Retha shook her gun towards the house. “Inside,” she ordered. “Both of you!”
Jonathan looked confused. “Retha?”
Her appearance at the Lasseter house, and the gun in her hand, surprised Tayte less. Retha Ingram was the ambitious head of a well respected and soon to be expanding charitable trust that had been founded on Grace Ingram’s good name. It was that name, and no doubt the financial benefit the business afforded her, that Tayte knew she was there to protect tonight.
“I’m sorry Jonathan,” Retha said, her South African accent conveying no warmth. “I was hoping it wouldn’t come to this. Where is your wife?”
Jonathan continued to stare at the gun she was holding. It was a small gun as handguns go, but no less deadly at such close range.
“She’s out,” he said. “Swimming.”
“That’s lucky for her,” Retha said.
“Why are you doing this?”
Tayte wanted to hear the answer to that question, although her presence there only helped to confirm what he’d told the police earlier: that Mary Lasseter, latterly Grace Ingram, was implicated in Danny Danielson’s disappearance in 1944. Perhaps even his murder in light of the measures Retha was clearly prepared to take to keep her family’s secret. It strengthened his need to know what had happened that night in Paris, but as Retha’s hired killer joined them he knew that now was not the time to ask.
Retha flicked her gun again and the man in the pinstripe suit stepped aside as they filed back into the house. Tayte limped past and the man spoke quietly in his ear.
“Don’t worry,” he said. “That ankle won’t bother you much longer.”
Tayte tried to ignore the jibe, but the man slammed the butt of his gun into the side of his head, reminding him who was in control. It didn’t knock Tayte down, but it came close. He wavered as he took another step, seeing double.
“Enough!” Retha barked. Her eyes glared at the man for whom Tayte supposed she afforded little regard - just business between them.
“I owed him that,” the man said and he shoved Tayte towards the living room with the muzzle of his gun as if to defy her. “Do you have the rest of my money in that case?”
“It’s not your money yet,” Retha replied.
The Lasseter house sitting room seemed to Tayte like a different place tonight, devoid of the warmth and homeliness he’d felt on previous visits. It was like he’d just stepped into an alternative dimension that was bereft of anything good or wholesome. The curtains were drawn and the lights were on but the glow that filled the room felt cold and unwelcoming to him now.
“Sit down,” Retha said. “On the floor.”
Tayte and Jonathan locked eyes with one another as they sat on the rug in front of a heatless fireplace that was full of grey ash, each silently asking the same questions: what are we going to do now? Is this the end? Now that there were two guns to contend with Tayte felt more helpless than he had when he’d been alone with the gunman in his hotel room. On top of that he now had an ankle he couldn’t run on. He looked up at Retha, trying to make eye contact. Failing.
“So how come you’re doing your own dirty work tonight?” he asked her. “Or maybe you just wanted to watch. Is that it?”
Retha seemed to ignore him and it occurred to Tayte that that was not it. She was taking a big risk by coming to the Lasseter house. It told him she must have felt she had no choice. He was supposed to be dead by now and yet his escape from his hotel room cannot have been the complication that had brought her there. To get there so soon after the killer she must have already been on her way. Tayte didn’t think Retha had come to kill Jonathan in person either. His murder would surely be difficult for her and she had no need to do it herself if that was all that remained to be done tonight.
So why is she here?
The hired gun stepped closer to Tayte. “Let’s get this over with,” he said. “It’s taken too long already.”
He raised his gun level with Tayte’s head and as futile as Tayte knew any effort to overcome the two of them would be he decided he wasn’t going down without a fight. He was about to jump up and throw himself at the man when Retha spoke, although her words were not encouraging.
“Wait!” she said. She put the attaché case down on the sofa and stepped closer until she was standing beside the gunman. “We’ll do it together. I’m sorry Jonathan,” she added.
