Tayte fidgeted. “Look, Jean. I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”
“Okay, that’s fine,” she said, forcing a smile that was easy to see through.
“So how old’s your son?” Tayte asked.
“Twenty.” Jean laughed. “Going on twelve most of the time.”
Tayte laughed with her as though he knew exactly what she meant, but while a part of him thought it would be good to know what it was like to watch your child grow through adolescence, he really had no idea and doubted he ever would. It didn’t really bother him. It was just curiosity.
“So you must have been married a while,” he said.
“Twenty-one years. We were keen to start a family straightaway. We had big plans but I didn’t want to go through it again. Some mothers take to it better than others, I suppose. I don’t think Daniel - that’s Elliot’s father - was ever happy about that. I found out that he’d been seeing other women for several years and he must have finally found someone he wanted to settle down with or I suppose it would have gone on longer.”
“What a rat,” Tayte said.
Jean agreed.
“So that’s where Elliot is tonight?”
“No, he was supposed to be here. I think he’s staying with friends. He often does.”
“You think?” Tayte said.
Jean sighed. “If I’m honest with myself we don’t get on that well. Communication’s not a strong point. He’s always been closer to his father and it’s been worse since the breakup.” She stood up. “Do you fancy a hot drink before you go?”
“Sure. Any chocolate?”
Jean looked surprised, as though she hadn’t figured Tayte for a hot chocolate drinker, despite his contradicting waistline. “I have no idea,” she said. “Let me go and see.”
She was gone several minutes. When she returned, Tayte came away from the window where he’d been watching the lights on the Thames and sat down again. Jean handed him a thick-rimmed mug that was just right for his super-size hand.
“Mind, it’s hot,” she said. “It’s a little past its use-by date, too, but I think you’ll live.”
Tayte thanked her.
“So now it’s your turn?” Jean said. “You’re obviously not married. Ever tried it?”
Tayte laughed. “No,” he said, categorically, like anyone could tell that he wasn’t the marrying type. But that wasn’t really it. The laughter was more of a defence mechanism. A reflex action equivalent to putting on a brave face because marriage seemed as unlikely and as scary a thing to him as having the nerve to ask someone out on a date in the first place.
“Why not?” Jean asked.
She was direct. Tayte admired that about her, even if it was beginning to make him feel awkward. He had an image of the ‘why not’ fixed in his head: Sandra Greenaway, senior Prom 1987. Since that night he’d gone through all the responses he could imagine and he couldn’t think of a single one that hurt him more than when she’d taken two steps back and laughed at him along with her friends.
“I guess my work keeps me too busy,” he said.
It was a white lie and a lame one at that, but he knew his fear of rejection ran far deeper than Sandra Greenaway and he didn’t want to get into it just now.
“Marcus told me your parents died when you were young,” Jean said. “That must have been tough.”
Tayte had to smile. “You don’t mince your words, do you?”
She slapped her own wrist. “It’s the by-product of a career in further education. I don’t mind if you’d rather not talk about it.”
“No, that’s okay,” Tayte said. He was happy just to talk about something else. “I was seventeen. They were on the return flight to DC from a vacation in the Florida Keys. I would have gone but I was studying for college exams. That was the excuse anyway. Truth was, I didn’t want to go. I didn’t much like flying then and I’ve hated it ever since. They put the crash down to some malfunction or other.”
“I’m sorry,” Jean said.
“It was a while ago now. I’ll fly when I have to but I always try and talk myself out of it first.”
“So coming over this weekend must have been a big deal for you?”
“I’d put it off too long,” Tayte said, wishing now, in light of what had happened to Marcus, that he hadn’t. “I’m getting a little more used to it though and I’m glad I didn’t talk myself out of it this time.”
“No,” Jean agreed.
Tayte sipped his chocolate. “Anyway, going back to my parents. I only found out that Mom and Dad were really my adoptive parents after the accident. I’ve been looking for my roots ever since.”
