‘You have to believe me,’ she said, trying to catch her breath. ‘Elliot hired me to be his researcher.’
‘So you did know all about it.’
Abby felt caught out, cornered.
‘As you know, after the feedback about the Last Goodbye photograph, Elliot wanted to look into Dominic’s disappearance. I told you that.’
‘And I told you it was against my wishes.’
‘But he thought he could solve it,’ said Abby more passionately. ‘He had a lead and we went to St Petersburg to follow it up. We got back on Monday and I haven’t seen him since. He certainly didn’t mention that he was writing this story.’
‘Enough,’ said Rosamund, raising her hand to stop Abby in full flow. ‘I thought better of you, Miss Gordon. I trusted you. You seemed decent.’ She spoke so softly that Abby could barely hear her. ‘My memories are all I have left of Dominic, and this feature, this feature has just set out to trash them.’
Abby looked at her, at the hurt in her eyes, the bottom lip that quivered with emotion, and had to glance away in shame.
‘I’m going to call him right away,’ she said, her heart pounding.
Rosamund blinked hard to recover her poise, the vulnerable woman gone and the firebrand returned. ‘If you do see him, could you tell him to expect a finely worded note from my lawyers, and pass on the observation that karma is bound to catch up with you both in the end. Oh, and that I very much hope it’s sooner rather than later.’
‘Lawyers?’ said Abby, her embarrassment now replaced by panic.
‘I may be old, but I’m not dead. I believe libel laws apply to the living.’
‘Look, maybe we can get it removed from a later edition or something.’
‘I doubt you’ll get through. I’ve been trying since just after seven.’
‘Couldn’t you call another of your contacts in the media, maybe do a story on your side of things?’
‘And what would be the point?’ said Rosamund. ‘The damage is already done and another story would only fan the flames. Besides which, I’m not worried for myself; my lawyer will encourage me to sue, but I’m sure my reputation, such as it is, will survive. I’m just angry that Dominic Blake will now forever be seen as a traitor to his country, when nothing could be further from the truth.’
Abby shifted with discomfort and looked down at the feature again.
‘But Gorshkov . . .’ She trailed off, suddenly paranoid about using the Russian’s name. ‘The KGB contact, he claimed that Dominic worked for him. Do you think he was lying?’
‘I don’t have time to discuss my thoughts with you right now, Miss Gordon. Perhaps you should have thought to include them before Mr Hall filed the piece. Right now I’ve got to get to the newsagent and buy up all the copies of the Chronicle. My national reputation is one thing, but I don’t want people talking about me in my local shop.’
‘Rosamund, I’m sorry. I’m so sorry,’ Abby said, but the older woman had already turned to leave.
When the front door had clicked shut, Abby closed her eyes and puffed out her cheeks. She stayed still for a moment, then went to the kitchen, made herself a coffee, and returned to the paper, curling her fingers around her mug as she read and reread the story from start to finish. There was, she had to admit, a tiny kernel of excitement at having – on paper, at least – become a journalist, at seeing her name in print, but it was squashed flat when faced with the arrogance and presumption of Elliot Hall.
How dare he file the story without consulting her? How dare he even write this story? She had always understood that they were looking into Dominic’s death, but the story in front of her was a textbook example of press sensationalism.
It was, however, a riveting read, and any other Sunday morning, before the exhibition, before Elliot Hall, Abby would have relished it.
From what she could gather, reading the article carefully, Elliot hadn’t said anything they knew to be untrue, but he had turned up the dial to make everything that little bit more salacious. Dominic Blake was portrayed as a decadent Oxbridge toff who used his contacts to seduce the wives and daughters of the aristocracy in order to pump them for information, which he would then gleefully feed back to his Soviet paymasters. According to Elliot’s account, Dominic was simply a traitor with an unspecified grudge against the establishment, who betrayed his country for the buzz of being a spy. Rosamund hardly came out of it much better; Elliot insinuated that her ‘dangerous left leanings’ meant she was fully sympathetic to her boyfriend’s line of work. In his conclusion, he implied that Dominic had been assassinated by MI5 before he could do any more damage. No wonder Rosamund had been upset.
Abby picked up her phone and began to dial Elliot’s number, stopping when she realised it would be past midnight in San Francisco. They were close, but not that close. Even if she was phoning with a bloody good reason, she knew enough from listening to the banter between Nick and his friends that midnight calls were likely to get you branded mad or a stalker. A darker thought also troubled her. What if she heard the sound of giggling in the background, or got the polite brush-off that suggested he had company? In the early hours of the morning that was not a good sign.
She would send him an email, she decided, folding the newspaper and walking across to the coffee table to get her laptop. Perching on the edge of the sofa, she balanced the machine on her knee and turned it on to the sound of a low, soft gong. For a minute she sat staring at the blue screen, wondering what to say. She was still furious, still shocked and bruised from her encounter with Rosamund, and she knew she should give it to him with both barrels, but as she sat there crafting her words, it all sounded hollow and naïve.
Yes, Elliot was wrong to file the story without telling her, but it wasn’t as if he had pretended to be anything other than a journalist. What did Abby really think was going to happen? It was inevitable he’d print something eventually, even if it was only to justify the expense bill for their trip to St Petersburg. Besides, it was a very, very good story. An exposé. Dominic Blake, friend of the establishment, had betrayed them all.
In the end she decided to keep things simple.
Elliot, I know it’s late, but if you haven’t gone to bed, please call me. The Chronicle piece is out and Rosamund has just been to see me.
That was it. No kisses, no smiley faces, just the bald facts. She congratulated herself on her restraint.