North Yorkshire, April 1996
Joanna sat stiffly on the coarse moorland grass. She looked up at the Yorkshire sky and knew she had, at best, half an hour before the blue above gave way to the grey clouds coming in from the west. She moved gingerly, trying to find a more comfortable position to sit in. It was still painful to breathe or move much – the X-rays had revealed she had cracked two ribs on her left-hand side in her fall down the stairs. She was also covered in huge purple bruises. The doctor had assured her that as long as she rested for a while, she would make a full recovery. Joanna felt a sick lurch in her stomach at the thought. She couldn’t ever imagine recovering fully.
Images of the night she had so very nearly lost her life assailed her day and night – memories that had come filtering back in no particular order and which haunted her dreams. It was only in the last couple of days she’d had the mental strength to begin to contemplate what had happened and try to put the facts together.
The few hours after Simon had saved her life were still a blur. The paramedics had arrived and given her a large pain-dulling injection, which had knocked her out on the drive to the hospital. There were vague memories of X-ray machines, faces of strangers peering down at her, asking if this or that hurt, the prick of a needle as a drip was inserted into her arm. And then finally, when they had left her alone, a blissful sleep.
And then, waking up disorientated the next morning, hardly able to believe she was still alive . . . And – despite the pain she was in – feeling euphoric that she was, until Simon appeared by her bedside, looking grave. And she’d known there was worse to come . . .
‘Hi, Jo, how are you?’
‘I’ve been better,’ she’d quipped, studying his face for a glimmer of a smile in return.
‘Yes. Look, this whole thing . . . well, it’s not for now. We’ll discuss it when you’re stronger. I’m just so very sorry you ever got involved. And that I didn’t do enough to protect you.’
Joanna had seen Simon’s hands clenching and unclenching. A sign of agitation she knew from years back, when he had bad news to break.
‘What is it, Simon?’ she asked him. ‘Spit it out.’
Simon cleared his throat and looked away. ‘Jo, I need to . . . I need to tell you something difficult.’
Joanna remembered wondering if anything could be more ‘difficult’ at this moment. ‘Go on then, shoot.’
‘I don’t know how much you remember from last night . . .’
‘I don’t know either. Just say it, Simon,’ she’d urged him.
‘Okay, okay. Do you remember Marcus being there?’
‘I . . . vaguely,’ Joanna had replied. And then a snapshot of him lying on the ground, blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth. ‘Oh God . . .’ She’d looked up at Simon’s expression as he shook his head and put his hand over hers.
‘I’m sorry, I’m so sorry, Jo. He didn’t make it.’
Simon had continued to tell her of the fatal internal injuries Marcus had sustained, that he’d been pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital, but she wasn’t listening.
‘I love you . . .’ he’d said to her as he’d closed his eyes, perhaps for the final time. A small tear made its way from the corner of one of her eyes.
JOANNA!
‘Oh my God,’ she’d muttered, as she realised the voice she’d heard when she’d been wading across the estuary had been Marcus’s. He’d been there before Simon, she was sure of it. She hadn’t seen who it was who had pulled her attacker off her just before she’d lost consciousness . . . but suddenly it became clear.
‘He saved my life,’ she’d whispered.
‘He did, yes.’
Joanna had closed her eyes, thinking that perhaps, if she didn’t move at all, the whole nightmare would go away. But it never would, and nor would Marcus ever be back to irritate her, excite her and love her because he was dead, gone . . . And now she could never thank him for what he’d done.
The following morning, Joanna had been stretchered onto an RAF plane at Cork airport and then taken to Guy’s Hospital in London. During the flight, Simon had apologised for having to prep her on their cover story of what had happened in Ireland, but she’d hardly heard him.
Zoe had arrived beside her bed the following day, and put her small hand in Joanna’s. Joanna had looked up and met her blue eyes, so like Marcus’s, and glassy with grief.
