The Last Kiss Goodbye (13 page)

Chapter Fourteen

It was a fine morning as Abby walked up the hill, the sunlight slanting through the trees to her right, laying zebra stripes of shadow across the graveyard behind the railings. All she knew about Highgate Cemetery was that Karl Marx was buried there, but it looked overgrown and abandoned, with headstones leaning at crazy angles and the odd ivy-trailed angel peeping out from the undergrowth.

Don’t think I’d want to walk through there at night, she thought, crossing the road. And I wouldn’t want to live overlooking it either. She glanced up at the Victorian flats running at right angles to the graveyard; she supposed they preferred the view of tombs poking out from the trees to that of another building blocking their view of London. And what a view, she thought, turning to look as she reached the crest of the hill. The whole city was laid out there below her, looking surprisingly flat and curiously peaceful from this distance. She supposed that was why Rosamund Bailey had decided to move here. After a lifetime fighting her way through the choked streets of London, this comparatively sleepy backwater would seem like the countryside.

Catching her breath, Abby crossed the cute little square in front of her and walked up to the first house on the left, knocking on the red front door.

She wasn’t exactly looking forward to this – she wasn’t a naturally confident person – but if she was going to start this new career as a researcher, she needed to jump in at the deep end. She was raising her hand to knock again when the door swung open.

‘Abby,’ said Rosamund, beckoning her inside. ‘Come in, come in.’

She was led along a dark corridor towards the back of the house, where it opened on to a large kitchen.

‘Take a seat,’ said Rosamund, gesturing to the rustic table. ‘I was just making tea, and there’s some cake as well if you fancy it. Not home-made, but I have my book group coming round this evening, and they get very tetchy if there are no carbohydrates on offer.’

Abby almost sat on the cat that was curled up on the chair. It sprang off with an angry meow.

‘Harold, shoo.’

‘Lovely, thank you,’ she said, sitting down.

She rummaged in her tote bag and pulled out a large hard-backed envelope.

‘The photograph,’ she said with embarrassment. ‘It’s not an official one so you can’t sell it or anything. But it will go nicely in a frame.’

‘I won’t sell it,’ Rosamund said, putting a hand gently on top of the envelope.

She picked up her cup of tea.

‘I assume the exhibition did well. I saw the piece in the
Chronicle
.’

Abby was waiting for a caustic remark. Rosamund had got a name check in Elliot’s Great British Explorers article. It had only been a passing mention, but it had gone against her express wishes, and Abby didn’t think she was the sort to take it lying down.

‘You don’t work for the press any more, do you?’ she said after a minute.

Rosamund shook her head as she bit into a biscuit. ‘I officially retired a few years ago, although I’m still busy. I’m on the board of two charities and do the odd bit of writing, although the editors are all so young these days, no one really remembers me.’

‘I saw you on
Newsnight
.’

‘Ah, yes,’ she smiled. ‘Debating ageism in the media.’

‘I bet you like keeping busy,’ said Abby, looking at the older woman. Her brown eyes were bright and lively and her trim figure belonged to someone who was still active.

Rosamund nodded. ‘I think I would go stir-crazy if I wasn’t. I don’t have family, but I have plenty of friends.’

‘Did you ever marry?’

It was a personal question, but it felt like a natural one to ask.

‘Almost. A couple of times,’ she said frankly. ‘As you know, I was engaged to Dominic. There was someone else a few years later. He was a friend, a colleague at the
Observer
who became something more, but my heart wasn’t in it. My friends at the time thought I called it off because I didn’t believe in marriage. I don’t blame them; I was always railing against something when I was younger. The truth was, my heart belonged to Dom and there was never room for anyone else in it.’

She took the photo out of its envelope and went to prop it up on the mantelpiece.

‘I suppose Robinson wants a follow-up piece,’ she said, looking back at Abby.

‘Who’s Robinson?’

‘Elliot Hall’s editor. That’s why you’re here, I assume.’

‘No, I’m here to give you the photograph.’

‘I’m sorry. That sounded very ungrateful,’ said Rosamund with a soft laugh. ‘It’s just that my phone has been ringing off the hook about the story. Friends feigning interest in other lines of gossip, but they all got round to it in the end. My relationship with Dominic.’

She came and sat back down.

