“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.
J
efferson 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 Retha Ingram had not spoken again that evening, having withdrawn into herself by the time she was taken into custody, and according to DI Lundy she had maintained her silence throughout questioning.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 his 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
T
ayte 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.
“Have a seat,” the man said. “I’ll make some tea.”
He turned and left the room before Tayte could express his preference for coffee if there was any. Although the man’s haste to put the kettle on made Tayte realise that the proffered tea was not an option. He turned to Eliza who had already sat down.
“When in Rome,” he said.
Tayte was wondering now where Mena was and he supposed Eliza was, too. That they had been invited into this man’s home was telling in light of their reason for being there, and that the man who had invited them in had not denied knowing the woman they had come to see or redirected them to another address compounded Tayte’s belief that they had reached journey’s end. But where was Mena? Tayte pondered the question as he gravitated towards the photographs on the sideboard.
There were around twenty pictures in all - of family scenes in frames of various shapes and sizes - and somehow Tayte knew he was looking at Mena when he saw her in one photograph and then in another. She was an old woman now, but her eyes seemed to transcend time, as if he were looking at the young girl he’d seen in the photographs Jonathan had shown him on his first visit to the Lasseter house.
He must have become lost in those images longer than he realised because it seemed like no time had passed before the dining room door opened again and the tray of tea arrived. The man carrying it set it down on the table on a large round mat and Tayte went back to his client and pulled out the chair beside her. The man began to pour and the heavy-looking teapot caused his hand to rock the spout from side to side as the steaming brown liquid filled the cups.
“You can’t beat a good, strong cuppa,” he said. Then he paused and looked up. “I’m forgetting my manners,” he added “I’m Kenneth Wells. Please help yourselves to milk and sugar.”
Eliza sat forward, reaching for the milk. “Thank you,” she said and Tayte noticed that Wells was studying her. He was blatant about it and Eliza soon noticed. “Is something wrong?” she asked.
Wells’ cheeks flushed. “I’m sorry,” he said. “No, there’s nothing wrong. It’s just that you look so much like her. I mean how she was when we first met.”
“Is my mother here?” Eliza asked.
Wells drew a deep breath. He pulled out a chair and sat opposite them, heavy limbed, like it took all his effort to do so. He shook his head. “I’m sorry,” he said. “She passed away almost a year ago.”
Tayte’s eyes were drawn to the milk jug in Eliza’s hand as her strength seemed to give out and the jug crashed down onto the table, spilling the milk.
She tutted and shook her head at herself. “Look what I’ve done.”
“Think nothing of it,” Wells said. “I’ll fetch a cloth in a minute. It’ll soon clean up.”
Tayte turned to face Eliza. “I’m so sorry,” he said, and he could see that Eliza wanted to smile back but she couldn’t.
Wells put a teaspoon of sugar in his tea and stirred it in, tinkling the china. “I wish I could have broken the news to you more gently,” he said. “But I’m not much good around these things.”
“That’s okay,” Eliza said. “And thank you for the thought. Some things just have to be said, don’t they?”
Wells nodded. “I had no idea Mena had any children. That’s come as something of a surprise to me.”
“It was to me,” Eliza said. “I only wish I’d found out sooner.”
“Quite,” Wells said, gently nodding his head.
Tayte picked up on the name Wells had used. “You called her Mena?”
“Yes, I knew her several years before she changed her name. She was always Mena to me.”
“How did you meet her?” Eliza asked.
“It was at the Towers hospital in Leicester where I worked as a librarian. I suppose you could say that we had our love of books in common because she later told me she used to distribute books around the wards at the Leicester hospitals during the war.” Wells raised a smile to the memory. “She was my best customer,” he added. “Looking back, I’ve no doubt that she preferred to live inside her books over the real world and I can’t blame her. When I retired I used to take my own books to her and sometimes I’d read to her. She liked that. We’d become good friends by then and when I heard she was being transferred to the private care home in Market Harborough, I moved here to be closer. After a time I persuaded her to come and live with me.”
“How did she cope with that?” Tayte asked. “I mean coming out into the world again after so long.”
“It must have been difficult for her,” Eliza added.
Wells smiled again, more fully this time. “It took years off her in a matter of days,” he said. “We had ten good years together after she left Logan House and I’m thankful for every day. I’ll never forget the first time we went to the British Library. Mena was like a child again. Overwhelmed, she was. I never managed to get her abroad, but she had a grand tour of Britain, I can tell you. My wife died when I was still a relatively young man and I found it very difficult to be with anyone else after that. I think we helped one another a great deal. At least, I like to think I helped her as much as I know she helped me.”
“From what you’ve told us, I’m sure you did,” Tayte said. “So you and Mena never married?”
“No. Neither of us wanted that. Our relationship was born out of good friendship and that’s how it remained. We were two people sharing our lives with one-another. And with the ghosts of our pasts, you might say.”
“Danny Danielson?” Tayte said, knowing that Wells couldn’t have been referring to anyone else.
Wells nodded. “Danny, yes. Mena never really got over her Danny and I suppose I was the same about my wife, Fiona. We didn’t want to get over them, you see?”
Wells settled back on his chair for the first time since he’d sat down. “Mena would talk about Danny all the time when I first met her - when she didn’t have her head in a book. She’d tell me about the dances they would go to and the dreams they shared. And she would go quiet after a time, as if by talking about those days she somehow managed to find her way back there - to her Danny. She could be gone for hours then, just staring out the window or at the wall. She never stopped waiting for him, although she spoke of him less when she came here.” He laughed to himself. “I suppose she was kept too busy with all the family around her then. I know she liked that.”