“Really? I didn’t notice the name. I ran in here to get out of the wet.”
“So, how did your research go?”
“Nowhere.” She reached for her Guinness.
“Yeah, well, I’ve had a morning pretty like that. It’s so darned wet out there you need a set of windscreen wipers to see anything. I’ve decided to give up, spend the evening drinking and the night in the lap of luxury. I booked myself a room at the Shelbourne, supposedly the best hotel in town.”
“Right. I’ll have a cheese bap, please,” Joanna said to the barman.
“Say, why don’t you come have dinner with me tonight at the hotel? My treat, to cheer you up.”
“Thanks for the offer, but—”
Kurt held up his hands. “Ma’am, I swear, no funny business. Just strikes me you’re alone, I’m alone, and maybe we’d enjoy the night better if we kept each other company.”
“No thanks.” Joanna stood up, seriously rattled now. Kurt’s face appeared earnest enough, but Joanna was still shaken by his sudden appearance.
“Okay.” Kurt looked very put out. “So when do you head back to West Cork?”
“I . . . er . . . don’t know yet.”
“Well, maybe I’ll see you when I’m back that way.”
“Maybe you will. Bye now, Kurt.”
* * *
“Sign there,” Margaret said to the young man standing in front of her reception desk.
“Thanks.” He looked up at her. “By any chance, has a young Englishwoman called Joanna Haslam crossed your path in the last few days?”
“And who’d be wanting to know?”
“I’m her boyfriend,” he said with a warm smile.
“Well, yes, there has been a girl by that name staying here. She’s gone up-country today, though. Back tonight or tomorrow,” she said.
“Great. I don’t want her to know I’m here. It’s her . . . birthday tomorrow and I thought I’d surprise her.” He put a finger to his lips. “Mum’s the word, eh?”
“Sure, Mum’s the word, so.”
Margaret handed the man his key and watched as he went upstairs. Oh, to be young again, she thought fondly, before going to the cellar to change the barrel.
CAPTURE
Eliminating an opponent’s piece from the board
30
The following morning, Simon sat in the chair in front of the leather-topped desk.
“Simpson has gone AWOL,” said the old man opposite him.
“I see.”
“And so has your friend Miss Haslam.”
Simon wanted to quip that maybe they’d eloped, but thought it unwise.
“Could it be a coincidence, sir?”
“I somehow doubt it under the circumstances. We’ve just had the evaluation of Simpson’s psychological report. The psychologist was concerned enough to recommend he receives urgent and immediate treatment.” He wheeled his chair around the desk. “He knows too much, Warburton. I want you to find him, and fast. My instincts tell me he may have gone after Haslam.”
“I thought her apartment was bugged. And Marcus Harrison’s. Did the listeners not give you an indication of where she might be?”
“No. We think they’ve discovered the bugs as nothing of interest has been heard in the past few days. In fact, the device at Harrison’s apartment has not been transmitting correctly, but our men are preparing a replacement. In Miss Haslam’s case, nothing has been heard at all, apart from irate calls on her landline from Marcus Harrison, wanting to know where she is.”
“And no one has any idea where either of them might have gone?”
“You’ve read the file, Warburton,” he replied irritably. “If you were Haslam, wishing to ferret out further information about our man, where would you go?”
“Dorset perhaps? To continue searching through the attic? I took a look in the attic last time I was there and there are endless boxes of material, sir.”
“Don’t you think we know that?! I’ve had a dozen men working night and day up there since Zoe Harrison left with HRH for Spain. They’ve found nothing.” He wheeled himself back behind his desk. “Harrison is still in residence at his London apartment. Maybe you should have a word with him.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll pay him a visit.”
“Report back to me when you have. And we’ll take it from there.”
“I will, sir.”
“I hear you went to visit young Jamie Harrison yesterday?”
“Yes, sir, I did.”
“Business or pleasure?”
“I did it as a favor for Zoe Harrison, sir.”
