Page 151 of The Love Letter

‘Probably, sir, but at this point any avenue is worth a shot.’

‘We’ve looked through every damned piece of paper in that attic. Any other hiding place that’s struck you, Warburton?’

‘I’m afraid not, although I’m seriously beginning to wonder whether he destroyed the letter, that maybe it just doesn’t exist any more. It’s obvious to me that the Harrison family know nothing of Sir James’s past.’

‘Look how close the Haslam girl came to discovering the truth. We were only lucky that Harrison’s Irish affair provided the perfect smokescreen.’ The old man sighed again. ‘He would have kept the damned thing and I cannot rest until that letter is found and destroyed. Mark my words, if we don’t get hold of it, then someone else will.’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘As there seem to be few other options, I’m putting you back on duty with Zoe Harrison. The palace is dithering as to how to play the situation. HRH is still resisting all attempts to bring him to his senses. They’re having to go along with him for the present and hope the relationship peters out.’

Simon studied his hands, his heart sinking. ‘Yes, sir.’

‘He is also insisting that Miss Harrison and he begin to be seen out officially in public together. The palace has agreed to her attending a film premiere with him in a couple of weeks’ time. He’s also eager to move her, but they are resisting. She’s been away on a short holiday with her son for the past week, but she’s been told to expect you at Welbeck Street on Monday morning.’

‘Yes, sir. One last thing: Monica Burrows from the CIA – Jenkins told me she’ll be working alongside us. I presume she knows nothing?’

‘Absolutely not. Personally, I disapprove of all this getting into bed with other intelligence agencies, sharing methods and pooling ideas. Jenkins will put her on light surveillance work, spending time with members of the department, shadowing them, that sort of thing. Thank you, Warburton. We’ll speak at the usual time tomorrow.’

Simon left the office thinking how weary the old man seemed. But then he’d carried the secret alone for many, many years. And the burden of that was enough to sap the strength of the strongest constitution.

It was certainly sappinghis.

‘Joanna!’ A pair of thick, hairy arms went around her shoulders and clasped her in a bear hug.

‘Hi, Alec.’ She was taken aback by his display of affection.

He dropped his arms and stood back to look at her. ‘How are you, love?’

‘I’m fine.’

‘You look terrible, girl. Skin and bone. Sure you’re okay?’

‘Yes. Honestly, Alec, I just want to get on with some work, try to forget all about the past few weeks.’

‘Right, well, I’ll see you for a sandwich in the local at one o’clock. There’s a few things I should fill you in on. Some . . . changes that have occurred since you went away. Go on, get off with you to your old desk and catch up with your emails.’ He winked at her and returned to his computer.

Joanna wandered across the office, breathing in its fuggy smell. No matter how manyNO SMOKINGnotices the management posted, a cloud of cigarette smoke still hung permanently above the desks in the newsroom. Glad Alice’s chair next door to her was empty – she wanted some time to settle in without a barrage of questions – Joanna sat down and turned on her computer.

She stared sightlessly at the screen, as her mind continued to run over the new facts. Since she’d seen Dora, she’d compared further photos of the young Duke with that of the young Michael O’Connell in the programme. Any differences between the two men were virtually indistinguishable.

Taking Dora’s idea of a ‘double’, Joanna had come up with a vague outline of what might have happened: a young actor, very similar in looks and age to the Duke of York, plucked to play the part of his life. The Duke could not have been in Ireland at the time in question due to official engagements and the fact that his wife was pregnant, so ithadto have been Michael O’Connell who had stayed in the coastguard’s house. And therefore it was Michael O’Connell who had the affair with Niamh Deasy. Poor Ciara had seen the picture of the Duke of York’s coronation on the front of theIrish Timesten years later and understandably thought it washewho had been staying at the house across the bay,hewho’d had an affair with her dead sister. And, Joanna thought sadly, the letter, hidden for so many years under the floorboards of the house, had probably been no more than the last few sad words of a dying woman to Michael, the man she loved.

If this was the case, why had Michael O’Connell changed his identity? What had he known that had provided him with a house the size of Welbeck Street, money, an aristocratic wife and huge success as an actor? And what about the love letter to ‘Siam’ from the mysterious lady – the letter that had begun her quest in the first place? Had Rose written it, as she’d previously thought, or someone else . . . ?

Joanna sighed in frustration. The bottom line was that, even though the similarity between the two men was incredible, there was absolutely no proof of anything.

Joanna glanced around trying to bring herself back to reality. The chances were that if she gave anyone so much as a sniff of the fact she was still ‘interested’, they’d be on to her immediately. They’d only given her back her life because they thought what she knew was safe. The big question was, did she have the strength and courage to continue to pursue the truth? Even if she had no firm answers, Joanna’s instincts told her she was dangerously close to finding out what it was.

Despite her protestations, Alec pushed her into the nearby pub at one o’clock on the dot, eager to hear the whole story.

‘So, tell all.’ Alec eyed her over his pint.

‘Nothing to tell,’ Joanna said. ‘There were some duck hunters out, and Marcus and I got caught in the midst of it. He was shot. I ran away from the gunfire and fell into the estuary, then got carried away by the current and nearly drowned,’ she repeated like a mantra.

‘Duck hunters!’ Alec snorted. ‘For God’s sake, Jo! It’smeyou’re talking to here. What was it you found out that had you fighting for your life? And Marcus losing his?’

‘Nothing, Alec, really,’ she said wearily. ‘All my leads led to nothing. As far as I’m concerned, the chapter’s closed. I’ve got the job I love back and I intend to concentrate on digging the dirt on supermodels and soap stars, rather than getting carried away imagining fantastical plots fertilised by little old ladies.’