Marcus had fallen out of Zoe’s house in Welbeck Street and ended up in some seedy Oxford Street nightclub, where he’d met a girl who – he’d been convinced at the time – was the image of Claudia Schiffer. When he’d woken up the following morning and glanced at the face next to him, he’d realised just how out of his mind he’d been. The bright make-up had slid down her face, and the dark roots of her peroxide hair were prominent against the white pillow she lay on. She’d lisped something in a heavy accent about taking the day off from work to spend it with him.
He’d gone to the bathroom and promptly been very ill indeed. He’d showered, trying to clear the cobwebs from his head, and groaned when he remembered just exactly what he had said to his sister last night. He was a first-class, low-down, rotten pig.
Insisting the woman in his bed refrain from playing truant from her job, he’d bundled her out of the flat, and drunk large amounts of black coffee that burnt in his acidic, complaining stomach. Then he’d decided to take a walk in Holland Park.
It was a crisp, frosty day, and the weathermen were predicting snow. Marcus walked briskly along the hedged footpaths, the ponds murky and still in the cold sunshine. Marcus pulled his jacket around him, glaring at anyone who made eye contact with him. Not so much as a squirrel dared approach him.
He let the lump in his throat turn to tears. He really didn’t like himself any more. Zoe had only been trying to help and he’d treated her appallingly. It had been the booze talking, yet again. And maybe she was right – perhaps he was depressed.
In retrospect, was what Zoe had offered him really so awful? As she’d said, it was money for old rope. He had no idea how much was actually in the memorial fund, but he’d bet it was substantial. He then pictured himself in the role of generous benefactor, not only to students, but maybe to struggling theatres and young film makers. He would become known in the business as a man with sensitivity, insight and money to spend. And his mother would have most definitely approved of the project.
There was no doubt he could do with a regular income. Perhaps it would mean he could begin to take better control of his finances, live within a budget, then use his hundred-thousand-pound legacy to put into his film company.
All he had to do was grovel to Zoe. And he’d mean it, too.
After leaving his sister to simmer down for a couple of days, Marcus decided to call unannounced at Welbeck Street on Friday evening. Bunch of roses in hand – the last ones left at the corner shop – he rang the bell.
Zoe answered it almost immediately. Her face fell when she saw him.
‘What are you doing here?’
He stared at his sister’s subtly made-up face, her freshly washed blonde hair shining like a halo. She was wearing a royal-blue velvet dress that matched her eyes and revealed rather a lot of leg.
‘Blimey, Zo, expecting company?’
‘Yes . . . no . . . I mean, I have to go out in ten minutes.’
‘Okay, this won’t take long, I promise. Can I come in?’
She seemed agitated. ‘Sorry, but this really isn’t a good time.’
‘I understand. I’ll say what I need to here. I was a total pig to you the other night and I am truly, truly sorry. I’m not excusing myself, but I was very drunk. Over the past two days I’ve done some serious thinking. And realised that I’ve taken my anger and frustration at myself out on you. I promise I won’t do it again. I’m going to get my act together – stop drinking. I’ve got to, haven’t I?’
‘Yes, you have,’ Zoe replied distractedly.
‘I’ve seen the error of my ways and I’d love to take over the memorial fund if you’ll still let me. It’s a great opportunity, and now I’ve calmed down, I can see how generous it is of you and Dad to trust me with it. Here.’ He thrust the flowers into her hands. ‘These are for you.’
‘Thanks.’
Marcus watched as her eyes darted up and down the street. ‘So, do you forgive me?’
‘Yes, yes, of course I do.’
Marcus was staggered. He’d planned on a night of serious mea culpa-ing while Zoe extracted her rightful pound of flesh.
‘Thanks, Zoe. I swear I won’t let you down.’
‘Fine.’ Zoe surreptitiously glanced down at her watch. ‘Look, can we discuss this another time?’
‘As long as you actually believe I’m going to change. Shall I come over next week to discuss it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Okay. Do you have that folder handy by any chance? I thought I could take it home and study it over the weekend, think up some ideas.’
‘Okay.’ Zoe flew inside, took the folder out of James’s desk and ran back to the front door. ‘There.’
‘Thanks, Zo. I won’t forget this. I’ll call you tomorrow to make a date.’
‘Yes. Night.’
The door was shut hurriedly in his face. Marcus whistled in relief, amazed at how easy it had been. He walked off along the road humming, as the first few flakes of snow began to descend on the streets of London.
‘Evening, Warburton. Do sit down.’ Lawrence Jenkins, Simon’s boss, indicated a chair placed in front of his desk. He was slim and dapper, dressed in an immaculate Savile Row suit, and wore a different coloured paisley bow tie for every day of the week. Today it was bright red. He had a natural air of authority, indicating he had been in the job for a long time, and wasn’t someone to be easily crossed. His customary black coffee was steaming gently in front of him.
