The Last Kiss Goodbye (30 page)

‘I didn’t trust Victoria because I didn’t trust Tony,’ said Jonathon slowly.

‘Tony? Victoria’s husband?’

‘Tony Harbord was linked to the cartel of industrialists that wanted Dominic dead.’

‘But Victoria said she didn’t think Tony knew about her espionage activities.’

‘Tony was one of America’s wealthiest men, all of it self-made. He was a smart and ruthless businessman who was solely concerned with the pursuit of money. He’d have known about Victoria’s link to the intelligence services, even if Victoria thought otherwise, and would have used it to his advantage.’

Jonathon paused before he continued.

‘Once I had seen intelligence that Dominic was, essentially, a marked man, I knew that the only way to stop him from being assassinated was to take matters into my own hands.’

He let the words hang in the air for a moment.

‘What are you telling me?’ asked Abby, not daring to even think it. ‘You murdered Dominic? You killed your best friend because he was a liability, because he knew too much?’

A ghost of a smile pulled on the old man’s lips.

‘I didn’t murder him, Abby. I saved him. He didn’t die in the Amazon rainforest in 1961. Dominic Blake is still alive.’

Chapter Thirty-Five

He was late, of course he was. There was a time, many years before, when he used to be late for everything, when his life had seemed so fast, so exciting, that there were barely enough hours in the day to fit everything in. But things were different now, thought Dominic Blake, squinting at the wheel of his Land Rover Defender as he navigated the dark Irish country roads. Today it had seemed to take him forever to have a shave, find his only blue shirt that wasn’t faded from too many washes, and get out of the house, not because he had so many other things to do but because everything seemed to require more effort than it had ten, even five years earlier.

He reminded himself that he had much to be thankful for. Just the other day he had been reading how one person in six over the age of eighty had dementia. He had friends who could no longer recognise him, acquaintances now reliant on family members to dress and feed them. Besides which, he lived in
a particularly magical part of the world that had brought him a considerable amount of pleasure over the years. The west coast of Ireland lacked the dizzy excitement of the bright lights of London, it was not as exotic as some of the places he had visited as a younger man, yet there was wonder of a different sort in the place he had called home for over forty-five years. A walk along the wild and rugged Connemara coast always lifted his spirits; he would never tire of the thick taste of Guinness on a cold winter’s night; the sight of the ocean sparkling silver in the sunshine took the edge off his regret.

‘Dammit,’ he muttered as he misjudged the corner and swerved his old Defender up a grassy verge, bumping it back down again and through the gates of Dunlevy Farm. As he brought it to a stop, he puffed out his cheeks with relief and clenched his fingers tighter around the wheel, wondering nervously when he was due to renew his driver’s licence. The thought of not being able to drive, being stuck, immobile, in his cottage a mile away from anyone, made him shiver.

His friend’s farmhouse glowed in the darkness in front of him. He turned off the engine, picked up a bottle of red wine from the passenger seat and opened the door, steadying himself by holding on to the car until his boot hit the driveway. The sound of music drifted from the building. He took a moment to compose himself, a little nervous, not used to big social gatherings, and tuned in to the more familiar sound of the sea in the distance, waves crashing against rocks and gulls squawking overhead.

He smiled to himself, remembering the good old days, when he’d have bounded into a party, eager to scour it for the most attractive woman in the room, impatient to seek out anyone who might be useful to him as a contact or a source. Sometimes he had to remind himself that he had actually lived that life, that
he hadn’t dreamt it or read about it in a pulp fiction novel, but fragments of memory were still there, and for a split second he felt as if it was the sixties again and he was turning up at one of Victoria Harbord’s parties, not knowing where the night would take him.

He knocked on the door and a red-faced, smiling woman answered it.

‘Dominic, you came!’

‘Finally.’ He smiled at his friend and neighbour Julia. ‘I’m sorry I’m so late. I hope everyone isn’t sitting down already.’

‘Don’t you go worrying. Pete’s lamb has been cooking since lunchtime and it’s still not done to his satisfaction. Come in, come in,’ she said in her sing-song voice.

Dunlevy Farm was one of the largest properties in the area, the sort bought with money made from downsizing from one of the bigger cities – in Pete and Julia’s case Cork. It was warm inside, and a comforting foodie smell wafted around the hallway, the sort that rarely permeated his own cottage now that his culinary repertoire had contracted to tins of sardines, potatoes, eggs collected from his chickens and soda bread baked by a neighbour.

