The Last Queen of England

by Steve Robinson

  “Elliot?”

  The colour drained from Jean’s face. She grabbed the phone. “Baby? Is that you?” She had tears in her eyes.

  “Mum!”

  Tayte heard the plea. He took the phone back and put the call on speaker. “Whoever’s listening to this,” he said. “The trail ends at St Paul’s, Shadwell.” He paused. Silence. “It’s over,” he said. Then he explained why, laying out the trail they had followed from the ahnentafel to St Paul’s Cathedral. Then to the St Paul’s churches, ending at Shadwell. “You can confirm it easily enough,” he added. “The heir is lost, you hear me?”

  When Tayte paused again, waiting for a response, all he heard was a click from the speaker.

  “Elliot!” Jean called. Tears streaked her face.

  Tayte put an arm around her. “It’s no use. They’ve hung up.”

  “They’re going to kill him!”

  “No,” Tayte said. “They’re not.”

  He believed it, too. He still thought ‘they’ were Michel Levant and he figured he was too smart a man to kill someone without good reason, and since the trail had ended at Shadwell, Tayte couldn’t see what he would have to gain from doing so. He knew it was a gamble but he’d witnessed Levant’s reaction to Jean’s plea back at the hotel the night he’d shown up uninvited. Something she’d said had reached the man, he was sure of it.

  As the taxi passed the Tower of London on their left, heading east along Lower Thames Street, Tayte picked up the phone again.

  “Who are you calling now?” Jean asked.

  “Fable.”

  Tayte selected his number from the address book. This time the detective picked up.

  “Tayte,” he said. “Sorry I missed your call earlier. Everything okay? I tried to call back.”

  “The phone was off,” Tayte said. “And no, everything’s not okay. We’re coming in. The heir hunt’s over.”

  “Where are you going? Scotland Yard?”

  “Thames House,” Tayte said. “The heir can no longer be identified and your Security Service needs to know that. Can you meet us?”

  “I’m twenty minutes away.”

  “Good. We’ll meet you there.”

  Tayte ended the call and noticed that the taxi had slowed down. Looking out the window he could see that the traffic had built since reaching Central London. There were traffic lights every few hundred yards - queues of ten or twenty cars at each. Tayte loosened his seat belt and leant towards the driver.

  “How long will it take?”

  “In this traffic, maybe half an hour.”

  Tayte sat back again and closed his eyes as Lower Thames Street slowly drained into Upper Thames Street. When he opened them again they were on tree-lined Victoria Embankment, tracking the river on their left where he caught glimpses of the London Eye and Waterloo Bridge, passing boats in permanent mooring that at night became restaurants and nightclubs.

  Jean had gone very quiet and Tayte couldn’t think of anything to say that would make her feel any better, so they shared an uncomfortable silence for a time. Further down, when they came to Westminster Bridge, the taxi turned right, making a left turn at Parliament Square towards Millbank, where the traffic cleared a little and they picked up speed.

  “Not far now,” the driver called back.

  Tayte recognised the view from their first visit to Thames House: the heavy shade from the mature trees to either side of the road, the tall, stone buildings to their right and the gardens that had momentarily replaced the river to their left. That was just two days ago but it felt more like two weeks.

  He turned to Jean, saw that her eyes were shut tight so he turned away again. He felt he had to say something. He didn’t know what. Anything. It didn’t matter. Just something to get her talking again and maybe take her mind off Elliot for a few minutes. He was about to say how nice the river had looked in the late afternoon sun - just useless small talk - but as he turned to her again the words stuck in his throat. Through the window he saw a blue Ford careering towards them.

  “Look out!”

  He pulled Jean towards him as the Ford rammed the side of the taxi. It swerved and began to snake in the road.

  “The phone,” Jean said. “They must have tracked it.”

  “Who the hell are these people?”

