The Last Kiss Goodbye

by Tasmina Perry

  Towards the back of the book were more recent pictures. One was a shot of Matt lying on a sunlounger wearing Mickey Mouse ears, another a cute snap of them skiing.

  ‘Remember this?’ said Anna, pointing to a picture of them all outside a Cotswolds cottage.

  Abby wondered if Anna remembered that this was the weekend before she had found out about Nick’s unfaithfulness. He had returned from Stockholm on the Friday and they had driven directly to Chipping Campden, to a big stone farmhouse with a thatched roof and a hot tub in the garden.

  It was Matt’s dad Larry’s latest purchase, and he had lent it to Matt and his friends for the weekend. They had gone for long walks, stopping off in various country pubs, and had cooked a big supper together in the evening.

  There was a collection of photos from that trip. Matt and Anna laughing in the hot tub, Suze and Ginny making big jugs of cocktails, Abby and Nick sitting out on the grass in the sun. Abby was leaning against her husband’s shoulder, while Nick was looking down at her and kissing the top of her head.

  ‘Cute picture,’ said Anna, tracing her finger over the page. ‘He looks so in love with you there.’

  Abby gave a small ironic laugh. ‘You know this was a couple of days after he slept with her?’

  ‘It wasn’t?’ said Anna, looking embarrassed.

  Abby looked closer, imagining that she had her glass loupe, imagining that she was back at work inspecting her archive of images.

  ‘You know, you can see it in his eyes,’ she said finally.

  ‘See what?’

  ‘The guilt,’ replied Abby softly.

  Anna took a moment.

  ‘I think he looks like he loves you. I think he looks like he’s sorry.’

  Abby studied the photo again. Something about it unsettled her. Not Nick’s wistful, faraway look of shame, of fear that he was about to lose something. It was something else. It was an expression she had seen before, and with a jolt she remembered where.

  ‘I have to go,’ she said quickly.

  ‘I know. We should check out before they get security to physically remove us. What are you up to today?’

  ‘I need to go into work,’ said Abby.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  The tube had just pulled in to the platform, and Abby ran to catch it, although getting to South Kensington took another forty minutes, thanks to weekend engineering works. When she reached the RCI, the main gates were closed, but Abby had a key to a back entrance and let herself in. It was quiet and eerie, and the sound of her heels on the marble floor echoed around the building.

  Mr Smith, the security guard, was on his rounds.

  ‘What are you doing in on a Sunday, Miss Gordon?’ he asked.

  ‘Something important,’ she said, giving him a thumbs-up.

  She went down into the archives and punched in the code to open the door. Once she was inside, she crossed straight to the filing cabinet that contained the Blake expedition photographs. She could remember every line, every inch of The Last Goodbye, but it was the others in the set she was interested in. Flicking through them quickly, she discarded the scenic shots – an ancient steamer on the river, a group of natives standing outside a straw hut – and concentrated on any she could find of Dominic or Rosamund until she got to the one she’d remembered. It had been taken in Kutuba, in a quiet, unguarded moment. Rosamund and Dominic were standing outside a hut, and the way he was looking at her . . . it spoke to Abby.

  ‘You knew,’ she said. Then, louder: ‘Dominic Blake, you knew!’

  Nick lived in Kennington now. Abby hadn’t been to his flat before, and she was a little shocked to see the small one-bedroom place in the eaves of a slightly scruffy Georgian town house.

  Nick answered the door in sweat pants and an old T-shirt, his dark hair particularly tousled. He looked as if he had just tumbled out of bed, and that thought stirred something inside her.

  ‘Come in,’ he said, looking a little embarrassed. ‘A pot of coffee is on.’

  ‘I need it. It was Anna’s hen night yesterday.’

  ‘I hope Suze was suitably badly behaved,’ he grinned.

  She looked at him, wondering for a moment if he had heard from Ginny about their showdown, but he clearly hadn’t.

  ‘Speaking of badly behaved, I have just stolen something from the archives.’

  Nick frowned. ‘Fancied wearing Livingstone’s pith helmet for the wedding?’ he asked.

