Читать книгу Treacherous Longings - Anne Mather, Anne Mather - Страница 6

‘YOU knew her, didn’t you?’

Quinn barely hesitated. ‘My mother did,’ he amended swiftly, conscious of the weakness of that distinction. Of course he’d known her. Rather better then he wanted to remember, he thought sardonically. But that wasn’t Hector Pickard’s concern. Nor ever would be, if he had anything to do with it.

‘How long ago was that?’

Hector was persistent, and Quinn got up from his chair and wandered with assumed indolence over to the window. But the tall buildings of Canary Wharf, visible beyond the floor-length panes of this executively placed office, were not what he was seeing as he gazed beyond the glass.

‘Oh—years,’ he replied at last, dismissively. ‘Ten years at least. Long before she had that—row—with Intercontinental. I’ve no idea what she’s doing now.’ He paused. ‘She—dropped out of sight.’

‘I do.’

‘You do what?’

‘Know where she is. Or—’ Hector gave a half-impatient shrug ‘—I think I do, anyway. Yes. I’m sure of it.’

Hector’s smug pronouncement had Quinn turning to stare at him with undisguised disbelief. ‘Where? How?’

‘Oh, I have my sources.’ Hector responded to his second question first. He gave a satisfied smile. ‘You’re not the only journalist I employ, Marriott. And some of them will do anything to oust you from that plum position you occupy. Including a little—insider dealing, if it gets us what we want.’

Quinn’s dark brows drew together. ‘Go on.’

Hector adopted a rather defiant air now. His dealings with the younger man usually left him in a position of weakness, but this time he felt confident of his success.

‘The current series is going nowhere, and you know it!’ he exclaimed firmly. ‘I mean, who have we featured so far? A couple of washed-up actors whose careers never were going to set a script alight. An ex-boxer whose brains were not scrambled in the ring, however often he tries to convince us they were. And a trio of ageing political Romeos whose sexual exploits nobody cared about to begin with.’

Quinn’s smile was reluctant, but undeniable. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘not even damned with faint praise! Lord save me from ambitious producers. There’s nothing more chilling than the viewing figures, is there?’

Hector’s look was dour. ‘There’s no need for you to sound so sanctimonious about it, Marriott. You’ve done your share of verbal butchery in your time. I know you put your thumbs down on this project before it even got started—’

‘Well, it was hardly original, was it?’

‘—but that doesn’t absolve you of all responsibility for its failure.’

‘Doesn’t it?’ Quinn folded his arms with cool indifference. ‘Hector, the girl who brings round the tea could have told you that format had been done to death!’

‘Could she?’ Hector’s fleshy mouth took on a malevolent curve now. The current series was his baby and, while he was willing to admit that Quinn hadn’t endorsed the enterprise, he had no intention of letting him off the hook. Hector was not a big man, really, though his bulk tended to disguise that fact to all but his closest associates, but he could look decidedly aggressive when he chose, and this was one of those times. ‘Well, perhaps she should be sitting in this chair instead of me,’ he added. ‘Or perhaps you think you should. It wouldn’t be the first time a pushy assistant producer thought he knew better than the rest.’

‘I didn’t say that.’ Quinn sighed. Hector had been good to him, and he had no desire to ruin their relationship. ‘I just think we—need a new angle. Investigating the private lives of people who by your own admission are has-beens simply doesn’t pull an audience.’

‘I disagree.’ To Quinn’s dismay, Hector wasn’t prepared to give in that easily. ‘Oh—I admit the faces we’ve used to date haven’t captured the public’s imagination. Like I said, they were all losers of one sort or another. The second series is going to be different. You’re not telling me people wouldn’t want to know about Marilyn Monroe if she were still alive today?’

‘No.’ Quinn conceded the point. ‘But Marilyn Monroe is dead.’

‘Tell me about it.’ Hector was sarcastic, but Quinn didn’t look perturbed.

