The Love Letter by Lucinda Riley (14)

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 ask 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-panelled 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 leant 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 sympathiser, probably,’ Joanna muttered as she tore the small white envelope from the cellophane and opened it.

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 cork board.

That night, the thought of going home alone to an empty flat 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 whisky.

‘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 seven 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 whisky.

‘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 whisky – anything to keep him there for a few more minutes. ‘The thing is, I discovered something more at 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 on to 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 grey 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 whisky-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 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 flat, 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.

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.

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 floated 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 initialled 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 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 utilised 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 flat’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 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?’

‘No. I told you I wasn’t going to pursue it, unless your forensic friend came up with anything.’ She glanced at him. ‘Did he?’

‘Nothing, I’m afraid. I popped into the office on the way home and there was a note on my desk from my mate. Apparently the paper was too delicate to be properly analysed.’

‘Oh well,’ she said as casually as she could. ‘Do you have the letter? I’d like to keep it anyway.’

‘I’m afraid I don’t. It disintegrated during the chemical process. My mate did say he thought it was over seventy years old. Sorry about that, Jo.’

‘Never mind. It was probably of no importance anyway. Thanks for trying, Simon.’

Joanna was proud of her control, when all she really wanted to do was to rugby-tackle him to the ground and punch his lights out for his betrayal.

‘That’s okay.’ He was staring at her, his surprise at her calm exterior obvious on his face.

‘Besides, now it seems like I have more pressing problems of my own to attend to, rather than flying off on some wild goose chase. My beloved editor has decided – for reasons best known to himself – to transfer me from the news desk onto Pets and Gardens. So, I have to focus on how to make my stay there as short as possible.’

‘I’m sorry to hear that. Didn’t he give you a reason?’

‘Nope. Anyway, at least I don’t have to doorstep any more, just wander round the Chelsea Flower Show in a floaty dress and a pair of white gloves.’ She gave him a sad shrug.

‘You seem to be taking it very well. I would have thought you’d be fuming.’

‘What’s the point? And as I said, tonight I’ve had a few gins to take away the pain. You should have heard me in the pub earlier. Anyway, if you don’t mind, I’ll take a shower and then hit the sack. The shock’s worn me out.’

‘You poor old thing, you. Don’t worry, one day you’ll be the Ed and can get your own back,’ Simon comforted her.

‘Maybe.’ Joanna stood up to head for the bathroom. ‘I’ll see you tomorrow.’

‘Yes, night, Jo.’ Simon kissed her on the cheek, then once he heard the shower turn on, he went into his bedroom and shut the door. He took out his mobile phone and dialled a number.

‘Simon here, Ian. Thought I told you not to leave messages on my home phone – Haslam’s staying here.’

‘Sorry, forgot. How was the training?’

‘Tough, but it’ll pay off. What’s up?’

‘Phone Jenkins at home. He’ll tell you.’

‘Okay. See you tomorrow.’

‘Night.’

Simon dialled the number from memory.

‘Sir, it’s Warburton.’

‘Thank you for calling. Did you tell her the letter had disintegrated as planned?’

‘Yes.’

‘Did she take the news well?’

‘Surprisingly so.’

‘Good. You’re to report straight to me at nine tomorrow morning. I have a special assignment for you.’

‘Right, sir. Goodnight.’

Simon clicked off the phone and sat down on his bed, giving his tired muscles a rest. It had been a gruelling week at the agency’s base in the Scottish Highlands, running drills for counter-terrorism training. On top of that, tonight he felt he was being forced to step into murky waters, as if his personal and work lives were colliding. And at all costs, he was desperate to keep them separate.

The following morning at a quarter to eight, Simon tiptoed through the darkened sitting room to reach the shower and realised Joanna had already left. He picked up the note she had propped on the kitchen table.

There was nothing wrong with the note, but knowing her so well, he had the distinct feeling something was up. Last night, she’d been far too calm about the letter disappearing.

Simon would bet his life that she was still on the trail of her little old lady.