‘I can’t believe he’s gone,’ Zoe’d whispered. Then she’d reached for Joanna and the two women had held each other and wept.
‘Simon said you were on holiday when it happened,’ Zoe had said as she composed herself.
‘Yes.’ Simon had schooled her to say that it had been an accident – duck hunters in the estuary, but they hadn’t caught the shooter. She had been knocked into the water and almost drowned in the treacherous waves, and had eventually managed to call Simon, who had organised an RAF jet to bring them back to England. Joanna could still barely fathom how anyone would believe it, but then, who would believe the truth anyway?
‘He really loved you, Jo,’ Zoe had said quietly. ‘He could be a selfish piece of work, as you know, but I really think that he was trying to change. And you helped him do it.’
Joanna had sat silently, numb from shock and grief, not wanting to add anything further to the web of lies that seemed so tightly spun and inescapable. They felt like a physical pressure on her chest and she doubted they’d ever be loosened.
Joanna had not attended Marcus’s funeral, which had taken place a few days later. Simon had told her it was best she kept a low profile. She’d been released from hospital and driven up to Yorkshire to stay with her parents. Her mother had fed her endless homemade soups, helped her wash and dress, and generally enjoyed nurturing her like a child once more.
Zoe had called her at home to tell her the funeral had been a small affair, with just family and a few friends. He’d been buried in the family plot in Dorset, next to James, his grandfather.
Over a month had now passed since that terrible night. But the horror of it was not abating in her memory. She sighed. Maybe tomorrow some of her questions would be answered. Simon had called her to say he was coming up to stay with his parents for a few days and would pop in to see her. He’d been away on leave, apparently, which was why he hadn’t been up to Yorkshire before.
Joanna gazed at the hundreds of white dots on the hillside. It was lambing season and the hillside resembled an overcrowded, woolly crèche.
‘The circle of life,’ Joanna murmured, swallowing the lump in her throat – just now she was prone to crying over the tiniest thing. ‘Marcus didn’t complete his because of me . . .’ she muttered, gulping back the tears. She’d been unable to even begin to process his death, the fact he’d made the ultimate sacrifice for her haunting her day and night. And just how wrong she’d been when she’d called him a coward the last time she’d seen him. It had turned out he’d been anything but . . .
‘Jo! How are you?’ A tanned and healthy-looking Simon walked into the farmhouse kitchen.
‘Okay.’ She shrugged as Simon kissed her on both cheeks.
‘Good. And you, Mrs Haslam?’
‘Same as always, Simon, love. Nothing much changes up here, as you know.’ Laura, Joanna’s mother, smiled at him, kettle in hand. ‘Tea? Coffee? A slice of cake?’
‘Later maybe, thanks Mrs Haslam. How about we go out for a pub lunch, Jo?’
‘I’d prefer to stay home, if you don’t mind.’
‘Go on, love,’ her mother encouraged her, shooting Simon an anxious glance. ‘You haven’t been out since you got here.’
‘Mum, I’ve been out for walks every afternoon.’
‘You know what I mean, Jo. Places with people, not sheep. Now go on with you and have a nice time.’
‘Means I can have a foaming pint of John Smith’s as well. It doesn’t taste the same in London,’ Simon said as Joanna stood up and reluctantly went to get her jacket from the boot room. ‘How is she?’ he asked Laura, lowering his voice.
‘Her body’s healing, but . . . I’ve never known her so quiet. This whole business with that poor young man of hers has really knocked the stuffing out of her.’
‘I’m sure. Well, I’ll do my best to cheer her up.’
They drove across the moors to Haworth and opted for The Black Bull, an old haunt of theirs when they’d been teenagers.
Simon put a pint and a glass of orange juice on the table.
‘Cheers, Jo,’ he toasted her. ‘It’s good to see you.’
‘Cheers.’ She clinked her glass half-heartedly against his.
