Page 110 of The Love Letter

‘Christ! Why have I had so much to drink? My head’s foggy. I can’t think straight.’

‘Then I’ll think for you. Put simply, I reckon Rose and Sir James—’

‘Michael O’Connell, in those days,’ Joanna butted in.

‘Michael and Rose were lovers. Rose had discovered something juicy whilst going about her duty in the royal household, told Michael, aka James, who then blackmailed the person concerned. The parcels you say William Fielding used to collect for Michael/James, well, I reckon they contained money. Then Michael does a disappearing act, possibly flees the country, dumping poor old Rose along the way. A few months later, he arrives back, adopts a new persona, buys his pile in Welbeck Street with the cash he’s gathered, marries his wife Grace and all is tickety-boo.’

‘Okay. Let’s work on your premise,’ said Joanna. ‘I might as well face it, it’s as good as any I’ve come up with so far and it does all seem to fit. Why the sudden mass panic when James Harrison dies?’

‘Well now, let’s try some lateral thinking. We know for certain that Rose arrived back in the country just after Sir James popped his clogs, having been abroad for many years. Is it possible that Rose planned to reveal all after Sir James’s death? Maybe blacken his name, pay him back for dumping her all those years ago?’

‘Then why hadn’t she done it before?’

‘Perhaps she was frightened. Maybe James had something on her, had threatened her. And then, when she knew she was ill and time was running out, she decided she had nothing to lose? I dunno, Jo, I’m guessing here.’ Alec ground out a cigarette in the ashtray and lit another.

‘But would that panic the establishment? MI5 is involved, Alec. All I know is it’s something very, very big,’ breathed Joanna. ‘Big enough for the high-ups to persuade Marcus Harrison to wine, dine and bed me to see what I knew.’

‘Who told you that?’

‘My friend Simon.’

‘You sure about that?’

‘Oh yes.’

Alec swore under his breath. ‘Blimey, Jo, what is all this?’

‘If we follow your idea, then obviously whatever it was Rose and Michael had discovered was major.’ She lowered her voice further. ‘Christ, Alec, two people have already died in odd circumstances . . . I don’t want to be the third.’

They sat in silence, Joanna desperately trying to clear her fuzzy mind. Alec’s old words rang through her:Trust no bugger . . .

‘Alec, why this sudden interest after freezing me out?’

He barked out a laugh. ‘If you think I’m being paid to spy on you, don’t worry, sweetheart. Strikes me you need some help. Because this just won’t go away, will it? Everyone else seems to have screwed you over. I may be an unlikely knight in shining armour, but I’ll have to do.’

‘IfI decide to continue investigating.’

‘Yeah. So, what next?’

‘Marcus and I were going on a trip to Ireland next weekend before I found out the truth of why he was seeing me. William Fielding had indicated an Irish connection and Marcus seems to have managed to pinpoint where, if anywhere, Michael O’Connell might have originally hailed from.’

‘How?’

‘He said that Zoe’s son mentioned a place in Ireland that his grandfather had talked about before he died. He might have got it wrong, but . . .’

‘Never dismiss child-talk, Jo. I’ve coerced some of my best scoops out of nippers.’

‘Then you are quite without scruples, Alec.’

‘That’s what makes a good journalist.’ He checked his watch. ‘I gotta go. We never had this conversation, of course. And I shall not advise you to go to Ireland and sit in the local bar where any amount of gossip can be overheard, nor shall I suggest you do it quickly before Marcus – or perhaps someone else – gets there before you. And I shall certainly not mention that you do not look well tonight and there’s every possibility that over the next couple of days it will develop into flu and you’ll be too sick to make it into work.’ Alec stuffed his cigarettes into his pocket. ‘Night, Jo. Call me if there’s trouble.’

‘Night, Alec.’

She watched him leave the bar and, despite herself, she smiled. If nothing else, Alec, or the wine, or a mixture of both, had managed to lift her spirits. Hailing a taxi, she decided to sleep on it, digest the information before making a plan.

There were eight new messages from Marcus on her answering machine when she got home. That was in addition to the seven on her mobile, plus numerous calls she had asked the receptionist to bar at work.

‘They must have paid you one hell of a lot of money, you slimy, double-crossing, rancid, decomposed little toad,’ she growled to the machine as she headed for the bathroom and a shower.