‘People have a fascination with the missing, don’t you think? Whether it’s Amelia Earhart or Madeleine McCann, these cases intrigue the world. I remember being dispatched to Cambodia in 1970, when Sean Flynn, Errol’s son, disappeared covering the war. The story ran and ran and people used to ask me about it at dinner parties for years afterwards.’

Abby pictured a different Rosamund Bailey to the old lady sitting opposite her now; she could quite easily imagine her flying out to war zones, brave and defiant.

‘What do you think happened to Dominic?’ she said finally.

‘Are you helping Mr Hall with a story?’

‘Yes,’ she replied honestly. ‘We thought we might be able to help you find out the truth.’

Rosamund looked sceptical. ‘I don’t suppose Elliot Hall has such altruistic motives.’

‘But I do,’ said Abby.

Rosamund’s look softened. ‘Don’t you think I did everything I could?’ she said, her voice tinged with sadness. ‘I spent two months in Peru trying to find Dominic. When you love someone and they leave you, you do whatever you can to bring them back.’

Abby felt a spike of guilt at her words.

‘Your exhibition showed the romance of exploration,’ continued Rosamund slowly. ‘But let me tell you, there is no romance in that damned place.’

‘How far into the jungle did you go with him?’ asked Abby.

‘On my first visit, when I went to send him off on his expedition, the visit when the photograph was taken, I just went to the fringes. But I went back a second time,’ she said, her voice tailing off into the past.

‘Dominic went missing two weeks after he set off. At first he used local tribesmen to relay messages back to Kutuba and he had a radio to keep in contact with Miguel, his expedition manager, who was based there. But after ten days, the messages just stopped. Miguel sent a party into the jungle to look for him, but the trail had gone cold.’

She took another sip of her tea and continued her story.

‘I hadn’t even arrived back in London by this point. Miguel got a message to my hotel in Lima when I was just about to leave for the airport. There was no doubt in my mind that I had to return to Kutuba and go and look for him. I hired a team, a small army really, and I helped them search every day for him.’

‘What was it like?’ said Abby, trying to picture it.

‘It was hell,’ said Ros, her eyes glistening. ‘Not just the emotional torment, but the physical difficulties. Huge mosquitoes jabbing you day and night, insects burrowing into your skin, clouds of flies that are attracted to moisture and try to land on your eyeballs. There was no real trail, so you have to cut your own with machetes, and it’s constantly wet, so there’s no chance for your blisters to heal. But you trudge on and on, step by step, sinking into mud, torn by leaves, never being able to see more than about six feet in front of you, hoping that you might find something that will give you an answer, even if it’s closure.’

Abby looked at the old lady with awe. She wondered if she herself would ever have done anything like that for Nick. Right now she wasn’t even returning his calls, let alone subjecting herself to hostile conditions to save her relationship. Rosamund was describing the incredible things that people did for love. Ultimately her search had turned up nothing, but still Abby felt overcome with emotion.

‘So what do you think happened?’ she asked softly.

‘The most obvious answer is that Dom’s canoe overturned. That’s fatal on an expedition; your food, equipment gone. He could have lost a boot. Sounds simple, but it can have devastating consequences. Perhaps he fell sick, delirious, and got lost. You can’t appreciate the size, the density of virgin jungle unless you have been there. Or he was killed by one of the tribes.’

‘Why would they kill him?’

‘Because he upset or dishonoured them?’ Ros suggested. ‘He’d taken a selection of gifts along with him because he knew of those dangers, but perhaps it wasn’t enough.’

‘And perhaps he didn’t die. Perhaps he survived,’ said Abby, desperately wanting to say something to make the woman feel better.

Rosamund Bailey looked up, her brown eyes both soft and solemn.

‘He died,’ she said in a voice so fragile Abby could barely hear it. ‘Because if he didn’t, that would mean that he didn’t come back to find me, and our love was too strong to let me believe that theory.’

Abby shifted in her seat as a thick silence settled around the room.

‘Miss Bailey. You say you want closure. Well, this is an opportunity to get that. You are a journalist. You know what can be achieved. I read an interview with you yesterday and it said that you became a writer because of the power of words.’

‘You’ve been reading up on me?’ She smiled.

Abby didn’t look at her.

‘I suppose this investigation will go ahead with or without my cooperation,’ said Rosamund finally.

‘We want to help you,’ said Abby with feeling. ‘I don’t know him very well, but I would say that Elliot Hall is the tenacious sort, and if anyone can find out what happened to Dominic, it’s him.’