“Watch it, Warburton. You know the rules.”
“Of course, sir.”
“Righto. Let me know when there’s news.”
“I will.”
Simon rose from his chair and left the room, praying that the old man hadn’t seen the blush heating his face. Even if his mind and his body could be trained and disciplined, it was obvious his heart could not.
* * *
Having found no one at home at Marcus’s apartment, Simon had gone back to the office and called Joanna’s parents, who hadn’t heard from her either. He was convinced she was still on the trail. France, maybe? he’d thought, then spent a fruitless couple of hours going through passenger lists of all planes and ferries that had departed in the past few days. Her name was on none of them.
So, where else was connected with the mystery they were both desperate to uncover . . . ?
Simon thought back to the day he’d memorized the file. No written notes had been allowed. There was somewhere else, he was sure of it . . .
Then, finally, it came to him.
Forty-five minutes later, he’d found Joanna’s name on a flight to Cork three days ago, and immediately booked himself on the late-afternoon flight that day. He was just on his way to Heathrow through a logjammed Hammersmith when his mobile rang.
“Hello, Zoe.” Simon was so startled by her voice that he had to pull over and park, which proved a tricky operation in the heavy traffic. “Where are you?”
“At Mahon Airport in Menorca. Oh, Simon.”
He heard her choke back a sob.
“What is it? What’s the matter?”
“It’s Jamie. He’s gone missing. His headmaster thinks he might have been kidnapped or abducted. God, Simon, he might be dead. I—”
“Hold on a minute, Zoe. Tell me calmly and carefully what’s happened.”
She did her best to do so.
“Has the headmaster called the police?”
“Yes, but Art wants it to be as low-key as possible. He says he doesn’t want the media involved unless absolutely necessary, because of—”
“Putting him, you, and Jamie back in the spotlight,” Simon finished for her. “Well, he might have to suffer it. At the end of the day, it’s more important that Jamie is found. It’s always more helpful if members of the public are alerted to a missing child.”
“How did Jamie seem when you went to see him?”
“A little quiet, admittedly, but okay.”
“He didn’t say he was worried about anything, did he?”
“No, but I got the feeling that maybe he was, which also tells me Jamie is probably all right. Maybe he just needed some time alone. He’s a sensible kid, Zoe. Try and keep calm.”
“I’m not going to be back in London for hours. Would you do me a favor?”
“Sure.”
“Would you go to the house in London? You still have the key, don’t you? If he’s not there, try Dorset. The key’s under the water barrel round the back to the left side.”
“Surely the police—”
“Simon, he knows you. He trusts you. Please. I—” Zoe’s voice disappeared.
“Zoe? Zoe? Are you there?
“Damn!” He slammed his hands on the steering wheel. He should go to Ireland immediately, help someone else who didn’t realize she was vulnerable, someone who needed him too.
So . . . where did his loyalty
lie?
Logically, there was no contest. It lay with his oldest friend, and his allegiance to the government he served. But his treacherous heart lay with a woman and a child whom he’d known for no more than a few weeks. He agonized for a minute, then indicated out into the flow of traffic. As soon as he could safely do so, Simon swung the car into a U-turn and headed back for central London.
The Welbeck Street house was in darkness, and there seemed to be no sign of anyone outside. Simon had half expected the media still to be there, waiting for a specter that had long since vanished. He turned the key in the lock, then switched on the light. He checked all the rooms downstairs, knowing from his highly trained instincts that the search was fruitless. The house felt empty.
Still, he checked in Zoe’s room, then Jamie’s. He sat down on Jamie’s bed, looking round the room, its mixture of teddies and remote-control cars a testament to the betwixt-and-between age Jamie was at. His walls were covered with a variety of nursery prints; on the back of the door hung a Power Rangers poster.
“Where are you, old chap?” he asked the air, staring blankly at a small but intricate tapestry sampler that hung above Jamie’s bed. Receiving no reply, Simon went up again to investigate the top floor of the house.
