‘That’s the spirit. I’m going to take a shower.’
‘Okay.’
Twenty minutes later, they sat down to eat the spaghetti bolognese topped with generous amounts of Parmesan.
‘Not bad, for an amateur,’ he quipped.
‘Cheers, big ears. Wow, it’s really bucketing down now,’ she said, glancing out of the window. ‘I’ve never seen London in the snow.’
‘Just means the buses, tubes and trains will come to a grinding halt.’ Simon sighed. ‘Thank God it’s Saturday tomorrow.’
‘Yes.’
‘Jo, where is Rose’s letter?’
‘In my rucksack. Why?’
‘Can I see it?’
‘Come up with something, have you?’
‘No, but I have a mate who works in the forensics department at Scotland Yard. He might be able to analyse it and give us some information on the type of notepaper, the ink and the approximate year in which it was written.’
‘Really?’ Joanna looked surprised. ‘That’s a pretty impressive friend.’
‘I knew him at Cambridge, actually.’
‘Oh, I see.’ She poured some more wine into her glass and sighed. ‘I don’t know, Simon. Rose specifically said to keep the letter close to me, not to let it or the programme out of my sight.’
‘Are you saying you don’t trust me?’
‘Of course not. I’m torn, that’s all. I mean, it would be great to get some information on it, but what if it fell into the wrong hands?’
‘Mine, you mean?’ Simon gave her an exaggerated pout.
‘Don’t be silly. Look, Simon, she was murdered, I’m absolutely positive about that.’
‘You have no proof. A mad old dear who fell down the stairs and you’re seeingTinker, Tailor, Soldier, Spy.’
‘Hardly! You agreed with me that it sounded suspicious. What’s changed?’
‘Nothing . . . nothing. Okay, why don’t we leave it like this? You give me the letter and I’ll take it to my mate. If he comes up with anything, we’ll take it from there. If not, I think you should drop the whole thing and forget about it.’
Joanna took a sip of her wine, pondering the situation. ‘The thing is, I just don’t think Icanleave it. I mean, she trusted me. It would be a betrayal.’
‘You’d never met the woman before that day at the church. You’ve no idea who she is, where she’s from or what she might have been involved with.’
‘You think she might have been Europe’s biggest crack-cocaine baron, do you?’ Joanna giggled. ‘Maybethat’swhat was in those tea chests.’
‘Possibly.’ Simon smiled. ‘So, is that a deal? I’ll take the letter into work on Monday morning and give it to my mate. I’m away on a god-awful boring seminar from Monday afternoon, but when I get back next week I’ll pick the letter up and we’ll see what he’s had to say.’
‘Okay,’ she agreed reluctantly. ‘This “mate” you knowistrustworthy, isn’t he?’
‘Of course! I’ll spin some story about a friend of mine wanting to trace her family heritage, that kind of thing. Do you want to go and get it, so neither of us forgets before Monday?’
‘Okay,’ said Joanna, standing up. ‘It’s ice cream for pudding. Can you serve it out?’
The two of them spent most of Saturday doing the remainder of the clearing up in Joanna’s flat. Her parents had sent her a cheque to help her buy a new computer and a bed whilst she waited for the insurance money to come in. She was touched by their thoughtfulness.