‘Don’t you think I did everything that was humanly possible to find out the truth?’ Her voice rose with emotion and tears sparkled in her eyes. ‘He’s dead, Abby. Dominic is dead. For a long time, I tortured myself with the whys and the hows, but he’s gone. It took me a long time to come to terms with that, but I had to, before it drove me insane, and at this point in my life I’m just not sure it’s helpful to dredge it all up again.’

Abby’s heart was thumping hard. She didn’t want to add any more distress to Rosamund Bailey’s life, but she didn’t believe her when she said she had moved on.

‘It’s the twenty-first century. We have more resources, more technology at our disposal.’

‘And what do you think you can do that I wasn’t able to?’ Rosamund said more fiercely.

‘Perhaps the jungle is easier to navigate these days.’

‘Even if it was, I doubt you could find Dominic’s trail. We travelled in a dozen different directions from his last known whereabouts and found nothing. Besides, do you really think Elliot Hall is going to go to Peru for the sake of a story? You’d be lucky to get him as far as the Groucho Club.’

Abby cleared her throat.

‘I know you have issues with Elliot’s father, but Elliot is one of the good guys.’

‘Just be careful with him,’ said Rosamund more kindly.

Abby glanced up and noted the woman’s look of maternal concern.

‘Oh no, no. It’s nothing like that,’ she said, waving her hand. ‘I separated from my husband just a couple of months ago. Men are the last thing I need right now. My relationship with Elliot Hall is purely professional.’

‘That’s what we all say, Abby my dear.’

Chapter Fifteen

The taxi drew up to the kerb and the driver nodded towards the open gates and the neat semicircular drive.

‘You want me to take you inside?’ he asked.

‘No, that’s fine,’ said Abby, leaning forward to hand him three ten-pound notes. ‘We’ll walk from here.’

She waited as Suze uncoiled herself from the car, wobbling on her five-inch heels.

‘Walk?’ she hissed. ‘I can barely stand.’

Abby slammed the taxi door and grabbed her arm.

‘Lean on me until we get to the front door, and I’ll remind you next time to wear trainers.’

They paused and looked up at Elliot’s impressive home, a large detached white Victorian stucco in Barnes. Stretching in either direction along the road was a line of top-end cars: BMWs, Range Rovers, Mercedes.

‘What sort of people are going to be at this party?’ asked Suze as they reached the door. ‘I thought it’d be Elliot’s journalist friends, but the journos I know can barely afford to run a Fiat.’

‘I’m guessing Elliot runs in fairly high-society circles.’

‘Should we just go to the pub?’ she asked, looking away from the house.

It was rare that Suze was intimidated, and it made Abby giggle.

‘I thought you wanted to come. “I wonder if Elliot’s got any rich mates”, remember.’

‘That was before I felt like the Little Match Girl standing in the street.’

Abby had to admit that she felt quite anxious too.

‘It’s rude not to turn up, but I think we just might have to get very, very drunk. We only have to stay an hour, then we can go to the Olympic for some food.’

‘By the way, you look amazing tonight,’ grinned Suze, looking at the tight little black dress that Abby was wearing. ‘Are you sure you don’t fancy him? I saw his picture in the paper the other day and he looks like Rupert Penry-Jones.’

‘Suze, we’ve been through this,’ replied Abby.

‘Then what are we waiting for,’ smiled Suze, knocking on the door as if it was the home of an old friend.

‘Good evening, ladies,’ said Elliot warmly. He was dressed in indigo jeans and a navy cashmere jumper, sleeves pushed up: casual, relaxed, but you still had the feeling that he could run off to interview royalty at the drop of a hat. He looked like a man completely used to such grand surroundings. He stepped forward to kiss Abby’s cheek.

‘You look great,’ he said into her ear.

Abby stepped away from him, smoothing down the black dress self-consciously.

‘Thanks for inviting us,’ said Suze above the noise. ‘What’s the occasion?’

‘Summer,’ smiled Elliot.

They followed him through the double-height hallway dominated by a wide staircase and a glittering chandelier. Abby was surprised; for some reason, she had imagined Elliot would live in an ultra-modern bachelor pad, all chrome and leather and exposed brickwork, but the house was tastefully decorated in what she assumed was period-correct style, with deep carpets, ornate furniture and oil paintings on the walls.

