Abby adjusted the position of Victoria’s chair and put her own opposite so they could talk.
‘What a pretty girl you are,’ Victoria said in a soft, plummy voice. ‘I like the colour of your dress.’
Ros had supplied Abby with a few details about Victoria Harbord. Apparently she had been quite the glamour puss in her day, with an exotic house in the South of France, a country estate in Buckinghamshire and closets stuffed with haute couture. Abby was quite shocked at how geriatric the woman looked, though it wasn’t really surprising considering she was touching ninety years old. Unlike the much younger Ros, who was mature but well preserved, everything about Victoria Harbord was ancient. She was so slender she looked as if she might snap. Her skin was crêpey, a series of lines and contours on her face like the ageing maps in the RCI archives. But she was immaculately dressed, with a huge diamond ring on her finger and pearls the size of petit pois in her ear lobes.
‘So, a journalist begs to see me,’ she said more archly. ‘I haven’t had that since House and Garden persuaded me to do a cover story on Batcombe in the seventies.’
‘Did you say yes to them too?’ asked Abby.
‘Oh yes. It was a glorious twenty-four-page spread. Then again, Batcombe was worth it. They described it, quite rightly, as one of the most beautiful homes in Europe.’
Her wistful eyes rested on Abby.
‘Still, I’m glad to have visitors these days. Batcombe was always full of people, but things are a little different for me now.’
She paused.
‘So you work for the Chronicle,’ she said. ‘I recognised your name. You wrote the piece about Dominic, didn’t you?’
‘Actually, I work at the Royal Cartography Institute. But I did find the photo of Dominic and Ros in our archives, and I collaborated with the Chronicle to promote our exhibition.’
‘It was a beautiful photo,’ nodded Victoria. ‘I was never aware of it.’
‘The Royal Geographical Society and the RCI have a huge collection of photos from hundreds of expeditions over the years,’ explained Abby. ‘Generally, if an expedition had some sort of sponsorship or financial support, a photographer would be sent along to get pictures. You knew Dominic well?’
‘Very well,’ smiled Victoria, with a hint of smugness. ‘People used to joke that the two of us should marry. Perhaps that would have happened except for two minor details. I was already married to Tony, and I don’t honestly think Dommy ever thought of me like that.’
She looked at Abby, her expression sharp, pointed.
‘Aren’t you going to pull out one of those dreadful dictaphones?’
Abby hadn’t thought to buy one. She had brought a notebook and pen, though goodness only knew if she could keep up with what Victoria was saying. Remembering that her phone had some sort of recording device, she plunged her hand into her bag, pulled out her Galaxy and fiddled around with it.
Victoria smiled as she waited.
‘I thought you young people knew all about new technology,’ she said, appearing genuinely fascinated.
‘So,’ said Abby finally, pressing the record button, ‘did you read the Chronicle story about Dominic?’
‘I did,’ said Victoria, taking on a more self-important look.
‘And do you believe he was a Russian spy?’
Victoria Harbord frowned. ‘Miss Gordon, this was all such a long time ago, I wonder what the purpose is in dredging it up again. You’ve sold your papers, your photographs . . .’
‘But do you believe that Dominic Blake was a spy? You knew him better than anyone,’ Abby said, flattering the old woman.
She expected Victoria to vehemently deny it, but she did not.
‘Perhaps. There were rumours about a lot of our crowd. I mixed with influential people, Miss Gordon.’
‘Do you know who EZ was? He was Russian. I found his initials and mentions of espionage in a document in the National Archives.’
Victoria gave a tiny shrug. ‘That could have been Eugene Zarkov. He was a naval attaché at the Russian embassy. He was a bit intense but rather dishy. Came to my house a number of times.’
‘I think he was a Russian spy,’ said Abby flatly.
‘Entirely possible.’
‘Is he still alive?”
‘You’re the journalist.’
Right now, Abby felt wholly ill-equipped and out of her depth. It was fine in St Petersburg, when she’d had Elliot at her side leading the interview, but she really didn’t know what to ask. She felt a grudging respect for him.
