The Last Kiss Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  ‘Have you ever met him before?’

  ‘A couple of times. He’s a good friend of Dad’s, though,’ replied Elliot as he banged an impressive brass door knocker.

  An elderly woman came to the door and greeted them warmly. She introduced herself to Abby as Connie Desmond and led them both through to a large study that overlooked the back garden of the house.

  Clive Desmond looked to be in his mid-eighties. He was wearing blue cords and a pinstriped shirt, and half-moon glasses that seemed to have been fixed halfway down his nose. He peered over the top of them and smiled at Elliot.

  ‘How are you, young man? Heavens, you’re the image of your father when we worked together. How is he?’

  ‘Hungover, I dare say. He came round last night and liberated the fifty-year-old malt he got me as a thirtieth birthday present.’

  ‘Ha. That sounds like Andrew,’ laughed Clive, easing himself back into his armchair. ‘Coffee? Tea? Something a bit stronger? It’s the afternoon. Almost.’

  They both shook their heads and took a seat on a leather chesterfield opposite.

  ‘You wanted to see if I could help you with something,’ said Clive, stroking his chin and looking statesmanlike.

  ‘I’m investigating the death of Dominic Blake.’

  ‘I remember that,’ nodded Clive.

  ‘You do?’

  ‘I was deputy news editor of the Chronicle at the time. I measure my life in news stories. It was around the time that Connie and I got married.’

  ‘Did you run a story about it?’

  ‘It was a long time ago, Elliot. But I doubt it. It was ’61, wasn’t it? That was a busy year for news, I can tell you, so smaller items got pushed aside for the big international stories. The Cuban Missile Crisis, Bay of Pigs. I didn’t know whether to edit copy or stay at home and dig a nuclear bunker.’

  ‘Did you see the photo of him with Rosamund Bailey in last week’s Chronicle?’

  ‘I did.’

  ‘I was discussing it with Dad and he said there were rumours that Rosamund was a Soviet asset.’

  ‘I can guess where that came from,’ smiled Clive, accepting a cup of tea from Connie.

  ‘Office gossip?’

  Clive sat back and crossed one leg over the other so that his slipper dangled off the end of his foot. Abby noticed that the air smelt of Earl Grey.

  ‘Back in the sixties, most of the major Russian newspapers were state-controlled. One of the main players, Soveyemka published a list of thirty British citizens who they said were Russian spies. It was largely propaganda, but as it was considered incendiary and dangerous, there was a media blackout on the story being published in the UK. We had a visit from a member of the Foreign Office, Jonathon Soames – Lord Soames as he is now – telling us to let it drop.’

  Abby looked at Elliot.

  ‘I recognise that name. I was looking at some old society party pictures of Dominic, and Soames was in a couple of them.’

  ‘So you think Dominic got his friend in high places to wade in and protect his girlfriend?’ said Elliot.

  Desmond shook his head.

  ‘No. Soveyemka printed the spy list in 1962, after Dominic’s death. And as far as I can remember, Rosamund’s name wasn’t even on it. But Blake’s was.’

  Abby looked at him in shock.

  ‘Dominic Blake was listed as a spy?’

  Clive shrugged.

  ‘As I said, who knew what was the truth. The Russians wanted us to believe that there were traitors in every sector of our ruling elite. They wanted to destabilise us.’

  ‘So you think Dominic might have turned Rosamund?’

  ‘Or vice versa. If it’s true.’

  Chapter Seventeen

  Abby couldn’t find her swimming costume anywhere. She wasn’t entirely sure she needed it, but she’d googled the name of the hotel that Elliot had given her and it looked swanky enough to have a pool.

  The only thing suitable that she could find in her drawers was a tiny pink bikini she had worn on her honeymoon. There was no way she wanted Elliot Hall to see her in that thing, but knowing that the taxi was due to arrive at any moment, she threw it into her wheelie case anyway.

  The doorbell rang and she threw her hands up in frustration. She half zipped up her case and struggled with it down the stairs, losing a bottle of shampoo and her hair straighteners along the way.

  She answered the door expecting to see Raj, her local cab driver, then blinked hard.

