Page 106 of The Last Kiss Goodbye

‘We did. I’m not here to work. I’m here to pick your brains.’

‘Oh,’ he smiled, looking rather flattered. He took off his glasses and put them in his top pocket. ‘Congratulations on your Chronicle piece, by the way. I trust you received my message? Both Christine and I were most impressed.’

‘Yes, thanks,’ she said, cutting him off. ‘Actually, Stephen, I think you might be able to help me get a follow-up story. Paul Robinson, the Chronicle editor, asked personally for us to get involved.’

She watched as a proud smile spread across his face. She knew from experience that the only way to get her boss to do anything was to flatter him into it; clearly the possibility of a personal link to a high-profile media figure like Paul Robinson was exactly what he wanted to hear.

‘You’re going to write more for the Chronicle?’

Abby had to suppress a smile. There was nothing like looking popular to make others see the error of their ways.

‘I am. And I wondered whether you’d like to assist.’

‘Of course,’ he said eagerly. ‘I’m keen to help however I can.’

‘Great,’ said Abby, sitting down and pulling out her notebook. ‘Obviously I’ll do this on my own time . . .’

‘No, no,’ said Stephen, lifting a hand. ‘If your story is promoting the archive and our exhibitions, then of course you may do it from here. As well as your other duties, obviously.’

Abby smiled. ‘All right, down to business. You are, of course, one of the most respected archivists in the country, if not the world.’

She said it as if it were fact; there was a good chance it was true anyway. The Institute had a huge amount of prestige in the small yet incredibly nerdy archive community, and Stephen certainly didn’t go in for false modesty.

‘But if I were looking for documents, possibly classified government documents, who would you say your opposite number would be?’

Stephen’s mouth pursed. ‘I’m not sure I would call him my opposite number, but that would be Tobias Harding over at the National Archives. All documentation in the public domain – anything declassified or available under the Freedom of Information Act – will be held there. I worked with Toby for a little while at the British Museum. I could certainly arrange an introduction.’

Abby smiled back at him. ‘Thanks, Stephen. The editorial team at the Chronicle will be thrilled.’

Stephen puffed up his chest like a turkey. ‘But if the documents you’re looking for are of a genuinely sensitive nature, you probably won’t find them in Kew.’

‘Where will they be then?’

‘I do believe there’s an intelligence archive.’

‘Where’s that?’

‘Oh, the MI5 building in Vauxhall.’

Abby felt her heart drop – clearly it showed on her face, because Stephen gave a sympathetic smi

le.

‘Indeed. Even if you could get in there, the word is they’ve been scanning classified files on to encrypted servers. It actually is all rather James Bond.’

Toby Harding was waiting for Abby and Rosamund in the lobby area of the National Archives, a lumpen 1970s concrete carbuncle chipped from the same block as the National Theatre on the South Bank. Unlike Stephen, who looked perfectly suited to the role of archivist, Toby seemed pleasant and efficient, like a strait-laced dad at the school gate.

‘Ms Gordon?’ he said, extending a hand. ‘Pleased to meet you. Stephen has told me all about you.’

‘All good, I hope?’

‘Oh yes, I rather think he sees you as his protégée – quite an honour.’

Yes, now that I’m getting Stephen’s name in the paper, thought Abby cynically. She wasn’t so much of a protégée when he was slashing her hours in half.

She introduced Ros, who extended her hand with a smile, and Harding led them into the bowels of the building. Abby listened with admiration to Ros making small talk. To a casual observer it was just polite chit-chat, but Abby could tell it was cleverer than that. That Ros was subtly working out how useful Toby and the archives could be.

As they walked through the building, Toby pointed out the various sections: documents, certificates, photographs, communications, all filed down a maze of corridors. Occasionally Abby would see staff pushing trolleys stacked high with buff-coloured files, requested by members of the public or researchers waiting upstairs in the reading rooms. Finally Toby ushered them into his office, and she was struck by how similar it was to Stephen’s cramped cubbyhole: just enough room for a desk and a few filing cabinets.