‘Do you have any idea where I could find Zarkov?’
‘No,’ said Victoria simply.
Abby felt a flutter of panic, as if sand were running through her fingers. She couldn’t come away from here with nothing. If Victoria, one of Dominic’s closest friends, couldn’t shed any light on his involvement with the KGB, she wasn’t sure where she could turn next.
‘So you’ve met Rosamund?’ said Victoria finally. ‘When you called, wanting to meet me, you said you were friends.’
Abby nodded, not wanting to give away that Ros was waiting in the car. As old and withered as she was, Victoria’s poise and sharp tongue were still intimidating, and Abby could understand why her friend did not want to be here.
‘How is she?’ asked Victoria.
‘She is a wonderful woman.’
‘Yes, she is.’ Victoria nodded, her expression full of emotion.
‘You know, she’s desperate to know what happened to Dominic.’
‘We all were. Dommy was one of my dearest friends. But I think perhaps we should just remember him the way he was. I know you want to help, Miss Gordon, but it’s better that those who loved him accept that he’s dead and cherish the memories that we have. Including Ros. Especially Ros.’
Tracey popped her head around the door to tell Victoria that she needed her walk, and Abby knew that their meeting had come to a close.
‘Send her my very best regards,’ said Victoria slowly.
Abby nodded, shook the old woman’s thin hand and left the room with a heavy sense of disappointment. Wandering down the dark corridor, she thought about what she should do next. She had a sense that Eugene Zarkov could be the key to finding out what she wanted, and she wondered how she could go about tracking him down.
She stopped as she saw Rosamund standing by the nurses’ station. She was reading a selection of birthday cards propped up on the shelf that Abby had noticed on her arrival.
Abby smiled as she approached. Clearly the older woman had had a change of heart. She’d known Ros was not the type to stay in the car; no matter how difficult it was going to be for her, she had decided to come and confront Victoria. Abby felt a flutter of pride for her new friend as she stopped in front of her and watched her take one of the birthday cards off the shelf.
‘What are you doing?’ she asked in surprise. She had expected a barrage of questions from Ros about Victoria, about their meeting, about EZ. Instead her eyes were transfixed on the card.
‘I should talk to Victoria,’ said Ros finally.
‘I think she has to go for a walk, but I’m sure we could pop back in,’ said Abby.
They headed back towards Victoria’s room, but were stopped by Tracey coming out of the loo.
‘Where are you going?’ she asked, putting her hand on Abby’s shoulder. ‘Victoria needs her exercise now.’
‘We’ll be five minutes,’ said Abby with as much charm as she could manage. ‘Five minutes, that’s all we need. My friend wanted to say hello.’
‘You’d better be quick,’ said the nurse with a weary shrug.
Abby knocked on the door. Victoria’s voice summoned them inside.
Victoria was out of her chair, and was standing holding a cane. Her face visibly paled when she saw Ros. As the two women looked at each other, Abby could see the years melting away, a bristle of rivalry vanishing as quickly as it had come, softening to a look of nostalgic complicity.
‘Ros,’ said Vic
toria quietly. ‘I didn’t know you were here.’
‘Hello, Vee. It’s been a long time.’
They stood in silence.
‘I saw this card on the nurses’ bay,’ said Ros finally. ‘Your birthday card to Tracey, I believe.’
Abby didn’t miss the sharp look that darted between the two women.
‘You sent me the postcard, didn’t you, Vee?’ Rosamund’s voice started to crack.
‘What’s going on?’ whispered Abby.
Ros handed her the birthday card and Abby read the message inside.
Darling Tracey. Wishing you much happiness on this special day, best wishes, Victoria H.
At first she didn’t understand its significance, until Ros rooted around in her handbag, pulling out the postcard that she had shown Abby in the Chelsea Physic Garden.
‘I recognised the handwriting, Vee,’ said Rosamund slowly.
‘Victoria sent the card?’ said Abby.
‘Should we walk?’ said Victoria after a moment. ‘I have to do a lap of the garden every day. Not the easiest thing with two artificial hips.’