Returning downstairs, he wandered into the drawing room and saw a panda car halt in front of the house. A police officer climbed out and headed for the front door. He’d opened it before the man had time to press the bell.
“Hi.”
“Hello, sir, are you a resident of this establishment?” inquired the detective.
“No.” Simon wearily produced his identification.
“Right, Mr. Warburton. I presume you’re looking for the young man who’s done a bunk, are you?”
“Yes.”
“All got to be kept hush-hush for now, apparently. Them up high don’t want his disappearance getting to the newspapers, because of his mum and her . . . boyfriend.”
“Quite. Well, I’ve checked the house and he’s not here. Are you going to stay, just in case he should make an appearance?”
“No, I’ve been asked to check the place over, that’s all. I can organize someone here, if your lot request it.”
“I think it would be advisable. It’s likely, if he’s free to do so, that the young man in question will head for home,” Simon said. “I have to leave now, but make sure someone is stationed outside, will you?”
“Righto, sir, I will.”
A little more than two hours later, Simon pulled his car to a halt in front of Haycroft House. He checked his watch and saw it was just after ten o’clock. He retrieved his flashlight from the glove box, climbed out of the car, and set off in search of the water barrel and its hidden key. He found it with a shiver of disappointment; Jamie had obviously not got there before him. He trudged round to the front of the house and opened the heavy front door.
Switching on the lights, Simon went from room to room, seeing the pans still on the drainer from the supper he’d cooked Zoe, her bed upstairs still unmade from the morning they’d left so early.
Nothing. The house was empty.
He returned downstairs and called the sergeant now stationed at Welbeck Street to find out if Jamie had returned. He hadn’t. Informing him that there was no sign of Jamie here either, Simon went into the kitchen to make himself a cup of black coffee, before he contemplated the drive back to London. He sat down at the table and rubbed his hands harshly through his hair, trying to think. If Jamie hadn’t made an appearance by tomorrow morning, then the palace be damned. They’d have to go public on this. He stood up and spooned some instant coffee into a mug and added boiling water, playing over and over in his head the last conversation he’d had with the boy.
After his third mug of coffee, which made him feel liverish and sick, Simon stood up and prowled round the house one last time. He turned on the floodlights outside and opened the kitchen door to the back garden. The garden was large and obviously well stocked, although its current seasonal condition was that of a sketch waiting to be painted. Simon shone his flashlight into the hedge that fringed the garden. In one corner of the garden, presumably positioned to catch the best of the sun, was a small pergola. Beneath it, a bench made of stone. Simon walked over to it and sat down. The pergola was covered in some kind of creeping plant—Simon put a hand up to touch it and gave an “Ouch!” when a vicious thorn pricked his finger.
Roses, he thought. How beautiful this would look in the height of summer.
Roses . . .
Great-James loved roses He has them on his grave now . . .
Simon jumped up immediately and ran to the back door to make a phone call.
The cemetery was only a quarter of a mile down the road from the house, behind the church. Simon parked his car outside the iron gate. Discovering it was padlocked, he swung himself over the top of it and began to walk through the graves, shining a light on each name. Despite himself, Simon shuddered. A half-moon appeared from behind a cloud, bathing the cemetery in a ghostly light. The church clock struck midnight, the bell clanging slowly and mournfully, as if in remembrance of the dead souls that lay at his feet.
Finally, Simon reached the 1970s and then the 1980s. Right at the back of the cemetery, Simon espied a gravestone that had 1991 chiseled into it. Slowly, as he walked past, the dates on the headstones became more and more recent. He was almost at the edge of the cemetery now, with one last grave remaining, set alone, with a small bush planted below the headstone.
SIR JAMES HARRISON
ACTOR
1900–1995
“Good night, sweet prince,
and flights of angels sing
thee to thy rest.”
And there, lying huddled on top of the grave, was Jamie.
