about to go downstairs to collect his usual heap of Sunday papers when the telephone rang.
“Yes?”
“There’s trouble. You’re to report immediately to Welbeck Street. We’ll be calling you with further instructions.”
“I see. Why the change?”
“Read the Morning Mail. You’ll find out. Goodbye.”
Swearing, he ran downstairs to the main entrance of the building and picked up the Morning Mail from the pile on the mat. Reading the headline, he groaned.
“Jesus! Poor Zoe.” Anger and worry twisting in his stomach, he raced back upstairs and hastily pulled on his suit. Bloody Joanna, he thought, this is how she gets back at me, betraying Zoe to make a quick buck . . .
He was just about to leave when his doorbell rang. He realized he’d invited Joanna round for brunch. Trying to control his anger, Simon pressed the button that would allow her entry. Everyone is innocent until proven guilty, he reminded himself as he donned his jacket.
“Hello,” she said breezily as she walked in, kissed him on the cheek, and handed him a pint of milk. “I know you’re always out of milk, just thought I’d—”
He handed the paper to her. “Seen this?”
“No, I knew you’d have the Sundays, so I didn’t bother buying them. I . . .” Joanna’s eyes fell on the headline. “Oh, damn. Poor Zoe.”
“Yes, poor Zoe,” he mimicked.
Joanna studied the photograph of the Duke of York, his arm looped around Zoe’s shoulders, and another of him kissing her on top of her head. They could have been any pair of attractive young lovers taking a stroll in the countryside.
“ ‘Prince Arthur and his new love, Zoe Harrison, enjoying a weekend together at the house of the Hon. Richard Bartlett and his wife, Cliona,’ ” Joanna read out. “Didn’t you drive them down there?”
“Yes. I dropped them off on Friday. And I have to go now.”
“Oh, so brunch is off?”
“Yes, it’s off.” He glared at her. “Joanna?”
“Yes?”
“Have you seen which newspaper is covering the story?”
“Of course I have. It’s
ours.”
“Yes, yours.”
The penny dropped as she studied Simon’s angry expression.
“I hope you’re not thinking what I think you’re thinking.”
“There’s every chance I am, yes.”
Joanna blushed, not from guilt, but from indignation. “God, Simon! How could you even suggest it? Who the hell do you think I am?”
“An ambitious journalist, who saw the opportunity for the scoop of the year dangled before her.”
“How dare you! Zoe’s my friend. Besides, you’re presuming she’s told me.”
“Zoe said she had spoken about it to you. I’ve been with her almost twenty-four hours a day and I just can’t see how anyone else could have found out. Perhaps you didn’t mean to, but in the end you just couldn’t resist and—”
“Don’t you dare patronize me, Simon! I’m extremely fond of Zoe. Okay, I admit I thought about it—”
“See!”
“But of course I could never betray a friend!” she shot back.
“It’s your paper, Jo! Zoe asked me whether she should trust you and I gave your discretion top marks! I wish to God I hadn’t now.”
“Simon, please, I swear I didn’t leak the story.”
“That poor woman. She’s got a son she’s trying to protect, who’s now going to be hounded. She’s going to be in bits and—”
“Jesus, Simon.” Joanna shook her head in astonishment and hurt. “Are you in love with her or what? You’re just her bodyguard. It’s the prince’s job to comfort her, not yours.”
“Don’t be ridiculous! And you’re one to talk. Hanging around with that prick Marcus, just to get more information about that love letter, thinking you’re some kind of vigilante modern-day Sherlock Holmes—”
“Enough, Simon! As a matter of fact, I really like Marcus. In fact, I might even be in love with him, not that it’s any of your business who I spend my time with and—”
“How could you have deceived her so cold-heartedly?”
“I bloody didn’t, Simon! And if you don’t know me well enough to realize I could never betray my friend like that, then I wonder what all our years of friendship have been about. And you’re not so lily-white! You lied to me about the letter I trusted you with. ‘Disintegrated,’ you said. I bloody well know you used me to retrieve it for your lot at MI5!”
Simon stood there, speechless.
“You did, didn’t you?” she continued, knowing she’d hit home.
“I’m leaving.” Shaking with fury, he picked up his holdall and walked to the door, then paused and turned back. “And I suppose it’s my duty to warn you that Marcus Harrison is being paid by ‘my lot’ to sleep with you. Ask Ian Simpson. Let yourself out, Joanna.” The door slammed behind him.
Joanna stood there in stunned silence. She could hardly believe what had happened in the past few minutes. In all the years they’d known each other, she could barely remember a cross word being exchanged between them. If that was Simon’s reaction—a man who had known her for all these years—then she held out no hope for Zoe’s believing her. And what was all that rubbish Simon had spouted about Marcus’s being “paid” to sleep with her? Surely not? Marcus had known nothing about “Little Old Lady–Gate” when she’d originally told him.
Joanna let out a small shriek of frustration, feeling like the fabric of her world was slowly disintegrating. She rifled in her rucksack and drew out her wallet. Pulling out Ian Simpson’s card, she thought for a moment, then went to Simon’s telephone and picked up the receiver. Not quite sure what she would say, but knowing she had to speak to him, she dialed the number.
It rang for ages before it was finally picked up.
“ ’Lo, Simon,” a sleepy voice answered.
“Is that Ian Simpson?”
“Who wants to know?”