  He went to fetch the coffee and Abby perched on the edge of a new-looking sofa. Everything in the place looked temporary, as if it had been furnished on the cheap. She knew it had been hurriedly rented and probably chosen for its proximity to Nick’s office, which was close to the Imperial War Museum. But she didn’t miss the stack of estate agents’ particulars peeping out from under a music magazine on the table. She wondered if the details for the Cornwall B&B were among them. She doubted it.

  ‘Do you want me to make you a fry-up?’ he asked, running his hand through his hair.

  ‘It’s fine. I just wanted to talk to you about something. About what we discussed at Alba the other night.’

  He sat down next to her, and as his bare forearm brushed against hers, she flinched away.

  ‘So what have you found?’ he smiled.

  ‘A picture of Dominic Blake.’ She took it out of its envelope and showed it to him. ‘I think he knew he was going to die,’ she said, pointing at Dominic’s expression. The same expression of guilt and sadness she had recognised on Nick’s face in the Cotswolds photo.

  ‘He knew he was going on a dangerous expedition,’ said Nick, sipping his coffee. ‘He knew there was a chance he wouldn’t make it out alive.’

  ‘Soames gave me his business card when we met for lunch, so I’m going to call him,’ she said more urgently. ‘This afternoon. You said you could trace his calls . . .’

  She expected him to laugh at her, or to dismiss her suggestion. She suspected that he regretted volunteering his help at the pizzeria, but she felt she was so close to discovering the truth, and Nick, not Elliot Hall, was the person she trusted to make that happen.

  ‘Don’t call him this afternoon,’ said Nick, glancing up. ‘Wait until tomorrow.’

  ‘Why?’ said Abby. She just wanted to get it done now.

  ‘It’s going to take me twenty-four hours or so to set this up.’

  ‘Of course. How much will it cost?’ she asked suddenly. She hadn’t stopped to think about that, and whilst Rosamund had said she would pay for any expenses incurred in the investigation, Abby knew she couldn’t take anything from her.

  Nick rubbed his stubble. ‘Don’t worry about it. There are some people who owe me a few favours.’

  ‘So you’ll call me when it’s okay to phone him?’

  He nodded.

  ‘I’ll email you later with everything I can find out about him. When I went for lunch with him, he mentioned that he still lives where he did in the sixties. I’m going to call Ros now and see if she knows his address.’

  ‘It’s not hard to find these things out,’ Nick said with quiet confidence.

  Abby put the photo back in its envelope and into her bag, and they sipped their coffee in silence. Nick seemed anxious, on edge, and she knew she should go.

  ‘What are you doing today?’ she asked as she stood up to leave.

  ‘Not much. I might go for a run.’

  He opened the front door and she turned around to say goodbye. It seemed a natural thing to hug, and for a minute they just stood there holding each other.

  She felt Nick rest his chin on her head, and the air that she breathed in seemed to smell of him. His clean, soapy scent. She closed her eyes and remembered how good it used to be, how happy he used to make her feel. A thousand memories ran through her head. Waking up next to him in her little flowery pink tent in Glastonbury, holding his hand as they jumped into a lagoon on their honeymoon, spending lazy Sunday mornings together in bed, the duvet covered with toast crumbs and newspapers – all the
good memories in her life seemed to involve Nick.

  For a second she wanted to suggest that they spend the day together. She wanted to ask him if he was as lonely as she was. But she pulled away and said goodbye. After all, she had things to do, and so did he.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Abby called Jonathon Soames’ mobile number as soon as Nick had phoned to say that everything was in place. She had also contacted Ros, who had given her Jonathon’s address, although Abby had been vague with her about the details of what she and Nick planned to do with it. She was aware that what they were doing was illegal, and while she knew that Ros was anxious to find out anything she could about Dominic, she didn’t know her well enough to guess how she would feel about breaking the law to do so.

  Her fingers had actually trembled as she punched the digits into her Galaxy. Abby hated the phone, always had done. Although it was something she’d had to overcome – even archivists had had to ‘work the phones’ more in recent years – she still felt uncomfortable speaking to people she didn’t know, and she’d needed a stiff vodka before ringing Lord Soames.

