“Will the gutter hold?” Tayte asked, thinking aloud.
“I should think so,” Jonathan said. “It’s tough old ironwork.”
“Okay. You’d better go first.”
Tayte figured that if push literally came to shove then being the heavier man he was best placed to keep that dressing table against the door. He didn’t want to think about the bullets that would come through it if the gunman knew he was there.
Jonathan climbed into the frame and swung his legs out. He turned to face Tayte and lowered himself down onto the tiles. Then he slipped as he tried to get his footing. He grabbed the windowsill for support, rattling the catch. They froze, making no sound beyond their own heavy breathing. A second later Tayte felt a rush of adrenaline as he heard the gunman on the other side of the main landing door. He began to slap at the wood.
“I know you’re in there,” the man called, chanting the words like they were playing a game of hide and seek.
“Go!” Tayte said, and Jonathan let go of the windowsill. He began to slide on his hands and knees, scrabbling for purchase that didn’t come until his feet caught the guttering.
The door behind Tayte began to bang and shake in its frame and Tayte hoped the wardrobe would hold. He turned back to Jonathan in time to see him lower himself to the guttering where he grabbed it and twisted around. Then Jonathan lowered himself further until all Tayte could see was the whites of his knuckles. A moment later Tayte heard him drop into the garden below.
He turned back into the room. The banging at the door had stopped, which unnerved him. The gunman was either looking for another way in - the way they had used - or he was heading outside.
“Come on,” Jonathan called. “I’m okay.”
Tayte copied Jonathan. He climbed into the window-frame and swung his legs out. Then he heard a sound that made him jolt so hard he almost fell out. The gunman was at the small door, thumping and shoving. Tayte saw the dressing table begin to slide. He twisted around and lowered himself out onto the roof tiles as the door opened a little more, enough to see the gunman’s face. They locked eyes briefly. Tayte saw him raise his gun and shots were fired. Glass shattered around him and suddenly Tayte was sliding and rolling. He tried frantically to grab hold of something but he was disoriented and confused. A second later, the ground knocked the wind out of him and he found himself staring up at Jonathan.
“Are you hurt?”
Tayte wasn’t sure. He quickly checked himself for blood. Nothing. Then he grabbed Jonathan’s arm and got to his feet, knowing only that he didn’t have time to worry about it. They ran around the house, heading for the car, and Tayte knew then that something was wrong with his left ankle. A sharp pain caused him to wince every time he put his weight on it and he had to limp most of the way, going as fast as he could but quickly falling behind.
His lack of speed made no difference.
As they came to the front of the house and Tayte’s eyes fixed with hope on his hire car, he saw that another car had pulled onto the drive. At first he thought it must be Jonathan’s wife, Geraldine, returned from her swimming classes, but Jonathan had stopped running and Tayte questioned why until he saw the driver get out. It was Retha Ingram. She had a black attaché case in one gloved hand and a gun in the other. Her unmistakable, pale complexion appeared ghostly drawn in the cold winter moonlight.
Chapter Forty-Three
R
etha 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 planned 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.