The Last Queen of England (6 page)

“Great,” Jean said.
 
“I can give you a lift.”

“On your scooter?”

“Who said it was a scooter?”

When the meal was finished they went back into the sitting room and sat together on the sofa.

“You know you can stay here tonight if it’s easier,” Jean said.
 
Her cheeks flushed.
 
“I just meant we could get a head start on things tomorrow, that’s all.”

“I didn’t really come prepared,” Tayte said.
 
He could see there was no hidden reason for her asking.
 
No romantic agenda.

“My son always leaves a few things here,” Jean said.
 
“I’ve got a new toothbrush you can have and -”
 
She paused and tested the sofa with her palm.
 
“I’m sure it’s comfy.”

It was clear to Tayte that Jean didn’t want to be alone tonight and he was flattered, even if it was just for the company, but he couldn’t stay.

“I expect I can find you a clean T-shirt,” Jean continued.
 
“Elliot’s into the baggy look.
 
There must be something you can squeeze into.
 
Sorry, I didn’t mean it to come out like that.”

Tayte smiled.
 
“That’s okay.
 
No offence taken.”

There was an edge of desperation to her tone that he found hard to refuse, but he knew it wouldn’t work.
 
He liked his own space.
 
It was all he was used to.

“I’d appreciate the company,” Jean added, confirming his thoughts.

Tayte fidgeted.
 
“Look, Jean.
 
I’m sorry, but I just can’t.”

“Okay, that’s fine,” she said, forcing a smile that was easy to see through.

“So how old’s your son?” Tayte asked.

“Twenty.”
 
Jean laughed.
 
“Going on twelve most of the time.”

Tayte laughed with her as though he knew exactly what she meant, but while a part of him thought it would be good to know what it was like to watch your child grow through adolescence, he really had no idea and doubted he ever would.
 
It didn’t really bother him.
 
It was just curiosity.

“So you must have been married a while,” he said.

“Twenty-one years.
 
We were keen to start a family straightaway.
 
We had big plans but I didn’t want to go through it again.
 
Some mothers take to it better than others, I suppose.
 
I don’t think Daniel - that’s Elliot’s father - was ever happy about that.
 
I found out that he’d been seeing other women for several years and he must have finally found someone he wanted to settle down with or I suppose it would have gone on longer.”

“What a rat,” Tayte said.

Jean agreed.

“So that’s where Elliot is tonight?”

“No, he was supposed to be here.
 
I think he’s staying with friends.
 
He often does.”

“You
think
?” Tayte said.

Jean sighed.
 
“If I’m honest with myself we don’t get on that well.
 
Communication’s not a strong point.
 
He’s always been closer to his father and it’s been worse since the breakup.”
 
She stood up.
 
“Do you fancy a hot drink before you go?”

“Sure.
 
Any chocolate?”

Jean looked surprised, as though she hadn’t figured Tayte for a hot chocolate drinker, despite his contradicting waistline.
 
“I have no idea,” she said.
 
“Let me go and see.”

She was gone several minutes.
 
When she returned, Tayte came away from the window where he’d been watching the lights on the Thames and sat down again.
 
Jean handed him a thick-rimmed mug that was just right for his super-size hand.

“Mind, it’s hot,” she said.
 
“It’s a little past its use-by date, too, but I think you’ll live.”

Tayte thanked her.

“So now it’s your turn?” Jean said.
 
“You’re obviously not married.
 
Ever tried it?”

Tayte laughed.
 
“No,” he said, categorically, like anyone could tell that he wasn’t the marrying type.
 
But that wasn’t really it.
 
The laughter was more of a defence mechanism.
 
A reflex action equivalent to putting on a brave face because marriage seemed as unlikely and as scary a thing to him as having the nerve to ask someone out on a date in the first place.

“Why not?” Jean asked.

She was direct.
 
Tayte admired that about her, even if it was beginning to make him feel awkward.
 
He had an image of the ‘why not’ fixed in his head: Sandra Greenaway, senior Prom 1987.
 
Since that night he’d gone through all the responses he could imagine and he couldn’t think of a single one that hurt him more than when she’d taken two steps back and laughed at him along with her friends.

“I guess my work keeps me too busy,” he said.

It was a white lie and a lame one at that, but he knew his fear of rejection ran far deeper than Sandra Greenaway and he didn’t want to get into it just now.

“Marcus told me your parents died when you were young,” Jean said.
 
“That must have been tough.”

Tayte had to smile.
 
“You don’t mince your words, do you?”

She slapped her own wrist.
 
“It’s the by-product of a career in further education.
 
I don’t mind if you’d rather not talk about it.”

“No, that’s okay,” Tayte said.
 
He was happy just to talk about something else.
 
“I was seventeen.
 
They were on the return flight to DC from a vacation in the Florida Keys.
 
I would have gone but I was studying for college exams.
 
That was the excuse anyway.
 
Truth was, I didn’t want to go.
 
I didn’t much like flying then and I’ve hated it ever since.
 
They put the crash down to some malfunction or other.”

“I’m sorry,” Jean said.

“It was a while ago now.
 
I’ll fly when I have to but I always try and talk myself out of it first.”

“So coming over this weekend must have been a big deal for you?”

“I’d put it off too long,” Tayte said, wishing now, in light of what had happened to Marcus, that he hadn’t.
 