‘Come and meet my sister. She’s over from England with her husband for a few days,’ said Julia.

Dominic smoothed down his tweed jacket anxiously as she led him across to a couple around twenty years younger than himself.

‘Paula, David. This is our good friend and neighbour Dominic Bowen.’

He was stranded by his host and left to make small talk.

‘So where’s home?’ he asked.

‘London,’ smiled Julia’s sister, pouring him a glass of wine. ‘Actually, Esher, but now the kids have left home, we’re thinking of moving into London proper. Becoming those trendy OAPs who spend all their pension on the theatre and restaurants.’

‘Where were you thinking of? Which area?’

‘Why? Do you know London?’ said David with a faintly superior expression, or at least one reserved for old people and those he did not consider quite as sophisticated as himself.

‘Not really,’ smiled Dominic, playing the role that was now second nature.

‘We were thinking Pimlico or Borough for the food market,’ said Paula more kindly. ‘I love Bloomsbury, very Charles Dickens, loads of history. The British Museum is there too, but prices have gone through the roof.’

Dominic nodded politely, longing to tell how wonderful he thought the area was too. He wanted to tell her about the secret gardens, and the overlooked pockets of the British Museum. About the house that had inspired the setting for the Darling residence in
Peter Pan
, and how it only took twelve minutes to walk to Soho, another fifteen to get to the river, which always made Bloomsbury in his opinion not just the centre of London but the centre of the world. And he longed to tell her husband that he was not Dominic Bowen, a simple man from the local village, but Dominic Blake, Cambridge-educated magazine editor and intelligence officer, a man who could offer so much to the conversation if only he could be bothered to listen.

‘Lamb’s ready,’ said Julia, returning to the group and putting a hand on Dominic’s shoulder. ‘Hang on. Someone’s phone is ringing.’

For a moment Dominic couldn’t hear anything and made a mental note to get his hearing aid checked.

‘Dominic, I think it’s you,’ said Paula, nudging him.

He looked up in surprise, unused to the tinny ring of his mobile phone. He’d only had it a few months, a present from Julia for Christmas, and although he’d jokingly dismissed it as new-fangled technology, Julia insisted he keep it on him, ‘just in case’. He knew exactly what she was hinting at. He did not like to see himself as an old man, but with a phone in his pocket, he felt just a little less vulnerable.

He made his excuses and went to take the call in the study.

‘Hello. Dominic?’

‘Yes. Hello,’ he said, struggling to hear the caller over the rise and fall of party chatter.

‘It’s Jonathon.’

He was not completely surprised to hear his old friend’s voice. Even though the two men seemed to have very little to say to one another these days, their deep and long-standing bond eroded and weakened by time and space, he still heard from Jonny Soames every two or three weeks, in what he could only suppose was a duty call.

‘How are you?’ he asked.

There was a long pause that made Dom nervous. His first thought was whether Michaela and Jonathon himself were both okay.

‘Ros knows,’ Jonathon said finally. ‘She knows you’re alive.’

Dominic felt his breath shudder and almost stop in his throat. He went over to the study door and closed it.

‘What has happened?’ he asked, summoning the words to speak.

‘A news story ran about your disappearance a couple of weeks ago,’ replied Jonathon.

Dominic hadn’t seen the piece. He had long ago given up reading the British press, which reminded him too much of a life unlived. He frowned, trying to work out if there was some significance in the date. Whether it was any particular anniversary or had any other news-worthy importance.

‘Why on earth would anyone want to run that story now?’ he asked, his old editor’s instincts twitching.

‘A photo of you and Ros surfaced in an RCI exhibition. There was some interest in it and the
Chronicle
followed it up.’

Dominic held the back of an old leather chair to compose himself.

‘What did the article say?’

‘It accused you of being a Soviet spy.’

‘And you chose not to tell me about this?’ he replied, feeling a shot of anger. ‘You could have warned me. You
should
have warned me.’ He could hear his voice trembling.

‘I didn’t tell you because I knew it would make you want to seek out Rosamund. And I didn’t think that would be helpful at this point in your life.’

‘And don’t you think that was for me to decide?’

There was silence for a few moments.

‘The woman researching the story. The story of your disappearance. She wouldn’t let it go and was causing all sorts of trouble. She even recruited a hacker to tap into my calls, my email . . .’

‘And this was all for the
Chronicle
?’ Dominic asked, hearing his old heart thud in his chest as he waited anxiously for his friend to answer.

