Page 74 of The Love Letter

For want of anything better to do, Simon had joined the boys in the pub down the road from Thames House.

‘Honestly? Not great. I got dumped by my girlfriend and I’m still on standby at the palace as an upmarket taxi driver,’ he replied.

‘My commiserations on the woman, but you know better than to question the workings of them upstairs. Drink?’

‘Go on then. I’ll have a pint.’

‘You should buy me one, actually. It’s my birthday. I’m bloody forty today and I intend to get absolutely hammered,’ said Ian, as he tried and failed to gain the barman’s attention.

By the looks of Ian, Simon reckoned he’d already achieved his objective. His skin looked grey and sweaty, and his eyes were bloodshot and unfocused.

‘So, in search of new totty then?’ Ian sat down opposite him.

‘I think I’ll let the dust settle before I walk back into the lion’s den.’ Simon took a gulp of his pint. ‘Anyway, I’ll get over it, I’m sure.’

‘That’s the spirit.’ Ian burped. ‘I hope it’s taught you a lesson.’ He wagged his finger at Simon. ‘My motto is, don’t get under the thumb, get your leg over.’

‘Not really my style, sorry Ian.’

‘Talking of womanisers, I met someone the other night. Now, he could teach us all a thing or two. What a prat! He has girl after girl falling at his feet.’

‘Do I hear the ring of jealousy?’

‘Jealous of Marcus Harrison? Jesus, no! Never done a decent day’s work in his life. Just as I said to Jenkins when he asked me to get Harrison’s help with an inquiry, offer him a few pound notes and he’s yours for the taking. Of course, I was right. We’ve paid the sod to spy on his girlfriend. And from the gist of the conversation he had with her last night, he’s not even realised his flat has been bugged.’

‘Ian, you’re talking too much.’ Simon shot him a warning glance.

‘Virtually every single person in this boozer is from our place and I’m hardly giving away state secrets, am I? Stop being so tight-arsed and buy your mate a birthday pint.’

Simon wandered to the bar, thinking it wasn’t the first time he’d seen Ian like this. Whether it was his birthday or not, Ian had been hitting the bottle hard for the past few months. He doubted it would be long before a warning shot was passed across his bow. It was drummed into you time and time again during training. Just one slip of the tongue – a single careless comment – could spell disaster.

Simon paid for the two beers and took them back to the table.

‘Happy birthday, mate.’

‘Thanks. Will you come on with us? We’re going for a curry, then to some club in Soho that Jack says does a great line in busty teenagers. Could be just what you need, Si.’

‘I think I’ll pass, but thanks anyway.’

‘Look, I’m sorry if I’m out of it tonight, but I had a particularly nasty job to organise this morning.’ Ian swept a hand through his hair. ‘Poor old bloke. He actually pissed his pants, he was so terrified. God, they don’t pay us enough for this shit.’

‘Ian, I don’t want to hear this.’

‘No, I’m sure you don’t. It’s just . . . jeez, Si, I’ve been doing this for nearly twenty years now. You just wait; you’re fresh at the moment, but the strain’ll get to you. Being unable to share details of your daily existence with your family and friends . . .’

‘Sure, it gets to me sometimes, but I’m coping okay just now. Why don’t you go and talk to someone about it? Maybe you need a break, a holiday.’

‘You know as well as I do that if you show any signs of cracking, bingo! You’re out on your arse pen-pushing for the local council. No.’ Ian drained his pint. ‘I’ll be fine. I’ve got something else in the works – that’ll pay off well soon. It’s all about contacts, isn’t it?’ Ian tapped his nose conspiratorially. ‘It was just one hell of a way to spend a birthday.’

Simon clapped Ian on the shoulder as he stood up. ‘Don’t let it get to you. Have a good night.’

‘Yeah, sure.’ Ian forced a smile and waved as Simon left the pub.

The telephone rang at seven the following morning, just as Zoe was packing her case for the journey to Norfolk.

‘Zoe? It’s Mike here.’

‘Hi, Mike.’ Zoe smiled into the receiver at the deep tones of the director. ‘How’s things up in Norfolk?’