The Last Kiss Goodbye (25 page)

‘I bet Elliot knows someone,’ said Abby. ‘I’d say it’s acceptable to dance with the devil when he’s got something you want.’

Rosamund laughed.

‘I’m seeing him this evening,’ said Abby, realising that her decision about whether or not to meet Elliot had been made for her.

‘See? You’re good at this,’ said Rosamund.

Abby grinned. ‘I’m working on it.’

On their way back to the gate, they made their plan, a checklist of people to contact and places to go. As they talked, Abby could see Ros becoming more alert and alive. Abby glanced at her watch and flagged a black cab. She wasn’t going far, but she was in a hurry to get started. ‘Can I drop you anywhere?’ she asked Rosamund, who was buttoning up her jacket.

‘Thanks for the offer, but no, I think I’ll go for a stroll by the river.’ She smiled. ‘Rivers always remind me of Dominic. We spent ten horrendous days trapped on a boat once. You see, it’s not always the good things that you remember.’

‘What if it turns out that you’re wrong?’ said Abby as the taxi drew up by the kerb. ‘What if Dominic really was a traitor?’

‘Then I will live with it. But if the two of us are half as smart and resourceful as I believe we are, I don’t think I will have to.’

Chapter Twenty-Seven

‘Abigail,’ said Stephen, looking up from his laptop quizzically. ‘What are you doing in today? I thought we’d decided on Wednesdays and Thursdays.’

‘We did. I’m not here to work. I’m here to pick your brains.’

‘Oh,’ he smiled, looking rather flattered. He took off his glasses and put them in his top pocket. ‘Congratulations on your
Chronicle
piece, by the way. I trust you received my message? Both Christine and I were most impressed.’

‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘Actually, Stephen, I think you might be able to help me get a follow-up story. Paul Robinson, the
Chronicle
editor, asked personally for us to get involved.’

She watched as a proud smile spread across his face. She knew from experience that the only way to get her boss to do anything was to flatter him into it; clearly the possibility of a personal link to a high-profile media figure like Paul Robinson was exactly what he wanted to hear.

‘You’re going to write more for the
Chronicle
?’

Abby had to suppress a smile. There was nothing like looking popular to make others see the error of their ways.

‘I am. And I wondered whether you’d like to assist.’

‘Of course,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’m keen to help however I can.’

‘Great,’ said Abby, sitting down and pulling out her notebook. ‘Obviously I’ll do this on my own time . . .’

‘No, no,’ said Stephen, lifting a hand. ‘If your story is promoting the archive and our exhibitions, then of course you may do it from here. As well as your other duties, obviously.’

Abby smiled. ‘All right, down to business. You are, of course, one of the most respected archivists in the country, if not the world.’

She said it as if it were fact; there was a good chance it was true anyway. The Institute had a huge amount of prestige in the small yet incredibly nerdy archive community, and Stephen certainly didn’t go in for false modesty.

‘But if I were looking for documents, possibly classified government documents, who would you say your opposite number would be?’

Stephen’s mouth pursed. ‘I’m not sure I would call him my opposite number, but that would be Tobias Harding over at the National Archives. All documentation in the public domain – anything declassified or available under the Freedom of Information Act – will be held there. I worked with Toby for a little while at the British Museum. I could certainly arrange an introduction.’

Abby smiled back at him. ‘Thanks, Stephen. The editorial team at the
Chronicle
will be thrilled.’

Stephen puffed up his chest like a turkey. ‘But if the documents you’re looking for are of a genuinely sensitive nature, you probably won’t find them in Kew.’

‘Where will they be then?’

‘I do believe there’s an intelligence archive.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Oh, the MI5 building in Vauxhall.’

Abby felt her heart drop – clearly it showed on her face, because Stephen gave a sympathetic smile.

‘Indeed. Even if you could get in there, the word is they’ve been scanning classified files on to encrypted servers. It actually is all rather James Bond.’

Toby Harding was waiting for Abby and Rosamund in the lobby area of the National Archives, a lumpen 1970s concrete carbuncle chipped from the same block as the National Theatre on the South Bank. Unlike Stephen, who looked perfectly suited to the role of archivist, Toby seemed pleasant and efficient, like a strait-laced dad at the school gate.

‘Ms Gordon?’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. Stephen has told me all about you.’