He put his hand over hers. ‘I’m so proud of you. You survived a terrible ordeal. You fought hard, and what happened to Marcus—’
‘He would never have been there if it hadn’t been for me, Simon. The whole night is so . . . confused in my mind, but I remember his face as he lay there. He said he loved me . . .’ She fiercely brushed a tear from her eye. ‘I can’t bear that I’ve caused his death.’
‘Jo, none of this is your fault. If it’s anyone’s, it’s mine. I should have got to you sooner. I knew the danger you were in.’ Simon had been haunted too, by the moment he’d done a U-turn at Hammersmith to help Zoe find Jamie.
‘But if I’d never gone to see Ciara that night, just got on the plane, or not been so pig-headed about investigating this whole bloody mess to begin with, when you’d warned me off – a “vigilante Sherlock Holmes” as you called me . . .’
They both managed a weak smile at the memory.
‘I’m also sorry I lost it with you that day at my flat after the story about the Prince and Zoe was leaked. I should have trusted your integrity.’
‘Yes, you should have done,’ Joanna replied firmly. ‘Not that it matters now. It’s nothing compared to Marcus being dead.’
‘No. Well, just try to remember, you were not the one who pulled the trigger.’
‘No, that was “Kurt”,’ Joanna said grimly. ‘Tell me, Simon, please, it’s been driving me mad ever since I woke up in hospital. Who was he?’
‘A colleague of mine. His name was Ian Simpson.’
Joanna paused. ‘Oh my God. The one who turned over my flat originally?’
‘He was certainly there at the time, yes.’ Simon sighed. ‘Look, Jo, I understand how you feel; obviously you want to know and understand everything, but sometimes, as you’ve found out, it’s better to leave it be.’
‘No!’ Her eyes blazed. ‘I know he was working for your lot, trying to stop me getting to the truth. And then, when I was almost there, he wanted me dead and he shot Marcus!’
‘Jo, Ian was not working for “our lot” at that point any more. He’d been placed on sick leave because of his associated mental problems, exacerbated by drink. He was a dangerous loose cannon who wanted to cover himself in glory and get his job back. He was also the one who fed the news about Zoe and the Prince to the Morning Mail. The Welbeck Street house was bugged, so Ian knew everything. He’d apparently been taking ‘bungs’ – as he called them – from journalists for years. We found over four hundred thousand pounds in his bank account, the most recent deposit for seventy thousand, which was placed the day after the story made the front page. Put simply, his moral compass had been blown to shreds.’
‘Oh Simon!’ Joanna put her hands to her burning cheeks. ‘I told Marcus I suspected him. I . . .’
‘I’m so sorry.’ Simon took her hand as tears filled her eyes again. He could have easily wept for her too.
‘Where is that bastard now?’ she asked.
‘He died, Jo.’
The colour drained from her face. ‘That night?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘He was shot.’
‘Who by?’
‘Me.’
‘Oh God.’ She covered her face with her hands. ‘Is that what you do for a living?’
‘No, but these things happen in the course of duty, just like when you work for the police. Actually, it was the first time I’d ever had to do it, but better him than you. I’ll get us both another drink. G and T this time?’
Joanna shrugged and watched as Simon headed to the bar, then came back with another round. She sipped her gin and stared at him.
‘I know what it was all about, Simon.’
‘Do you?’
‘Yes. Not that it matters any more. The letter I discovered is presumably at the bottom of the sea with Ian. And if it isn’t, then it’s gone to a place where I’ll never be able to find it.’
‘I retrieved the letter, actually, for what use it was. A soggy, pulpy mess.’
‘Is this Simon, Jo’s oldest friend, speaking, or Simon, crack secret-service agent?’ Joanna eyed him.
‘Both.’ Simon fished in his pocket and drew out a plastic envelope. ‘I knew you’d ask, so I brought the remains for you to see.’
Joanna took the envelope and glanced inside at the pieces of disintegrated, watermarked paper it contained.