“And are you any closer to finding them?”
Tayte thought about that and slowly shook his head, thinking that he was probably the only professional genealogist on the planet who didn’t know a damn thing about his own ancestry. How ironic could life get? He started to think about all the dead ends he’d arrived at over the years, reminding himself of how little he still knew. He thought about the many DNA samples he’d sent to one registry and another in the hope of finding a match with one of his biological relatives, but nothing had come of it. The memories made him oblivious to the fact that the conversation had stopped.
“Well,” Jean said. She got up, collected the cups and headed for the kitchen.
Tayte didn’t mind the questions and he hoped he hadn’t offended her; she’d been open enough with him all night. He just didn’t like to talk about it - didn’t like the answers that kept coming back to remind him of his failings.
“I suppose it is getting late,” he said, glancing at his watch without really noticing the time. He collected his briefcase and followed Jean into the kitchen. “I’ll say goodnight then. Let’s meet at Kew tomorrow. Nine a.m. sharp.”
“I’ll give you my mobile number. In case there’s a problem. You never know.”
“Good idea,” Tayte said. He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the first thing his hand fell on. It was one of Marcus Brown’s early publications and seeing his friend’s portrait on the back cover made him catch his breath. After a lengthy pause he handed the book to Jean and forced a smile. “Here, you can write it in this. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
The lift opposite Jean’s apartment looked inviting as Tayte said goodbye and closed the door, but he fought the urge and took the stairs instead, reminding himself that he needed the exercise. He padded down them, listening to the echo of his footfall, thinking about Jean and how much he knew it would have meant to her if he’d stayed. He felt mean and it began to play on his conscience. He knew it would have sooner or later, just not this soon. He was about halfway down when he heard the door at the bottom of the stairwell open and close again. Soon after that he passed a man in a dark coat who was on his way up, two steps at a time.
“Evening,” Tayte said, not really looking at the man.
He received no reply and hadn’t expected one, thinking that London was no different from any other big city when it came to passing strangers. He made it all the way into the lobby, past an abandoned night desk and out into the quiet street before he stopped and turned back. The truth was that he didn’t want to be alone either after what had happened, and seeing Marcus’s image again on the book as he’d handed it to Jean just made him feel worse.
He took the lift this time, riding it back to the eleventh floor, smiling for the camera above his head. He had his words fully formed into a neat sentence by the time he heard the ping and the lift door opened. What he saw when it did made him forget them in an instant. The man he’d passed on the stairs was standing with his back to him at the door opposite the lift - Jean’s door. In that same slow second he thought it was a little late for callers, that Jean would have said if she was expecting anyone else, and that the coat the man was wearing looked worryingly familiar. It made him think about the man in the mask from Maiden Lane earlier and any question he had as to who this man was disappeared when the figure turned around and started shoo
ting at him.
Tayte lurched sideways as the gunman turned and the bullets arrived, making little sound until they hit something. One ripped through his sleeve, maybe his arm. He wasn’t sure. All he felt was a tug at his jacket as it tore through the material and shattered the mirror behind him. He dropped his briefcase. Then as the lift doors began to close he felt something sting and he knew he’d been hit.
He didn’t have time to dwell on it.
Another shot was fired, muted like the others, only this time it was accompanied by the sound of splintering wood, as if the gunman had just shot through the lock on Jean’s door and kicked it in. He heard it slam open and bang against the wall and his finger was already on the lift door-release button. He kept close to one side as he repeatedly tapped it and when it was fully open again he peeked out. The man was gone and the door to Jean’s apartment was tellingly wide open.
It seemed to take Tayte forever to think what to do. He knew he couldn’t just run in there or the man would shoot them both. Then he saw the fire extinguisher: a big red one. He grabbed it and ran inside, driven by the thought that this man had killed his friend and he’d be damned if he was going to stand back and let Jean Summer share the same fate.
