Page 145 of The Love Letter

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 theMorning 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 suspectedhim.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?’