The Last Kiss Goodbye (24 page)

‘We’ll make camp here tonight,’ announced Dominic. ‘Amando will stay,’ he said, gesturing to one of the porters.

‘What about me?’ asked Ros.

His look softened. ‘You should go back with Miguel.’

The reality of what was happening started to suffocate her. It was as if the jungle was closing in around her.

Miguel had his hands on his hips. He looked up to the sky and announced that they should go within the next half an hour. One of the guides nodded.

Ros watched the scene unfold around her. Willem took some photographs. Miguel, Dominic and Padre conversed in rudimentary language.

She waited until Dominic was alone, then went over to talk to him.

‘Don’t go,’ she said.

‘Ros, please.’

‘I mean it. It doesn’t feel right.’

Miguel was clapping his hands.

‘It is time. Rosamund. Please, in the boat.’

Amando was already chopping leaves and branches from the surrounding trees to build a fire and a shelter for the night.

The crow was still overhead, Ros wasn’t sure where, but she could hear it, and the angry squawks now felt like a warning.

‘Don’t go,’ she said more urgently. ‘I just have a bad feeling.’

‘Ros, don’t. You’re not helping.’

She took hold of his hands and squeezed them.

‘Dom, it’s not too late to say no
.
The power of words, you talked about it at our engagement party. Just stop this now, please. You can stop all this in thirty seconds.’

‘I know you’re scared. I’m nervous too, but I’ve done this before. I’m taking a radio . . .’

‘It doesn’t feel enough. I don’t know why the guides can’t stay with you for the entire trip. Take one of them with you, it’s not too late. One of Padre’s men. They know the jungle better than you. Better than anyone.’

Dominic raised his hand to her cheek. Her skin absorbed his warmth and instinctively she placed her own palm over his.

‘I love you,’ he said simply.

Behind her she could hear the click of the camera.

She turned and saw Willem taking a photograph of them. She knew that it was one of the reasons he was here, but still, she felt angry at his intrusion.

She turned back and looked at Dominic.

‘I’ll be waiting for you,’ she said softly.

He nodded, his nostrils flaring with stoic emotion. He put his arms around her, and held her as if he never wanted to let her go.

‘It’s time,’ he whispered into the top of her hair.

She pressed her cheek into his shoulder, the thick fabric absorbing her tears.

‘I love you, Dominic Blake,’ she whispered, and he turned and headed off into the jungle.

Chapter Twenty-Six

London, present day

Chelsea Physic Garden smelt amazing. It was pretty too, of course: a maze of criss-crossing gravel paths leading you through an array of flowers, plants and trees, each one of them begging you to bend down and examine its leaves, shoots or blooms. But it was the smell, especially on a bright summer morning like this, that overwhelmed you. Abby could barely believe she had lived in London for so long and never stepped through the gate, because inside the high stone walls it was like being in a cocoon of calm. If you cared to look, you could see the tall Georgian residences outside the walls, but once inside the garden, it was as if London had momentarily slipped away.

She looked at her watch: she was early, but that was good. She wasn’t exactly looking forward to this meeting, and it gave her time to relax and soak up the atmosphere. She sat down on a bench and pulled out her phone.

The little screen was crowded with messages from the men in her life: Elliot, Nick and Stephen. She ignored them for the moment and opened one from Suze.

Second date with Will last night – amazing, must talk. Call me! Sx

There was another, sent two minutes after the first.

Didn’t shag him! First time THAT’s ever happened! Sx

Abby smiled. At least someone’s love life was going well. Sighing, she clicked on Stephen’s message – the lesser of three evils.

Hi, Abigail, congrats on piece in Chronicle, Christine very impressed. Could you give me a ring? Have an idea. Stephen

She could just imagine what the idea was: more free publicity for some other exhibition he could take all the credit for masterminding. She took a deep breath and clicked on Elliot’s message.

Are we still on for dinner tonight? I know you’re pissed off, but we can fix this.

She
frowned to herself, wondering if she should cancel, and indeed whether she wanted to. Elliot had called her the day the
Chronicle
story had run – mid-afternoon, but 7 a.m. West Coast time – and had spent over half an hour explaining himself. How he’d mentioned the story and their St Petersburg findings to his editor, how his editor had wanted to run with it immediately, while
The
Last Goodbye
was still hot, how Elliot had spent twenty-four hours solid writing the piece, not sleeping, only drinking and smoking. And not telling Abby that he had filed the story because he feared her reaction, knowing that the editor would want to run with it whatever her objections. ‘I didn’t want to deceive you, Abs. So I just didn’t tell you,’ he had said over their long-distance phone call.

Abby wasn’t sure if the two things were mutually exclusive.

Finally she opened Nick’s message.

Are you going to Dr Naylor’s? I am. Let me know. I love you. Nx

Another one who wants to talk, she thought dismissively, noticing the ‘x’ at the end and thinking that wasn’t like Nick at all. He was always critical of people who signed off with a kiss; it wasn’t real, he used to say, then would grumble about how social media were destroying people’s ability to actually connect with each other. All this upheaval must have brought out his feminine side. About time, thought Abby with a grim smile.

‘Something funny?’

She looked up to see Rosamund standing there; she had been so wrapped up in what she was doing, she hadn’t heard her approach.

‘Oh, no. Just catching up on my messages,’ she said, standing up, wondering if they should shake hands or air-kiss or something. No, she decided, looking at Rosamund’s face. She was clearly here for a purpose, not socialising. Abby could hardly blame her. In her shoes, I wouldn’t exactly be my first choice for a friend right now, she thought.

‘Thank you for agreeing to see me so quickly,’ Rosamund said. She had called Abby earlier that day.