“This is Joanna Haslam, a friend of Simon Warburton. Look, I know this may sound ridiculous, and I don’t want to drop Simon in it or anything, but he mentioned that apparently my, er, boyfriend, Marcus Harrison, might . . . um . . . be in the employ of someone you work for?”
There was silence on the other end of the line.
“Maybe you could just continue to say nothing if the answer is yes.”
There was a long pause, then she heard a click on the line as he hung up.
Joanna put the receiver down, knowing Simon had told the truth. Thoughts raced through her mind as she tried to remember every conversation she’d ever had with Marcus. She took a deep, shuddering breath of anger and hurt, then sat down to plan her next move.
* * *
Simon had driven off at top speed, then, realizing he was far too upset to drive without being a hazard, he pulled over and switched the engine off while he calmed down.
“Damn it!” He banged the steering wheel with the palms of his hands. It was the first time in his adult life he could ever remember completely losing control. Joanna was his oldest friend. He’d not even given her a chance to explain—he’d condemned her before she’d even opened her mouth.
The question was, why?
Had Ian Simpson’s visit unsettled him? Or was it—as Joanna had suggested—because he was becoming far fonder of Zoe Harrison than he should be? “Damn,” he breathed, trying to analyze his feelings. Surely it wasn’t love? How could it be? He’d only known her for a couple of weeks, and most of that time he’d spent at a distance. Yet there was something about her that touched him, a vulnerability that made him want to protect her. And not, he finally admitted to himself, in a purely professional sense.
He realized this would explain his irrational dislike of her royal lover. The man was decent enough, had always been polite to him, yet he felt animosity toward him. He was surprised that the intelligent and warm Zoe could find herself in love with him. However . . . he was a “prince.” Simon supposed that made up for rather a lot.
He groaned as he remembered his final words to Joanna. He’d completely breached the rules when he’d told her about Marcus’s being paid to find out what she knew.
She’s a nice person . . .
Ian’s drunken words from Friday night suddenly came floating back to him.
What if . . . ?
“Oh shit!” Simon slammed his fist down on the steering wheel as the whole scenario came into sharp focus. He’d presumed Ian had been talking about Joanna when he’d mentioned a “she.” But he himself had tapped the phone and placed bugs around the house in Welbeck Street. He’d known they were listening in . . .
What if it had been Zoe Ian had been talking about? He’d alluded to making some income on the side recently, and Joanna certainly wasn’t a press target—someone newspapers would spend a fortune to get the gossip on.
But Zoe was . . .
As Simon started the engine, he realized he’d got it completely wrong.
He arrived at Welbeck Street to find a posse of photographers, camera crews, and journalists camped outside on the doorstep. Fighting his way through them and ignoring their shouts and questions, he let himself inside. Slamming the door, he fastened every lock and bolt it had to offer.
“Zoe? Zoe?” he called.
There was no reply. Maybe she hadn’t made it back yet from Hampshire, although he’d been told she had when he’d called in en route. Checking the sitting room, he saw the long lens of a camera through a crack in the old damask curtains and ran to pull them tighter. He walked into the dining room, the study, and then the kitchen, calling her name. Upstairs, he checked the main bedroom, Jamie’s room, the guest room, and the bathroom.
“Zoe? It’s Simon! Where are you?” he called again, now with a mounting sense of urgency.
He ran up the stairs to the two small attic rooms and saw his own was empty. He pushed open the door to the room across the narrow landing. It was filled with discarded furniture and some of Jamie’s baby toys. And there, huddled on the floor in a corner, between an old wardrobe and an armchair, and hugging an ancient teddy bear to her, was Zoe, her face raw wi
th tears, hair swept back harshly in a ponytail. Wearing an ancient sweatshirt and jogging bottoms, she looked not much older than her son.
“Oh, Simon! Thank God you’re here, thank God.” She reached out to him and Simon knelt down next to her. She laid her head against his chest and sobbed.
There was little he could do but close his arms around her, willing himself to ignore how wonderful it felt to hold her.
Eventually, she looked up at him, her blue eyes wide with fear. “Are they still outside?”
“I’m afraid they are.”
“When I got here, one of them had a ladder. He was look . . . looking into Jamie’s room, trying to take a photograph. I . . . Oh God, what have I done?!”
“Nothing, Zoe, just fallen in love with a famous man. Here.” Simon offered her his hanky and watched as she dried her tears.
“I’m so sorry for being pathetic. It was all such a shock.”
“Nothing to apologize for. Where’s His Royal Highness?”
“Back at the palace, I suppose. They woke us up in Hampshire at five o’clock, said we had to leave. Art went off in one car and I came here in the other. I arrived back at eight and the media were already camped outside. I thought you’d never come.”
“Zoe, I’m sorry. They didn’t call me until half past ten this morning. Have you heard from His Royal Highness since you arrived back?”
“Not a word, but besides that, I’m so worried about Jamie. What if the press have gone to his school like they’ve come here, to get a picture of him? He knows nothing . . . Oh God, Simon, I’ve been so selfish! I should never have begun this again and risked his safety. I—”
“Try to keep calm. I’m certain the prince will call you, and the palace will make sure both you and Jamie are safe and looked after.”
“You think so?”
“Of course. They won’t just leave you stranded here. Listen, why don’t I go and call in now?”
“Okay. And can you ask whoever you speak to to get Art to ring me? There was no time to discuss anything this morning.”
The Royal Secret Page 25