  ‘Ginny! What on earth are you doing here?’

  Her sister-in-law didn’t wait to be invited in.

  ‘I sent you three messages this morning and you didn’t reply. I was worried about you.’

  ‘Worried about me?’ asked Abby in puzzlement. ‘What – you thought I’d done something stupid?’

  Ginny gave her a withering look.

  ‘Yes – like forgetting our brunch date,’ she said, putting the bundle of weekend newspapers she was carrying on the console table in the hall.

  Abby felt her shoulders sink.

  ‘Oh Ginny. I’m sorry. My phone’s been charging so I didn’t hear it. Besides, I’ve been running around like a lunatic this morning.’

  ‘Well I’m here now,’ Ginny said, clapping her hands briskly. ‘Come on. Chop, chop. If we leave it much later, we won’t get a table. You know how busy the Village gets.’

  Abby looked at her sister-in-law and winced in apology.

  ‘I can’t come. Something has come up.’

  Ginny frowned.

  ‘Really?’

  ‘I’m going to Russia.’

  Her friend looked at her as if she had gone totally mad.

  ‘Russia?’ she said incredulously.

  ‘St Petersburg.’

  ‘What on earth for? A mini-break?’

  Abby didn’t miss Ginny’s look of disapproval, of suspicion, and she didn’t blame her.

  ‘It’s work,’ she said quickly.

  ‘For the RCI?’

  Abby shook her head.

  ‘I have a new job. I’m freelancing for the Chronicle.’

  ‘What as? Cultural attaché?’

  ‘I’m doing research for them.’

  Ginny didn’t need to say anything. The perplexed frown between her brows said it all.

  ‘How on earth did all this happen?’ She took a piece of Nicorette gum from her pocket and started chewing it.

  Abby waved a hand, not wanting to look her sister-in-law in the eye.

  ‘The Chronicle ran that big story on the Great British Explorers exhibition. The editor loved one of the photos so much he wanted me to look into it a bit more.’

  ‘Isn’t that a job for one of their journalists?’

  ‘Apparently I’m the expert.’

  She hated lying to Ginny, but she didn’t want to tell her the truth either.

  ‘So have we got time for a quick coffee?’

  ‘I think the taxi is outside,’ said Abby, hearing a car horn and glad of the excuse to leave.

  ‘I’d better push off then,’ Ginny said tartly.

  ‘Gin, don’t be like this. I’m so sorry I forgot to cancel brunch, sorry you’ve had a wasted journey over here, but this trip was really last minute and I’ve been up to here getting my visa sorted, making all my travel arrangements . . .’

  ‘Don’t worry about it. I know what it’s like.’

  ‘Look, Ginny. You know better than anyone what a shitty few weeks I’ve had. This is good for me, even if I’m so far out of my comfort zone it’s not even funny.’

  Ginny came and put her arms around her.

  ‘I know, I know. You take care, okay.’

  Abby nodded and prayed that her sister-in-law hadn’t seen the contents of her wheelie case spilling out on to the floor: a sliver of pink bikini string, a glimpse of black sparkly T-shirt, a high-heeled shoe.

  ‘Are we still on for starting this Pilates course on Thursday?’ said Ginny. ‘I thought we could go for dinner afterwards. My treat.’
<
br />   ‘That would be nice. I’ll email you in the week to make a plan.’

  ‘When are you back?’

  ‘Monday.’

  ‘Great,’ said Ginny seeming reassured. ‘I’m proud of you, you know that.’

  Abby nodded, not feeling especially proud of herself.

  Abby sat in the back of the taxi watching the streets of west London slip by and asking herself what the hell she was doing. It had all happened so quickly, and at the time it had seemed to make perfect sense.

  No sooner had they left Clive Desmond’s home the previous Sunday than Elliot had made an action plan. Abby was to speak to as many of Dominic’s friends as a) were alive, b) she could track down, c) were willing to speak to her. Elliot meanwhile was going to look into the more specific allegation of his involvement in espionage.