Abby had lived in London, the so-called global centre of international wealth and commerce, for over a decade, but she had never seen anything like this. She’d heard local couples boasting that their Wimbledon homes were worth well over a million, a sum that would have seemed a dizzying amount when she was growing up on Skye, particularly as they were just south-west London terraces decked out in IKEA and B&Q. So she couldn’t begin to imagine the value of Elliot Hall’s home.

Suze caught her eye, grinning and mouthing ‘nice’ behind Elliot’s back. He led them through into a large sitting room where around a hundred people were standing holding glasses and chatting over the sound of a young man playing a grand piano at the far end of the room.

‘That’s my nephew Michael,’ said Elliot, following Abby’s gaze. ‘Just started at the Royal College of Music. He’ll play all night for a bottle of wine.’

‘So who’s single?’ asked Suze.

‘Suze!’ scolded Abby.

‘What?’ said her friend with a pout. ‘Why waste time?’

She turned to Elliot. ‘Look, I’m thirty-five, I’ve just come out of a shitty relationship, and my biological clock has practically stopped ticking, so what’s wrong with wanting to cut to the chase?’

Elliot laughed. ‘At least you’re honest,’ he said. ‘Remind me to introduce you to my friend Adam. Filthy rich, in property, had a pretty tragic love life that’s put him off dating. But I think he might like your direct approach.’

He waved to a handsome man standing behind a makeshift bar. ‘Marco, can you rustle up something for the ladies here?’ he called. ‘Be back in a tick, Abby,’ he added, disappearing into the crowd.

Marco was late twenties, dark and brooding, the sort of man you’d expect to see pouting from a Dolce & Gabbana advert.

‘What can I do for you, madam?’ he said, with a half-smile and a heavy accent.

Abby found herself blushing.

She had dressed up for this evening, had even tried to blow-dry her own hair, and she knew that she looked better than she had done in recent weeks. But Marco was looking at her and Suze as if they were a pair of Greek goddesses blown in on the wind.

‘Ask him to make the thing with lime, vodka and angostura bitters,’ said a voice behind them. ‘I had one ten minutes ago and I’m not sure I’ll ever want to drink anything else again.’

Marco nodded, picked up a silver cocktail shaker and spun it around in his palm.

Abby turned to see a man, late thirties, receding hair, but a friendly smile.

‘Thanks for the tip.’

‘Sorry . . . Will Duncan,’ he said, juggling his glass and a plate of canapés before thrusting his hand forward. ‘I’m a friend of Elliot’s at the
Chronicle
. Well, we sit next to each other – not sure that’s the same thing, but . . . anyway. Are you Abby? Elliot’s told me all about you.’

‘Good or bad?’

‘The fact that he’s mentioned you at all is tantamount to an engagement in my book, but don’t quote me on that.’

Abby chuckled, warming to him immediately.

‘Yes, Abby Gordon, hello. This is my friend Suze Donald.’

‘Who’s here, then?’

‘A who’s who of London society,’ said Will flippantly. He turned and surveyed the room. ‘There’re a few people from the
Chronicle
by the fireplace. The ones with the red cheeks are Elliot’s school friends from Radley mostly. Stockbrokers, lawyers, bankers . . .’ He lowered his voice. ‘Deathly dull, only ever want to talk about the state of the yen or their new Aston Martin. I’d avoid them if I were you, unless the only alternative is the wives and girlfriends. I’d give them an even wider berth, because they’ll almost certainly hate you on sight.’

‘Us? Why?’ asked Suze.

‘Young, gorgeous, invited by Elliot? Are you kidding me? They’d poison your drink if you got close enough.’

He carried on pointing.

‘The leggy ones are models, TV presenters or both; the group by the window go sailing with Elliot every summer. And over there you’ve got Lord Shah, Elliot’s dad, and a couple of his mates.’

‘How come he invites his dad to his parties?’ asked Abby.

Will laughed. ‘To keep him sweet, I suppose. After all, he pays for all this.’

Elliot returned and slipped a casual arm across Abby’s shoulder. She felt her stomach flutter and avoided the temptation to edge closer to him.

‘There’s dancing in the Oasis,’ he announced.

‘The Oasis?’

‘The conservatory.’

‘You have a conservatory?’ asked Abby.

