The Last Queen of England (38 page)

Jean stepped forward.
 
“We don’t have until tomorrow.”
 
Her tone was curt - all sense of tact undermined by the need to find what they were looking for.

The Reverend frowned.
 
“Well, I’m sorry,” he said, “but -”

Tayte put a hand on the Reverend’s shoulder.
 
“What my friend means is that we’re flying home this afternoon,” he said, leading the Reverend away from Jean towards the pulpit.
 
“We’re trying to find someone and she’s a little upset that we’re running out of time.”
 
They stopped walking.
 
“From one family historian to another,” Tayte added, smiling his cheesiest smile.
 
“I’m sure you’ll understand how important this is to her.”

“Well, I don’t -”

“Perhaps I could make a donation to the church?”

Tayte reached into his jacket pocket and produced the dates they were interested in.
 
He showed the slip of paper to the Reverend, hoping to get him interested.

“I just need to know if there were any births or burials recorded at this church on or very close to these three dates.
 
If I’m not permitted to look myself, perhaps you could check for me.
 
How does twenty pounds per date sound for your donation box?”

The Reverend almost snatched the list from Tayte’s hand.
 
“Wait here,” he said.
 
“It might take a few minutes.”

Tayte gave Jean a thumbs-up as he went back to her.

“Sorry,” she said.
 
“I nearly screwed that up, didn’t I?”

“Don’t sweat it,” Tayte said.
 
“I wanted to say the same thing.”
 
He took out his wallet and removed three twenty-pound notes.
 
He looked at the money and scoffed.
 
“A little church bribery never fails.”

When the Reverend Johnson returned, he shook his head as he gave Tayte the slip of paper back.
 
“I’m sorry,” he said.
 
“There was nothing recorded within weeks of those dates.
 
Maybe the person you’re looking for was buried elsewhere?”

“I’m sure that must be the case,” Tayte said.
 
He handed the donation over.
 
“Thanks for looking.”

As they turned to leave, two men entered the church and Tayte and Jean froze like rabbits in their gaze.
 
Their casual attire might not have given them away but the instant recognition on their faces as they stopped inside the doorway left Tayte in no doubt as to who they were.
 
A second later, he squeezed Jean’s arm and pulled her close as he made straight for them.

“Come on,” he said.
 
“I’m not playing chase with these guys.”

He knew he couldn’t outrun them anyway.
 
He thought Jean probably could, but he also imagined they were carrying firearms and he didn’t want to find out.

“What can they do to us anyway?” he added, thinking aloud as they drew closer.

Tayte hadn’t seen either man before and he supposed they had just been sent there to cover the bases, or the churches in this case, as he and Jean had thought they would.
 
He knew that even if they managed to evade them here, others just like them would be waiting at Covent Garden and at Shadwell.
 
He had to deal with this now.
 
As he approached the men, he tightened his jaw and went in bolder than he would have thought possible three days ago.

“You need us,” he said, punctuating the words.
 
“Call it in.
 
I want you off our backs or this ends now.”
 
He stopped a few feet short of the door.
 
“And if that happens, you lose - plain and simple.
 
Whoever else is looking for this thing will get there first.”

One of the men stepped towards him.
 
“We have instructions to take you in, Mr Tayte.”

“We’re not going in,” Tayte said, defiant.
 
The adrenaline pumping through his veins was beginning to make him feel ill.
 
All the same, he stepped closer to meet the man, briefcase ready to swing if it came to it.
 
“So what are you going to do about it?”

The man looked at his colleague and his colleague reached beneath his jacket and kept his hand there, leaving Tayte with little doubt as to what he had in mind.

“Are you authorised to kill us
before
we’ve found what we’re looking for?” Tayte saw the man’s gun arm relax a little.
 
He swallowed hard.
 
“I didn’t think so.”

The man in front of Tayte gave a cheerless smile.
 
“Come on,” he said.
 
“Don’t make this hard on yourself.”

Tayte scoffed, eying the pair up and down.
 
“Do you really think you could get me to your car without shooting me first?
 
I probably weigh more than both of you put together.”

He was exaggerating, or hoped he was, but they seemed to get the idea.
 
He could see they were thinking about it.

“Don’t try to make the decision for yourselves,” he said.
 
“It’s above your pay grade.
 
Just call it in.
 
Either we continue this by ourselves or it’s over.
 
When we find what we’re looking for...”
 
He paused, reached into his pocket and showed them the battery-less BlackBerry.
 
“We’ll let you know.”

Tayte’s eyes followed one of the men as he stepped outside.
 
The other just kept staring at Tayte, so Tayte stared back.
 
He could feel his legs begin to shake.
 
A second later the remaining man went to the doorway and he too stepped outside.
 
After a full minute passed and neither man returned, Tayte went and peered after them.

He turned back to Jean.
 
“They’re gone.”

Jean checked for herself.
 
“Wow, I’m impressed.”

Tayte scoffed.
 
He wasn’t trying to impress anyone.
 
Not this time.
 
Now it was over, all he wanted to do was sit down with a hot, sugary beverage and wait for his pulse to climb down.
 
But there wasn’t time for that.

He grabbed Jean’s hand.
 