  By Tuesday she had only managed to contact three of Dominic’s associates, and that was with the assistance of Andrew Shah. Elliot, meanwhile, had not only tracked down a former employee of Soveyemka newspaper, but had arranged a meeting with a KGB colonel. By Wednesday he had flown to St Petersburg; within another twelve hours he had arranged for Abby to fly out to meet him, calling her and telling her the plan in so casual a way that he had made it sound as if they were going to the British Library for the afternoon.

  Despite her anxiety, Abby slept for most of the three-and-a-half-hour flight to Pulkovo airport, landing late in the afternoon. Elliot was waiting for her at arrivals, and she almost sighed with relief to see him.

  ‘Remind me what I’m doing here again?’ she asked him as he brushed his lips across her cheek to greet her.

  ‘Working,’ he smiled, taking her case and leading her to a waiting chauffeured vehicle – a black giant of a car that looked as if it was used to ferry dignitaries around.

  He refused to tell her much on the short journey into the city centre, and his semi-paranoid silence made her feel like a spy herself, putting her on edge.

  When the skyline of St Petersburg came into view, however, she felt a flutter of energy that was pure excitement rather than nerves. Her gaze trailed the rooftops. The turrets and domes were more beautiful than anything she had ever seen, like something out of a pop-up fairy-tale book.

  ‘Have you been to St Petersburg before?’

  She shook her head.

  ‘There’s a lot of water,’ she said, thinking it looked like a cross between Venice and Amsterdam, even though she hadn’t been to either place. She smiled to herself at how you could pick so much up from movies.

  ‘It’s coastal for a start,’ said Elliot. ‘The Gulf of Finland is over there. As well as that, the city is built on about a hundred islands. There are fewer than that today, because some have been linked by bridges, but most of them have got their own individual personalities. Kammeny used to be the island for the ruling elite, so it’s full of run-down dachas, the great mansions they built for themselves. Aptekarsky is home to the botanical gardens, Petrogradsky has the universities. In fact the city was called Petrograd for a little while before it was changed to Leningrad after Lenin’s death. Some of the islands even have drawbridges that come up at night. We should watch for that if we go exploring.’

  The car pulled to a stop.

  ‘And this is where we’re staying,’ he said, as Abby looked up at the grand white baroque facade in front of her.

  ‘Wow,’ she whistled through her teeth.

  Inside, the hotel had the quiet grandeur of somewhere very expensive. The atrium was a high, vaulted space with a chandelier the size of a small car, twinkling golden light around the reception. Abby checked in – this instantly reassured her that she and Elliot were not sharing a room, a thought that had crossed her mind on the flight over – and they took the lift to the fourth floor.

  She pushed her key card into the lock of room 406 and gasped when she peered inside.

  It was a suite, definitely a suite, she thought, clocking the small separate sitting room. She went into the bedroom, where there was a four-poster bed and double doors that opened to a balcony with views across the city. A silvery thoroughfare headed to the north, busy with traffic. Either side of the road she could see gorgeous medieval buildings, the Arabic influence evident in the pillars and carvings.

  She heard the door of the suite close behind her, and out of the corner of her eye she could see Elliot standing in the doorway of the bedroom.

  ‘This is amazing,’ she laughed, trying to dissipate her awkwardness. ‘It’s like a palace. I’m amazed the Chronicle let you put this through on expenses. Things are obviously better than they are at the RCI.’

  ‘Back in the glory days I could have stayed somewhere like this,’ said Elliot. ‘Nowadays we’d be lucky to be in the local Travelodge, so I thought I’d sub the trip before I put you off journalism completely.’

  She kicked off her shoes and almost moaned as her feet sank into the carpet, then scooped up a fluffy robe and held it to her face; it was as soft as cashmere. ‘Can we live here?’ she grinned. ‘I love it.’

  He smiled as if he was enjoying watching her.

  ‘I’m not sure even my dad’s expense account stretches to that. Besides which, we’re here to work, remember?’

  She felt a knot of disappointment and the intimate mood seemed to shatter.

  They went through to the sitting room, where there was a bottle of water and two tumblers. Elliot poured them both a glass, then sat back in one of the chairs. She watched him, how relaxed and confident he was, and thought how utterly bonkers it was her being here. She had known him barely two weeks and here they were in a city that quite clearly had romantic connotations. Even if it was for work.