  Whoever they were they were coming at them again. This time they slammed hard into the driver’s door and the taxi veered left, skidding with the blow. Up front, the driver was shouting obscenities as he fought to control the vehicle but Tayte knew he was losing it. They mounted the kerb with a jolt that lifted Tayte out of his seat. He caught glimpses of people scurrying out of the way. Then ahead through the windscreen he saw the tree.

  The bonnet of the taxi seemed to explode on impact, rising in a gush of steam from the burst radiator before slamming down again. Tayte and Jean lurched forward, seat belts engaging, stopping them both from being body-slammed into the driver’s partition. When Tayte recovered, through the cracked windscreen he saw the Ford pull up ahead. It was the only car that did. The rest of the traffic kept moving.

  “Go!”

  Jean was already pulling at the door handle. “I can’t. It won’t open.”

  It didn’t take long for Tayte to realise why. The red light was on. The doors were locked and the release switch was up front with the driver. He slapped the palm of his hand repeatedly on the partition. “Hey!” he called. “The door release. We need to get out!”

  The driver didn’t move. He could have been dead for all Tayte knew. Looking out through the windscreen again he saw the hollow-cheeked face of the man who had previously tried to kill them as he came now to finish the job.

  Tayte banged on the partition some more. “Hey!”

  The driver groaned. He stirred briefly then faded again. Beyond the windscreen, trouble was fast approaching. The scarecrow was in the road. The other man was on the pavement. They were coming at them on both sides of the taxi.

  Tayte sat back and repeatedly kicked the partition. It was slowly giving out but it was taking too long. “Come on!” he yelled at the driver. “Let us out of here!”

  Nothing.

  Jean joined in. “Hey!” She thumped the screen but it was no use. The driver was either dead or out cold.

  Outside his window Tayte saw that the few people who had scattered when the taxi mounted the pavement were returning - coming to their aid at last. Behind him he thought he heard a car pull up. Then as if to counter all hope, a gunshot scattered the people again. This time for good.

  Tayte looked ahead and saw that the scarecrow had removed the silencer from his gun. He’d let off a warning shot to deliberately clear the area and it had worked. He was coming for Jean and through his window Tayte could see that his partner was coming for him. He thought his and Jean’s murders would be on the front page of the newspapers in the morning: man and woman shot dead in London taxi. Read all about it.

  The blonde-haired man approached Tayte’s window, lifted the hem of his sweatshirt and drew a handgun from the top of his jeans. He levelled it at Tayte through the glass and Tayte faced him, steel jawed. There was nowhere to go. No way to fight back. He wasn’t about to cower. All around him seemed suddenly calm, despite Jean’s now frantic attempts to break through the partition.

  When the gunshot came, Tayte shut his eyes tight. It took him a while to realise that the man outside his window hadn’t fired it. And it took the sight of that man falling at the glass, his face sliding slowly down it, for him to understand that the shooter himself had been shot. The ambient noise returned to Tayte then, as suddenly as if someone had just released a mute button.

  Gunfire erupted behind him.

  He looked at Jean who was now crouched into a ball on the floor. He checked for the scarecrow again and saw him duck behind the bonnet. They locked eyes briefly as the man rose again to take a shot but a close bullet pinged the coachwork and made him think again. It forced him to backtrack for better cover, returning fire as he we
nt.

  Chancing a look out the rear window, Tayte saw two people he wouldn’t have thought he’d be so happy to see again.

  “It’s MI5,” he said to Jean. “Jackson and Stubbs.”

  Jean looked up, staying low. “They must have been watching at Shadwell.”

  “And they’ve followed us in,” Tayte said.

  He heard a tap on the door and Stubbs poked his head up at the window.

  “Get back!”

  The next thing Tayte saw was the butt of a gun as it smashed through the glass. He heard covering fire from Jackson and like an echo, two shots were returned.

  Tayte gave Jean a nervous smile. “You’d better go first,” he said. “In case I get stuck.”

  Stubbs knocked out what remained of the glass and Jean didn’t waste a second getting out. Tayte watched her slip through the opening like it was something she did every day. He thought it would be easier for him if he sat in the frame first, but that would mean putting his head in harm’s way.