His resolve buckled when he saw the man again. He was in the hallway. The light was out but the sitting-room door was open and against the glow from the city lights beyond the window, Tayte saw a coal-black silhouette standing in the doorframe. As the man turned around Tayte ran at him with the extinguisher. He thrust it at him. The gun went off and Tayte hit him with it again, knocking him down.
“Jean!”
She was there, hiding in the dark. Even so, Tayte knew from the size of the apartment that it wouldn’t have taken long for the gunman to find her. She came at him like a wild animal, leaping over the gunman and knocking Tayte back. He looked for the gun but couldn’t make it out in the half-light. Then the dark figure on the floor began to stir.
“Come on!” Jean urged.
Tayte backed away.
Jean was already at the door. “Here, take these.”
Two crash helmets were thrust into his stomach and he felt like he’d suddenly awoken from a sleepwalking episode, wondering where he was. He saw that Jean already had a leather jacket on. She had a pair of boots in her hand and he heard a metallic jangle like she’d just picked up a set of keys. Then they were heading for the lift.
Inside, Jean began to pump the button for the basement parking level. “Come on, damn you. Come on!”
The door began to close. A shot was fired, wild and untrained. It peeled the plaster from the wall outside and they moved away from the opening. The gunman was out in the hallway now heading straight for them. Tayte watched him run at the doors, eyes on the gun the whole time as he thrust the silencer forward, presumably in the hope of jamming it between the doors and forcing the safety mechanism to open them again. It was a close call but he didn’t make it. Tayte ducked back as the gun clanked against the doors. Then they were descending.
Tayte reacquainted himself with his briefcase and gave a nervous laugh. “I changed my mind.”
Jean was putting her boots on. When she’d finished she took the smaller of the two helmets from Tayte and put that on, too. “I’m glad you did.” She nodded at the other helmet. “See if it fits.”
Tayte didn’t really care. Attracting police attention for not wearing a helmet seemed like a good idea right now. The helmet was an open face type. It was tight but he got it on.
“He would have seen the helmets,” he said. “He’ll know where we’re headed.”
“Then get ready.”
They watched the countdown together. Four, three, two. They reached the lobby.
“Next level,” Jean said.
They ran as soon as they could fit through the gap in the doors and they were instantly lit up by the harsh overhead strip-lights. The motorcycle area was off to the right and they kept running. All Tayte could see were scooters and he hoped Jean hadn’t been teasing him about the kind of bike she had. None of them looked big enough to carry him let alone both of them. They passed a blue 4x4 and the view opened up. He could see a few sports bikes now and something big with a yellow tank. It had panniers and high mudguards and Tayte thought it looked like it belonged in a Dakar rally. He watched Jean bend down and take a key to the U-shaped lock that was dangling from the front brake disc. He eyed the BMW roundel and the letters R1200GS on the tank.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me.”
Jean climbed onto the thing like she was mounting a horse, and somewhat disconcertingly Tayte noticed that her feet could barely reach the floor. Behind them a door opened and slapped hard against a concrete wall.
“Are you just going to stand there?”
Tayte swung himself on, grabbed the pillion handrail with one hand and cradled his briefcase to his chest with the other. The engine fired up and Jean rocked the bike forward, tipping it off the centre stand, dropping it a several centimetres. Then they were moving again, racing for the exit.
Tayte looked back. He still hadn’t had a good look at this man yet. Somewhere close by he heard glass pop and shatter and he decided not to try. He shrank into himself, clutching his briefcase tighter. The gunman was right behind them, running fast, showing no sign of letting up. Another shot fizzed by, taking out one of the overhead lights.
“Brace yourself!” Jean called.
Tayte looked up again and saw why. They were heading towards a barrier and the bike wasn’t slowing down.
“It’s automatic on the way out!” Jean called.