‘Now, it seems you might be able to help us with a little problem that’s come up.’
‘I’ll do my best, as always, sir,’ Simon replied.
‘Good chap. I hear your girlfriend had a bit of bother the other night at her flat? Apparently it was ransacked.’
‘Not my girlfriend, sir, but a very close friend.’
‘Ah. So you’re not . . . ?’
‘No.’
‘Good. That makes the situation a little easier.’
Simon frowned. ‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘The thing is, we believe your friend may have been passed some – how shall I put it? – very delicate information, which, if it fell into the wrong hands, could cause us problems.’ Jenkins’ hawk-like eyes appraised Simon. ‘Have you any idea what this something might be?’
‘I . . . no, sir. I have no idea. Can you elucidate?’
‘We are pretty certain that your friend has received a letter that was posted to her by a person of interest to us. Our department has been instructed to retrieve that letter as soon as possible.’
‘I see.’
‘It’s very likely she doesn’t appreciate its significance.’
‘Which is what? If I may ask.’
‘Classified, I’m afraid, Warburton. Rest assured, if she does have it, it is absolutely imperative she returns it forthwith.’
‘To whom, sir?’
‘To us, Warburton.’
‘Are you saying you want me to ask her if she has it?’
‘I would try a less blatant tactic than that. She’s staying with you at the moment, isn’t she?’
‘Yes.’ Simon looked at him in surprise.
‘We checked her flat over a couple of days ago, and the letter wasn’t there.’
‘Tore it to pieces more like,’ he commented angrily.
‘Needs must, I’m afraid. Of course, we’ll make sure her insurance company is generous. Now, given it wasn’t there, I would suggest that if she does have it, it may well be on her person, possibly at your flat. Rather than subject her to more unpleasantness, I thought I could leave it to you to retrieve it for us. Rather fortuitous, really, you being her . . . friend. She trusts you, I presume?’
‘Yes. It’s what most friendships are based on, sir.’ Simon could not help the sarcasm that dripped unsolicited from his tongue.
‘Then for now I’ll leave it to you to sort out. Unfortunately, if you don’t, then others must. Warn her off, Warburton, for good and for all. It really would be in her best interests to desist from further investigation. Righto, that’s everything.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
Simon left the office, angry and confused at being put in an impossible position. He walked back through the maze of corridors to his own section and sat down at his desk.
‘You’ve been to see Jenkins?’ Ian, one of his colleagues, came and perched on the corner of it.
‘How did you know?’
‘It’s the glazed look in your eyes, the slightly slackened jaw.’ Ian smirked. ‘I think you need a good stiff gin to help you recover. The boys are having a shindig over at the Lord George.’
‘I was wondering why it was deserted in here.’
‘It is Friday evening.’ Ian shrugged on his coat.
‘I might join you later. I have some bits and pieces to tidy up.’
‘Okay. Night.’
‘Night.’
Ian left, and Simon sighed, rubbing his face with his hands. Admittedly, the conversation had not been much of a surprise. He’d already been aware that there was something odd about Joanna’s burglary. Yesterday, at lunchtime, he’d gone to the car pool, smiled sweetly at the receptionist and handed her the letters of the number plate he’d spotted outside Joanna’s flat the night before.
‘Pranged it, I’m afraid. Only slightly, but it’s going to need some minor repairs, although it’s nothing urgent.’
‘Okay.’ The receptionist looked up the registration number on her computer. ‘There we are. Grey Rover, yes?’
‘Yes.’
‘Right, I’ll just get you a form. Fill it in and bring it back to me, then we’ll process it.’
‘Will do. Thanks a lot.’
The fact he’d known the number plate belonged to one of their fleet of cars was sheer coincidence. His own work car was N041 JMR. The number he’d seen on Wednesday night was N042 JMR. The chances were that the car pool had bought in quantity at the same time and that the number plates had been in numerical order.
Simon stared at his computer screen blankly, and decided to go home. Pulling on his coat, he waved a goodbye to the stragglers in the office who hadn’t gone to the Lord George, then took the lift down and exited Thames House through a side door. Deciding to take a stroll down the river before heading back to the flat, he looked up at the austere grey building, many of the office windows lit up as agents completed paperwork. Long ago, he’d lost any guilt about lying to his friends and family about his job. Only Joanna took any interest in his work, and he made sure to make his tales of working at Whitehall as dreary as possible to dissuade her from asking further questions.
Given what Jenkins had said, it would no longer be so easy to put her off the scent. If this was now being handled by his department, he knew whatever it was Joanna had stumbled on was major.
And equally, that she was in danger as long as she had that letter.