Simon approached the boy silently. He could tell from the way Jamie was breathing that he was fast asleep. He knelt down next to him and angled the flashlight so he could see the boy’s face, yet at the same time not disturb him. Simon felt for his pulse, which was steady, then his hand. It was cold, but not dangerously so. Simon breathed a sigh of relief and stroked his blond hair gently.
“Mumma?” Jamie stirred.
“No, it’s Simon, and you’re perfectly safe, old chap.”
Jamie shot up from his prone position, his eyes wide and terrified.
“What . . . ? Where am I?” He looked around him, then began to shiver.
“Jamie, you’re fine. Simon’s here.” Instinctively Simon pulled the boy to him. “Now, I’m going to pick you up, put you in my car, and drive you down the road to home. We’re going to make a big fire in the sitting room, and over a hot cup of tea, you can tell me what happened. Okay?”
Jamie looked up at him; his eyes, at first fearful, were now trusting. “Okay.”
When they reached the house, Simon took the eiderdown from Zoe’s bed and tucked it around the shivering boy on the sofa. He lit a fire as Jamie stared silently into the distance. Having made a cup of tea for both of them and alerted the London sergeant and Zoe’s mobile to Jamie’s safe return, Simon sat down at the other end of the sofa.
“Drink it, Jamie. It’ll warm you up.”
The boy sipped at the hot liquid, his small hands clasped round the mug. “Are you cross with me?”
“No, of course not. We were all worried, yes, but not cross.”
“Mumma will be furious when she finds out.”
“She already knows you’d disappeared from school. She’s on her way home from Spain and should have already landed. I’m sure she’ll call the moment she can. You can speak to her and let her know you’re safe.”
Jamie sipped some more tea. “She wasn’t filming in Spain, was she?” he said slowly. “She was with him, wasn’t she?”
“Him?”
“Her boyfriend, the prince. Prince Arthur.”
“Yes.” Simon studied the boy. “How did you know?”
“One of the older boys put a page from a newspaper in my locker.”
“I see.”
“Then Dickie Sisman, who’s always hated me because I made the under-tens’ rugby A team and he didn’t, kept calling Mu-Mumma a prince’s wh-whore.”
Simon winced, but said nothing.
“Then he asked who my father w-was. I said Great-James, and Dickie and the others laughed at me, said he couldn’t be my dad because he was my great-grandfather and I was stupid. I knew that he wasn’t my father really, b-bu-but he was, Simon. Great-James was my dad and now he’s g-gone.”
Simon watched Jamie’s shoulders heave with sobs.
“He said he’d never leave me, that he’d always be there when I needed him, that all I had to do was call and he’d answer . . . But he didn’t! Be-because he’s dead!”
Simon gently took the tea mug from him, sat down, and pulled Jamie into his arms.
“I didn’t think he’d gone, not really,” Jamie continued. “I me-mean, I knew he wasn’t there in person—he’d said he wouldn’t be—but that he’d always be somewhere, but when I needed him he was nowhere!” More sobs shook from Jamie’s chest. “And then Mumma was gone too. And there was nobody. I couldn’t stand it at school anymore. I had to just get out, so I w-went to Great-James.”
“I understand,” said Simon quietly.
“Wo-worst of all, Mumma lied to me!”
“Not on purpose, Jamie. She did it to protect you.”
“She’s always told me everything before. We didn’t have secrets. If I’d have known, then I could have defended myself when the boys were so awful to me.”
“Well, sometimes adults misjudge situations. I think that’s what has happened with your mother.”
“No.” He shook his head wearily. “It’s because I’m not number one anymore. Prince Arthur is. She loves him more than she loves me.”
“Oh, Jamie. That could not be further from the truth. Your mother adores you. Believe me, she was frantic when she heard the news. She moved heaven and earth to get on a plane and come back home to find you.”
“Did she?” Jamie wiped his nose morosely. “Simon?”
The Royal Secret Page 32