‘It appears that she was helping Ros.’

He thought he felt something inside him dance.

‘I have always wanted what’s best for you, Dom. I didn’t tell you because I wanted to protect you.’

‘It’s not your place to play God, Jonny.’

‘I know. I realise that now,’ he said. ‘So I told Ros. I’ve told her everything.’

Dominic felt his palms grow sweaty.

‘I should see her.’

‘We’re coming. We’re coming as soon as we can sort out a flight.’

He closed his eyes, a thousand memories firing around his mind like bullets. He could see her now, laughing and splashing in Victoria Harbord’s pool in Antibes, the beautiful, elegant woman who had held his hand in Paris, the girl full of passion and promise and delight who had stormed into his office and demanded his resignation, the girl with whom he had pretty much fallen in love on the spot.

Another memory popped into his head unbidden. A more recent memory, but still one that belonged to another lifetime. Rosamund on her way to a literary event in Dublin, 25 October 1969. He remembered that date so well because it was the day that really had changed his life for ever. Not the evening of Vee’s party when Eugene Zarkov had told him about Russia’s true nuclear capabilities. Not the night of his own engagement bash, when Jonathon had revealed that Eugene had been found dead in mysterious circumstances. Not even the day he had waved goodbye to Rosamund in the Amazon and set off to fake his own disappearance.

No. It was 25 October 1969 when his life has been set irretrievably in another direction, when he had finally closed the door on his old life, and broken his own heart in the process.

For Dominic Blake had never intended to disappear for ever. He had known that his life was in danger, agreed with Jonathon that he had to drop off the grid for months, even years, until the risk of assassination had passed, and at first, everything had gone to plan.

The timing of his trip to Peru had been fortuitous. It was a dangerous expedition to a place where people really did go missing. Two mercenaries known to and trusted by Jonathon had helped Dominic escape north out of the Amazon into Colombia and then Central America. A new identity was arranged for him, and the next five years were spent moving around the United States and Canada: Idaho, Wyoming, Nova Scotia; big empty spaces where English-speaking loners could blend in and not be noticed.

Throughout this
period he had kept in very sporadic contact with Jonny Soames – anything more was risky – and by the late sixties, his friend had reluctantly agreed that he could find somewhere more permanent to settle down. They had chosen the remote west coast of Ireland, close enough for it to feel like home, far enough to be out of any possible danger, and after twelve gloriously uneventful months in Connemara, Dominic had begun to dream that he could make contact with the woman he loved, the woman he had never forgotten about, even though Jonathon had warned him that she had moved on, found a job, a good job, a boyfriend, and that it was foolhardy to make contact with her directly in case she was being tracked.

He would have taken the chance and gone to London anyway, but she had come to Ireland. He had read in the
Herald
that she was speaking at a prestigious literary event in Dublin, and even the cynical journalist in him couldn’t help but think that it was a sign, a sign that it was time to stop hiding and start living, because even though he had dodged the assassin’s bullet, he had felt dead inside since that moment he had kissed Rosamund Bailey goodbye and disappeared into the Amazon jungle.

It had taken him seven hours to travel from Connemara to Dublin by bus. He had a letter in his pocket and had worked out how to get it to her in the course of the evening. They were the most important words he had ever written, explaining his decision and his reasons for leaving her, but setting out a plan for how they could be together. How he remembered her dream of living in a cottage in Antibes with a bowl of peaches in the window and a view of the sea, and although Connemara wasn’t exactly the South of France, he could glimpse the ocean from his bedroom and there was nothing quite like the simple pleasure of collecting mussels from the beach and cooking them for lunch.

He had stood opposite the theatre where she was due to appear for over half an hour, waiting for her to show up. It had been raining and at first he couldn’t make out whether it was her, stepping out of a taxi on to the street. She had turned to face the vehicle, and when she had smiled, he had thought for one glorious moment that she had seen him, and that her smile had been for him. But someone else had got out of the taxi. A man, who snaked his arm around her waist and then kissed her lightly on the lips as she giggled and touched his face in a way so warm and tender that Dominic had barely been able to watch them for a moment longer.

Right then, he had understood the true meaning of love. It was not the way your heart fluttered when you saw the object of your affection, how their conversation could make you feel alive, or their absence make you desperate with longing. No. True love was simply the desire to make that person happy, no matter the cost to yourself. And right there, on that cold, wet street in Dublin, Dominic knew that Rosamund Bailey would have a better life, the life she deserved, without him in it.