‘All good, I hope?’

‘Oh yes, I rather think he sees you as his protégée – quite an honour.’

Yes, now that I’m getting Stephen’s name in the paper, thought Abby cynically. She wasn’t so much of a protégée when he was slashing her hours in half.

She introduced Ros, who extended her hand with a smile, and Harding led them into the bowels of the building. Abby listened with admiration to Ros making small talk. To a casual observer it was just polite chit-chat, but Abby could tell it was cleverer than that. That Ros was subtly working out how useful Toby and the archives could be.

As they walked through the building, Toby pointed out the various sections: documents, certificates, photographs, communications, all filed down a maze of corridors. Occasionally Abby would see staff pushing trolleys stacked high with buff-coloured files, requested by members of the public or researchers waiting upstairs in the reading rooms. Finally Toby ushered them into his office, and she was struck by how similar it was to Stephen’s cramped cubbyhole: just enough room for a desk and a few filing cabinets.

‘Now then,’ he said. ‘How can I help?’

Rosamund quickly outlined Elliot and Abby’s
Chronicle
story about Dominic.

Toby glanced at Abby.

‘Stephen did give me a heads-up that you were looking for some sort of confirmation of Dominic Blake’s involvement with the KGB. He also said that you were in something of a hurry – so I took the liberty of having a ferret about for you.’

Abby and Ros glanced at each other in anticipation.

He opened a drawer and slid a slim file across to Ros. He must have sensed their excitement, because he stood and walked around to her side as Ros opened the file.

‘As you will see,’ he said, ‘the declassification of files is never entirely straightforward.’

Abby peered over Ros’s shoulder and could immediately see that the documents inside were woefully incomplete. The one on top began with a series of inscrutable code designations, then a subject line,
Surveillance by XXXXX, 24 October 1958
, followed by a dry description:
Following information from XXXXX, as detailed in report XXXXX, the subject DB XXXXX was observed leaving his flat in Tavistock Square at 19.23. He then hailed a taxi cab, registration XXXXX. We followed in XXXXX to XXXXX, where he was observed entering the premises at 19.45.

‘A DB who lived in Tavistock Square. Do you think that’s Dominic?’ she asked as she scanned the text.

‘Dominic did have a flat in that square, yes,’ said Ros.

She flipped through the papers, deep in thought.

‘Are all the files like this?’ she asked, with obvious disappointment.

‘It is rather frustrating, isn’t it?’ replied Harding. ‘These documents are released to the public after the prescribed time, but anything the authorities deem sensitive is either withheld or redacted as you see here. So even though we’ve got reports on DB’s movements, as well as transcriptions of his conversations on the telephone or overheard in restaurants, there are huge sections blacked out and we’re left speculating about what has been withheld or withdrawn. Indeed, his very identity.’

‘So they’re not that transparent after all,’ said Abby quickly.

Toby gave a sympathetic shrug.

‘But the fact that a DB of Tavistock Square has been monitored, that there are MI5 files on him at all, is quite revealing.’

The implication of his words settled around the small room.

‘Is there likely to be anything more specific than initials here?’ asked Rosamund, looking up.

‘Possibly,’ nodded Toby.

Ros’s back straightened in her chair.

‘If you persevere, you can occasionally stumble across the odd nugget,’ he added, taking the file from her. ‘There are often inconsistencies, you see, little secrets that slip through the net. Have a look at the back page, for instance.’ He pulled out a single sheet and handed it to her. ‘Portions of this document should have been removed, but for whatever reason, they missed the chop, as it were.’

Abby stared at him.

‘Isn’t that a security blunder?’

Toby nodded again. ‘It’s hardly surprising. There are hundreds of thousands of documents to get through, and to make accurate assessments about which should remain secret would require both a vast knowledge of Cold War espionage and the highest level of security clearance. Anyone fitting that description is hardly likely to be sitting in a basement with a marker pen.’

Abby looked at the page.

Report from agent XXXXX, line tap designation XXXXX.

11 March 1961, intercept 08:40 GMT.

Discussion between Soviet agent EZ and DB. Translation transcript can be found at XXXXX.

‘The translation transcript. Where do you think it could be found?’

‘At the registry, I expect.’

‘The registry?’