“I’m getting a little more used to it though and I’m glad I didn’t talk myself out of it this time.”

“No,” Jean agreed.

Tayte sipped his chocolate.
 
“Anyway, going back to my parents.
 
I only found out that Mom and Dad were really my adoptive parents after the accident.
 
I’ve been looking for my roots ever since.”

“And are you any closer to finding them?”

Tayte thought about that and slowly shook his head, thinking that he was probably the only professional genealogist on the planet who didn’t know a damn thing about his own ancestry.
 
How ironic could life get?
 
He started to think about all the dead ends he’d arrived at over the years, reminding himself of how little he still knew.
 
He thought about the many DNA samples he’d sent to one registry and another in the hope of finding a match with one of his biological relatives, but nothing had come of it.
 
The memories made him oblivious to the fact that the conversation had stopped.

“Well,” Jean said.
 
She got up, collected the cups and headed for the kitchen.

Tayte didn’t mind the questions and he hoped he hadn’t offended her; she’d been open enough with him all night.
 
He just didn’t like to talk about it - didn’t like the answers that kept coming back to remind him of his failings.

“I suppose it is getting late,” he said, glancing at his watch without really noticing the time.
 
He collected his briefcase and followed Jean into the kitchen.
 
“I’ll say goodnight then.
 
Let’s meet at Kew tomorrow.
 
Nine a.m. sharp.”

“I’ll give you my mobile number.
 
In case there’s a problem.
 
You never know.”

“Good idea,” Tayte said.
 
He reached into his briefcase and pulled out the first thing his hand fell on.
 
It was one of Marcus Brown’s early publications and seeing his friend’s portrait on the back cover made him catch his breath.
 
After a lengthy pause he handed the book to Jean and forced a smile.
 
“Here, you can write it in this.
 
I’ll see you tomorrow.”

The lift opposite Jean’s apartment looked inviting as Tayte said goodbye and closed the door, but he fought the urge and took the stairs instead, reminding himself that he needed the exercise.
 
He padded down them, listening to the echo of his footfall, thinking about Jean and how much he knew it would have meant to her if he’d stayed.
 
He felt mean and it began to play on his conscience.
 
He knew it would have sooner or later, just not this soon.
 
He was about halfway down when he heard the door at the bottom of the stairwell open and close again.
 
Soon after that he passed a man in a dark coat who was on his way up, two steps at a time.

“Evening,” Tayte said, not really looking at the man.

He received no reply and hadn’t expected one, thinking that London was no different from any other big city when it came to passing strangers.
 
He made it all the way into the lobby, past an abandoned night desk and out into the quiet street before he stopped and turned back.
 
The truth was that he didn’t want to be alone either after what had happened, and seeing Marcus’s image again on the book as he’d handed it to Jean just made him feel worse.

He took the lift this time, riding it back to the eleventh floor, smiling for the camera above his head.
 
He had his words fully formed into a neat sentence by the time he heard the
ping
and the lift door opened.
 
What he saw when it did made him forget them in an instant.
 
The man he’d passed on the stairs was standing with his back to him at the door opposite the lift - Jean’s door.
 
In that same slow second he thought it was a little late for callers, that Jean would have said if she was expecting anyone else, and that the coat the man was wearing looked worryingly familiar.
 
It made him think about the man in the mask from Maiden Lane earlier and any question he had as to who this man was disappeared when the figure turned around and started shooting at him.

Tayte lurched sideways as the gunman turned and the bullets arrived, making little sound until they hit something.
 
One ripped through his sleeve, maybe his arm.
 
He wasn’t sure.
 
All he felt was a tug at his jacket as it tore through the material and shattered the mirror behind him.
 
He dropped his briefcase.
 
Then as the lift doors began to close he felt something sting and he knew he’d been hit.

He didn’t have time to dwell on it.

Another shot was fired, muted like the others, only this time it was accompanied by the sound of splintering wood, as if the gunman had just shot through the lock on Jean’s door and kicked it in.
 
He heard it slam open and bang against the wall and his finger was already on the lift door-release button.
 
He kept close to one side as he repeatedly tapped it and when it was fully open again he peeked out.
 
The man was gone and the door to Jean’s apartment was tellingly wide open.

It seemed to take Tayte forever to think what to do.
 
He knew he couldn’t just run in there or the man would shoot them both.
 
Then he saw the fire extinguisher: a big red one.
 
He grabbed it and ran inside, driven by the thought that this man had killed his friend and he’d be damned if he was going to stand back and let Jean Summer share the same fate.

His resolve buckled when he saw the man again.
 
He was in the hallway.
 
The light was out but the sitting-room door was open and against the glow from the city lights beyond the window, Tayte saw a coal-black silhouette standing in the doorframe.
 
As the man turned around Tayte ran at him with the extinguisher.
 
He thrust it at him.
 
The gun went off and Tayte hit him with it again, knocking him down.

“Jean!”

She was there, hiding in the dark.
 
Even so, Tayte knew from the size of the apartment that it wouldn’t have taken long for the gunman to find her.
 
She came at him like a wild animal, leaping over the gunman and knocking Tayte back.
 
He looked for the gun but couldn’t make it out in the half-light.
 
Then the dark figure on the floor began to stir.