Page 160 of The Love Letter
Joanna took the lid off and removed the layer of protective cotton wool, revealing the gold locket with its delicate filigree pattern and thick, heavy rose-gold chain. Joanna took it carefully out of its box and laid the locket on her palm. ‘It’s beautiful.’
‘Victorian, I’d guess.’ Alec studied it. ‘Worth a bomb, especially that chain. So, this belonged to the mysterious Rose.’
‘Apparently, yes.’ Joanna fiddled with the clasp that would open the locket.
‘If it’s anyone, my guess would be that there’s a picture of Sir James in there,’ remarked Alec as Joanna’s fingertips finally managed to win the war of attrition.
Alec watched as she stared at whatever was inside. Her eyebrows puckered as her cheeks drained of colour.
‘Jo, you okay? What is it?’
When she finally raised her head to look at him, her hazel eyes shone in her pale face.
‘I . . .’ There was a catch in her throat as she tried to steady her voice. ‘I know, Alec. God help me, I know.’
38
‘I’ve lost her, I’m afraid.’
Monica Burrows sat clicking her biro as if she had a nervous tic across the desk from Jenkins.
‘Where? At what time?’
‘I followed her home last night after work and in Kensington yesterday morning. She went inside her office building and, hey, just hasn’t reappeared.’
‘She might have spent the night working on a story.’
‘Sure, that’s what I thought too, but this morning I went to reception and asked to see her. I was told she wasn’t in the building, but off sick.’
‘Have you tried her flat?’
‘Of course, but it’s deserted. I don’t know how she got out, Mr Jenkins, but she sure slipped the net somehow.’
‘I don’t need to tell you that’s not good enough, Burrows. Write your report and I’ll be down as soon as I’ve spoken to my colleague.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, Mr Jenkins.’
Monica left the office and Lawrence Jenkins dialled for the top floor. ‘It’s Jenkins. The Haslam girl’s gone AWOL again. I put Burrows on her, seeing as you said it was a light surveillance job, and she lost her last night. Yes, sir, I’ll be up right away.’
Simon walked to the window of his bedroom under the eaves at Haycroft House and stared out at the garden below. Zoe was sitting in the rose arbour, a straw hat on her head, her lovely face tipped up to catch the sun. They’d arrived back from London late two nights ago and Simon had gone straight up to his bedroom. He sighed heavily. The past few days had been bloody awful. Trapped with her twenty-four hours a day, the very nature of his job precluding any kind of escape or respite from the nearness of the woman he now knew he loved; yet she was untouchable. So, he’d done what he thought best to preserve his sanity and cut himself off, refusing all her kindnesses, loathing himself for the confusion and hurt he saw in her eyes.
His mobile vibrated in his pocket and he pulled it out. ‘Sir?’
‘You heard from Haslam?’
‘No. Why?’
‘She’s on the missing list again. I thought you said she was off the scent.’
‘She was, sir, really. Are you sure she’s missing on purpose? Her absence could be perfectly innocent.’
‘Nothing about this situation is innocent, Warburton. When are you returning to London?’
‘I’m driving Miss Harrison back from Dorset this afternoon.’
‘Contact me as soon as you arrive.’
‘Yes, sir. Any news on the “messenger”?’