  “Come on,” Stubbs said. “Crawl out. Stay low.”

  Tayte put his hands through the frame and paused. He thought about his briefcase lying on the floor and figured this was where they parted company. He refocused on the gap where the window had been. It seemed wide enough. He wasn’t that overweight, was he? He made it halfway before Stubbs had to start pulling. Below him he could see his assailant’s dead body and not wanting to wind up beside him, Tayte kicked his legs, trying to work his midsection through a little at a time like a caterpillar. He was almost out when a gunshot reported to his right and in that same instant Stubbs jerked back. He clutched his shoulder and staggered, letting go of Tayte, who fell the rest of the way out. Another volley of shots was exchanged as Jackson returned fire from the other side of the taxi.

  “Help him up,” Jean said.

  She took off her jacket and as Tayte sat Stubbs up against the side of the taxi she pressed it to his wound. Two more shots cracked out and Jackson came around from the back of the taxi. He squatted beside Stubbs and checked his wound.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Tayte asked. He felt more than a little responsible.

  “He should make it,” Jackson said, stone-faced as ever. “Services are on their way.”

  Another bullet clipped the taxi with a dull thump, letting them know this wasn’t over.

  “This guy’s persistent,” Tayte said.

  Jackson snorted. “Yeah, well, he’s going to have more heat than he can handle in a minute. All we’ve got to do is stay put.”

  “Is that a good idea?” Jean said. “He knows where we are.”

  “We stay put,” Jackson said again. “The cab’s good for cover as long as we stay down.”

  Jean turned to Tayte and quietly said, “I don’t like not being able to see him.”

  “I don’t like it any better when we can,” Tayte said. “But I know what you mean.”

  Jackson was doing his best to find out where the other gunman was. He kept peering over the bonnet and around the trees along the pavement. It went eerily quiet. No cars. No other people. Even the birds had fled from the trees and there wasn’t a soul to be seen in the gardens beyond the railing. Tayte figured someone must have stopped the traffic when the firefight kicked off. There was a bus lane and chevrons down the middle of the road - plenty of room for the emergency services to get through, but where were they?

  The seconds that followed that thought came and went in a confused blur. Tayte saw the man who was trying to kill them appear suddenly at the rear of the taxi. He thought he must have worked his way around them on the other side of the street. He heard a shout from Jean and saw Jackson turn and squeeze off a wild shot that missed by a mile, or might as well have. Then he saw Jackson buckle over as Stubbs tried to get a shot off, but the gun was kicked out of his hand.

  And suddenly Tayte was running again.

  Jean had his arm, leading him past the blue Ford towards Lambeth Bridge. Sirens began to wail, the sound coming from all direction, but they did nothing to deter the man who just would not stop. He didn’t seem to care if he was killed, just as long as he succeeded in killing them first. The next bullet splintered a tree as they reached it and ducked behind it, still running.

  “It’s not far,” Jean said.

  Tayte had heard that before. He’d lost hold of her now and was already falling back.

  “It’s just past the bridge,” Jean added. “We’ll make it if we can keep the trees between us. I can see police lights ahead.”

  Tayte thought the bridge and the police lights looked too far away. He felt like he hadn’t stopped running since Covent Garden and vowed to join a gym if he ever saw his homeland again. But that seemed like a hollow promise to him now. He watched Jean make it to the next tree and knew he wasn’t going to reach it. When he thought the man behind him was about to take another shot he stopped and turned to face him. He wasn’t going to take a bullet in the back. He wanted to see his killer as he pulled the trigger.

  And there he was.

  Up close Tayte liked the look of him even less. When he saw that Tayte had stopped he slowed to a fast walk and he smiled a thin crack of a smile that accentuated the dark hollows beneath his cheekbones. When he was no more than ten feet away he raised the gun and for some reason Tayte smiled at him. He didn’t know why at first but he soon realised it was because of the car.

