Page 52 of The Love Letter
Joanna was not calmed by his casual reply. The earlier peace she had felt evaporated, and for the rest of their drive to London, she surreptitiously kept an eye on the rear-view mirror, tensing at every grey car they saw.
On Highgate Hill, Marcus parked the Golf in front of Simon’s building.
‘Thanks, Marcus. I can’t tell you how grateful I am.’
‘Just make sure you get the family and me at least a double-page spread on the memorial fund in that rag of yours. Listen, Jo.’ He leant over the gearstick and gripped her hand before she could escape. ‘Can I see you again? Maybe dinner on Thursday evening?’
‘Yes,’ she said without hesitation. She leant over and kissed him lightly on the lips. ‘I’ll see you on Thursday. Bye, Marcus.’
‘Bye, Jo,’ he answered wistfully as she climbed out of the car and pulled her holdall out of the boot.
‘I’ll miss you,’ he whispered as she gave him a wave and a smile and walked up to the front door.
As Joanna soldiered up the long flight of stairs, she decided that there was far more to Marcus Harrison than she had expected. But as she turned the key in the lock, the warmth in her belly was immediately replaced by the cold fear that she had been followed again. By who? And what exactly could they want with her?
She took off her coat, with a renewed gratitude for the modern convenience of timed central heating, then placed the photograph she had acquired from Haycroft House on the coffee table. She went to the kitchen to put on the kettle for tea and make a sandwich, then settled down at the table. Collecting the pile of biographies, then pulling the music-hall programme and the photocopy of the love letter Rose had given her out of her rucksack, she placed everything in front of her. She reread both Rose’s note and the love letter, then flicked through the old programme from the Hackney Empire, studying the photographs of the cast. Her heart began to pound as she finally recognised a face.
Mr Michael O’Connell! Impersonator Extraordinaire!the programme read beneath the photograph.
Joanna put the picture she had brought back from Dorset beside it and compared the faces of James Harrison and Michael O’Connell. Even though the picture in the programme was old and grainy, there was little doubt. With his dark blond hair and devoid of a moustache, the young actor calling himself Michael O’Connell was a double for James Harrison. Unless they were twins, they had to be one and the same man?
But why? Why would Michael O’Connell alter his name? Yes, it was quite possible he would have decided to acquire a stage name that he felt suited him better, but surely he’d have done that right at the beginning of his career, not a few years later? By the time he’d married Grace in 1929, he’d apparently dyed his hair black and grown a moustache. And none of the biographies noted any change of name. The early details all related to the ‘Harrison’ family.
Joanna shook her head. Maybe it was just coincidence that the two men looked so alike. And yet, it would finally explain the significance of the programme, and the reason why Rose had sent it to her.
Had Sir James Harrison once been someone else? Someone with a past he wished others to forget?
Stalemate
An impasse, wherein no legal move is possible
14
Alec was not at his desk when she arrived in the office the following morning. When he did appear an hour later, she pounced on him immediately. ‘Alec, I’ve found something on—’
Alec held up a hand to stop her. ‘Deal’s off, I’m afraid. You’re being moved to Pets and Gardens.’
Joanna stared at him. ‘What?’
Alec shrugged. ‘Nothing to do with me. The whole point in your first year here is that you work on every section of the paper. Your time on the news desk is over. You no longer belong to me. Sorry, Jo, but there it is.’
‘I . . . but I’ve only been on the section for a few weeks. Besides, I can’t just let this story go. I . . .’ Joanna was so shocked she couldn’t take in what he was saying. ‘Pets and bloody Gardens?! Jesus! Why, Alec?’
‘Look, don’t ask me. I just work here. Go and see the Ed if you want. He suggested a move round.’
Joanna glanced down the corridor at the threadbare carpet in front of the glass-panelled office, worn down by nervous hacks facing a demolition job from their boss. She swallowed hard, not wanting to cry in front of Alec, or anyone else in the office for that matter.
‘Did he say why?’
‘Nope.’ Alec sat down behind his computer screen.
‘Doesn’t he like my work? Me? My perfume?! Everybody knows that “dog poo and mulch” is the armpit of the newspaper. I’m literally being buried alive!’
‘Jo, calm down. It’ll probably only be for a few weeks. If it makes you feel any better, I did stand up for you, but it was a no-go, I’m afraid.’
Joanna watched as Alec typed something on the screen. She leant forward. ‘You don’t think . . .’
He looked up at her. ‘No. I don’t. Just type up that frigging piece about the memorial fund, then clear your desk. Mighty Mike is doing a direct swap with you.’