‘In the 1960s, the surveillance of Russian spies or suspected operatives was dealt with by Division E of MI5, I believe. All MI5 files were kept at Leconfield House, in Curzon Street.’

‘And the chances of me accessing those are zero.’

He winced with sympathy.

‘You know, there has been a wealth of information written about the Cold War: the main players, the rumour, the scandal. A whole slew of books have come out in the last few years, now that most of the major players are dead. Our libel laws may be fairly draconian, but they don’t stretch as far as the deceased. Why don’t you go down that route? Maybe you can work out who EZ is.’

‘I know just where to start,’ said Rosamund softly.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Abby stood outside Elliot Hall’s front door and took a deep breath. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and it bounced, reminding her of the blow-dry she’d had this afternoon. A blow-dry that now made her feel obvious, made her look, in the words of some forgotten teenage lexicon, as though she was gagging for it.

She wondered what Rosamund would think of her standing here in her little black dress and matching underwear, a lacy bra and knickers set from La Senza that was very much date underwear, underwear designed to be seen and removed. She was here to persuade Elliot Hall to help her clear Dominic’s name, and yet she was dressed for a booty call. Too late now, she thought, pressing the bell.

When Elliot answered the door, she knew exactly why she had spent so long getting ready. In khaki chinos, a navy polo shirt and bare feet, he looked even sexier than she remembered.

‘Abby, come in. You look amazing,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek.

Abby wasn’t sure which was making her blush more – the thought of her carefully chosen underwear or the memory of that perfect, erotic night-and-morning in St Petersburg.

‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, leading her into the kitchen.

‘What’s with the spoon?’ She nodded at the wooden spatula he was holding.

‘I’m cooking dinner.’

‘There’s more than great bacon sandwiches in your repertoire?’

He grinned over his shoulder. ‘I blame my mother,’ he said, sprinkling sea salt over a Dover sole that had just come out of the oven. ‘In my gap year she packed me off on every self-improvement course she could think of. Art history in Florence, cooking in France, sailing in Brazil. All I wanted to do was go to Spain with my mates and get pissed.’

‘You’d make someone a good wife,’ Abby said, watching him drain the potatoes. She couldn’t help comparing him to Nick, whose culinary talent extended as far as calling the Indian takeaway down the road.

‘Is there a compliment in there somewhere?’ said Elliot, leaving the fish and pouring her a glass of wine.

She inhaled the delicious warm and homely smell of the kitchen, and found herself forgetting that she was cross with him.

‘So how was San Francisco?’

‘I love it out there. It’s so dynamic. I got approached twice to set up a new media venture.’

He handed her the plates and grabbed a cocktail shaker from the marble worktop.

‘I thought we’d eat upstairs, on the roof terrace. You take the food, I’ll bring the martinis. There’s wine and water already up there.’

She hated martinis, but now didn’t seem the time to bring it up.

Following him upstairs, she glanced across the landing and saw the doorway to the room where she’d slept after Elliot’s party. It was hard to believe it had only been two weeks earlier. So much seemed to have happened in the interim.

The roof terrace was a wide balcony that led off Elliot’s bedroom. She took in the details of the room: a blue shirt folded across the arm of a captain’s chair, a bookshelf full of books, a MacBook Air on the small table next to a king-sized bed, neatly made up and inviting. She felt nervous being in its orbit. Nervous about where the night might lead, and not sure how she felt about it.

Elliot seemed not to notice that they were in such an intimate space. He took the chair that looked back towards the house, whilst Abby had a view of the gardens growing dark in the fading light.

For a minute she couldn’t believe that she was living this life. In their flat in Clapham, the one she and Nick had bought when they had first got engaged, there was a patch of roof over the downstairs extension accessed by crawling out of the bathroom window. That first summer as homeowners, there had been a stretch of unusually warm weather, and they had gone out there most evenings, sitting cross-legged on cushions, drinking beer, laughing and swapping gossip about their days. This was a more grown-up and sophisticated version of that memory, although she couldn’t help feel a pang of nostalgia for the old days.

Elliot poured a martini into the empty glass on the table.

‘So your mate Suze is seeing Will tonight, so I hear.’ He looked up and grinned. ‘What’s she like?’

‘Why do you ask?’

‘She just looks as if she might eat him for dinner. I’m simply looking after the emotional well-being of my colleague.’

