Jones couldn’t wait to disembark, and being on British soil again almost magically restored at least a degree of her usual self-confidence. Her unfortunate experiences in Princeton and New York began to acquire a veneer of unreality. Suddenly she felt ready to deal with almost anything that needed dealing with. She was Dr Sandy Jones, celebrated academic and media personality, and this was her territory.
Ed walked silently by her side through UK immigration and customs. Jones noticed how white and drawn he still was. He’d always been such a gentle man. It was no surprise, really, that he’d proved to be even less able to deal with violent mayhem than she was. She felt a rush of concern and affection for him.
Impulsively she took his hand in hers and squeezed. He glanced at her in surprise, but did manage the ghost of a smile.
And it was at that moment that the two of them were engulfed in the blinding light of a host of camera flashes. A group of photographers gathered in the arrivals hall were rattling off shot after shot.
‘Who’s the new man, Dr Jones?’ shouted one.
‘What about a kiss for the cameras, Sandy?’ called another.
‘Oh fuck,’ muttered Jones under her breath.
‘What’s happening, Sandy?’ asked Ed, leaning to whisper in her ear, thus causing the photographers to snap away all the more furiously.
‘Have the FBI put these guys onto us or something? Or MI5? Why are they photographing us?’
Ed’s mind was, perhaps understandably, still back in the place they had come from, a place occupied by spooks, special agents, and unidentified hitmen. He appeared to have no awareness at all that the two of them had stepped unwittingly into a completely different world.
‘Paparazzi,’ muttered Jones through clenched teeth. ‘Just keep walking. Fast as you can. My car should be outside by now. I called the valet service as soon as we landed.’
One snapper leapt in front of them then, thrusting his camera so aggressively close to Jones that she was nearly hit in the face by the protruding lens. Her nerves were still not in a good state. It was only with difficulty that she resisted the urge to lash out, but she knew perfectly well that a loss of control was what paparazzi photographers sought more than anything else. Jones was not only a public figure in the UK, but also a highly eligible single woman. She was used to any hint of romance in her life attracting attention. She had never before, however, faced a barrage on quite this scale — the Nikon choir, as a former Fleet Street picture editor of her acquaintance referred to it. And she’d had absolutely no reason to expect such a reception on her unannounced return to the UK. Then it dawned on her.
The assembled paparazzi were not there to meet her. They were after the Hollywood superstar and his new bride. To them Sandy Jones and a mystery male companion were merely a bonus.
But for her and Ed, this now almost certain imminent exposure in the tabloid press could spell potential disaster.
Once in the Lexus Jones explained to Ed what had been going on and why she thought it had happened.
‘I didn’t know you were such a big star,’ he remarked.
‘The power of television,’ she replied. ‘But only by default in this case. Same result though, unfortunately.’
‘Will we be in the papers here tomorrow, then?’
‘Almost certainly,’ Jones muttered. ‘And on line before that.’
‘So it will be common knowledge that we’re here. Won’t we be in just as much danger as in America?’
‘I don’t think so,’ replied Jones, hoping she was speaking the truth. ‘We’ve no reason to think anyone followed us here, or even that whoever is trying to kill Connie is set up to hit on us here. This is Britain, Ed.’
‘Yes,’ he riposted. ‘One of the world’s greatest terrorist targets. The Russians even splashed a deadly poison around one of your great cities. Or do you still believe in an England where bobbies ride bicycles and criminals say: “It’s a fair cop, guv”?’
Jones flashed a grim smile.
‘Touché. We do have a secret weapon, though.’
‘We do?’
‘That lot back there,’ she said, cocking a thumb in the direction of the terminal building they had just left. ‘We’re almost certainly going to have a press presence at my place soon. I put it to you that we might be slightly less likely to be murdered or kidnapped with Fleet Street’s finest on watch outside our front door. And dodging the press sure beats running for your life.’
Ed looked startled.
‘Is your love life of that much interest?’ he asked.
‘Apparently.’
‘And you really believe there’s no other reason for the paparazzi to mob us? And that it has nothing to do with Connie, and RECAP, and Marion, and all of that?’
‘Absolutely.’
‘I see,’ said Ed, although Jones doubted that he did.
By the time they got to Reading, Ed was asleep. Jones switched on the radio and tuned in to BBC Radio Four in order to help keep herself alert. They had a clear run and, even though Jones stopped for half an hour so that they could stretch their legs and buy coffee and sandwiches, arrived at Northdown House well before midday. So far there appeared to be no press presence.
‘Not a bad little place,’ murmured Ed as they motored through the electric security gates. ‘What views!’
Jones remembered Ed’s unprepossessing Princeton apartment, and thought there might be a little edge in his voice, but ignored it.
As she pulled the car to a halt, she used the fob on her key ring to disengage the burglar alarm.
‘I see you don’t rely entirely on press protection,’ Ed continued.
‘You can’t depend on them being around 24/7,’ replied Jones wryly. ‘And TV exposure does lead those with an inclination toward burglary to think your house must be Aladdin’s cave.’
Once inside Ed asked straight away if he could use her computer to email Mikey. Jones saw no harm in that. Not now they were out of the USA. And, after all, their whereabouts was already in the process of being made public by the great British press.
‘In spite of everything, I can’t help still wanting to know if the little bastard is all right after the shooting,’ said Ed. ‘And I also want an explanation. I want him to tell me what is going on, and exactly what part he has played in it all.’
Jones didn’t think that there was much chance of that, but none the less showed Ed to her office and switched on her desktop Mac. He said he’d better email his long-suffering neighbour too.
‘Tell him I’ll pay for a recovery service to get his car back to him,’ said Jones. ‘It’s the least we can do.’
When Ed had finished his emailing she escorted him to her best guest room.
‘You may like to have a shower and a rest,’ she said. ‘I’m going to the university to check if the package has arrived. Help yourself to anything you want from the kitchen. I’ll make sure all the alarms are on. You will be safe here.’
Everything at the university seemed almost disconcertingly normal. Clearly nobody had any idea of what Jones had been involved in on the other side of the Atlantic. But she had known they wouldn’t. Not yet. She’d tried again to camouflage the injuries to her face with make-up. Nonetheless one or two people commented on her bruised and battered appearance. She muttered something vague about being involved in a freeway pile-up. Other than that it was just like any other day. On the surface.
The package hadn’t arrived. She supposed it had been overly optimistic to have thought it might have done. She was just going to have to be patient. She tried to deal with some of the messages and other mail awaiting her, but found it virtually impossible.