‘Take a closer look,’ Simon urged her. ‘It’s important you believe me.’
‘What’s the point? It would be easy to fake.’ She waved the envelope at Simon. ‘So all the fuss, Marcus’s life . . . for this?’
‘I don’t know what to say,’ he said quietly. ‘To be fair, it wouldn’t have happened if we hadn’t had a crazed renegade agent on the rampage. At least it’s made those above me sit up and take notice. They forget the psychological toll a career like this can take. Agents can’t simply be spat out at the other end and told their services are no longer required. I know you won’t want to hear it, but when I joined the service, I looked up to Ian. He was a brilliant agent in his time – one of the best.’
‘I know that. Even in his crazed state, standing in a choppy sea, he managed to take perfect shots. And took Marcus’s life with it,’ Joanna muttered. ‘So, will you end up like that?’
‘Christ, I hope not. This whole episode has made me think very hard about my future, I can tell you.’
‘Good. At least that’s one positive out of all of this.’
‘I’m just glad that you’re alive at least, and that it’s over. Now, let’s get you something to eat, you’re skin and bones.’
He ordered them both a lamb hotpot. Simon devoured his while Joanna hardly touched hers.
‘Not hungry?’
‘No.’ Joanna stood up, wincing at the still nagging pain in her ribs. ‘Let’s get out of here. I want to know once and for all if I’ve got my facts right, and I’m so paranoid, I want to do it somewhere I’m positive no one is listening in. Then, maybe, I can start putting my life back on track.’
They walked slowly up the hill, Joanna hanging on to Simon for support, past Haworth church and up onto the moors behind the village.
‘I have to sit down,’ she panted, lowering herself gingerly onto the coarse grass. She lay back and tried to relax and still her breathing. ‘There’s a lot that doesn’t fit,’ she said after some time, ‘but I reckon I’ve got most of the gist.’ Joanna took a deep breath. ‘My little old lady with the tea chests was in the employ of the royal household. She was a lady-in-waiting called Rose Fitzgerald, who had met and fallen in love with an Irish actor called Michael O’Connell. Or as we know him now, Sir James Harrison. Their relationship was clandestine, because of her high birth. The letter she sent to me was from her to him, but if I’m right, that was the “red herring”, because it certainly wasn’t the letter you lot were after, was it?’
‘No. Go on.’
‘What if Michael – when he visited his relatives in Ireland – heard that there was an English gentleman staying at the coastguard’s house nearby and having an affair with a local girl, and had recognised him?’
‘And who was the gentleman, Joanna?’
‘Ciara Deasy told me. She’d seen his photograph on the front of the Irish Times, the day of his coronation ten years later.’ Joanna glanced into the distance. ‘It was the Duke of York. The man who would, when his brother abdicated, become the King of England.’
‘Yes.’ He nodded slowly. ‘Well done.’
‘Michael then finds out the girl is pregnant. And that is really as far as I’ve managed to get. Could you . . . would you fill in the details? How you knew about the letter Niamh Deasy had written, which must have spilt the beans on the Duke’s affair with her. And of course, her pregnancy. I can only presume Michael O’Connell knew of its existence and used it as blackmail to safeguard himself and his family until he died? It would have caused an unbelievable scandal if it had got out, especially after the Duke became the King.’
‘Yes. The deal was, the letter was to be returned to us on Michael/James’s death. When that didn’t happen, mass panic broke out.’
‘So, why didn’t you lot look in the coastguard’s house where Niamh had died? Surely it was the most obvious place?’
‘Sometimes people don’t see the things that are right under their noses, Jo. Everyone assumed that Michael would have kept it close, in his immediate possession.’ Simon regarded her with pride. ‘Well done! Do you want my job?’
‘Not in a million years.’ Joanna gave Simon a weak smile. ‘Ciara told me the baby died. Can you imagine if it had lived? After all, it was the child of the future King of England. Half-sibling to our Queen!’
