The Last Kiss Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  She sighed and looked at the envelope.

  ‘I always trusted Dominic,’ she whispered. ‘He was no traitor. He was a good, good man.’

  Abby wanted Dominic to be innocent too. Just as she had hoped that when Nick had told her about his infidelity, it had all been an unpleasant joke. Like Ros, she had believed in the man she loved, right up until the moment that tears had welled in her husband’s eyes and she had seen the guilt in his expression.

  ‘What do you want me to do, Ros? Why are you showing me this? As you said yourself, the story has run, the damage has been done.’

  ‘We have to find out what this means,’ Ros said, her voice going up a notch. ‘Dominic is innocent and I want you to help me prove it.’

  ‘Me?’

  ‘Don’t worry, I will pay you.’

  ‘How can I help you?’ said Abby desperately. ‘I’m an archive assistant, not a bloody detective. I have a divorce to sort out, a job to salvage . . . I want to help you, and that message you’ve been sent is definitely intriguing but what can I do?’

  Ros waited a few seconds before she spoke again.

  ‘Why do you think the Last Goodbye story was so popular? Why have so many copies of the picture been sold?’ she said finally, locking eyes with Abby and not removing her gaze. ‘Because it represents hope,’ she went on without waiting for an answer. ‘Love and hope. Whether it’s in someone’s misty past, or somewhere in their future, everyone wants to believe that someone loves them that much too. But if Dominic was a Soviet spy, that picture, our love, would have been a fake, a lie. No one wants to feel deceived by love.’

  ‘You can say that again,’ mumbled Abby softly. She glanced at the postcard in Ros’s hand.

  ‘Abby, please. I did everything I could to find Dominic. I was this far from a breakdown,’ Ros said, putting her thumb and finger together to indicate the smallest of margins. ‘In the end it was my parents who forced me to call off the search. They made me see that Dominic would not want me to destroy myself looking for answers I was never going to find. It was why I resisted your attempt to investigate his disappearance. Because I knew it was futile. Not just because you’re unlikely to find anything even if you did go to the Amazon, but because whatever you do isn’t going to bring him back.’

  ‘Then why are you here now?’ asked Abby softly.

  Rosamund’s eyes trailed to the white card.

  ‘Because somebody knows something. Not Gorshkov or Elliot, but the person who sent this. The man I love is gone, but I have to prove his innocence.’

  Abby looked at her, wondering if what she really meant was that she had to prove his love. Ros’s faith in Dominic seemed unshakeable, but Abby knew first-hand what it felt like to be betrayed.

  ‘And you think I can help you?’

  ‘You’ve got a head start on anyone else.’

  ‘Anyone except Elliot.’

  Ros gave her a soft smile.

  ‘You remind me of myself when I was starting out in journalism. You have that same belief in the truth.’

  Abby nodded to accept the compliment.

  ‘If only we knew who had sent the card. But how on earth are we supposed to track them down? It’s got a WC2 postmark. Hundreds of thousands of people send letters from this postal area. It’s one of the busiest in the world.’

  ‘Maybe that’s the point. The person who sent this didn’t want to be found out.’

  ‘Graphology?’ said Abby weakly.

  ‘My CIA contacts aren’t particularly up to date,’ smiled Ros.

  A couple of Chelsea Pensioners walked slowly past, their red jackets as vivid as summer poppies bending in the wind.

  ‘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 smi
le.

  ‘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 so
meone 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.