Then with speed and precision she brought the gun up beneath the gunman’s chin and pulled the trigger, sending his head jolting back. He fell crashing onto the coffee table behind them and Tayte didn’t have any more time to react to what had just happened than the man in the navy pinstripe suit had had to prevent it. The next thing he saw was Jonathan getting to his feet, an elated smile slowly emerging as he rose, as though Retha had come there to save him. But Tayte knew better. He was beginning to understand the need for Retha’s visit and the small gun that had now turned back to Jonathan confirmed it.
“Sit down, Jonathan!” Retha ordered. She picked up the dead man’s gun and aimed it at Tayte.
Tayte watched Jonathan’s smile turn to confusion again. “She’s not here to help us,” he said, eyes on Retha. “She came here as soon as she heard that Alan Driscoll was dead. Isn’t that right?”
Retha said nothing.
“Driscoll’s murder was too close to home,” Tayte continued. “And it wasn’t part of the plan.” He faced Jonathan. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m sure you weren’t part of the plan either until I showed up. Now Retha here thinks that if she gives the police the killer, the case will be closed. They’ll ask a few awkward questions, sure, but ultimately they’ll have their man.”
“Is this true, Retha?” Jonathan asked.
Retha ignored him. “I like intelligent men, Mr Tayte. Perhaps you can tell me how the rest of the plan goes?”
“Well, let me see. You’d have to shoot both of us with this man’s gun.” Tayte indicated the body. “Then you’d have to make it look like one of us had your gun to shoot him with. But how’s that going to work? Why would either of us have a gun. And a small gun like that? I’d struggle to even get my finger through the trigger guard, and how would I have brought it into the country?”
Retha smiled. “It’s his gun, too,” she said. “At least that’s how it’s going to look.”
She went to the attaché case and opened it, keeping the small gun on them as she set the other down. There was no money inside. A moment later she pulled out a holster that had short fastening straps.
“It goes around the ankle,” Retha said. “A professional killer might have such a gun, hey? The police are going to find it strapped to him and the wear marks will show that this gun fits it perfectly.”
“So how does the gun-play work?” Tayte asked.
Retha pointed the dead man’s gun at Jonathan. “Mr Killer here shoots Jonathan first. When he does, you rush him. There’s a struggle between the two of you and the ankle-gun is brought out. You grab it or he grabs it. It doesn’t matter. He shoots you and you shoot him. The only difference is that you kill him outright and the stomach wound he inflicts on you means that you bleed to death some time afterwards. I’ve heard that stomach wounds can be very painful.”
Tayte swallowed the lump that had risen in his throat. Then he asked the same question he’d already asked the dead man. “Why are you trying to find Mena? Why is she so important to you?”
Retha gave a wry smile. “Let’s just say that she has something I need.”
Tayte thought he had a good idea what that was. “Your grandmother’s confession?” he said. He supposed there were few other reasons to kill a priest. Sacramental seal or not, Retha clearly wasn’t taking any chances.
Retha didn’t reply.
“What happened to Danny Danielson?” Tayte asked. “Why didn’t he come back for Mena?” He answered the question for her. “He couldn’t, could he? So was it Mary or Edward? Did they kill him? Is that it? And you’re trying to keep a lid on it. And what do you have pla
nned for Mena when you catch up with her?”
“Enough questions,” Retha said. “I think you should be more concerned with yourself now, hey Mr Tayte?”
“You don’t have to do this,” Jonathan said.
Retha reasserted her aim at Jonathan’s chest. “It’s all too late for that now,” she said.
“Just wait a minute,” Tayte said. “You’re making a mistake. There’s something you don’t know.”
“Really? That’s quite pathetic. I’ve covered every conceivable angle.”
Her gun arm flexed, like she was about to pull the trigger.
“You don’t know about the photo,” Tayte said, his tone urgent. “The photo that was taken in Paris in 1944 just before Danny went missing. It shows that Edward Buckley and your grandmother were there with him.” Tayte knew the image of the woman in the background was too vague to pass in court, but he figured Retha didn’t have to know that. “The police have a copy of the photo,” he added, ‘and I’ve told them everything I know. They know about the priest, too, and they already suspect that his and Buckley’s murders are connected. As soon as they confirm it was your grandmother’s priest, they’ll be all over you.”