‘Yeah, right,’ she smiled. ‘You men are just as much gossips as women.’

‘I’m a journalist. I’m nosy. Besides, I like to think I played Cupid.’

‘Actually, she says she’s approaching this one differently.’

‘You mean they’ve not had sex yet.’

Abby fumbled the water jug and spilt liquid over the tablecloth, which she quickly mopped up with a napkin. Clearing her throat, she took a long swig of her cocktail. As she tipped her head back, she could feel Elliot’s legs, stretched out under the table, resting ever so gently against hers. His toe grazed the back of her calf, and she wondered if she should shift position, whether he would shift his. Seconds ticked by, and she predicted that if he hadn’t moved his feet away by the count of ten, they were going to end up in bed together. The idea both excited and bothered her. So far, their night in St Petersburg had been a one-off. She could put it down to a moment of madness, but tonight was crossing a line. If they had sex, if she slept with him in that big, expensive-looking bed behind her, they would be in a relationship and that made her different to Nick.

Eight, nine, ten
 . . .

‘I saw Ros today,’ she said, changing the subject and the position of her legs under the table. She had expected Elliot to mention the Dominic Blake debacle, expected a few more apologies perhaps, but his silence on the matter suggested that it was over and done with. But she couldn’t let it go. She was here for a reason, even if the bedroom looked tempting.

‘Ah. I wondered when you were going to bring this up again.’

‘Of course I’m going to bring it up, Elliot. That’s why I’m here.’

‘Not the only reason, I hope.’

‘I’m still pissed off,’ she said, not entirely honestly.

‘You’re very beautiful when you’re angry,’ he said, leaning back in his chair and watching her.

‘And sometimes you sound like a total sleazeball.’

‘You bring out the best in me,’ he replied, his mouth curling roguishly. ‘Look, Abs, I explained all this on the phone. I had to file the story, but I didn’t want to upset you. I was going to tell you in person. I thought they were going to run with the story next week, but things just didn’t work out. I’m sorry if Rosamund Bailey gave you a hard time about it. She should have taken it up with me, but she didn’t, and I think that says a lot about her, don’t you? I wouldn’t go feeling too sorry for her. She’s a tricky customer.’

‘She’s an old woman, Elliot, who found out that the love of her life was a Soviet spy simply by reading her weekend newspaper. You should have let her know.’

‘You know what you need?’ he said, topping up her wine glass.

‘What?’

‘A holiday.’

It wasn’t what she had expected him to suggest.

‘I know we’ve just got back from Russia, but that was work. My father has a house in France. It’s lovely. In the Luberon, Ménerbes, the village from
A Year in Provence
. There’s a pool, and the air smells of lemons and lavender, and we don’t even have to get out of bed if we don’t want to. I think it’s what you need to unwind.’

She laughed nervously. Elliot wasn’t just asking her to go to France; he was asking her to take their fledgling relationship to the next step, a step far beyond just spending another night together. She had to admit that it was more than she’d expected from him, but whilst she was flattered by the offer, it didn’t seem the most important issue on the table.

‘Ros doesn’t believe that Dominic was a spy,’ she said, deflecting the conversation away from mini-breaks.

‘Of course she doesn’t,’ replied Elliot, smiling. ‘She loved him.’

‘I met her today and she showed me a postcard she had received. It said, “Trust Dominic.”’

‘And what does that prove?’ He said it with a laugh, but there was a note of scorn in his voice.

‘Maybe nothing, but don’t you think it’s strange? It was anonymous. “Trust Dominic.” As if someone knows something and wants to reassure Ros that what she read in the paper isn’t true.’

Elliot frowned dismissively.

‘You were there with me in St Petersburg. You heard what Gorshkov said. That’s as near as we’re going to get to any official confirmation. Yes, we were wrong not to tip Ros off about the story, but our facts were right. Now, what do you think about Provence?’

‘What about Ros and Dominic?’ said Abby, feeling as if all the romance had been sucked off the terrace.

‘What about them, Abby?’ he said, putting his fork down in annoyance. ‘What do you want me to do here?’ She could hear a familiar tone in his voice. The fractious souring between couples.

‘She thinks Dominic is innocent. She’s convinced he wasn’t working for the Russians and she wants us to find out for sure. She’ll even pay us for any investigation, though I’d feel uncomfortable taking money from her.’