‘Posh greenhouse stuck to the back of the kitchen, that’s all. There’s a DJ in there sweating under the potted palms. I think we should go and support him.’

‘Well I’m up for a boogie if I can get rid of these shoes somewhere,’ laughed Suze.

Abby danced with Suze and Will until her head began to spin. She saw Elliot standing in the doorway to the kitchen, watching her. Grinning and giddy from the alcohol and music, she went over to talk to him.

‘Enjoying yourself?’ he asked, still holding her gaze.

She nodded. ‘Lost my shoes ages ago, though.’

The corner of his mouth curled upwards, and she felt a prickle of something between them. If she was less drunk, it might have unnerved her, but she was just happy to be relaxed and enjoying the party.

They were interrupted by a tall, silver-haired gentleman in a sharply tailored suit.

‘Elliot. What’s the chance of you getting out that bottle of fifty-year-old Talisker I know you’ve got hidden in the basement?’

‘Dad, that was a present. From you. You know it’s a special release. I’m keeping it as an investment.’

‘Go on, crack it open,’ the older man chided.

‘Sorry, no.’

Andrew Shah snorted with disapproval.

‘Abby, meet my father. Dad, this is my friend Abby Gordon.’

‘Hello,’ said Shah, looking her up and down.

She took a moment to observe him. He looked more like an ageing matinee idol than one of her friend’s dads.

‘They make Talisker down the road from where I grew up,’ she said nervously.

‘Skye?’

She nodded, glad to have found some common ground with the wealthy, intimidating man.

‘It’s why it has such a smoky taste. The ground around Skye is very peaty.’

‘I like this one,’ said Shah with a wink. ‘A girl who knows her whisky.’

He turned his attention to his son.

‘Nice piece about the RCI exhibition, by the way. I never knew Rosamund Bailey had such an interesting past.’

‘Abby works at the RCI. She found the
Last Goodbye
image in the archive.’

‘You get even better.’

‘So you know Rosamund?’ asked Abby.

‘Know her?’ huffed Shah, his dark eyes narrowing. ‘Bloody woman made my life a misery for the best part of a decade. That column of hers, that left-wing soapbox, well, I was her favourite whipping boy just because I’d made some money and acquired a voice. She tried to trash me. I needed a stable of my own newspapers just to keep my reputation intact.’

Abby knew all about Lord Shah, enough to know that his wasn’t exactly a rags-to-riches story. His father had owned a successful advertising company in the 1950s, and although Andrew had started off at the bottom of the Fleet Street pole – obits, quizzes, researching, fact-checking – he’d been able to buy a small chain of local newspapers when his father died and bequeathed him a large windfall.

Family money had given Andrew Shah that first break, but ruthless business smarts helped him convert his initial media portfolio into an empire. When the ailing
Chronicle
came up for sale in the early 1970s, he quickly bought it, turning it around and launching its tabloid sister paper
The Post
five years later.

‘Right-wing buffoon, capitalist pig,’ said Shah, still muttering to himself. ‘They were just some of the things she called me. One week, I’ll never forget, she said I’d done more damage to democracy in this country than Mussolini in thirties Italy.’

‘Did you sue her?’ asked Elliot defensively.

‘Only makes a situation worse,’ said Shah, shaking his head. ‘What I should have done was repeat some of the rumours that were flying around about her in the sixties.’

‘Rumours?’ asked Abby quickly.

‘A whole raft of Fleet Street journalists were under suspicion of being Soviet assets and spies. Rosamund Bailey was one of them.’

Abby looked at him wide-eyed. ‘Surely not?’

‘Don’t be naïve, Abby,’ smiled the older man. ‘Just because you’ve met her and liked her doesn’t mean to say she’s a saint. In my time I’ve met dictators, criminals, and CEOs who would crush entire companies before breakfast without blinking, and believe me, most of them were perfectly charming company. That’s generally how they got to where they were in life.’

He focused his attention back on his son. ‘Now then, Elliot. I was just telling Paul that we need more images like that
Last Goodbye
picture in the
Chronicle
. Tug-at-the-heartstrings stuff. I don’t know about you, but I’m sick of reading about bad news in the broadsheets. All these so-called news websites are making a killing peddling pictures of cute kittens. See what you can come up with, all right? You too, Miss Gordon. You’ve clearly got a nose for a story. And persuade my son to crack open the Talisker and we’ll see what else we can do to further your career.’