Retha’s gun arm relaxed and Tayte could see that she was thinking through the implications of what he’d said.
“You think that what you’re doing here tonight will sever any connection between you and the murders,” Tayte added. “But you’re wrong.”
Retha took a step closer to Jonathan. “Then I’ll have to take my chances, won’t I?”
Her gun arm was rigid now. It began to shake and Tayte knew she was about to pull the trigger. Then bright headlights illuminated the curtains at the window.
“Geraldine!” Jonathan said. “Please, Retha. Don’t hurt her.”
Retha backed away. Outside, a car door slammed and seconds later footsteps sounded in the hall. Retha took aim at the door. Then as it started to open, Jonathan sprang to his feet.
“Geraldine! Go back, she’s got a gun!”
Retha fired twice through the door panel and Jonathan stopped in his tracks, his face suddenly ashen. They heard a groan from the other side of the door and it opened further as someone fell into the room. It wasn’t Geraldine. It was Retha’s father, Christopher Ingram.
Tayte saw the flash of confusion in Retha’s eyes - saw the gun drop to her side as her arm went limp. By the time the reality of what had happened sank in, Tayte was already on his feet. As Retha went to her father, he grabbed her wrist and wrenched the gun from her hand. She offered no resistance. Her entire focus was now on the man lying at their feet.
“I came to warn you,” Ingram said.
Then his whole body seemed to sigh and Tayte knew he was dead.
Chapter Forty-Four
Two days later.
Jefferson Tayte was driving east with his client towards Sutton Bassett: a small village amidst patchwork fields roughly four miles from Market Harborough in the county of Northamptonshire. Eliza Gray had arrived at Heathrow airport early that morning and on the drive out of London Tayte told her everything that had happened that week, sparing no detail when it came to Joan Cartwright’s account of how Mena had said she’d been raped. The news angered Eliza, as Tayte knew it would, but he thought it best to prepare her in case it was later proven. She was also upset when he told her about the attempts on his life that had twice come so close to fruition. She had even apologised to him, like any of it was her fault.
Following the shootings at the Lasseter house, Tayte spent much of the night at the hospital and later with the police. From the hospital he was glad to learn that he hadn’t broken anything, although the sprain in his ankle still made him wince whenever he put too much weight on it. From the police, who had been keen to speak to him following the discovery of Alan Driscoll’s body in his hotel room, he’d gained no further confirmation of the Ingrams’ motives. Retha Ingram had not spoken again that evening, having withdrawn into herself by the time she was taken into custody, and according to DI Lundy she had maintained her silence throughout questioning.
Tayte supposed that Christopher Ingram had panicked when Lundy paid him a visit with the copy of Mel Winkelman’s photograph. Ingram had clearly gone to the Lasseter house to warn Retha about the connections the police had made, perhaps to stop her from carrying out the plan Tayte had no doubt he was in collusion with. But it had backfired.
That father and daughter were complicit in hiring a killer to keep their family’s secret surprised Tayte, but he supposed they thought they had good reason to if Tayte’s belief around what had happened to Danny Danielson was correct: that instead of Danny finding his way back to Mena, he had been murdered that night in Paris in 1944. Tayte didn’t expect to discover any answer other than that now, but he did hope to find out what had happened.
He pulled the sun visor down as the road turned and the low, early afternoon sun shone into his eyes. Eliza was sitting in the front passenger seat in a burgundy trouser suit with a black and gold silk scarf tied at her neck.
“We’re nearly there,” Tayte said as Sutton Road became Main Street.
He glanced across at Eliza and thought she looked nervous, which was understandable given who he hoped they were soon to meet. From Logan House they had learnt that Mena had been staying there until 2003, having changed her name to Emma Danielson soon after her arrival. The records they were permitted to see showed that Mena entered the home directly from the Towers Hospital in 1975. She had been there for eighteen years and at Logan House for twenty-eight, and as much as Tayte would have liked confirmation that it was Edward Buckley who had found her again and arranged for her transfer to the care home, her benefactor was not named.