Abby didn’t like to point out that her lack of work and the desire to sort out – indeed, scotch – any potential legal proceedings had facilitated their prompt meeting.

‘I was just glad you got back in touch,’ she said quickly. ‘I still feel terrible about what happened. I’ve spoken to Elliot. He was under pressure to run the story and didn’t tell me because he knew how angry I’d be.’

‘And I’m sorry for coming round unannounced like that,’ was Rosamund’s surprise response. ‘I shouldn’t have been so abrupt, although you can understand my initial shock and anger when I first read the piece.’

‘Of course,’ said Abby, still feeling guilty.

Ros glanced over at her as they began to walk, a look of good-humoured complicity on her face.

‘I should imagine it’s quite easy to fall into step with men like Elliot. They are rather seductive.’

‘I think he’s just ambitious,’ said Abby, feeling herself blush at the thought of herself being quite literally seduced.

Rosamund nodded. ‘I have always found the third-generation children of wealthy families quite fascinating. They tend to go one way or the other. Either they are lazy, complacent, unmotivated. Everything in life has been given to them on a plate, and instead of building on that success they squander it. Or they can be even more ruthless and driven than their parents or grandparents because they have something to prove. Let’s give Elliot the benefit of the doubt and say his absence of morals is simply a reaction to the achievements of his father. But that’s in the past. Let’s move forward, hmm?’

They walked on, their feet crunching on the gravel, Rosamund pausing every now and then to admire a plant or to stoop to read one of the name labels.

‘Beautiful, aren’t they?’ she said, rubbing a leaf between her fingers then holding them to her nose. ‘But everything in this garden has a purpose. Some plants can cure stomach upsets, some can even stop bleeding. Before modern science, with its pills and powders, this was essentially a giant pharmacy.’

They stopped at a group of plants with a wooden sign reading ‘Neurology and Rheumatology’.

‘Now I think I could do with a few of those,’ said Rosamund, indicating a nearby bench.

‘Sorry, not quite as sprightly as I was,’ she sighed when they were seated. ‘It’s true what they say, you know – everyone feels much younger inside. Some people claim to feel eighteen, but I suppose I think of myself as about twenty-eight, twenty-nine. It’s always a surprise to me when I look in the mirror in the morning, or when I have to sit down quickly.’

She tapped her temple and her wistful expression dissolved.

‘But I’m every bit as sharp up here, however weak the flesh. And frankly, Abby, I don’t buy it.’

Abby looked at her, realising the time had come for Rosamund to explain the purpose of their meeting.

‘You don’t buy it? The story about Dominic?’

Rosamund nodded.

‘Now, I believe you spoke to one Alexei Gorshkov,’ she said after a moment.

‘How did you know?’ asked Abby with surprise.

Ros’s grey brow arched knowingly.

‘I’ve been doing a little research of my own.’

Abby could imagine her on the internet, on the phone, calling her contacts, calling in favours, the years rolling away as if she were back in the Fleet Street newsrooms.

‘Gorshkov is who he claims. He was a senior member of the NKVD during the war, moving up into the KGB and achieving the rank of colonel. No one could tell me if he ever retired, which suggests that he still has “juice”, as I believe the Americans put it.’

‘So if he’s legit, why don’t you believe what he said about Dominic?’

‘Don’t you think I heard the espionage rumours in the sixties, Abby? Dozens of journalists were under suspicion, myself included. There were a few instances when I suspected Dominic of
something
: an affair, even keeping the wrong company, although as a connected magazine editor he knew everyone from lords to gangsters. But I never believed he was a Soviet agent because I
knew
my fiancé,’ said Ros more fiercely.

‘And so did Gorshkov. He knew Dominic was working for the KGB.’

‘We only have his word for it.’

‘And the
Soveyemka
newspaper article that named the Soviet spies operating in England,’ replied Abby quickly.

Rosamund let out a snort.

‘Propaganda.’

Abby softened her tone of voice.

‘But why would Alexei lie about it? He’s an old man without an agenda.’

‘People like Gorshkov always have an agenda,’ said Ros quietly.

She opened her handbag and pulled out an envelope, handing it to Abby.

‘I loved Dominic. I don’t believe he would have betrayed his country. But I’m not the only one. Read this,’ she said.

Glancing quizzically at Rosamund, Abby pulled out a small white postcard, the sort you could get in any post office. Written in small black letters were the words
Trust Dominic
.

‘Who sent this?’ she asked.

‘No idea,’ replied Rosamund. ‘It arrived yesterday. First-class stamp, central London postmark. I assume someone read the
Chronicle
at the weekend and posted this sometime on Monday. Although look, my address seems to have been written in different handwriting to the postcard.’

Abby looked up. Ros’s expression was animated, resolute.

‘Trust Dominic. What do you think it means?’ she asked, handing back the card.

‘That he was innocent,’ said Rosamund with passion. Abby noticed that she had clenched her fist.

‘Or that whoever sent it believes he was innocent.’ Abby’s mind was whirling.

Rosamund gave her a stern look.

‘Whose word do we really have that Dominic was a KGB spy? Gorshkov’s? He admits he wasn’t Dominic’s spymaster.’

‘But he knew him. Apparently the spymaster died over ten years ago, and that’s why we couldn’t speak to him.’

‘That’s convenient.’

Abby let her shoulders slump. She knew how desperately Rosamund wanted Dominic to be innocent of the charges he was posthumously facing, but she was growing frustrated that she refused to see the facts.

‘Ros, I know Elliot’s story was sensationalist and perhaps he didn’t speak to enough people—’

‘You can say that again,’ said Rosamund over the top of her. ‘Journalism was a whole different ball game in my day. Things had to be corroborated and re-corroborated. Nowadays any old source can give you a nod and a wink and it passes for investigative journalism.’

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.