Page 150 of The Love Letter

‘God help me, so do mine.’ She kissed Dora warmly. ‘This may sound rather overdramatic, but please don’t say awordto anyone about what we’ve discussed today, Granny. People involved in this have a horrid habit of getting hurt.’

‘I won’t, even though half the old biddies living around me are too senile to remember what day it is, let alone a story like this.’ Dora chuckled.

‘I’ll see myself out.’

‘Yes. You take care, Joanna. And whatever you say, if you trust anyone, trust Simon.’

Joanna called goodbye from the hall, opened the front door and headed for the car. As she drove away, she mused that Dora may have unwittingly led her to the truth of the matter, but that her final words of advice about Simon were fatally flawed.

36

When Simon arrived back at the office, he noticed a faint smell of expensive perfume that hung around Ian’s old desk, while his overflowing ashtrays and half-drunk coffee mugs had been replaced by an orchid in a pot. A Chanel handbag was slung by its elegant chain on the back of the chair.

‘Who’s the new boy?’ Simon asked Richard, the office’s systems manager and resident gossip.

‘Monica Burrows.’ Richard raised an eyebrow. ‘She’s on secondment from the CIA.’

‘I see.’ Simon sat down at his own desk and switched on his computer to check his emails. He’d been out of the office for most of the past month. He glanced at Ian’s desk and a gamut of mixed emotions assailed him. A gut-wrenching guilt that it washewho had ended Ian’s life . . .

There were no words he could ever write that could put his feelings onto a page, nothing he could say to explain. He was his own judge and jury – never outwardly tried for his crime, but neither pardoned nor condemned and in a moral limbo for the rest of his life. And doubting more and more that this was the career for him.

Simon checked himself. It wasn’t Monica’s fault she’d been given the desk of a man who no longer existed . . .

‘Human life is like a bucket of water. Take out a cupful of it and the bucket fills over,’ someone had once said to him.

Pulling himself out of his reverie, he checked the time and realised he had only fifteen minutes before reporting for his meeting.

‘Hi,’ said an unfamiliar voice from behind him.

Simon turned round to see a tall brunette in a well-cut jacket and skirt. The woman was immaculate – blow-dried from head to toe. She held out her hand. ‘Monica Burrows, good to meet you.’

‘Simon Warburton.’ Simon shook her hand, noticing her smile was warm, but the perfectly made-up green eyes were cold.

‘Seems we’re desk neighbours,’ Monica purred as she sat down and crossed her long, slim legs. ‘Maybe you’ll help show me the ropes.’

‘Sure, but I’m afraid I’m on my way out.’ Simon stood up, nodded at her, then headed for the door.

‘See you around,’ he heard her say as he pushed it open.

Life goes on . . .he thought as he emerged from the lift on the top floor and walked along the thickly carpeted corridor. ‘Even when it doesn’t,’ he muttered as he went to make himself known to the faithful receptionist who sat in state alone on the top floor.

The strong morning sunlight was pouring in through the high windows. As he entered the room, Simon thought how frail the man looked, the bright light accentuating the deeply engraved lines on his face.

‘Good morning, sir,’ he said as he walked towards the desk.

‘Sit down, Warburton. Before we go any further, did you turn up anything on that private detective agency that James Harrison had engaged?’

‘The chap I interviewed from the agency told me that James Harrison had asked him to investigate what had happened to Niamh Deasy all those years ago in Ireland.’

‘Guilt in the last stages of his life,’ sighed the old man. ‘I presume they came up with nothing?’

‘No more than that she and the child died at the birth, sir.’

‘Well, at least I can take comfort that the British security service managed to cover their tracks sufficiently onthatone. And the Marcus Harrison situation has been smoothed over, I take it?’

‘Yes, it’s been reported as a shooting accident, and I doubt anyone will dig deeper. His funeral was last month.’

‘Good. Now, this name that Miss Haslam gave you is interesting, very interesting indeed. I’d always wondered who it was our “Lady” trusted enough to deliver the damned letters. Of course, I should have thought of her long ago. She was certainly a close friend of our “Lady”, though if memory serves me, she’d left to marry by the time all this happened. I’ve got some men on it, but the chances are, she’s probably dead anyway.’