Page 102 of The Love Letter

Zoe stood up and began to pace the room, while Simon plugged the aerial socket in, then switched the television on. The screen flickered into life, and sound blared out.

‘. . . that Prince Arthur, Duke of York and third in line to the throne, has a new lady love. Zoe Harrison, actress and granddaughter of the late Sir James Harrison, was seen walking with the Prince in the grounds of a friend’s stately home in Hampshire.’

Zoe and Simon looked on in silence as the ITV reporter spoke from in front of her Welbeck Street house. Behind him, they could see a horde of photographers overflowing onto the pavement and all the way to the other side of the street. Police were ushering cars through the bottleneck and trying to control the crowd.

‘Miss Harrison arrived at her house in London early this morning and has so far avoided speaking to the media camped on her doorstep. If Miss Harrison is romantically involved with the Duke, it would cause a dilemma for the palace. Miss Harrison is an unmarried mother, with a young son of ten. She has never revealed who the father is. Whether the palace will give its blessing to such a controversial relationship remains to be seen. A spokesman for Buckingham Palace issued a short statement this morning, confirming the Duke and Miss Harrison were together in Hampshire attending a house party, but that their relationship was no more than that of good friends.’

Simon scanned Zoe’s face for a reaction. There was none. Zoe’s eyes were glassy.

‘Zoe, I . . .’

‘I should have known how it would be,’ she said faintly as she walked to the bedroom door. ‘I’ve been there before.’

The following morning, having still had no instructions, Simon called in yet again to the security office.

‘Any directive?’

‘None at present. Stay where you are.’

‘Miss Harrison has to go out today, to a studio in London to do some post-synching. How exactly do I extricate her without causing a riot in a central London street?’

There was a pause on the other end of the line. ‘Use the years of training that the British government paid for. Goodbye, Warburton.’

‘Damn you!’ Simon swore into the receiver, knowing it was now patently obvious that the palace had no intention of supporting Zoe.

‘Who was that?’ Zoe stood at the kitchen door.

‘My boss.’

‘What did he say?’

Simon took a deep breath. It was pointless lying to her. ‘Nothing. We’re to stay where we are.’

‘I see. So, we’re on our own?’

‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

‘Fine.’ She turned in the doorway. ‘I’m going to write a letter to Art.’ Zoe walked into the study and pulled open one of the small drawers of her grandfather’s fine antique desk, searching for his beautiful ink pen. Finding it, she pulled off the top and scrawled on an old electricity bill to test it. The pen was empty. She rifled through the drawers looking for a cartridge, pulling bills out of the drawer and dropping them onto the floor as she did so. After finally finding a cartridge, she knelt down to gather up the bills and stuff them back into the drawer. And then caught the name of the company on the top of one of them.

Regan Private Investigation Services Ltd.

Final Payment Due.

Total = £8,600

James had scrawledPaidacross it, and the date19/10/95underneath it. Zoe chewed her lip, wondering why on earth her grandfather would need to hire the services of a private detective agency, especially so near to the end of his life. From the amount he’d paid, they’d done some kind of major investigating.

‘You okay?’

She jumped at the sound of Simon’s voice. He stood in the doorway, concern on his face.

‘Yes, fine.’ She stuffed the bill back into the drawer and closed it.

‘What time do you need to be at the studio?’

‘Two o’clock.’

‘Right. Then we should leave around one. I’m going to go out now. I want to move the car, position it better for a hasty getaway.’