  ‘So who have you spoken to?’

  ‘I met Jonathon Soames for lunch yesterday.’ She said it as casually as she could, but she still couldn’t believe she had pulled it off, even though Elliot himself had greased the wheels, getting his father to secure the meeting through his contacts at the House of Lords.

  ‘How was it?’

  ‘I was nervous as hell. I’ve never interviewed anyone before, but I just told myself to see it as two people having a chat.’

  ‘Good,’ smiled Elliot with approval. Abby felt herself blushing. She sipped her water as she told him about the events of the previous day, part of her not wanting to relive the minutiae of the encounter, wondering if she would reveal some terrible faux pas. Yet another part of her felt a bubble of pride that she was desperate to share.

  She had almost laughed as she arrived at the entrance of Wiltons restaurant on Jermyn Street, amusing herself with the thought that she’d waited thirty-one years to meet a lord, and now two of them had come along in one week.

  Knowing that her lunch date was Lord Soames, she probably shouldn’t have called him Sir Jonathon for the first twenty minutes of the conversation, after which he was gracious enough to insist that she call him Jonny.

  She had liked him immediately. Unlike the po-faced portraits of world leaders and military dignitaries that lined the walls of the restaurant, Jonathon Soames was good-natured, putting her at immediate ease with the skill of someone who’d had a long career in the upper echelons of government.

  They’d discussed the history of the restaurant, the subject matter of his latest non-fiction book – a biography of the explorer Ferdinand Magellan – and Abby’s work at the RCI. He confirmed he had been a good friend of Dominic Blake’s and had been particularly interested, intrigued, to learn of Abby’s recent acquaintance with Rosamund Bailey, asking all sorts of questions about her welfare and whereabouts that she could barely answer.

  He was a little more sombre when the subject turned to Dominic, but still spoke of him with warm, if slightly sad nostalgia.

  It had taken her the best part of the lunch to ask him the question that really mattered, and her heart had been thumping so hard she’d thought the maître d’ was going to pull her to one side and ask her to quieten down. In the end she had decided there was no easy way to broach it and had
just blurted it out.

  Jonathon hadn’t denied arranging the media blackout to stop coverage of the Soveyemka spy story. ‘Not just for Dominic, but for our country,’ he had noted quite passionately.

  Nor did he deny the rumours that Dominic could have been spying for the Russians. She remembered what he’d said almost word for word, remembered the sadness on his face as he discussed it with her.

  ‘To this day, no one knows with any certainty who was and who was not spying for the Russians,’ he’d told her. ‘One thing’s for sure, the sixties was a very volatile time. Everyone was an idealist and the KGB were masters of recruitment. You only have to look at the Cambridge spies: Kim Philby was hands-down the most successful spy in history. He was head of MI6’s counter-espionage division, privy to the secrets known by the Secret Service, the CIA and the FBI, yet all the time he was passing everything on to Moscow. Do you really think he was the only one?’

  ‘What did Soames say about the specific allegation about Dominic?’ asked Elliot in a natural pause in her recollections.

  ‘He said he thought it was possible, but highly unlikely. He said he’d known Dominic since Dom’s first day at university and they were as close as brothers. Not only did he never see anything to suggest that Dominic was working for the Russians, but he just wasn’t the sort.’

  ‘Who knows who has it in them to be a traitor?’ replied Elliot cynically.

  ‘I think he meant that Dominic wasn’t that sort of political idealist.’

  ‘Capital was a political magazine.’

  ‘Jonathon said that Dominic was interested in politics insofar as it got people talking about his magazine. But he just didn’t have the political zeal of someone like Ros. Apparently he was a terrible gossip, couldn’t keep a secret to save his life. That’s why people loved talking to him: he always had a story – usually a filthy one – about someone or other.’

  She looked up at Elliot, who was staring out of the window thoughtfully.

  ‘One thing Lord Soames did say, which puts paid to your theory about the drug-running, was that it was his dad who funded the start-up money for Capital.’