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
