‘The registry?’
‘In the 1960s, the surveillance of Russian spies or suspected operatives was dealt with by Division E of MI5, I believe. All MI5 files were kept at Leconfield House, in Curzon Street.’
‘And the chances of me accessing those are zero.’
He winced with sympathy.
‘You know, there has been a wealth of information written about the Cold War: the main players, the rumour, the scandal. A whole slew of books have come out in the last few years, now that most of the major players are dead. Our libel laws may be fairly draconian, but they don’t stretch as far as the deceased. Why don’t you go down that route? Maybe you can work out who EZ is.’
‘I know just where to start,’ said Rosamund softly.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Abby stood outside Elliot Hall’s front door and took a deep breath. She flicked her hair over her shoulder and it bounced, reminding her of the blow-dry she’d had this afternoon. A blow-dry that now made her feel obvious, made her look, in the words of some forgotten teenage lexicon, as though she was gagging for it.
She wondered what Rosamund would think of her standing here in her little black dress and matching underwear, a lacy bra and knickers set from La Senza that was very much date underwear, underwear designed to be seen and removed. She was here to persuade Elliot Hall to help her clear Dominic’s name, and yet she was dressed for a booty call. Too late now, she thought, pressing the bell.
When Elliot answered the door, she knew exactly why she had spent so long getting ready. In khaki chinos, a navy polo shirt and bare feet, he looked even sexier than she remembered.
‘Abby, come in. You look amazing,’ he said, kissing her on the cheek.
Abby wasn’t sure which was making her blush more – the thought of her carefully chosen underwear or the memory of that perfect, erotic night-and-morning in St Petersburg.
‘Are you hungry?’ he asked, leading her into the kitchen.
‘What’s with the spoon?’ She nodded at the wooden spatula he was holding.
‘I’m cooking dinner.’
‘There’s more than great bacon sandwiches in your repertoire?’
He grinned over his shoulder. ‘I blame my mother,’ he said, sprinkling sea salt over a Dover sole that had just come out of the oven. ‘In my gap year she packed me off on every self-improvement course she could think of. Art history in Florence, cooking in France, sailing in Brazil. All I wanted to do was go to Spain with my mates and get pissed.’
‘You’d make so
meone a good wife,’ Abby said, watching him drain the potatoes. She couldn’t help comparing him to Nick, whose culinary talent extended as far as calling the Indian takeaway down the road.
‘Is there a compliment in there somewhere?’ said Elliot, leaving the fish and pouring her a glass of wine.
She inhaled the delicious warm and homely smell of the kitchen, and found herself forgetting that she was cross with him.
‘So how was San Francisco?’
‘I love it out there. It’s so dynamic. I got approached twice to set up a new media venture.’
He handed her the plates and grabbed a cocktail shaker from the marble worktop.
‘I thought we’d eat upstairs, on the roof terrace. You take the food, I’ll bring the martinis. There’s wine and water already up there.’
She hated martinis, but now didn’t seem the time to bring it up.
Following him upstairs, she glanced across the landing and saw the doorway to the room where she’d slept after Elliot’s party. It was hard to believe it had only been two weeks earlier. So much seemed to have happened in the interim.
The roof terrace was a wide balcony that led off Elliot’s bedroom. She took in the details of the room: a blue shirt folded across the arm of a captain’s chair, a bookshelf full of books, a MacBook Air on the small table next to a king-sized bed, neatly made up and inviting. She felt nervous being in its orbit. Nervous about where the night might lead, and not sure how she felt about it.
Elliot seemed not to notice that they were in such an intimate space. He took the chair that looked back towards the house, whilst Abby had a view of the gardens growing dark in the fading light.
For a minute she couldn’t believe that she was living this life. In their flat in Clapham, the one she and Nick had bought when they had first got engaged, there was a patch of roof over the downstairs extension accessed by crawling out of the bathroom window. That first summer as homeowners, there had been a stretch of unusually warm weather, and they had gone out there most evenings, sitting cross-legged on cushions, drinking beer, laughing and swapping gossip about their days. This was a more grown-up and sophisticated version of that memory, although she couldn’t help feel a pang of nostalgia for the old days.