  She couldn’t remember the exact words she’d used to accuse him of telling the Soviet intelligence services that his friend Dominic Blake was a British agent. A double agent. There was no easy way of saying it, and of course he’d denied it, laughing it off and telling her with a theatrical guffaw that she’d been given ‘bad information’.

  Now it was done, Abby felt feeble and hollow. She’d called him over four hours ago, and nothing had changed. She’d pottered around the house, doing the washing, tidying up. She’d watched a little television, paid some bills. It was business as usual, and that had made her feel even more unsettled.

  She sat down at the kitchen table and stared out of the window. What had she expected to happen? she asked herself. And what was the point? A few days ago, seeking justice for Dominic Blake had seemed like the natural thing, the only thing, to do. Nothing could bring him back, but at least someone could pay for betraying him.

  But with just a little bit of distance, it all seemed like misplaced revenge. And what business of Abby’s was it anyway? Yes, she liked Rosamund Bailey and wanted to help her. Yes, she’d felt empowered, useful, trying to find out the truth about her fiancé’s disappearance. But sitting here, she wondered if it was just a way of distracting herself from her own domestic and professional problems.

  ‘What’s done is done,’ she whispered sadly.

  She decided to go for a walk to her favourite deli, Bayley & Sage. Good food always cheered Abby up. She could almost taste the big vine tomatoes, fresh burrata and home-made truffles she knew they stocked.

  Pulling on her trainers, she hurried out of the house. It was gone 6.30, so she power-walked up the hill to make the shops before they closed. It was still light, but the sun was already starting to dip behind the horizon. She had just turned on to the high street when her phone rang.

  ‘Hello,’ she said, already feeling in a better mood with some fresh air in her lungs.

  ‘Abby, it’s me,’ said a familiar voice at the end of the line. ‘You need to get in touch with Anna as quickly as you can. I think I’m about to be arrested.’

  She had no way of getting back in touch with Nick after that. Numerous calls to his mobile had gone unanswered, and the only information she had to go on was what he had told her in his first, hurried communication, when he was apparently still at home and had managed to make a quick call as detectives had entered his flat with a search warrant.

  She had called Anna immediately, who had reassured her that Nick would be allowed to make contact again if and when he was taken into custody. Neither Anna nor Matt were criminal solicitors, but between them they had enough legal firepower. Abby was grateful that Anna had also promised to get Larry Donovan, Matt’s father, involved. He was a man of legendary reputation and sometimes dubious morals, just the sort of character to have on your side at a time like this.

  She curled up on the sofa and drew her knees close to her chest. She could see her watch in this position. Almost eight o’clock. Anna had promised to come over as quickly as she could, but the minutes seemed to drag out endlessly. She felt totally powerless just sitting here, but she wasn’t sure what else she could do. Resting her chin on her knees, she started to sob.

  When at last the doorbell rang, she wiped her eyes and went to answer it, desperate for Anna’s comforting presence.

  The chain was still on the door as she unlocked it. Peering through the thin space, it took her a moment to recognise Jonathon Soames.

  She felt her heart start to beat faster; a sense of unease made her shiver.

  ‘Lord Soames?’

  ‘Hello, Abby. Can I come in?’

  Instinctively she gripped the handle on the back of the door, as if some fight-or-flight instinct had kicked in at the sight of Dominic’s nemesis.

  She made a quick assessment of the situation and decided that the old man was not strong. If she pushed the door in his face she was sure she could shut it. Her mobile phone, meanwhile, was just a few feet away in the kitchen.

  ‘Abby, don’t worry. I just need to speak with you. It’s about your husband.’

  ‘Where is he?’ she said, feeling her palms grow sweaty against the cold metal of the door handle. ‘Where’s Nick?’ she repeated, her voice fierce.

  ‘Just answering a few questions,’ said Jonathon more calmly. ‘There are a few things we need to discuss too.’

  ‘My lawyer is due round any minute,’ Abby said, trying to disguise the fear in her voice.