Elliot gave a small shake of his head.

‘You’re connected, Elliot,’ pressed Abby. ‘You know how easily your dad got in touch with Jonathon Soames. He probably has a hotline to the Prime Minister if you ask him. A few calls and we could sort this out, clear Dominic’s name. Then you can write another piece in the
Chronicle
with the real story.’

‘Abby, how do we prove that Blake
wasn’t
KGB? Send Putin an email and ask him? Break into the Kremlin HR department to have a peek at their records? Besides which, it’s not a story I would want to write even if we found out that he was just a journalist and explorer after all.’

‘Why not?’ asked Abby, shocked.

‘Because I’ve just filed a bloody four-thousand-word article saying he
was
KGB. How’s it going to look if a couple of weeks later we admit that we were wrong and our original story was completely bogus? How credible is that going to make me look as a journalist?’

‘But someone’s reputation is on the line here.’

‘Yes, mine,’ he said fiercely.

Abby wasn’t hungry any more.

‘So you don’t want to help me?’

‘Abby, stop. Listen to yourself. Think about it. We wanted to find out about Dominic Blake. And we did. Not how and where he died, but we did find out that he was a Russian spy and we had good sources to back that up.
The Last Goodbye
was a beautiful photo, and Blake was a romantic, charismatic character. Anyone remotely interested in him was going to be disappointed about what we found out – us, the readers, certainly his friends, and especially Rosamund. But it doesn’t mean it’s not true just because you want him to be something else, something different.’

She found herself thinking about Nick. She’d found out a truth about him and it wasn’t something that she’d wanted to hear.

‘I trust Dominic,’ she said with feeling.

Elliot sighed and threw down his napkin.

‘Abby. Grow up.’

She shook her head with frustration. ‘You really don’t care, do you? It’s job done. Story filed. Glory received. You don’t care about what you’ve left behind in the slipstream. Don’t care who you’ve hurt.’

Elliot’s voice softened. ‘Maybe you should see someone.’

‘Someone who could help us?’ said Abby, perking up.

‘A therapist, Abby. I mean a therapist. You know, I think I know what this is. Your marriage has broken down. You’re looking for meaning, for some romantic truth, some vindication that love exists. I think this could be depression.’

‘You think I’m depressed?’ she said, trying to control her emotion.

‘I’m saying it’s possible. You’ve been under a lot of stress. Hell, this story was a roller-coaster ride. I got quite an adrenalin rush from it myself.’

She took a breath to compose herself. She did not want to put herself under the microscope. She had come here to talk about
The Last Goodbye
, and Elliot was making her feel like some sort of fruitcake. She felt tears welling up in her eyes. It was as if every emotion she had experienced over the past eight weeks was crystallising into this one moment of rejection.

‘Abby, don’t get upset. It’s only work.’

‘Is it?’ she choked. ‘You know, I thought that what happened in Russia might have meant something.’

‘We had a great weekend, and we’re here now, aren’t we, taking it slowly. I’ve just invited you to Provence, for goodness’ sake. I don’t do that with everyone.’

She could see the panic in his eyes and it actually made her laugh.

‘Don’t worry, Elliot. I don’t want a ring on my finger. I just thought you cared. About me. About Ros and the story . . .’

‘Why does everything have to be about the bloody story?’ he said, throwing his hands up in frustration.

‘It’s about doing the right thing,’ she said, getting to her feet. ‘And right now, this doesn’t feel like it.’

‘So that’s it?’ His handsome face suddenly looked cold and aloof.

She’d been talking about the story, about Dominic and Ros, but she realised that Elliot had been asking about their affair. Suddenly she knew the answer to that question too.

‘I should go,’ she said softly.

Elliot sat there shaking his head.

‘After everything I’ve done for you.’ His mouth curled into a sneer. The smooth, charming Elliot gone, in his place the petulant rich boy who always got what he wanted. Rosamund had been right about that.

Abby knew how easy it would be to rise to his bait. For the evening to turn into a confrontation, an embarrassment. But she didn’t want to slink away. She was not that girl any more. She went round to his side of the table and kissed him courteously on the cheek.

‘Thank you, Elliot,’ she said as her last goodbye, as he looked at her with complete surprise.