‘That’s why she’s still newsworthy,’ he appended smoothly. ‘If she’d grown old, gracefully or ungracefully, I doubt the public would still be interested. It was the shortness of her life and the circumstances of her death that still make news.’

Hector sniffed. ‘Well—OK. Maybe Monroe wasn’t a suitable choice. She was a special case, I’ll give you that. But that doesn’t mean the idea sucks. I bet you could give us a few juicy names if you wanted to.’ Hector’s eyes narrowed. ‘I didn’t just hire you for your impeccable pedigree, you know.’

‘I thought you employed me because I was good at my job,’ said Quinn thinly, with a trace of contempt in his tone. ‘Don’t tell me you were blinded by my breeding. I’ll be disappointed if you just want to drink my blood!’

Hector huffed. ‘I’m not a vampire, Quinn,’ he said peevishly.

‘And I’m not your entry to the social register,’ retorted the younger man harshly. ‘For God’s sake, Hector, you surely didn’t expect me to give you confidential information about my friends?’

‘No.’ Hector paused. ‘I just want you to go and see Julia Harvey.’

Julia Harvey...

Quinn squared his shoulders. ‘No.’

‘Why not?’

‘She’s—she was—my mother’s friend.’

‘But not a close friend. Not a member of your family. I wouldn’t ask you to tell tales about your close friends, Quinn.’ He paused. ‘And Julia Harvey has been out of circulation for so long she can’t be a threat, either to you or your mother.’

‘No.’ Quinn’s denial was harsh. And then, at Hector’s look of victory, ‘I mean no. I won’t do it. Find somebody else. I don’t want to be involved.’

‘But you are involved,’ declared Hector angrily. ‘And, dammit, I don’t have time to find anybody else. For all I know, she may have taken fright already. She’s out there, Quinn, I know it. And if you make me lose this chance, I may never forgive you.’

‘Wait a minute.’ Quinn stared at him. ‘You said someone had found her. Why do you need me?’

Hector bunched his shoulders. ‘I said I knew where she was,’ he amended gruffly. ‘I do. At least—’ he waved an impatient hand ‘—I know where she’s supposed to be. Neville didn’t meet her. But that doesn’t mean she’s not there. It just means he wouldn’t know the woman if he saw her.’

Quinn stared at him. ‘You’ve actually attempted to get an interview with her already?’

‘Didn’t I just say so?’ Hector was defensive. ‘Why shouldn’t I give it my best shot?’ He lifted his shoulders in a vaguely dismissive gesture. ‘Hey, listen, anyone with that lady’s reputation couldn’t possibly expect to stay hidden forever.’

‘Look, Hector—’

‘No, you look, Quinn.’ He gazed up at the younger man aggressively. ‘You’ve got a declared interest here. I can understand that. And you may feel because she and your mother were once buddies that you owe her some loyalty because of it.’ He shook his head. ‘Well, let me tell you, you don’t. This is a cut-throat world, Quinn. And women like Julia Harvey—women who’ve been legends in their own lifetime, so to speak—can’t expect to find total anonymity. She was happy enough to accept the public’s support—their adulation—when she needed it. Why should she think she can give it all up without even a bloody explanation?’

Quinn could feel his own temper rising. ‘And you think that gives you the right to go looking for her? You think because her work was public her life is public property, too?’

‘Save the bleeding heart, Quinn. It doesn’t become you. And if you want my honest opinion, then yes, I think she forfeited any right to anonymity when she stepped on to her first sound-stage. We’re talking money here, Quinn, big money. So why would a woman earning those kind of bucks throw it all up for no good reason?’

‘Perhaps she had a reason.’ But Quinn couldn’t think of one offhand. For years he’d tried to find a reason, until time—and his own disillusionment—had cured him.

‘Like what?’ Hector asked now. ‘Some terminal illness, perhaps?’ He gave a scornful snort. ‘She’s still alive.’

‘Even so—’

‘Disfigurement, perhaps?’ Hector was persistent. ‘Don’t you think something like that would have made the tabloids? These people are under permanent scrutiny. I can’t believe it wouldn’t have come out.’