‘We’ll take it slowly,’ said Rosamund, holding her arm.
The sun was out and Victoria’s cane sank softly into the grass as they stepped through the French doors on to the manicured lawn.
‘Perhaps you’d like to close the door,’ said Victoria, turning to Abby. ‘Most of the residents are stone deaf, and the staff only seem to be interested in celebrity tittle-tattle, if the publications behind the nursing station are to be believed. But still, what I am about to tell you is private.’
Abby did as she was told and then returned to the two older women.
‘What’s going on?’ she asked as she caught up with them. ‘Why did you send Ros the card, Victoria?’
‘Because I didn’t want her doubting Dominic,’ she said, turning her full attention to Rosamund. ‘I know how much you loved him, Ros. We both did. I didn’t want you to believe that he was a traitor.’
‘What do you know, Vee?’ said Rosamund desperately. ‘Tell me everything you know.’
It was several seconds before Victoria spoke again.
‘A few minutes ago, your friend Abby asked me whether Dominic gathered intelligence on behalf of the Russians. The answer to that question is yes. Yes, he did.’
‘So he was a spy?’ Abby turned to her in surprise. ‘And you knew that?’
Victoria nodded, her tiny head bobbing like an apple. ‘But he was also gathering intelligence for the British government.’
Rosamund stopped walking.
‘You mean he was a double agent?
Victoria smiled and gripped her cane a little harder, her knuckles turning white.
‘Dominic was the perfect English gentleman, but he was also the perfect spy,’ she said slowly. ‘No family, beyond his war-veteran father. Well connected, intelligent, but considered a bit shallow, too interested in the pleasures of the flesh to be taken seriously. He operated very publicly, but completely under the radar. The Soviets thought he was working for them for years. He fed information back to them through contacts in London or through the letter drops at Brompton Oratory.’
‘Letter drop?’ asked Abby.
‘It was a way of transferring intelligence, usually through letters or microfiche. The Oratory was a popular drop-point because people filed in and out all day and it was close to the Russian Embassy.’
Abby watched Ros nod thoughtfully.
‘He was taken into their trust, but that only enabled him to feed information back to MI5,’ continued Victoria, rubbing the handle of her cane.
‘And how do you know all this?’ said Abby, picturing Sean Connery as James Bond.
Victoria laughed.
‘Because I was his handler.’
‘Handler . . .’ said Abby, suddenly remembering Alexei Gorshkov.
‘It was the perfect arrangement. My husband Tony and I could invite all these well-connected and influential people to our gatherings, and Dominic could befriend them and pump them for info.’
‘Was Tony a spy too?’ asked Ros quickly.
‘Heavens, no. I don’t think he ever knew my secret either. I loved him dearly, but he was a dreadful misogynist underneath it all. I don’t think it ever occurred to him that a woman could be so clever.’
She paused and turned to Ros.
‘I know you might think we never saw eye to eye, Ros, but believe me when I say it was nothing personal.’
‘It felt like it,’ whispered Rosamund. ‘I felt as if you wanted to sabotage our relationship.’
‘Dominic was a successful spy because no one ever suspected him,’ said Victoria. ‘But then he starts dating a left-wing radical, and suddenly he’s drawing attention to himself, inviting investigation from British intelligence. At the same time, you, dear Rozzie, get him frozen out of party land, so he’s no use to Moscow.’
‘Do you know what happened to him?’ asked Ros, gripping her old rival’s arm.
Victoria shook her head sadly.
‘We – the more discreet elements of the Security Service – made enquiries after his disappearance. We were told that someone Germanic-sounding had been spotted in the villages around Kutuba asking about the British adventurer. We never found out who it was, but we believe Dominic was assassinated before we could get to him.’
Abby heard Ros give a slow, sad exhalation.
‘But why would he be assassinated?’ she asked quickly.
‘He wanted to leave the intelligence service. Had done for a while, but once he met Ros, he made his mind up that he definitely wanted out. I assume he said this to the Russians too, but I’m not certain how easy it is to leave the KGB.’
‘Surely they wouldn’t have killed him for that?’ said Ros, looking up.