  It seemed to come out of nowhere and before another shot was fired a ton and a half of automotive machinery had bucked up onto the pavement and swiped the scarecrow’s legs from under him. Tayte jumped back and watched the man bounce off the bonnet and roll like a discarded cigarette towards the garden railings.

  The passenger door shot open.

  “Get in!”

  It was DI Fable, on his way to Thames House to meet them.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Jefferson Tayte was lying on the bed in his hotel room, staring at the ceiling. He’d not long checked his watch, keeping an eye on the time. It was almost eight-thirty p.m. and the hours that had passed since DI Fable had saved his life at Millbank had for the most part been consumed by the questions that had been fired at him by the people he’d met at Thames House soon afterwards: people who needed answers and who seemed satisfied with what he’d told them. All that was over now. He hoped.

  The general sense of disquiet he still felt as he lay there was entirely because of Jean’s son. He kept telling himself that he’d done all he could - that no harm would come to Elliot if it turned out that the hunt for Queen Anne’s heir was a lost cause and that there was nothing now for his captor to gain. But every minute that had passed since he’d made that phone call in the taxi tied the knot inside him tighter.

  When DI Fable had dropped them back at the hotel, Jean had told Tayte that she had no appetite for a meal, which he understood, although he was surprised she didn’t want a stiff drink at the bar with him after everything they had been through. But as anxious as Tayte now felt, he knew he could multiply those feelings a thousand times as far as Jean was concerned. If that even came close.

  “I need some time to myself,” she’d said. “Call for me later. Nine o’clock.”

  That was all she’d said. Then she’d disappeared behind the lift door as it closed and Tayte had gone to the bar and started drinking for both of them. He wasn’t drunk - not even close. His appetite had kicked in before the alcohol took hold and he’d gone into the restaurant and eaten for both of them, too. He could still feel her parting kiss on his cheek, or liked to think he could.

  Tayte checked his watch again: eight-forty p.m.

  He’d already shaved and showered, and he figured he looked about as good as he was going to, given what little he had to work with. At least his hair was clean again and tidy for a change, and he thought the aftershave he was wearing smelled nice, which was something. He wanted to see Jean again. He wanted to see her smile again, too: the kind of smile he’d seen the day they first met in Rules restaurant when Marcus intr
oduced them.

  Marcus...

  Tayte thought about his old friend and he felt bad for not thinking of him more often, but the events of the past few days simply hadn’t allowed him to. He supposed he would have plenty of time to mourn his friend’s passing once his life found its rhythm again, but he still hadn’t resolved everything. Not yet. Marcus’s murder had been avenged but he still had to complete the research that had led to his death. He knew how much Marcus hated to leave his research unfinished once he’d started and he thought he would do that for him in the morning, knowing as he did that there was more to this royal heir hunt than he had let on.

  He started drifting with his thoughts, tripping down memory lane with Marcus Brown: the greatest genealogist he’d ever known or was ever likely to know. He thought about his college years as he often did. He was fond of that time. It was somewhere he went back to when he needed a happy thought. He supposed everyone had a place like that in their lives. He thought of his first introduction to Marcus, recalling his passion and his wisdom, and the hope it had given him when he first started out in genealogy. Tayte felt he owed it to both of them now to resolve his own unfinished business and he was just beginning to feel the familiar weight of all those failed attempts begin to smother him again when he was saved by the telephone. He sat up and swung his legs off the bed to answer it.

  “Hello.”

  “Mr Tayte? It’s Jack Fable. I’m down at reception.”

  Tayte hadn’t expected to hear from the detective again so soon. “What is it?”

  “We found Joseph Cornell. More by chance than good police work.”

  Tayte thought that was good news, but he had the feeling Joseph Cornell wasn’t the reason the detective had come to the hotel so late. His next words confirmed it.

  “There’s something else,” Fable added. “Something that can’t wait until morning. I tried calling Ms Summer’s room, but she’s not answering.”

  That said it all. “You found her son?”

  “I’d rather talk to Ms Summer in person,” Fable said. “You think you can call on her and bring her down to the bar?”