Quinn took a deep breath. ‘So, what’s your explanation, then?’

Hector shrugged. ‘I don’t have one. That’s the most intriguing thing about it. Here we have a woman who’s acted with every major star in the film industry, and she just disappears. For over ten years she was one of the highest-paid actresses of all time. Right into the eighties she was winning every award in sight. She could pick her roles—pick her leading men. Then what happens? She has that big row with Intercontinental—only God knows why—and she ducks out of the limelight.’ He snapped his fingers. ‘Just like that. One moment she was there and the next she was gone. Don’t you think her fans deserve to know the truth behind that disappearance? You may not give a damn, Quinn, but us lesser mortals surely do.’

Quinn’s teeth ground together. Hector had a point, of course. Even if one of the main television stations hadn’t been planning on screening a re-run of all her movies, people were always interested in a mystery. And starting the new series of Timeslip with a name like Julia Harvey’s was a sure way of bucking the ratings. Apart from anything else, rumours that she was dead had been circulating for years. It would be a real coup to prove that she wasn’t. And—

Quinn’s ruminations came to an abrupt halt. And—what? He frowned. Dammit, what had she been doing all these years? He had used to think she owed him an explanation, too. But, like everybody else, he’d drawn a blank.

‘Interested?’ Hector seemed to sense that Quinn was weakening, and his knowing grin did nothing to assuage the younger man’s temper. But the truth was, his curiosity was stirring. Did Hector really know where she was living? Or had the mention of Neville Hager’s trip been just a sprat to catch a mackerel?

He pushed his hands into the back pockets of his corded trousers and took a steadying breath. The action disposed of the dampness that had gathered on his palms, and he dismissed the unworthy thought that he might be afraid to accept this assignment. For God’s sake, it was ten years since he had seen the woman. Ten years since she had played her games with him. Why should he hesitate about exposing her? He wasn’t a callow youth any more. And he surely didn’t owe her any favours.

‘Well?’

Hector was waiting expectantly, and Quinn knew he wasn’t going to refuse. After all, if the new series was junked he’d automatically share some of the responsibility. Did he want that on his conscience? Could he afford to be so thin-skinned?

He hesitated. ‘Where is she?’

Hector regarded him warily. ‘You’ll do it?’

Quinn shrugged. ‘Do I have a choice?’

‘Everyone has a choice, my boy.’

Quinn’s mouth twisted. Oh, yeah. Right. But not if he wanted to keep his job. ‘I’ll do what I can,’ he said, taking his hands out of his pockets and raking impatient fingers through his hair. ‘But I’m not making any promises. She may refuse to see me.’

‘I doubt it.’ Hector regarded him ironically. ‘I have it on good authority that you’re exactly the kind of man she admires. Dark, good-looking—though I have to say I’d have my hair cut if I were you. It’s a pity you were such a kid when she knew your mother. You might have been able to give me some stories that never made the headlines.’

Quinn steeled himself not to show any reaction. He’d had plenty of experience, after all. When Julia had first disappeared his mother had constantly worried over the reason why. And, although she’d known nothing of their relationship, Quinn had been the recipient of all her guilty fears.

God, how he had hated that. At a time when he’d been desperately trying to come to terms with his own feelings, the last thing he’d wanted to do was discuss Julia with his mother.

If only Lady Marriott hadn’t been such a fan. If only she hadn’t persuaded her husband to organise that gala so that she might meet her. Without that connection they never would have met. And certainly Julia and Isabel Marriott would never have become friends...

Hector got up from his desk now, and came to pat Quinn’s shoulder with an encouraging hand. His enthusiasm should have been infectious, but all Quinn could think about was what he had let himself in for.

‘So where is she?’ he asked, resisting Hector’s efforts to turn his capitulation into a celebration. He was fairly sure he was going to have a wasted journey. Julia Harvey would never agree to do what Hector wanted.