As Joanna stirred the bolognese sauce on Simon’s hob, she watched the snow fall in fat white flakes from the panoramic window of his flat. She remembered how, when she was a child up on the moors, the farmers had dreaded the snow, knowing it would mean long, hard nights rounding up the flocks of sheep and taking them to the safety of the barns, then the sad job of digging out those they’d missed a couple of days later. For Joanna, snow had meant fun and no school, sometimes for days, until the narrow lanes around her farmhouse had been ploughed and were once more passable. Tonight, she wished she was once again snuggled up in her cosy attic bedroom, safe and untroubled by adult pressures.
When she had woken up on the morning after the burglary, Simon had insisted on calling Alec at the newspaper before he left for work. He had explained about the break-in as Joanna sat wrapped up in the duvet on the sofa bed, waiting for Alec to insist she turn up for work at the usual time. Instead, Simon had put down the receiver and said that Alec had been very sympathetic. He had even suggested that Joanna take the further three days that were owing to her from before Christmas, and use them to recover from the shock. And also set about the practical side of things, such as insurance, and the massive cleaning-up operation to make the flat habitable again. A relieved Joanna had spent the rest of the day recuperating in bed.
This morning, Simon had sat down on the sofa bed and pulled the duvet cover off her.
‘You sure you don’t want to go home for a few days to your mum and dad?’ he’d asked.
She’d groaned and rolled over. ‘No, I’m fine here. Sorry I’ve been moping.’
‘You’ve got every right to feel sorry for yourself, Jo, I just want to help you out. Going away might help.’
‘No, if I don’t go back to the flat today, it’ll just haunt me.’ She’d sighed. ‘It’s like falling off a horse. You have to get straight back on, or else you never do.’
The flat had looked no better in the light of day, when she’d eventually forced herself to walk down the hill after Simon had left for work. The police had given her the all-clear, and she had passed on their report for the insurance claim. Then she’d steeled herself for the task, beginning in the kitchen, and setting to work on the stinking mess covering the floor. By lunchtime, the kitchen was back to normal – minus the crockery. The bathroom was gleaming and the sitting room had everything broken stacked neatly on the slashed sofa, waiting for the insurance assessor. To her surprise, the telephone engineer had turned up without her even contacting the company, and had rewired the line where it had been brutally ripped out of the wall.
Feeling too exhausted and miserable to contemplate the bedroom, Joanna had packed some clothes into a holdall. Simon had said he was happy for her to stay with him for as long as she felt she wanted to. And for now, she did. As she had reached down to stuff her underwear back into a drawer, Joanna had noticed something gleaming on the carpet, half hidden by a pair of jeans that had been wrenched from the wardrobe. She’d picked it up and seen it was a slim, gold fountain pen. On its side were the engraved initials I. C. S.
‘Some classy kind of a thief,’ she’d muttered. Regretting having touched it and possibly disturbed the fingerprints, she’d wrapped it in tissue paper and carefully tucked it into her rucksack to hand on to the police.
Hearing the key in the lock, she poured some wine into a glass.
‘Hi!’ Simon walked through the door and Joanna thought how handsome he looked in his immaculate grey suit, shirt and tie.
‘Hi. Glass of wine?’
‘Thanks,’ he said as she handed it to him. ‘Blimey, are you sure you’re okay? You? Cooking?’ he laughed.
‘Only spag bol, I’m afraid. I’m not even going to start competing with you.’
‘How are you?’ he asked, removing his coat.
‘Okay. I went to the flat today . . .’
‘Oh, Joanna, not on your own!’
‘I know, but I had to sort things out for the insurance claim. And I actually feel much better having cleared it up now. Most of the mess was peripheral. Besides –’ Joanna grinned and licked the wooden spoon – ‘at least I can get a new comfy sofa out of all this.’
‘That’s the spirit. I’m going to take a shower.’
‘Okay.’
Twenty minutes later, they sat down to eat the spaghetti bolognese topped with generous amounts of Parmesan.
‘Not bad, for an amateur,’ he quipped.
‘Cheers, big ears. Wow, it’s really bucketing down now,’ she said, glancing out of the window. ‘I’ve never seen London in the snow.’
‘Just means the buses, tubes and trains will come to a grinding halt.’ Simon sighed. ‘Thank God it’s Saturday tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’
‘Jo, where is Rose’s letter?’
‘In my rucksack. Why?’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Come up with something, have you?’
‘No, but I have a mate who works in the forensics department at Scotland Yard. He might be able to analyse it and give us some information on the type of notepaper, the ink and the approximate year in which it was written.’
‘Really?’ Joanna looked surprised. ‘That’s a pretty impressive friend.’