The most important thing they had learned from the home’s records was Mena’s forwarding address, which was where they were going now. Tayte had tried to get a phone number so he could call ahead, but no number was available and Eliza had said she was glad about that in case Mena refused to see them. Turning up unannounced was far from subtle, but Tayte saw her point. She hadn’t come all this way to get a telephone rejection.
Eliza had been accompanied on the flight by her eldest son who was now being looked after by Jonathan and his wife. They had agreed between them that it would be better to continue the journey towards finding Mena with as few people as was necessary so as not to overwhelm her if and when the time came. DI Lundy was also very interested in the answers Tayte hoped to find and Tayte had some difficulty persuading him to allow them to proceed without a police escort. But Tayte managed to convince Lundy that tact was required if they were to learn anything further and he gave his promise to hand over anything that might be useful to the investigation, which Lundy had eventually accepted.
Ahead, the countryside changed from open fields of churned winter earth to bare trees and what looked like a few farm buildings, which according to the road sign Tayte could see marked the start of the village they were heading for. At the sight of it Eliza began to fiddle with her thumbs, turning one around the other and back again.
“I thought it was always raining in England,” she said. “Or if it wasn’t, it was about to.”
“It was raining when I arrived,” Tayte said. “But it’s been clear like this for a few days now. Maybe it’s a record.” He could see she was tense. He gave her a smile. “It’s no good telling you not to worry, is it?”
“No,” Eliza said. “No good at all.”
They passed a public house called the Queen’s Head Inn and the satnav informed them that they had reached their destination. Tayte scanned the houses and soon saw what he was looking for. His throat felt dry all of a sudden and he imagined Eliza’s was too.
“Here we are,” he said, pulling the car over.
The house they had been directed to was a modest-looking, semi-detached property with a slate tiled roof and a small courtyard garden at the front. Tayte left his briefcase on the back seat and helped Eliza out of the car, still limping as he made hi
s way around to her door.
She shook her head at him. “We’re quite a pair now, aren’t we?” she said.
Tayte took her walking sticks and helped her out of the car. “Yes, we are,” he said. “Are you sure you’re ready?”
Eliza took a deep breath. “As I’ll ever be.”
“Good. Here, take my arm. We’ll walk the path together.”
They entered through a low iron gate and Tayte felt his pulse quicken as he stepped onto the path amidst clipped shrubs and violas that added a splash of seasonal colour here and there. When they reached the front door, Tayte stepped forward and rang the doorbell. A tune played inside the house and several seconds later a thin-framed man came to the door. Tayte put him in his late seventies. He wore grey trousers and a chequered sports jacket with a plain shirt and tie in the neck like he was going somewhere or had just come back.
Tayte flourished his best smile and hoped it didn’t look too cheesy. “Hi,” he said. “We’re looking for someone called Emma Danielson. Can you tell me if she still lives here?”
The man eyed him quizzically. He looked like he was about to speak but he hesitated first. “Do you mind my asking who you are?”
“It’s a little delicate,” Tayte said. “My name’s Jefferson Tayte. I’m a family historian and this is my client, Eliza Gray. We have good reason to believe that Emma Danielson is Eliza’s mother and she’s travelled all the way from America to see her.”
The man seemed to study them. Then he asked, “How did you get this address?”
“We were given it by the care home,” Tayte said. “Logan House. On the other side of Market Harborough.”
The man gave a small nod. He smiled at Eliza and stepped back into the house. “I think you’d both better come in.”
Chapter Forty-Five
Tayte and Eliza were shown into a sunlit dining room at the back of the house, where French doors looked out onto a tidy rear garden and views of open farmland. It was a large room that seemed full of family heirlooms and memories and a heady smell of polish hit Tayte as soon as he entered. His eyes were immediately drawn to the numerous silver photograph frames that were arranged on the sideboard at the far end of the room.
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