‘San Jacinto,’ the older man replied now, with an air of triumph, and Quinn’s spirits plummeted. ‘It’s a small island, just off the Caymans,’ continued the older man, pouring himself another glass of Scotch and savouring its bouquet. ‘I doubt if anybody’s even heard of it. From what I can gather, she’s been living like a recluse all these years.’

* * *

Lunchtime found Quinn perched on a bar-stool scanning the huge file of information Hector had given him about Julia Harvey. The file was thick enough, certainly, containing as it did the massive wedge of press clippings gleaned from newspapers and magazines ten and twenty years old.

Some of the cuttings were from the seventies, when she had first been noticed in a drama school production. Unlike most would-be actresses, Julia hadn’t had to struggle to become successful. As one fulsome reviewer had put it, ‘artistes of Miss Harvey’s calibre were born to delight the senses of other mere mortals’. And she was regarded as having divine inspiration and an unassuming character to boot.

Of course, as she had become more successful the reviews had become less idealistic, though no less glowing. Stories about her love-life had begun to circulate, and she was suspected of having affairs with all her leading men. Bitchy subordinates had accused her of being a man-eater, and rumours of adulterous liaisons had fanned the fires of notoriety.

Yet through it all Julia had emerged as a woman much loved by her public—and by those people who believed they’d known her as she really was, Quinn acknowledged sardonically, ordering another beer. Whatever the real truth, she had appeared serene and untouchable, an irritation to her enemies and an icon to her friends.

There were dozens of pictures, and although Quinn had no real desire to look at the woman he couldn’t help being drawn by her beauty. Hair that was more silver than gold, creamy skin, green eyes, and a generous mouth to die for: Julia Harvey had had more than her fair share of life’s endowments. So why had she chosen to give it all up? What had persuaded her to abandon her career? She’d kept her secret, whatever it was, for ten years. Couldn’t Hector see that she’d never divulge it now?

‘Sorry I’m late, darling.’

Susan Aitken slid on to the stool beside him, and bestowed a cold-lipped kiss on his cheek. Outside, the temperature was hovering somewhere around freezing-point, but it was warm in the bar and she hunched her slim shoulders appreciatively.

‘No problem.’

Quinn offered her a smile that required more of an effort than he’d anticipated, and nodded towards the bartender. ‘What do you want?’

‘Oh, my usual, I think,’ she responded warmly, and Quinn ordered a spritzer as she peered over his shoulder. ‘What are you doing?’

Suppressing a quite ridiculous desire to hide the file from her, instead Quinn pushed it towards her. ‘See for yourself,’ he said, picking up his beer and emptying his glass, before signalling to the barman that he’d have another. They were only half-pint bottles after all, he consoled himself, aware that he was drinking more than he usually did at lunchtime. ‘Pickard wants to do a profile on her, if we can find her.’

Susan bent over the file, her cap of chestnut hair swinging confidingly against her cheek. Unlike Julia Harvey, whose beauty had had a wholly sensual appeal, Susan’s charm lay in her smallness, in the diminutive frame of her body, in the delicate shape of her face. Her father called her his pocket Venus, and the description was not inappropriate.

‘Julia Harvey,’ she said now wonderingly. ‘I thought she was dead.’

Quinn stilled the urge to drag the file back to him, and managed a careless shrug. ‘So do a lot of people.’

Susan looked up. ‘But she’s not?’

‘Obviously not.’ Quinn could hear the impatience creeping into his voice and determinedly controlled it. ‘According to Hector she’s living on some remote island in the Caribbean. Somehow—I’m not sure I want to know how—he’s traced her supposed whereabouts. He—wants me to try and see her. To persuade her to co-operate.’

‘You!’ Susan’s blue eyes widened. ‘Why you? That’s not your job.’

‘No.’ Quinn conceded the point, unsure of how much he wanted to tell her. ‘It’s just that—well, my mother used to be a fan of hers.’

‘Just your mother?’