‘No. But they take a more dim view of double agents.’ Victoria’s face was hard, efficient, as if she had turned off her personal feelings like a tap.
‘How did the Russians know he was a double agent?’
She closed her eyes.
‘I ask myself that very same question every single day. Could we have done more to stop the leaks? What more could we have done to protect our colleague, our friend?’
‘So what happened?’ asked Abby.
‘There must have been a mole. Someone who knew about Dominic’s position in MI5 and tipped off the Russians. He wasn’t the first to be sold out in that way.’
‘Have you any idea who it might have been? How it might have happened?’
A tiny tear slipped down Victoria’s cheek.
‘I had my suspicions about Jonathon Soames. Call it women’s intuition rather than fact-gathering intelligence, but he was too nice, too good to be true, and I never trusted him. He had a very senior but rather vague role in Whitehall. And he was influential, connected, a member of various security think tanks, the perfect recruit for the Russians. I mentioned it to my superiors and they laughed in my face. Upper-class men stick together like glue, whereas I was always viewed with suspicion, not because of my background, but because of my sex. They dismissed me as a gossip-monger, a troublemaker, and because I had no proof, I began to doubt my own instincts and stopped pushing. Six months later, Dominic was dead.’
‘So you think Jonathon found out that Dominic was a double agent and shopped him to the Russians.’
She nodded, the movement so slow and sad it was as if it was painful to do so.
‘Jonathon made all the right noises when Dominic disappeared. He even organised a small memorial service for him a few years later. Seven years later. That’s how long you have to wait before you can declare someone dead in absentia. I didn’t go. Not because I didn’t want to remember Dominic, but because I couldn’t stand the hypocrisy of Jonathon weeping crocodile tears.’
She sat down on a bench, and Abby didn’t know which was too much for her: her dodgy hips or the weight of the story.
‘Dominic loved you, Ros,’ said Victoria, her words barely a croak. ‘He loved y
ou so much. I told him how dangerous it was for him to keep seeing you, but he said that you were non-negotiable. As for me? Yes, I tried to break up your relationship, but not totally out of love for queen and country. It was more than that. I was jealous. He loved you. Not me. I may have won the battle, but I didn’t win the war.’
‘No one won,’ said Rosamund painfully. ‘Dom’s gone. I loved him, but I didn’t even have the chance to show him.’
Chapter Thirty
An appointment with Dr Melanie Naylor was the last thing Abby needed. She still couldn’t believe she was here. It was only out of nostalgia and the emotion of the previous day’s events at Appledore that she had agreed to attend when Dr Naylor’s secretary had phoned to confirm the appointment.
The clinic was in a double-fronted house in Clapham Old Town. It was smart and expensive-looking – there was clearly money in the high-end marriage counselling business, noted Abby on her arrival. She was asked to sit in a small waiting room, which was like a particularly chic friend’s study, with comfy sofas, glossy magazines on a walnut table, and a jug of water with slices of cucumber floating in it. It was all a bit too informal for her liking.
After a few minutes, she heard a ring on the bell and a familiar voice introducing himself to Dr Naylor, who had answered the door.
‘Mrs Gordon? Do you want to come through?’ said the doctor, popping her head around the door and smiling at Abby.
Melanie Naylor was about forty. No white coat, just a smart navy wrap dress that looked like DVF. Abby glanced at Nick. He was wearing suit trousers and a pale blue shirt. She always laughed at what men wore in hot weather – shorts and brogues, suits with sandals, Lycra or board shorts – but Nick got it just right. She wondered if he had been to see a client. She wondered if he fancied Dr Naylor, pretty and perfectly poised as she held the door open for them.
Abby sat down on a fashionable-looking orange sofa and glanced up at the certificates on the wall. According to her website – which Abby had googled and read at length – Dr Naylor was a halfway house between a counsellor, which sounded truly terrifying, and a divorce mediator, which didn’t sound much better. Throw in the doctorate and Abby had started to feel as if she had some sort of problem, when her only problem was the cheating husband sitting next to her.
The Last Kiss Goodbye Page 27