‘Yes.’ Simon paused for a moment. ‘I can imagine.’
‘And poor Ciara Deasy was told she was mad. I must write to her, maybe go and see her to tell her the letter is gone, that it’s all finally over.’
Simon covered Joanna’s hand with his own and squeezed it. ‘I’m afraid Ciara died that night too, Jo. At Ian’s hands.’
‘Oh God, no!’ Joanna shook her head, wondering if she could cope with more horror. ‘This is all so ghastly. Something that happened over seventy years ago destroying so many people.’
‘I know, and I agree. But as you just said, if it had leaked out, it would have caused an enormous scandal, even seventy years on.’
‘Still . . .’ Joanna took a deep breath, feeling her lungs labouring from all the speaking. ‘There are things that still don’t seem right. For example, why on earth would the palace send the Duke of York over to Ireland just after Partition? I mean, the English were hated, and the son of the sovereign must have been a prime target for the IRA. Why not Switzerland? Or at least somewhere warm?’
‘I can’t say for sure. Possibly because it really was the last place anyone would think of looking for him. He was sick, and needed time to recover in complete peace. Whatever,’ Simon sighed, ‘it’s time to close the book now.’
‘Something is still not right.’ Joanna ground a tuft of grass with her boot. ‘However, you’ll be glad to know I’m officially giving up. I feel so . . . so bitter, and angry.’
‘You have a right to feel that. But it will pass – the grief, the anger . . . One day you’ll wake up and it won’t control you,’ he reassured her. ‘And I do have one bit of good news for you.’ Simon fished in his jacket pocket and handed her a letter. ‘Go on, open it.’
She did so. The letter was from the editor of her newspaper offering her her job back on the news desk with Alec, as soon as she was fit enough to return. She looked at Simon, her mouth open in surprise. ‘How did you get hold of this?’
‘It was passed on to me to give to you. Obviously the situation was explained to those who needed to know and has been rectified. Personally, I’m only sorry you can’t go back in a blaze of glory with the scoop of the century. After all, it was you who beat us lot to the pot of gold. Right, let’s go. I don’t want you getting a chill.’ He helped her gently to standing and gave her a careful hug. ‘I’ve missed you, you know. I hated it when we weren’t friends.’
‘So did I.’
They walked back down the hill arm in arm.
‘Simon, there’s one last thing I wanted to ask you about that night.’
‘What?’
‘Well, this sounds very silly, and you know I’m not a believer in any of this kind of thing, but . . . did you hear a woman’s scream coming from the house?’
‘I did. I thought it was you, to be honest. That’s what alerted me to where you were.’
‘Well, it wasn’t me, but I think Ian heard it too. He had my head under water, then all of a sudden he let me go and put his hands over his ears, like he was hearing something unbearable. You . . . didn’t see a woman’s face at an upstairs window, did you?’
‘No, Jo, I didn’t.’ Simon grinned at her. ‘I reckon you were hallucinating, sweetheart.’
‘Maybe,’ Joanna acknowledged as she stepped into the car. She sighed as she saw the woman’s face as clear as day in her mind’s eye. ‘Maybe.’
An hour later, Simon pulled his car away from the farmhouse, giving a last wave to Joanna and her parents. Before he headed back to his own parents’ house across the lane, he had to make a telephone call.
‘Sir? It’s Warburton.’
‘How did it go?’
‘She came close, but not close enough for any panic.’
‘Thank God. You’ve encouraged her to drop the whole thing, have you?’
‘I didn’t need to,’ Simon reassured him. ‘She’s finished with it. Although she did tell me something that I think you should know. Something that William Fielding told Zoe Harrison before he died.’
‘What?’
‘The full name of our “Lady”’s emissary. I think we may have got our wires crossed there.’
‘Not over the phone, Warburton. Use the usual protocol and I’ll see you in the office at nine tomorrow.’
‘Right, sir. Goodbye.’