‘I knew him at Cambridge, actually.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She poured some more wine into her glass and sighed. ‘I don’t know, Simon. Rose specifically said to keep the letter close to me, not to let it or the programme out of my sight.’
‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’
‘Of course not. I’m torn, that’s all. I mean, it would be great to get some information on it, but what if it fell into the wrong hands?’
‘Mine, you mean?’ Simon gave her an exaggerated pout.
‘Don’t be silly. Look, Simon, she was murdered, I’m absolutely positive about that.’
‘You have no proof. A mad old dear who fell down the stairs and you’re seeing Tinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.’
‘Hardly! You agreed with me that it sounded suspicious. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing . . . nothing. Okay, why don’t we leave it like this? You give me the letter and I’ll take it to my mate. If he comes up with anything, we’ll take it from there. If not, I think you should drop the whole thing and forget about it.’
Joanna took a sip of her wine, pondering the situation. ‘The thing is, I just don’t think I can leave it. I mean, she trusted me. It would be a betrayal.’
‘You’d never met the woman before that day at the church. You’ve no idea who she is, where she’s from or what she might have been involved with.’
‘You think she might have been Europe’s biggest crack-cocaine baron, do you?’ Joanna giggled. ‘Maybe that’s what was in those tea chests.’
‘Possibly.’ Simon smiled. ‘So, is that a deal? I’ll take the letter into work on Monday morning and give it to my mate. I’m away on a god-awful boring seminar from Monday afternoon, but when I get back next week I’ll pick the letter up and we’ll see what he’s had to say.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘This “mate” you know is trustworthy, isn’t he?’
‘Of course! I’ll spin some story about a friend of mine wanting to trace her family heritage, that kind of thing. Do you want to go and get it, so neither of us forgets before Monday?’
‘Okay,’ said Joanna, standing up. ‘It’s ice cream for pudding. Can you serve it out?’
The two of them spent most of Saturday doing the remainder of the clearing up in Joanna’s flat. Her parents had sent her a cheque to help her buy a new computer and a bed whilst she waited for the insurance money to come in. She was touched by their thoughtfulness.
As Simon was going to be away for the next week at a ‘pen-pushing’ seminar, as he joked, they’d agreed she would stay on at his flat in Highgate.
‘At least until you have a new bed to sleep in,’ Simon had added.
On Sunday evening, he locked himself in the bedroom, telling Joanna he had some paperwork to go through before the seminar. He dialled a number and the line was answered on the second ring.
‘I have it, sir.’
‘Good.’
‘I’m at Brize Norton tomorrow at eight a.m. Can someone collect it from me there?’
‘Of course.’
‘I’ll see them in the usual place. Goodnight, sir.’
‘Yes. Job well done, Warburton. I won’t forget it.’
And neither will Joanna, Simon thought with a sigh. He would have to spin some excuse about the letter being so flimsy that it had disintegrated during the chemical-analysis process. He felt awful betraying her trust.
Joanna was on the sofa watching Antiques Roadshow when Simon emerged from the bedroom.
‘Right. All done and dusted. And let me give you a telephone number, for emergency use only, just in case you get into trouble while I’m away. You seem to be attracting it at the moment.’ He handed her a card.
‘Ian Simpson,’ she read.
‘A pal of mine from work. Good chap. I’ve given you his work and mobile numbers just in case.’
‘Thanks. Can you put it down by the phone so I don’t lose it?’
Simon did so and sat down on the sofa next to her. Joanna put her arms round his neck and hugged him.
‘Thanks, Simon, for everything.’
‘Don’t say thanks. You’re my best mate. I’ll always be there for you.’
She nuzzled his nose with her own, enjoying the familiarity of him, then out of the blue, felt a sudden sharp stirring low inside her. Her lips moved towards his and she closed her eyes as they kissed lightly, then deeper as their mouths opened. It was Simon who stopped it. He pulled away and leapt off the sofa.
‘Jesus, Jo! What are we doing! I . . . Sarah . . . !’
Joanna hung her head. ‘Sorry, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault, it’s mine.’
‘No. I was as much to blame.’ He began to pace. ‘We’re best friends! This kind of thing shouldn’t happen, ever.’
‘No, I know. It’ll never happen again, promise.’
‘Good . . . I mean, not that I didn’t enjoy it –’ he blushed – ‘but I’d hate to see our friendship ruined by a quick fling.’
‘So would I.’
‘Right then. I . . . I’ll go and do my packing.’
Joanna nodded and he left the room. She gazed at the television, the screen a blur through her damp eyes. It was probably because she was still in shock, vulnerable, and missing Matthew. She’d known Simon since childhood and even though she’d always acknowledged his good looks, the thought of taking it further had never seriously crossed her mind.
And, she promised herself, it never would.