Page 64 of The Love Letter
‘Marcus, good to see you, old chap.’ Ian shook his hand brusquely. ‘Do sit down. Drink?’
‘A beer would be great, thanks.’ Marcus eyed the whisky that sat in front of Ian, but remembered his promise to himself and resisted.
‘Super.’ Ian signalled for a waiter and ordered a pint and another whisky. He leant forward, his elbows resting on his knees, his hands clasped together. ‘So, how’ve you been?’
‘Er, since leaving school? Fine. Been a while, hasn’t it? I left over seventeen years ago.’
‘And what line of work are you in?’ Ian said, ignoring his remark.
‘I have my own film production company.’
‘How glamorous. I’m a poor old civil-service bod, earning just enough to bake my daily bread. But then, I suppose with your background, there was a natural progression.’
‘Sort of, although one could say my family’s been a hindrance, in fact.’
‘Really? You surprise me.’
‘Yes, it surprises most people,’ Marcus agreed morosely. ‘At the moment I’m starting up a fund in memory of my grandfather, Sir James Harrison.’
‘Really?’ Ian said yet again. ‘Well now, what a coincidence, as that’s just what I wanted to talk to you about. Thank you.’ The waiter put their drinks on the table.
Marcus eyed Ian suspiciously, and wondered if there’d ever be a time when someone was interested in meeting him for himself, rather than his family.
‘Cheers.’
‘Yes, cheers.’ Marcus took a healthy slug of his beer, watching Ian as he drained his first whisky then picked up his second. ‘Now, what’s this about?’
‘It’s all a bit hush-hush and you have to understand that we’re really taking you into our confidence by telling you. You see, the situation is this: apparently your granddad was a bit of a lad, had a ding-dong with a certain lady who was very much in the public eye. She wrote him some rather steamy letters. Your granddad returned all of them years ago, apart from one. We thought we’d retrieved it – he always promised to will the last and most, shall we say, compromising one to this lady’s family on his death.’ Ian picked up his glass and sipped from it. ‘It seems the letter was the wrong one.’
The letter Joanna had been sent by the old lady, deduced Marcus.
‘Can’t say I remember anything of that nature being in the will,’ murmured Marcus innocently.
‘No. Subsequently, the . . . family concerned have contacted us to see if we can retrieve this last letter. It could all be very embarrassing if it fell into the wrong hands.’
‘I see. Is there any point in asking who the family might be?’
‘No, but I can tell you they’re rich enough to offer a substantial reward to anyone who might come across it. And I mean substantial.’
Marcus lit up a cigarette and studied Ian. ‘And how far have you got with your enquiries?’
‘Not far enough. We hear tell that you’re friendly with a young journalist.’
‘Joanna Haslam?’
‘Yes. Have you any idea how much she knows?’
‘Not really. We haven’t discussed it much, although I did know she’d been sent a letter, presumably the one that found its way to you.’
‘Quite. Er, look, Marcus, to put it bluntly, you don’t by any chance think that Miss Haslam is encouraging your friendship because she thinks you might lead her to further information, do you?’
Marcus sighed. ‘I suppose it is a possibility, especially after what I’ve just heard.’
‘Forewarned is forearmed, as they say. And obviously this conversation is completely between us. The British government is relying on your discretion in this matter.’
Marcus had had enough of Ian’s cloak-and-dagger behaviour. ‘Listen, cut the crap, Ian, and tell me exactly what you want.’
‘You have access to your grandfather’s houses, both in London and in Dorset. Perhaps what we need is in one of them.’
