Simon reached into his pocket and pulled out the letter. He handed it across the desk.
‘There you are, sir. Safe and sound at last.’
Sir Henry Scott-Thomas read it through without a hint of emotion. ‘Thank you, Warburton. And her body was placed successfully?’
‘Yes.’
Sir Henry studied Warburton. ‘You look exhausted, man.’
‘I admit it was an extremely unpleasant thing I had to do, sir. She was my childhood friend.’
‘And I assure you that it won’t be forgotten. That kind of loyalty is rare, let me tell you. I’ll be recommending you for immediate promotion. There’ll also be an excellent bonus in your bank account at the end of the month for all your hard work.’
‘I think I need to go home and get some sleep.’ Simon’s stomach was churning. ‘Tomorrow will be another difficult day when they discover exactly who was killed in the bomb blast.’
Sir Henry nodded. ‘After the funeral, I suggest you take a short sabbatical; fly away somewhere hot and sunny.’
‘I was thinking of doing just that, sir.’
‘Just two other questions before you go: how did Burrows cope?’
‘She was pretty shaken up afterwards. I got the feeling she’d never seen anyone killed at close range before.’
‘This kind of thing does tend to sort out the men from the boys, so to speak. Did she see the contents of the letter?’
‘No, sir, she didn’t. I can assure you she had no idea what the hell was going on,’ Simon replied.
‘Good chap. You’ve done a fine job, Warburton, a fine job. Now, goodnight.’
‘Goodnight, sir,’ Simon stood up and walked towards the door. Then he paused and turned back.
‘Just one more thing, sir.’
‘Yes?’
‘Perhaps I’m being sentimental, but do you by any chance happen to know where Grace’s remains are? I rather thought that after all this, it might be the right thing to do to reunite her with the husband she loved.’
There was a pause before the old man answered. ‘Quite. I will see to it. Goodnight, Warburton.’
Simon just managed to hold it together until he reached the men’s toilets further along the corridor. There, he vomited copiously, then sank to the floor, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, empathising completely with what had driven Ian Simpson over the edge.
He’d never forget the fear in her eyes, the look of betrayal as he’d pulled the trigger. Simon put his head in his hands and sobbed.
On the drive down to Dorset at dawn the following morning, Sir Henry Scott-Thomas studied the short article on the third page of The Times newspaper.
JOURNALISTS KILLED IN BOMB BLAST
A car bomb exploded near an industrial estate in Bermondsey last night, killing both the driver, a 27-year-old journalist, and her editor. The explosion came after an evening of hoax calls, which resulted in part of the West End being closed to traffic for two hours due to bomb alerts. The victims are believed to have been Joanna Haslam, who worked for the Morning Mail, and Alec O’Farrell, the editor of the news desk at the same publication. Police suspect they may have been close to uncovering an IRA plot. After the bomb attack at Canary Wharf in February, police have been on high alert . . .
He sifted through the other articles in the newspaper, until his eyes fell on a short piece at the bottom of page fourteen.
RAVENS RETURN TO TOWER
It was announced this morning by the Beefeaters at the Tower of London that the world-famous ravens have returned home. The ravens, who have by tradition guarded the Tower for 900 years, mysteriously vanished six months ago. A nationwide hunt ensued, but to no avail. Although during the Second World War the disturbances caused by the Luftwaffe bombing raids reduced their number to one bird only, at no time has the Tower been without a raven to guard it. Protected by the Royal Decree of King Charles II, legend has it that should these birds ever leave the Tower for good, the monarchy would fall.
It was with considerable relief that the raven keeper found Cedric, Gwylum, Hardey and the rest of the ravens back at their lodgings near Tower Green late last night. After they’d had a good meal, the keeper pronounced them in excellent physical condition, but was at a loss to explain their temporary disappearance.
‘We are here, sir.’
‘Thank you.’
The driver made the necessary manoeuvres to remove Sir Henry and his wheelchair from the car.
‘Where to, sir?’
Sir Henry pointed in the direction of the spot.
‘You can leave me here and collect me in ten minutes.’
‘Very good, sir.’
Once the driver had gone, Sir Henry studied the grave in front of him.
‘So, Michael, we meet once again.’
It took all of his energy to twist the top off the canister he clutched in his hand.
‘Rest in peace,’ he muttered, as he threw the contents of the canister onto the grave. The particles seemed to dance in the glow of the early-morning sun, many of them settling on the rose bush that grew atop the grave.
Sir Henry saw his gnarled hands were shaking and he was aware of a steady and increasing pain across his chest.
No matter. At long last, it was over.