Automatic or not, Tayte had never seen a barrier of any kind respond as quickly to an approaching vehicle as he knew this one would have to if they were to clear it in time. Jean ducked as they approached and the barrier began to lift. The biked slowed a little then, but sitting on the back, Tayte was higher than he knew he needed to be. He closed his eyes and ducked after Jean, leaning forward as best he could with his briefcase between them as they arrived and the barrier broke across the top of his helmet. An alarm began to sound. Then the engine revs picked up again and they turned out into the night.
Chapter Five
An hour later, Tayte and Jean were climbing into the back of a silver Audi saloon. As soon as they felt it was safe to stop, Tayte had called Fable’s number from the card he’d given him and by then Fable already knew about the attempt on Jean’s life. He’d told them to stay put at the 24-hour service station Tayte called from. A car was on its way. Fable had also said that he was keen to talk to Tayte about another matter concerning something that had been found at Marcus Brown’s home earlier that day.
As they settled into the journey, Tayte thought the setup didn’t feel quite right. He wasn’t particularly worried given that Fable had said the car was coming for them. It was just that he felt sure the two suits sitting up front were not regular police officers, detective grade or otherwise, and the car didn’t exactly seem like police issue either, not that he really knew what the inside of an unmarked police car should look like. He couldn’t put his finger on it but he thought the whole thing had more of a military feel.
He asked the obvious question. “Where are we headed?”
“It shouldn’t take long, sir.”
That’s all the reply he got, and after exchanging bemused glances with Jean he decided to sit back and keep quiet. Ten minutes later they began to track the Thames to their left, following its dark course for several minutes until they arrived at a roundabout at the top of Lambeth Bridge. They went straight over and turned right. Jean gave Tayte a nudge, indicating the floodlit facade of the grey building complex they were heading for.
“MI5,” she mouthed.
Tayte had no trouble reading her lips, but he did have trouble trying to understand why they were being taken to the home of the British Security Service. He relaxed a little though when the car arrived at Thames House and he saw DI Fable waiting for them. As they walked under escort, Tayte further expla
ined what had happened at Jean’s apartment, putting his finger through the hole in his jacket sleeve as if to prove it. His arm was okay: barely a scratch that he’d cleaned up in the service station men’s room.
“The building’s night watchman wasn’t so lucky,” Fable said. “His body was found behind the desk where he’d fallen. Two bullets in his chest.” He turned to Jean. “There’s a forensics team at your flat now. You’ll need somewhere else to stay tonight.”
“What about my bike?” Jean said. “Do I get a lift back to the service station when we’re done here?”
“I get the feeling you won’t be needing it for a while,” Fable said. “Let me have the key and I’ll get it picked up for you.”
Jean handed it to him and described the bike. She still had the brake disc lock in her jacket pocket. The ignition key was all he needed.
“Registration?”
“H15 TRY.”
Fable smiled. “I’ll see that it’s taken home for you.”
“No, not there.” Jean said. To Tayte, she added, “Where are you staying?”
“The Hyatt Regency in Marylebone.”
“Have it taken to the hotel,” Jean said. “I’ll stay there until this is over.”
They were escorted to a meeting room. There was a long oval table in the centre with twenty or so chairs around it - dark windows to Tayte’s right as he entered. There were three other people in the room: two men in dark suits and a woman in black-and-white dogtooth. All wore serious expressions.
“Good to meet you, Mr Tayte,” one of the men said. He was a slight man with a nasal tone to his voice. “Ms Summer,” he added, greeting Jean. The man didn’t give his name and neither did anyone else.
Tayte put his briefcase on the table and they were invited to sit down. Fable placed two manila folders in front of him.
“I was going to call you about this first thing in the morning,” Fable said. “You told me yesterday you were a genealogist like your friend, Marcus Brown.”
Tayte nodded.
Fable slid the folders closer. “We found these at Mr Brown’s home and wondered if you’d take a look.”
The Last Queen of England: A Genealogical Crime Mystery #3 (Jefferson Tayte) Page 4