  ‘This will only take a few minutes. Please, Abby, let me in. It’s important. It’s about Dominic. It’s about what happened to him.’

  Abby summoned her courage, and slowly her grip on the door handle relaxed. She slid the chain off the door and stepped back to allow Jonathon Soames into the house. She looked behind him, half expecting to see snipers in bulletproof vests, but he seemed to be alone. A voice at the back of her head wondered if this was the point where she disappeared, never to be seen again, just like Dominic Blake, but she felt oddly brave and defiant.

  Looking at Soames, a white-haired old man, his hands frail and veiny, it was difficult to believe that she had anything to be scared of at all.

  They moved into the living room. Neither of them sat. For a moment, neither of them spoke. Was she supposed to offer him a drink – coffee, a glass of wine – before he brought out his poisoned umbrella and killed her?

  ‘Where is my husband?’ she said finally in a low, calm voice. Right now, it was all she cared about. The longing to see Nick, to just hear that he was okay, made her feel sick.

  ‘I assume you know what he’s been doing this afternoon?’ said Soames, an unmistakable archness in his voice.

  ‘Please don’t charge him with anything,’ she said desperately. ‘I asked him to do it. This is all my fault and I take responsibility.’

  ‘That’s very noble of you,’ said Jonathon, raising an eyebrow. ‘But I had a phone call just a few minutes ago, and apparently Nick Gordon insists that you’ve got nothing to do with the hacking of my phone and email.’

  She thought of him being interrogated at that very moment. He’d be cool, unruffled. He was smart, so smart, she thought with a pang of emotion. But was he smart enough to know what to do?

  ‘Please,’ she said, starting to cry. ‘Everything he did was because I asked him to. He was just doing it because . . . because he’s my husband and . . .’

  ‘And what, Abby?’

  And because he loves me, she thought silently.

  Jonathon put his hand in his jacket pocket. She was half expecting him to pull out a gun, but he handed her a tissue.

  ‘I have come here tonight because I owe it to someone to tell the truth.’

  She felt herself relax, as if a non-specific danger had passed and she was back in the company of someone who was on her side.

  ‘The truth?’ she said, rubbing her eyes.

 
; ‘You’ve caused a lot of trouble, you know that?’

  ‘I thought that’s why you were here,’ she said sheepishly.

  ‘Don’t worry about Nick,’ said Jonathon, shaking his head reassuringly. ‘He’ll be fine.’

  ‘You promise?’ she said, her voice quavering between desperation and hopefulness.

  ‘He’s not in any serious trouble. I think they just want to frighten him a little.’

  She didn’t ask who they were – she doubted that Jonathon Soames would tell her anyway – but she believed his assurances.

  ‘According to my housekeeper, Ros came to my house yesterday.’

  ‘She did?’ asked Abby. She might have known that Ros wouldn’t listen to her recommendation not to confront him directly.

  ‘Fortunately I was in Oxfordshire. Otherwise I think she might have throttled me.’

  He looked up and met Abby’s gaze directly.

  ‘So you think I killed Dominic?’ he said quietly, his voice sounding sad and raspy.

  ‘Not with your own hands,’ replied Abby, her own voice shaking as she willed herself to keep calm. ‘But I wonder if you sold him out. I wonder if you tipped off your friends the Russians. Told them exactly where Dominic would be on his Amazon expedition. You knew all the details, where he was going, how long for . . .’

  ‘I did not,’ said Soames with absolute finality.

  He sank on to the edge of her sofa, like an old bird on a telegraph wire. When he looked up at her, Abby saw that his eyes were glistening.

  ‘Where to start?’ he muttered to himself.

  ‘At the beginning . . .’ replied Abby more softly.

  ‘That seems a very long time ago. Another lifetime.’

  Jonathon rubbed his chin, as if he was hesitating about what he was going to say next.

  ‘Dominic was my friend. My best friend. Of course, you know by now that he worked for the Security Service, but have you stopped to wonder how he was recruited?’

  ‘I thought you got the tap on the shoulder at university,’ said Abby, with her limited knowledge of the world of espionage.