“Come on.
 
They won’t be far away.
 
Next stop, Covent Garden.”

Tayte and Jean headed back to Central London via Knightsbridge, following road signs that told Tayte they were heading towards Piccadilly Circus.
 
It was just after midday and the sun felt hot on his shoulders as he hugged his briefcase to his chest, moving with the roll of the bike as Jean continued to manoeuvre the big BMW through the traffic with all the proficiency of a seasoned London courier.

They passed Green Park on their right and further down Tayte saw the Academy of Arts.
 
He craned his neck to admire the architecture and saw that they had a car close behind them.
 
Too close.
 
He heard its engine rev hard, observed the aggravated behaviour of the driver who seemed keen to overtake them.
 
Then as soon as a gap appeared in the oncoming traffic, the car swerved out and swerved back in again, cutting in front of the bike.
 
Jean hit the horn but the driver of the car - a blue Ford - seemed ignorant to the fact that he’d just narrowly squeezed into a space that was barely there.

A side road was coming up on their left.
 
Tayte saw the Ford’s indicator blink as it slowed and began to turn.
 
Jean, who was clearly aggravated, twisted the throttle and began to overtake, giving the horn another blast for good measure.

Take it easy, professor
, Tayte thought.
 
It’s just some jerk.
 
He’ll be out of our lives in a second.

But he wasn’t.

As they drew level with the Ford, instead of turning left, it swerved right, cutting across them.
 
Jean was quick to respond, avoiding contact, but the car forced the bike onto the other side of the road into the oncoming lanes.
 
Horns screamed from just about every direction as Jean weaved in and out of the traffic on the edge of control.
 
The bike’s engine was suddenly screaming and the last thing Tayte heard from Jean was, “I’m losing it!”

Tayte hit the Tarmac first.
 
He landed with a thump that sent a jolt of pain ripping through his shoulder as Jean laid the bike down.
 
Cars swerved around him as he rolled to the far kerb and came to a stop.
 
In his periphery he saw the bike continue to slide into the traffic with Jean still attached.
 
He sat up, saw Jean kick herself free and part slide, part roll across the oncoming traffic.
 
She made it but her motorbike did not.
 
Tayte watched it slam into an oncoming lorry and disappear partway beneath it.

“Jean!”

Tayte was on his feet, running to her.
 
She was moving - slowly getting up.
 
The traffic had stopped in both directions and people had begun to gather.

“Are you okay?”

Jean didn’t reply.
 
She was looking at her bike, or what used to be her bike.
 
“I can’t deal with this now,” she said.
 
Then she walked away, limping slightly.
 
She took off her helmet and threw it to the ground.

“Where are you going?”

“Covent Garden.
 
You coming?”

Tayte didn’t know what to do.
 
He looked back at the lorry and at the driver who was inspecting the damage.
 
He saw his briefcase in the gutter and went after it, wincing at the pain in his shoulder as he stooped to pick it up.
 
He looked up at Jean, who was already growing distant.

“Wait!” he called after her.
 
“Hold on, I’m coming!”

She disappeared down a side street and Tayte ran to catch up.
 
Somewhere behind him he heard someone shouting but he didn’t turn around.

“Jean!
 
Wait up!”

When Tayte caught up with her they walked at a fast pace along several side streets until Tayte was lost.
 
He didn’t have to ask if her leg was okay.
 
If it hurt at all it didn’t show.
 
He could barely keep up.

“We need to talk about what happened back there.”

Jean stopped.
 
She turned to face him.
 
“So what do you think just happened?”

“First, you need to calm down.”

Jean took a deep breath and forced it out again.
 
“There,” she said.
 
“I’m calm.”

Tayte thought she still looked like she wanted to break something.
 
“So why don’t I believe you?”

Jean huffed, fists still clenched.
 
“It pisses me off, that’s all.
 
One reckless driver - that’s all it takes.
 
We could have been killed.
 
Then what would have happened?”

Tayte realised she was really wondering what would happen to Elliot.
 
“You think that was an accident?”

“I see it all the time.
 
A thousand motorcyclists die every year in London and the vast majority of those accidents are because of idiots like that.
 
I hope I see his ugly face again some day.”

“Come on, Jean, it’s a hell of a coincidence, don’t you think?”

Jean turned away and started walking again, turning onto a busy main road.
 
Tayte supposed it could have been an accident.
 
The Security Service didn’t want them dead.
 
Not yet anyway.
 
And if they did they would be dead already.
 
He thought about Michel Levant and dismissed him.
 
He still had Levant pegged for the writer of the note Jean found under her door.
 
As he saw it, everyone involved in this for one reason or another wanted them to find what they were looking for.
 
He thought about Joseph Cornell then and knew he couldn’t rule him out.
 
But why try to make it look like an accident?
 
All Tayte knew was that he hated coincidences.
 
To his mind, someone clearly wanted to stop them from finding what they were looking for altogether, but who?

“Come on,” Jean said.

She stuck her arm out and started to run.
 
Over his shoulder Tayte saw a double-decker bus indicate and pull over.
 
The sign on the front read, ‘Holborn via Covent Garden’.
 
As they boarded, Jean offered him a weak smile.