‘What do you—?’ Quinn had started a defensive response when he realised Susan was only joking. Her expression had been full of mischief, and only the half-aggressive swiftness of his reply had brought a trace of anxiety to her eyes. ‘She was my mother’s contemporary, not mine,’ he finished, with more defiance than conviction. ‘Give me a break.’

Susan was quick to forgive him. ‘Well, men have been known to worship lesser idols,’ she responded, eager to restore their previous closeness. ‘All the same, I don’t see what your mother being a fan has to do with it.’

‘They were—friends,’ admitted Quinn reluctantly. ‘Well, close acquaintances, anyway. She—Julia Harvey, that is—spent several weekends at Courtlands.’

‘Really?’ Susan stared at him. ‘You never told me.’

‘Why would I?’ Quinn was unwillingly defensive again. ‘It was long before we knew one another. And, as you say, she dropped out of circulation.’

‘So did your mother keep in touch with her?’

Susan was annoyingly persistent, sipping her wine and watching him over the rim of her glass with disturbing intent. Quinn wished he hadn’t brought the Harvey file with him. But curiosity had got the better of him, and he had told himself he was eager to start his research.

‘No,’ he replied now, taking the file from her and sliding it beneath his elbow. ‘They weren’t that close. I seem to remember Julia went off to Hollywood to make a film with Intercontinental—’

‘Intercontinental Studios?’ put in Susan, and Quinn nodded.

‘And after some kind of bust-up she just—disappeared.’

‘How intriguing!’ Susan regarded him excitedly. ‘So—do you know what happened?’

‘No.’ Quinn managed to sound casual about it. ‘I think my mother wrote to her a couple of times, but she didn’t get any reply. We don’t even know if she got the letters.’

‘Goodness.’ Susan put down her glass and rubbed her gloved hands together. ‘Quite a mystery.’

‘Quite a mystery,’ echoed Quinn evenly. Then, with determination, he asked, ‘What would you like to eat?’ He glanced at the menu card at the end of the bar. ‘Pizza? Lasagne? Or just a sandwich?’

‘Just a sandwich, please,’ said Susan, evidently deciding it was warm enough to pull off her gloves. ‘So—where did you say she is now?’

Quinn hadn’t said, other than mentioning the fairly vague area of the Caribbean. Besides, he had hoped that they could shelve Julia Harvey for the time being. It was bad enough that Hector was talking about his leaving within the next few days. He had no wish to spend the time rehashing all he knew about her.

‘Somewhere off the Caymans,’ he said repressively, his tone indicating his unwillingness to continue with this discussion. ‘I’ll have a sandwich too. Which do you prefer? Egg mayonnaise or beef?’

‘Beef, please,’ replied Susan in a small voice, and Quinn hoped she was not going to get huffy over his impatience. For God’s sake, she’d never shown much interest in his work before. Susan was first and foremost a pleasure person. She’d never been able to understand why Quinn worked so hard when he didn’t have to. Until today it had been the one sour note in their relationship.

‘So,’ he said, after the sandwiches were ordered, ‘let’s find a table, shall we?’ He tucked the bulging file beneath his arm and picked up her glass as well as his own. ‘There’s one over there.’ He slid smoothly off the stool. ‘Need any help?’

Susan shook her head, and although her legs were considerably shorter than his own she climbed down rather elegantly. Then, preceding him, she led the way to the corner table he had indicated, choosing to sit opposite him instead of sharing his banquette.

‘And what have you been doing this morning?’ Quinn asked after they were seated, refusing to be daunted by her sulky face. He could guess, of course. She’d probably been shopping. A lazy saunter through Harrods, and coffee with one of her girlfriends.

Susan shrugged. ‘Not a lot.’

‘Shopping?’

‘I don’t just go shopping,’ she flared, and Quinn’s lips twitched at the transparency of her defence.

‘OK,’ he said softly. ‘So what have you been doing? Of course. I’d forgotten. It’s Tuesday. You visit the health club on Tuesdays. No wonder your cheeks are so pink.’

‘If my cheeks are pink, it’s because I’m cross with you,’ retorted Susan shortly. ‘You’re always saying I show no interest in your work, and now, just because I have, you’re acting as if I was asking you to divulge state secrets or something.’

‘Suse—’

‘Who cares about Julia Harvey anyway?’

‘Hector’s hoping everybody will,’ put in Quinn drily.

‘Well, I don’t.’ Susan sniffed. ‘She’s just another old film actress, as far as I’m concerned. I doubt if they’re exactly thin on the ground.’

‘She was quite unique,’ murmured Quinn reluctantly, aware that he wasn’t doing himself any favours by defending her, and Susan gave him a scathing look.

‘Is that your opinion? I thought you were too young to notice.’

Quinn sighed. ‘Don’t be bitchy, Suse. It doesn’t suit you.’

‘Well...’ Susan shook her head. ‘I don’t see anything clever in acting in movies. I’ve heard they only film about a minute at a time. They don’t even have to remember lines. Daddy says it’s money for jam.’

And he would know, thought Quinn with uncharacteristic malevolence. He was not often in tune with the views of Maxwell Aitken, one of the most influential businessmen in the country. He was the head of Corporate Foods, with a chain of successful supermarkets behind him. If anyone knew anything about jam, he did, but that didn’t make him an expert on making films.

But, ‘Really?’ Quinn responded now, in no mood to pursue this discussion. ‘Well, he’s probably right,’ he added. ‘And I’m sorry if you think I was rude.’

Susan was easily mollified. ‘Well, you weren’t rude. Not really,’ she said, stretching her hand across the table and capturing his fingers. She smiled. ‘You just seem sort of—grumpy, that’s all. Is it because you don’t want to go and see this woman? Is Pickard putting the pressure on because he knows your mother knew her?’

Quinn stifled a groan. ‘Something like that,’ he agreed pleasantly. ‘Now, can we talk about something else? I’ve only got about half an hour. We’re taping the last segment of that prison documentary this afternoon.’

Susan pulled a face. ‘At Wormwood Scrubs?’ she asked, shivering delicately, and Quinn pulled a wry face.

‘No. In the studio,’ he corrected her drily. ‘We’ve got Patrick George coming in to conduct a discussion between members of the public and the society that protects the rights of prisoners. It should be interesting. He’s quite right-wing, I believe.’

Susan grimaced. ‘I don’t know how you can bear to be involved in that kind of debate!’ she exclaimed. ‘I positively cringed last week when you said you’d visited that prison. I’m sure your mother and father would rather you were involved in estate matters. I mean, who’s going to look after Courtlands when your father decides to retire?’

Quinn eased his legs beneath the narrow table. ‘Believe it or not, but that doesn’t keep me awake nights,’ he drawled, his eyes, which in the subdued light looked more black than grey, glinting mockingly. ‘If you want to be lady of the manor, Suse, I think you’d better set your sights on Matthew. I fear you’re going to be disappointed if you think I’ll ever change.’

Susan pursed her lips. ‘But you’re the eldest son!’ She shook her head. ‘It’s expected of you.’

‘Blessed is the man who expects nothing, for he shall never be disappointed,’ remarked Quinn drily, and Susan sighed.

‘Who said that?’

‘I think I just did.’

Susan gave him a reproving stare. ‘You know what I mean.’

‘Oh—Pope, I think. Yes, it was. Alexander Pope: 1688-1744, poet and scholar.’

Susan looked as if she would have liked to make some cutting comment in response, but the arrival of their sandwiches prevented any unladylike burst of venom. Instead she contented herself with saying, ‘You’re so clever, aren’t you? I really don’t know what you see in a scatterbrain like me.’

‘Don’t you?’

Across the table, Quinn’s eyes glowed with a most unholy light, and Susan chuckled happily as she bit into her sandwich. ‘Well, maybe,’ she conceded, tucking a shred of beef into the corner of her mouth and blushing quite disarmingly. ‘Oh, Quinn, stop looking at me like that. You’re supposed to be eating your lunch.’